When Things Don't Work by Will Stanton

One person said that this week's topic is “When Things Don't Work.” Another person thought the topic is “When Things Don't Work Out.” Take your pick, or maybe do both.

Left’s start with “Things Don’t Work Out.” The funniest thing happened to me on my way to perfection. It turns out that there is no such thing, far from it. Just like so many young people, I once thought that I'd always stay relatively healthy. Boy, was that a mistaken notion! I have been plagued with health problems my whole life; and now I must deal on a daily basis with some serious, probably permanent, afflictions. Good health certainly did not work out.

I also thought that I had plenty of years to become educated, build a career, find a life-partner, accrue financial security, and still have time to relax. That did not work out either. It seems that (in the early words of the late Walt Kelly) “tempus just keeps fugitting along.” The majority of my years are behind me.

When I was young, I very naïvely thought that most people are knowledgeable, rational, kindly, and caring. For the most part, my trust in people didn't work out either. I look about me and see how so many people are prone to lying, cheating, violence, and just plain stupidity. Like most of us, I unfortunately have been the target of such behavior over the years. Yes, there are some good people in the world, and I've appreciated them, both those whom I have been fortunate enough to know personally and also those I hear about. Still, my general belief in people did not work out.

So, there are three examples of “When Things Don't Work Out.” Now for “When Things Don't Work.”

I'll allow myself to mope yet again about my life-long wish to be able to express the music inside me by playing the piano well but finding that desire to be an impossibility. Succinctly said, my hands don't work. They are not even average hands, let alone lacking the athletic ability to play piano truly well. Woe is me. Enough said about that.

Still, I realize that some parts of me work better than that of some of my friends. For example, Larry has diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, hip replacements, leg braces, and uses canes to walk. Mike complains of being overweight, has bad feet, and wears special boots to get around. I recall one day the three of us driving up to a street-corner and stopping at a red light. Our attention was drawn to an exuberant teenager on a skateboard, zipping down the sidewalk, doing kick-jumps over the curbs and twirls just for fun. He appeared to be taking for granted his good health and athleticism, dancing down the walk like a young colt in springtime. At this point, I heard Mike grumble, half in humor but also half as a lament, “It's not fair.” Then Larry morosely responded, “And, everything works.” To be honest and being familiar with Larry's previous quips, I know that he was referring to more than just the teen's athleticism.

In life, in the real world, a lot of things don't work; much does not work out. I suppose we just have to keep plugging along, making do with the cards we have been dealt. That reminds me, each Sunday I have been playing with friends the card-game “Samba,” and I have been losing for weeks. With the cards I have been dealt, that has not worked out either.

8 December 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.

Wisdom: I Do Not Assume the Role by Phillip Hoyle

Wearing my mother’s housecoat and slippers, Lady Wisdom spoke to me. She sat there at the breakfast table listening to my complaint about Andy, a new student at college, a boy from a small eastern Colorado town, who seemed to assume he knew more than anyone else, who in the mid-sixties to me epitomized that worst 1950s trait of being stuck on himself, who demonstrated no humility. I really didn’t like him. Lady Wisdom listened as I described this young man, a whole year younger than I. Finally, from somewhere deep in her experience, she proffered these words: “Maybe he’s having a hard time dealing with all the new things he’s encountering living away from home, in a dorm, in another state, surrounded by other people who don’t always sing his praises. Maybe he’s just scared and so presents a confidence he doesn’t really experience.” I was amazed by her words. I had thought I was speaking with my mother, but the wisdom of centuries made their way through her mouth. Mom, as the slogan of the Kansas Association for Youth advised, took the long look and urged me to do the same. Her concern was to bring peace to her family, to her larger community, and to teach her children to do the same.

Wisdom is the theme of the cartoon of a person climbing a tall mountain to seek the insight of some hermetic guru. It is the watchword of international negotiations along with the secondary value of tact. It is a meditation that examines not only the content of knowledge but also its application in daily life, not just to know but also to know how to do. Usually personified in ancient times as a woman, Wisdom appeals to the more feminine side of human need, a need for tolerance, contemplation, and ultimately service to the common cause.

I suppose I should know something about wisdom, but it seems to assume too much, by which I mean it wants me to be responsible. I recall the week two highly contrasting massage clients responded to a jazz lyric playing in the background, “That’s exactly what I need, someone to watch over me.” Yikes I said silently to myself. Don’t expect that from me. I just rub away aches. I cannot run your life. I cannot live with you. I cannot be your husband. You see, by becoming a massage therapist rather than a minister I was trying to simplify my life. I didn’t want to advise or to live with exaggerated expectations for miracles and other such responsibilities. I wisely, though, kept my mouth closed and kept rubbing.

Today I want to say something important about what we are doing in our Sage of the Rockies storytelling. Wisdom is usually linked with age, the Sage or wise one with experience. For years I read gay studies and gay stories. I was trying to find out from others what my gay life could be. That related to my personal needs. Now as a GLBT I am telling stories to serve a community need. While we have seen huge changes, seen the gathering of identities and power among GLBTs, we still need to keep alive past experience—even the perspectives of hiding and fighting, hurting and coping. Changing laws and increasing acceptance of us and our ways in the general society do not erase memory. We have to tell the stories for not to do so in some new way dis-empowers the unsuspecting and sometimes ignorant GLBT populations of the future. We need more words of wisdom from our experienced gays. We need more stories of true life from our lesbians. We need more clarity from our bisexuals. We need more advice from our Transgender brothers and sisters who are still experiencing the terrifying isolation and focus of hatred—more than Gays, Lesbians, and Bi-sexuals. We need all these stories to remind us of our own.

We need to proffer wise council—not in order to be right but rather to keep alive perspectives and memories that could easily get lost in a media-crazed and Madison Avenue world—especially when huge money manipulates huge portions of the population and an informal popular base seems lacking in public democratic life. So, let us tell the stories, our stories, in all their beauties and pains. May we be clear, candid, and clever in our accounts for we tell the story of a life and of a community.

Oh, about Mom’s wise words concerning Andy: for me they were very helpful and still are to this day since Andy married one of my sisters.

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

Drifting by Pat Gourley

A secondary definition of “drifting” is to be driven into heaps by the wind. This particular definition reminds me of one of my favorite childhood experiences when growing up in Northern Indiana in what is called the Snow Belt. That of course was the several times a winter when we would get snowed in and be unable to get to school, a Catholic grade school about ten miles north of our farm.

I grew up on a farm on a rural country road in a part of Indiana that was the frequent beneficiary of snow squalls coming off the southern end of Lake Michigan. These squalls were often driven by strong winter winds out of the northwest that would gather moisture off the lake and dumped it right on us in the form of snow. The issue with getting truly snowbound often depended on whether or not there was significant drifting. When that occurred it would often take the county plows twenty-four to sometimes seventy-two hours to get us plowed out. We lived in the southern end of La Porte County, an Irish Catholic enclave, and plowing our little country lane was never a first priority it seemed.

This of course suited me, my brothers and sisters and cousins up and down the road just fine. Looking back on those years particularly grades one through eight when I was attending St. Peter Catholic grade school in La Porte I was not a very happy student, particularly after the fourth grade. I had this rather spontaneous and precocious, OK perhaps the adjective should be flamboyant, quality to my personality. For reasons I am now completely unaware of and perhaps was even oblivious to myself back then I learned it was best to tone it down a bit and you would fit in better. Better to drift along with the prevailing current than to turn around and try to swim upstream. I never went crazy though because I had a great mom and dad whose unconditional positive regard was always unflinching.

By the time I had reached eighth grade and my early teen years I was much more withdrawn though considered by my peers and teachers to be a serious young man perhaps headed to the priesthood and a pretty good student. Perhaps this was why in part I was chosen to play the role of Jesus in out eighth-grade Easter week play. We literally read from one of the gospels, not the most creative of productions. Which gospel it was escapes me but it was the Passion of Christ as it was played out in those tomes and dealt with the drama of holy week leading up of course to the crucifixion and resurrection.

For a little gay kid who would later be fascinated and tentatively drawn to the queer S/M subculture I was probably on some level disappointed that the crucifixion part was really skipped over as I recall. No loin clothes or whips for this little Jesus. It was a Catholic school remember and those Holy Cross nuns had no sense of humor or perhaps worse no realization of what sorts of nasty transgressions could really feel good, no sense of the erotic. Some of my best lines in the play though were after the resurrection. I got to be Jesus in large part because I was perceived to be the best little boy in the world.

That I was tormented with a reality that I was somehow very different from the other little boys was something I would have at the time guarded to my death. I do though remember thinking what a phony I was playing Jesus, being the big old sinner I was sure I was. Not that any sort of gay sex had remotely occurred for me yet. The biggest transgressions involved laying naked along the local river bank in the summer with several of my male siblings and cousins all of us sporting hard-ons and talking about how girls got pregnant. Believe me it was not the thought of a penis in a vagina that was doing the trick for me but the sight of other erect penises all within touching distance and what a magical phenomenon that was to behold!

Back to drifting. That really was how I was getting by in those years from fifth grade until my family moved up to Northern Illinois at age sixteen when my whole life changed for the better in ways unimaginable. Just drifting and allowing myself to be buffeted and intimidated by the strong winds that were the Catholic Church and its many minions and their truly perverted worldview. How ironic that it was that a couple of those same minions in the form of a commie-pinko nun and a queer male guidance counselor allowed me to stop being buffeted by the wind and instead to lunge headlong into the winds of change sweeping the whole country in the late 1960’s: something that proved to be much more soul quenching than just drifting along.

© 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.

Gay Music by Gillian

What the hell is that? I don’t even know what it means! A so-called “gay movie” or “gay book” is identified as such because of it’s GLBT content; it’s characters and/or subject matter. But the vast majority of music, even most music with words, is androgynous, unisex. A couple of weeks ago our topic was, “All My Exes Live in Texas.” In my short piece I also referred to that beautiful song, “Could I Have This Dance For the Rest of My Life?” Different as those two pieces are, they can both be taken to be heterosexual or homosexual, depending on the preference of the listener, as is the case with most songs. I am wiling to bet that many of us in this room listened to those old love songs of the forties and fifties and, when performed by a singer of our own sex, turned them into songs of love directed at us. Certainly there are, these days, a few songs that are unmistakably GLBT; amusing lyrics performed by drag groups, Lady Gaga singing about coming out, more recently even a collection of songs about gay marriage, but the total of all this specifically GLBT-themed music together would not add up to a single drop in the ocean of music in it’s entirety.

Is “Gay Music,” then, that which is written and/or performed by someone of the GLBT family?

If so we could talk about Tchaikovsky and Elton John and a vast number of others in between.

But what sense would that make? We don’t call a book a “gay book,” because it’s author happens to be gay; usually we don’t even know, although that kind of information is much more readily available these days. If J.K. Rowling unexpectedly revealed that she was a lesbian, would the Harry Potter tales suddenly become lesbian books and movies? K.D Lang is openly lesbian, but I would not call her songs “lesbian music.” Many movie producers and actors are GLBT but that doesn’t make their movies “queer.” No-one refers to “A Farewell to Arms,” as a gay movie just because Rock Hudson starred in it.

Maybe because, at least until recently, we of the GLBT community had little we could call our own, we would like to claim significance to “gay music,” but personally I find it a bit of a reach.

But wait! As I typed that last sentence, with one eye on the Winter Olympics on TV, I caught a few bars of our very own National Anthem. Perhaps I’m just missing it. When we strive to hit the high notes of the “land of the free,” could we be celebrating our freedom? Well, yes, we could, but I’m afraid I’m much too cynical to accept that phrase at face value. But, now I’m trawling through National Anthems, perhaps I really have stumbled onto something. After all, how many times in the first twenty years of my life did I sing out, in the British National Anthem,

“God save our gracious Queen

Long live our noble Queen

God Save the Queen!”

February, 2014

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

My Favorite Fantasy by Betsy

Contemplating this subject I find myself coming up with things I wish for -- things I may be striving for. Then, I realize a wish is different from a fantasy. Wishing is imagining something that COULD happen, something likely or probable. Fantasizing is imagining something unlikely or improbable or impossible. That’s the dictionary’s definition. I’m going to throw in another qualification: A fantasy involves repeated imagining and something that you hope will just miraculously happen -- not something toward which one slowly progresses.

There are many things I would wish for that I know will never happen -- I guess that makes it a fantasy -- such as, I would love to have an exceptional ability for mathematics or an exceptional talent for writing or a smidgeon of artistic ability. More than that I would love to be able to perform on a musical instrument, particularly the piano. Quite often I picture myself conducting a symphony orchestra. Mostly I dream of having an opera quality coloratura soprano voice or a powerful mezzo or alto voice and performing on the concert stage.

My fantasies at this phase of my life are different from fantasies I’ve had at other times in my life. When I first came out and before I came out, I fantasized some about sex -- with a woman. Also just about being WITH a woman. I guess I would have to call this a wish by the above definition, since it turned out the reality of it happening was not impossible or even improbable.

At this stage of my life and now that I am at peace with my wishes I have to say that my favorite fantasy always involves the performance of music -- as a singer, as a pianist, or as an orchestra conductor.

It seems my music fantasies are triggered when I am listening to some music or more often after I have heard some music.

Now conducting can be done anywhere, almost anytime. Sometimes if music is playing -- in my head, on the car radio, or otherwise -- I can’t help myself. My arms just start flying, waving in the air. I have to restrain myself when I get carried away when driving in traffic. Other drivers can mistake my gestures and think I’m flipping them off.

I have practiced conducting so much, I think I would really be good directing the Colorado Symphony Orchestra. And by the way,Marin agrees.

Back to my favorite fantasy -- singing. I never sing out loud in my fantasy. That doesn’t work because out loud I can’t produce the desired sound. I always hear myself singing in my head -- and I must say I sound beautiful.

Like this.

(play music)

Even in the shower.

The problem I have with reproducing Kiri Te Kanawa singing arias from the Marriage of Figaro is that I don’t have the words down. So more often I will hear myself singing like Leontyne Price.

(more music)

with easier words.

Most often I sing la, la ,la. But who cares. In my fantasy I’m the only one who can hear it.

© 11/14/13

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.

Sports by Will Stanton

First, let me define the word “sports” in my own terms. To me, “sports” means physical education and recreation, activities that are healthful and enjoyable. I certainly do not mean anything like professional football, basketball, or baseball. Those are not sports in that word's original intent. Those are multi-billion-dollar mega-businesses. The amount of money acquired and spent is obscene. Also, the fact that millions of people “go crazy” sitting in bleachers or in their recliners at home watching, screaming, and shouting, but not otherwise exercising, seems to be some sort of insanity. There certainly is not much healthful exercise, especially when drinking beer and eating tons of junk-food.

And by extension, I'm not referring to football, basketball, or baseball in high schools or in peewee league. Winning at all costs seems to have become the main concern, not the well-being of the participants. Too often, young players have been coerced into continuing to play with injuries and even concussions. Winnng has become so important that arguments sometimes have broken out between parents, coaches, and officials. Unlike the U.S., Canada is sane enough to have eliminated football from its school programs.

Let me tell you what physical education and recreation activities I have engaged in from my earliest years onward. Of course, not everyone needs to attracted to the same activities as I, but one can see from my list that what I did was for enjoyment and health.

As in most grade schools, we kids played kickball and softball. We had fun, and winning was not so important. We even had some lessons in square-dancing. Around home, we rode bikes a lot. We also played all kinds of games which provided us with lots of fun and exercise.

The high schools in my town were not big enough to have swimming pools, tennis courts, or some other facilities that larger school-systems might have had in bigger cities. Besides, they felt obliged to select footbal, basketball, and baseball as their primary activities, just like most public schools. Instead, my parents had me engaged in all kinds of sports and physical activities for enjoyment and good exercise outside of school.

We had access to the university swimming pool, and we often made use of it. My father set up a good badminton court in our yard; and, for many years, we played badminton so often that we each became quite good. Later on, I even won playing a man from Japan. In the same yard, we often played croquet - - backyard rules, of course, not international rules.

As we became older, we often rode bikes to see friends, which expanded our explorations to outlying neighborhoods. Because the wooded hills were so close by, we often took long hikes, enjoying the beauties of nature as well as getting good exercise. Sometimes during summers, we drove out to two diffferent lakes to go swimming or, once in a while, canoeing.

Starting at age seventeen, I spent a couple of years learning judo. The following year, I also started mainline Japanese karate and continued that for many years. Both disciplined the mind and developed skills often not reached through other activities.

I never did join a team in school. I know that some people claim that there are all kinds of advantages to joining a team, supposedly learning self-discipline, drive, the ability to endure hard-knocks and defeat. Of course, there is the social aspect as well. Apparently in most public schools, the “jocks” often seem to become the most popular.

There appears to be another possible advantage that has nothing to do with actual physical education and recreation, and that is listing those activities on one's school-record. Many universities seem to prefer accepting applicants who appear to have “well rounded school records.” I know that the ambitious mother of a friend of mine went to extremes in this way. She had him join football for a while, then track, then debate, then this and that, adding them all to his school-record even if he did not remain long with any particular activity. He had reasonably good grades but not great ones, yet he managed to be accepted by Harvard. The captain of our high-school football team also was accepted by Harvard. In contrast, my brother had one of the best academic records the school ever saw, along with high recommendations from his teachers; yet, because he had not joined a team, he was not accepted at Harvard. Apparently, they must have thought that he was not “well-rounded.”

There certainly was one downside for me in junior high. The coach noticed that I was quite good in baseball, pitching and batting. He asked me to join the team. My mother said no because she was concerned about possible injury to my hands. The coach never forgave me for not joining. He happened to be the wolrd-history teacher; and even though I made the highest score on all the tests, he never would give me more than a B. I was terribly upset, but I was too naïve to take this up with my parents or the school principle.

It seems to me that, in these days, people most often think of “sports” as ritualized combat involving lots of money and endless rhetoric by sports-casters, pontificating as though it all were so very important. It has become almost like another religion, so passionate are some people. At the same time, many Americans appear to have become fat and lazy. They seem to think that just sitting and watching others running around is exercise for them, too. It amazes me, and somewhat depresses me, that, just in my own city, 44,000 people showed up to sit for hours in the bleachers just to see a pro-football practice session.

But all may not be lost. I must say that I have seen some evidence of improvement among certain socio-economic groups. I recently have taken some walks in the foothills west of Denver, and I was impressed with seeing a large number of young people hiking, jogging, and mountain-biking; but this may be more evident in Colorado than in many other states. There also were some older folks walking. I continue to go five times per week to adult-swim at the nearby city pool, and I see some familiar faces who regularly swim there, too. And, during good weather, the city park nearby is filled with people bicycling, jogging, playing volleyball, tennis, and Frisbee. So, maybe there is some hope left that there are people who engage in, as I see it, true sports for enjoyment, good health, and re-creation.

© 10 October 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.

Grandparents by Ricky

I never met my father’s father, John Leonard Nelson. He died when my father, John Archie Nelson, was only 9 years old. As the oldest of six siblings (2 girls and 4 boys), he became the “man-of-the-house” and had to help his mother, Emma Sophia (Ungar) Nelson, support the family. He ultimately left school after the 8th grade to work full-time. Emma was a short but not frail woman. After I was born, she lived with us in Redondo Beach and Lawndale for awhile. During that time she would dress me like mothers did back in the early 1900’s; in clothes that looked like small girl dresses. I was too young to care, but when, as a teen, I saw the old photographs of those days, I was embarrassed to have a record of how I had been dressed.

As I grew into my teens, I remember Emma as a thinner elderly lady with silver grey hair and a really nice personality. At that time in her life, she was a live-in “nanny” for a downs syndrome girl, Jackie. I first met Jackie when she was about 3 and the last time before she passed away she was about 13. In all those years whenever we would meet, she would run to me and give me a big hug. To my everlasting shame, I always felt awkward and uncomfortable around Jackie, but I can still see her round smiling face and her radiating pure love to this day. Truly, she was one of God’s special gifts to our world.

In her later years, Grandma Nelson alternately lived with my dad or his oldest sister, Marion, until she finally passed away.

I first saw my mother’s parents, Richard Pearson and Signe (Erickson), when they came from their farm in Minnesota to visit us shortly after my birth. Of course, I don’t remember any of that, but I have seen the photographs of the event. For my 3rd birthday, my “party” and birthday cake were served at the farm because their 25th anniversary was less than 2-weeks after my birthday and our family was there to help celebrate. I don’t remember that event either, but once again, I’ve seen the photographs.

When, at the age of 8, I was sent to the farm to live while my parents divorced, I was able to learn somewhat about them during the 2-years I lived there. Both Richard and Signe were the first children born in America in their respective families, so they were raised in the traditions of the “old” country, Sweden. As such, they were not very “touchy-feely” people. Others would probably classify them as being rather “cold” or “distant” emotionally.

I felt pretty close to both of them; to my grandfather, because I was named after him; John (after my dad and his dad) and Richard (after grandpa). I was “close” to my grandma because my mother was in California and I missed her so much.

While I was there, I was not allowed to do anything with the fun farm equipment, or fun chores, like driving the tractor while plowing, mowing the lawn with a power mower, etc. I suppose that was because I wasn’t raised on the farm from infancy AND because I wasn’t their child only a grandchild. They were very protective of me (irritatingly so).

I was allowed to help feed the cows, stack hay bales onto trailers and then again in the barn. I was no good at milking because the cows were so much bigger than I was and I was VERY hesitant in getting between any two of them in their stalls to install the milking machines onto their business ends. I did watch and laugh, as grandpa would occasionally hand-milk a cow just to squirt milk at all the cats and kittens that would sit on their hind legs and beg like a dog.

Grandpa did allow me to ride on the tractor with him while he would plow, plant, cultivate, and harvest his crops. I could also ride whenever he would mow, rake, and bale hay. I spent many long hours riding with him.

Grandma absolutely refused to let me mow the yard with the power mower. She considered it too dangerous. She did assign me the job of collecting the morning eggs, however. That didn’t even last two days as I was terrified of the rooster or more accurately, of his talons and extremely aggressive behavior.

Grandma made the most delicious dessert, which remains my favorite to this day. It’s called, Cherry Delight and is extremely “rich” in flavor and calories.

Sometimes, I helped her do the laundry, not from any sense of duty but because my part was running the clothes through the “wringer”, (it’s a boy vs machine thing). While grandpa was generally proportionally muscled for his average frame, grandma was a bit on the husky (not fat) side as she was a hard worker who not only managed a two-story farmhouse but also had a nice medium sized garden. Every autumn she would do a lot of canning of her garden vegetables, including the ever-present rhubarb. Even into her older age, she was quite a lovely woman and nice to look at.

Because he spent so much time out in the sun, grandpa resembled one of those ancient cowboys one occasionally sees on greeting cards. He had a very dark tan, but with his shirt off, the sun, reflecting off his alabaster chest could be quite blinding. He was truly a “red neck” but not in intelligence or personality.

One of the chores I got to do, I did because I wanted to, not because they asked me to. I just loved to go out to the fields and trap gophers. My grandpa was the township’s “gopher bounty” paying agent so he paid me 10 cents per gopher trapped. Other farm boys would come over to our farm with their dads and show him the tails from gophers that they had caught and he would pay them 10 cents a tail. I just brought home the whole body. Killing the gophers in my traps was one thing; I did not want to cut the tail off.

I loved all my grandparents and I miss them as much as I miss my own parents.

© January 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

Forbidden Fruits by Phillip Hoyle

I asked myself a silly question about this topic “Forbidden Fruits.” Am I a fruit? I answered it easily. Of course I am, but I still didn’t have a story to tell. I wrote a very long paper exploring different approaches but found myself arguing with an ancient story of origins way back there in the old book. I kept telling myself to write a personal story that in some way connected. If what follows fills the bill, good. If it doesn’t, enjoy it anyway.

I didn’t need a prohibition to make the fruit attractive. No one slithered my way to tempt me, at least not anyone I was very interested in.

As a child I liked sexual games with friends, especially those with other boys. As a teen I was open to the advances of an acquaintance, a boy a year younger than I. When the ensuing months of sexual play ended (he moved away) I didn’t find anyone to relate to in what I was discovering was an experience with social sanctions against it. I went on living my life, realizing more and more about difference (sexual, social, racial, and cultural) and grew more fascinated by the array of perspectives related not only to my sexual desires but also concerning common habits (for example, eating), pallets (such as favorite colors), sounds (like in musical styles), even reality (including visions cultural, philosophical, theological and anthropological). I came to know the great variety of religious values held sacred and true by peoples around the world and even in a single country town. I learned about prejudice and grew to appreciate my parents’ values as they were demonstrated with other people, society, and the world.

Although my mother was a prohibitionist as relates to alcohol, she still taught an open attitude toward life and allowed great freedom for her children. Both she and my dad had personal standards that they chose to teach through their consistent practice rather than judgmental and manipulative badgering. Although we kids really liked each other, we bickered a lot. Some activity might be judged inappropriate by one of us prompting a pointed finger and the words ‘shame on you’ just like a national politico may do today over a personal misbehavior of someone in the opposing party. I realized that the very voice that said ‘shame on you’ one minute in the next chanted ‘finders keepers; losers weepers.’ Oh the world I discovered and loved revealed itself in ways quiet varied and often inconsistent.

Of course, my parents and siblings were not the only teachers. The culture with its lore and assumptions, history and laws taught much more and powerfully. I keep thinking about the dynamics of the second Genesis creation story, that ‘just so’ tale that still defines so many peoples’ attitudes toward men and women, toward animals and earth, toward sin and salvation, toward action and consequence—that truly ethos forming mythos (Genesis 2:4b-3:24). The word temptation seems defined by that story, but the temptation is impossible without the forbidding. The story’s power comes from its heavenly array of a very human god, his angels, his creations, his prohibitions, his curse which focused only on the snake, and his explanations of consequences related to behaviors he as the assumed creator made possible in his plants, animals, and new people. It’s a story of guilt mongering. To say so may sound cheeky. So be it.

What eventually gets to me is the misogyny of the whole scene. The god Yahweh is too human meaning way too male with too much power. He, this desert god, is too egotistical. Of course, this was eons before Moses and other prophets started training him for international diplomacy, eons before the Greeks insisted he be consistent and perfect, before they demanded that if he was going to insist on a purity code for his creatures, he act that way himself. By the time I met whatever was left of that footloose deity, he’d become so pure and abstract as to seem missing. Eventually I learned more about how the prophet Jesus undid purity laws and taught a justice based on consistent standards that sought a dynamic goodness honoring the spirit of law rather than a legalistic adherence to wooden rules.

AND so much more had occurred that I would never know of but that still informs the cultural understanding around and even within me. One thing I escaped in all this was the feeling of guilt. I don’t know if such a proclivity in me was related to the home and circumstance in which I was reared or arose genetically or developed for some other undefinable reason. I did see the beauty of some men, an unconventional male beauty not based on Greek-like muscles or shape of face, not based on the accrual of power and influence and money, but something more elusive and simple. I liked that attraction and wondered when it would become consequential for me. I knew I could not resist it out of some feeling of prohibition or guilt. It would be like my experience of finally finding a piano teacher who succeeded in establishing a technical approach to the keyboard, or a voice teacher who actually helped focus my voice away from the throat tension that had compromised its fluidity, or finding myself in my best job of a lifetime, or working in a church I actually loved—all these what I call do-not-expect-a-repeat experiences. So at age thirty I fell in love with an unlikely man. At fifty-five I had another such experience that went far beyond the one a quarter of a century earlier. I tended these relationships both against convention and as acts of love. Of course, in conventional sin-and-redemption, prohibition-and-disobedience terms, I am just hopeless.

But where in all this was I in line with the powerful Hebrew story? It seems to me it was in the VERY IMPORTANT FACT that I was not egotistical in my acts. I was not trying to have the same powers as God. I was not vaunting my own importance. And in the desires and acts of love with these other fruits in God’s great garden, I was discovering new aspects of the ultimately loving God—trained as he was by generations of prophets and philosophers. I found so much love as to transform me into a useful vessel of the eternal and lively divinity. Surely there’s no shame that.

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

Believe It - Death Started at the Big Bang by Pat Gourley

So since I have missed the past two sessions and I have had thoughts on the three most recent topics I am going to write a single piece addressing all three: “Believe it or not this really happened to me…”, “Death” and “The Big Bang”.

My human birth is by far and away the most remarkable thing that has ever happened to me. The chance of that occurring was so infinitesimally unlikely and remote as to be more than mind boggling.

I have always liked the way the Buddha addressed this amazing reality. Speaking to a group of monks he said: “…suppose that the great earth were totally covered with water and a man were to toss a yoke with a single hole into the water…and suppose a blind turtle was in that great expanse. It would come up to the surface only once every 100 years. Now what do you suppose the chances would be that a blind turtle coming to the surface every 100 years would stick its nose into the yoke with a single hole?” The monks thought his very unlikely to which the Buddha replied: “ And just so, it is very, very rare that one attains the human state.”

Another little factoid, that is well worth pondering if you are wondering about being here at all or perhaps looking to expose the absolute ridiculousness of the “personhood amendment’ on the ballot again in Colorado this year. The reality is that a significant majority of all conceived embryos are simply flushed out totally unnoticed in normal menstrual flow without anyone being aware. Embryologists estimate that 60% - 80% of all conceived embryos by day seven have already gotten the bums rush out the vagina if you count back to the moment of conception. This occurs naturally and is unrelated to any form of birth control. Remember this “personhood amendment” states that ‘life’ begins at conception, however not very often as it turns out.

It is very amazing and truly hard to believe that the cellular beginnings of my embryonic conception did not wind up in the septic tank buried outside our rural Indiana farmhouse. The fact that I was born alive and healthy on January 12th of 1949 is quite spectacular really and its all been down hill from there. The successful conception nine months prior was the beginning of my death dance called life on earth for Patrick J. Gourley, though if you take a big picture look it more likely began at the moment of the Big Bang, estimated to have occurred about 13.8 billion years ago.

My profession as a nurse, work for several decades in an AIDS clinic, my own HIV infection and the loss of many friends and lovers have all significantly informed my own personal relationship with the inevitability of my own death. Being in the presence of someone dying can be a very potent moment of clarity. For me personally over the years these many moments of clarity have in part pushed me to a firm atheist perspective on it all. This is it baby and since you were extremely lucky to get the chance to live a human life at all do try to make the most of it everyday. Though I now describe myself as an atheist I am open to spirituality and more on this further in this piece.

Trying to ponder what it means to die and not be “me” any more has always been a challenging meditation for me personally. A striking and certainly very plausible explanation for what it may be like to be dead, i.e. not ‘me’ anymore, came my way by some of the work of the great philosopher Ken Wilbur. Wilbur pointed out three states of consciousness waking, dreaming and deep dreamless sleep. He also acknowledges the possibility of other more advanced states where one is able to be “aware” if you will of what’s happening even while engaged in deep dreamless sleep. That would be a level of consciousness I certainly don’t possess and don’t ever expect to. For the vast majority of us deep dreamless sleep is really quite similar to death. No recollection of this state at all and we go there most every night, most of us ‘die’ then at least once every twenty-four hours.

This can also occur for example when under anesthesia for various medical procedures. Most recently this happened for me during a colonoscopy I had last week. Once my IV was in, oxygen on, pulse oximetry on my finger and lying on my side butt to the doctor he introduced himself and we shook hands, a truly odd formality it seemed given the situation. I would think a playful pat on the butt would have been a more appropriate physical greeting than the handshake.

The doc then said I am going to give you some medicine to relax you and his next statement was now I am going to do a rectal exam. My next conscious memory was the nurse saying you did great and everything looked good. This was at least 20 minutes later. So not only did I miss a good rectal exam while high no less I also sort of died. I mean my heart kept beating and I continued to breathe but these were not actions I was aware of on any level I could comprehend. I didn’t “exist” for those twenty minutes and if my heart had stopped that would have been the end. Oh maybe there would have been a tunnel with a bright light at the end but that would just be few synapses sparking and freaking out from a lack of oxygen I suspect and the doorway to heaven. Not a bad way to dance out I might add but not usually how it occurs.

Since I have been lucky enough to “be” it raises the question where did I come from. Looks like it may very well have all started with the Big Band some many billions of years ago. My physical makeup is literally stardust that coalesced into this majestic planet and one thing led to about a billion trillion other things and here I am babbling on.

I was recently gifted Sam Harris’ new book Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion by a dear friend. Harris has been in the news of late around his recent appearance on Bill Maher’s Real Time and for his controversial views on religion and Islam in particular. This book doesn’t really step specifically into those waters but it is a great exploration of the reality of self as illusion and how one can cultivate a genuine spiritual perspective with no need of any organized religion. Reading Harris’ book has pushed me back to the cushion. He sums up the reason to do this quite eloquently in the last two lines of the book: “However numerous your faults, something in you at this moment is pristine - and only you can recognize it. Open your eyes and see.” (Sam Harris/2014.)

I do not however spend every waking moment pondering the illusion of self, my pending death or how the hell I got here but often of an evening I engage in much more mundane activities. After a day of work in a local Urgent Care Clinic having the infinite suffering of humanity thrust in my face repeatedly or absorbing the mind-numbing onslaught of the current mid-term elections, or the latest ISIS beheadings or the current Ebola hysteria and realizing I am still not enlightened I often seek solace and escape by watching, often several times over, reruns of the great hit sit-com The Big Bang Theory!

© October 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.

I Used to Think by Gillian

I used to think I was straight, but now I know I am actually as queer, as the saying goes, as a three dollar bill. No, that's not really true. Oh, the queer part is, but back then I didn't think I was straight, because the words straight and gay were not yet in play; indeed the concepts barely were. So what I actually thought was that there was something wrong with me that I didn't get all excited about boys the way my girlfriends did. But I also believed it would go away. It was just a phase. It would pass.

I used to think, when I got married to a man, that it was forever. I took my marriage vows very seriously and meant every word of that rather horrid phrase, till death us do part. It was the end of a phase. Of course I know now that it was doomed from day one. My previous feelings were not a phase, and neither was my marriage, being no more than a piece of rather good acting on my part, albeit somewhat subconscious.

I used to think, when it came over me that I just had to come out, that I would lose a few people I thought of as my friends, but so be it. Now I know that most people, even back in the early eighties, really didn't care. And it gets more that way with each passing day.

I used to think, when I first came out, that I would never get too serious about any one woman. I would simply play the field making up for decades of lost time. Now I know that when you meet that special woman, all previous thoughts, in fact all thought of any kind, flies right out the window.

I used to think, long after coming out, long after committing my life to partnership with my beautiful Betsy, that there was no hope that gay marriage would ever come to this country, even as it spread to many countries across the globe. I told myself I didn't care. We had as loving and committed a relationship as was possible. We didn't need, or even want, that failed straight institution. I know, now, that I was in a wee state of denial. After all, if something is unavailable what is the point in hungering for it? I still have a dream that we queers can do something better, but meanwhile I proudly clutch my official, legal (at least in about twenty states) marriage license.

I used to think that my liking for alcohol would pass. Just another phase. I know now that at the age of 72, after drinking my way quite steadily through over half a century, that is not likely to happen. On the other hand, it is not the temptation it once was. Or perhaps to be more accurate I should say that the temptation, if succumbed to, is much shorter lived. I tend to fall asleep after one beer, unless I remain in constant motion and my arthritis argues strongly against that.

I used to think, as a pudgy child, that my battle with weight would also pass. Yet another phase! And indeed for many years taken up with raising four step-children and putting in long exhausting hours at work, I settled comfortably in the acceptable center of that BMI range. For several years now, though, I have been pushing greedily against the BMI north face, and sometimes toppling over. I now know that if I ever return to the center, where all the charts and measurements estimate I should be, if I ever lose considerable weight, it will probably result from some condition not promising me health and longevity.

I used to think that someday I would no longer feel pain from the death of my mom and dad. Suffering the loss of one's parents is, after all, the natural progression of life. Now I know I shall never get used to being an orphan, and will always have that tiny empty space inside me.

I used to think that someday I would write that unique novel. It would be translated into at least thirty different languages. My name would be recognized in as many countries. I would walk into a meeting room on a business trip to, say, the IBM facility in Melbourne. Those Aussie jaws would drop as they chorused, "Oh my word! You don't say you're THE Gillian Edwards?!" Now I know it's one chance in a million that I'll even have some inane comment go viral to make me at least famous for a day. Or a nano-second. I am honored to have a very occasional short piece published in that most erudite of journals, Out Front. I also know, now, that if I can write a few hundred words which occasionally amuse or emotionally captivate a small minority of a group of wonderful people gathered around a table on a Monday afternoon, that is the only claim to fame I need.

© August 2014

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

A Salute to PFLAG by Betsy

“I knew my son was gay. He didn’t want to tell me. I told him I loved him and nothing else mattered. He didn’t believe I was accepting, but I was.” These are the words of Jeanne Manford, cofounder of Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, the internationally known organization of allies of lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgendered.

The concept for the organization was born in 1972 when Jeanne Manford marched with her gay son Morty in New York’s Christopher Street Liberation Day March, the precursor to today’s Pride parade. She carried a sign which read “Parents of Gays Unite in Support for Our Children.” This brought on cheers yelling, crying and clapping and to Jeanne’s surprise many people came up to her during the march, shook hands, hugged her, begged her to talk to their parents. The requests continued after the parade with hundreds of telephone calls from gay and lesbian people wanting Jeanne to speak to their parents. It became clear to her that a support group was needed. Thus the first meeting was held in March 1973 in Greenwich Village. Twenty people attended.

Jeanne continued answering the calls and began traveling the country making appearances on radio and tv promoting the cause.

By 1979 many similar groups had sprung up around the country. By 1980 the first PFLAG National office was established in Los Angeles followed by the incorporation and granting of tax exempt status to the organization which now included some 20 groups. The headquarters was relocated to Denver in 1987 under President Elinor Lewallen, whom many of us knew well. PFLAG took off in the 1990’s and the national office employed an executive director and some staff and moved to Washington DC.

The administration of George H.W. Bush became the first to be directly supportive of gay rights when the then PFLAG president Paulette Goodman sent Barbara Bush a letter asking for her support. Her reply was “I firmly believe that we cannot tolerate discrimination against any individuals or groups in our country. Such treatment always brings with it pain and perpetuates intolerance.” Unbeknownst to some powers that be, the first lady’s comments were given to the press and caused a political maelstrom.

Today 40 years after it’s inception PFLAG has grown to a network of 350 chapters worldwide with more than 200,000 members. Perhaps one of the greatest services provided by PFLAG over the years has been the dissemination of information to educational institutions and communities of faith and the general public nationwide. This along with personal and group support for parents who sometimes are in tears and in shock and are trying to understand.

I became involved in PFLAG around 2003 when I learned that the Denver Chapter was meeting in my neighborhood. I decided to attend a meeting.

At the meeting I found many acquaintances, gays, lesbians, and straight.

The chair of the board was an old acquaintance from my married days--she had worked with my husband at CU medical school. I think she was surprised to see me there. Before I knew it I found myself on the board of directors of the Denver Chapter. There I remained for 7 years having held the office of president for 2 years until my tenure ended due to term limits.

I was glad to be active and committed to this organization. I believe that PFLAG, being an organization of allies, has been in the right place at the right time to help open people’s minds and bring about attitude and policy changes.

The credibility of parents who love their children just as they are and want to support them can be very powerful. I thought at first that I knew a good bit of what being both the parent of a lesbian and being a lesbian myself was about. But I quickly discovered at PFLAG that being a straight parent of a lesbian is very much a different thing. My eyes were opened when in a “coming out” support group meeting parents were talking about how difficult it is to come out to their friends and family. Some were having difficulty with this, fearing rejection by those closest to them, and had been closeted themselves for a long time. It had never occurred to me that these straight people had the same fear issues that their gay children did, and that they, like their gay and lesbian children had to summon up some courage to “come out” and reveal the secret of their son or daughter.

Our chapter’s major activities during my active years included

1. Speaking with school groups, students, staff, and parents to promote better understanding and acceptance of GLBT. Working with schools who have bullying issues to address. Providing support and education to parents and school personnel around transgender issues.

2. Speaking similarly with other community groups including churches.

3. Providing educational materials put out by the national office.

4. Providing an emergency “helpline” for parents or others in distress.

5. Providing a monthly support meeting with a trained facilitator for parents whose sons or daughters have just come out to them. The support meeting is followed by a program featuring a speaker or panel of speakers always bringing enlightenment to their audiences.

6. Advocating for marriage equality.

Will the support and advocacy of PFLAG be a continuing need in the future? I believe there will always be a need. The specific activities of the organization may change with the times. With more awareness, more children are coming out and often at a younger age than in past decades.

Although there has been increased acceptance and policy changes, there is still much misinformation and misunderstanding and hatred of homosexual people. The more recent emergence of awareness of transgender issues by itself presents huge challenges to families involved and to advocacy groups. In my opinion PFLAG will be in business for a long time.

Denver, 2014

About the Author

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

Clothes by Will Stanton

I'm not going to talk about the $10,000 gowns that some wealthy women wear nor the $2,000 suits that some well-healed men wear. I also am not going to talk about the way I dress. I don't have a GQ figure, and I don't wear GQ clothes. Instead, I'm going to talk some about the clothes that many young people wear and contrast that with my own generation.

I was sitting in a restaurant, and the young waitress came up to my table. I noted that she was wearing jeans that were so tight that the waistline was bound to cut off blood circulation. Doctors have warned women about that. She wore them so low that her plump tummy hung out over the jean-tops and below the tight blouse that came down just below her breasts. I suppose that she considered showing off a bare tummy was sexy. Some testosterone-agitated boys and aging men probably found her appearance titillating, but I wondered how this peculiar clothing style had come about and why girls choose to dress that way at work.

Ironically, girls' wearing very tight clothes is in marked contrast with boys' baggy apparel for a long time now. While seated at the table at the very same restaurant, a teenage boy came in. He probably weighed all of 110 pounds, but his shirt was so huge that it could have fit a man who weighed 250 and stood a foot taller. Even more silly was that he was wearing his jeans literally below his butt, or more accurately, where his butt should be; for this young kid didn't have any butt, hips, or waist. At least his boxer shorts covered that area. His pants were so ridiculously baggy that two boys could have worn them at the same time. I hope that he realized that, if he tried to rip off a 711, there would be no way of his outrunning a cop. Those baggy pants undoubtedly would become tangled up around his legs, tripping him.

Shorts and swim suits are not comfortably and practically short anymore. They hang half way down the calf. Are males' bare thighs now considered to be too shocking to see? They aren't for women. Trying to swim in those things is like having a drag-line attached to the legs. Where did this idea come from, and why has this bizarre style lasted so long?

Boys and girls certainly did not dress that way when I was young. Of course, I grew up in an era that is roundly satirized in the movie “Pleasantville.” That biting satire portrayed life in the 1950s and '60s as “black-and-white, overly conservative, restrictive, unimaginative.” There is some truth to that; however, I have to admit that I viewed the clothes that young people wore then to be appealing. Girls did wear slacks or shorts on occasion, but they also often wore cotton dresses that reached just down to below the knee which, I thought, enhanced their femininity. I thought the girls attractive in either case, even without having their tummies hanging out or the tops of their thighs showing.

Boys once wore shirts and T-shirts that naturally fit their form and did not hang down below their butts. They also tended to wear form-fitting slacks and jeans, pants not so baggy as to make Charlie Chaplain’s trousers look tailor-made in contrast. Their pants still could be sexy enough, even with keeping them up around their waistlines. Most boys chose pants that were somewhat loose but not so floppy as to obscure the wearers' gender, as many girls and some of the boys were quick to note. 

I do admit that a few of the boys I knew in school wore pants so tight that one could tell whether or not they were circumcised. That certainly was true with Randy, the very sexy kid whose pants appeared to be in danger of cutting him in half or exploding apart at one particularly revealing seam, which I actually saw happen on one occasion. That sort of thing tended to draw attention. He was a school-band member, and I was amused to learn that, when the band went on over-night tours, some band members argued as to who would have the privilege of sharing a motel room with Randy. I have no evidence as to whether just his appearance fostered such controversy or other factors contributed to his popularity.

It appears to me that, at some point in America's history of clothing styles, arbitrators of taste chose to affect a reversal for the younger consumer. Modesty no longer is a factor in designing clothes for females. From bathing suits to ball gowns, young women can choose to expose as much skin as they dare. As for young guys, especially teens, the goal appears to be to camouflage the physical form as much as possible. Have clothes-makers concluded that the male form is too titillating or even obscene? I don't necessarily advocate returning to Randy's style of pants that were so tight as to potentially emasculate the wearer, but I do maintain that the return to more sensible, form-fitting clothes for males is long overdue. Let's get rid of bagginess once and for all.

© 01 September 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.

Locked Out by Ricky

Locked Out or Locked In, It's All the Same

Perhaps the greatest fear a person can have short of going to hell when one dies, is the fear that they might become locked into their own minds, and locked out of reality at the same time. Dementia and Alzheimer diseases are two examples of this condition. Another would be where a person has an active and normal mental state but is incapable of communicating anything to anyone. I certainly would not like to be in any of those conditions. Although I have made jokes about the good thing about Alzheimer disease is that, you get to meet new people every day; it really is not funny.

Can you imagine the frustration, confusion, disorientation, and fear that probably results from not being able to communicate or understand what is happening around you or even to you? It is easy for me to imagine it as I have been “locked out” and “locked in” a few times in my life so I remember the feeling. I imagine I would feel mental anguish a thousand times worse, if I had any of those conditions permanently.

My future wife got off from work one Friday night in Pensacola and drove to her mother's home 50-miles away in Niceville (yes, that's a real town). Her arrival at about 9PM was unexpected and her mother refused to let her in for the night, effectively locking her out of the home where her childhood bedroom was. In desperation she came to my trailer (or called me first) where upon I let her stay that night and the rest of the weekend. I knew how she felt because her tears and words were communicating perfectly.

As a youngster, I was fairly fearless or perhaps my parents would have used different words such as thoughtless or even stupid. Even then, I had a healthy case of acrophobia. Climbing the ladder to join my father on the roof of our single-story home was no problem. The problem manifested upon my turning around to get back on the ladder to go down. Anyway, at about 14-years old my father had taken me to somewhere in Minnesota to visit one of his childhood friends who just happened to have two boys, both younger than me.

These boys were truly farm boys, while I was only a 2-year “pretender” to farm life. As farmer's sons, they naturally had to help with all the farm work, which included stacking hay bales in the hayloft of the barn during summer harvesting. So being boys, they stacked the bales to create a secret passage to their “hideaway” near one of the windows in the wall that was hidden by 10 or 15 feet of stacked hay. There were three hidden access “tunnels” to the hideaway; two along the wall and one in the middle of the hayloft with a vertical drop and a crawl-only tunnel at the bottom under tons of hay.

The boys told me about their hideaway and wanted to show it to me so I went to the barn with them being anxious to see what I had only fantasized doing while living on my grandfather's farm. By this time in my life I had mentally matured somewhat so I was not thoughtless, but still not completely un-stupid either. The boys would only take me to their hideaway if I used the vertical shaft as the entrance. I looked at the opening and told them that I was too big to fit and they said there was plenty of room as they were not that much smaller than me. My common sense was overruled by my desire to see the hideaway and so ignoring my eyes, which had been telling me the truth, I started down the shaft to the bottom and then managed to back into the tunnel, which was only about 9 inches high and 13 or 14 inches wide. I managed to crawl backwards about four feet and then got stuck. I spent three-months stuck under all that hay during the five-minutes it took them to use one of the other tunnels to get behind me and pull me feet first into the hideaway. Using the other entrances along the wall I easily returned to the surface of the hay. Needless to say, I've been claustrophobic ever since, all because of being locked-in under a “mountain” of hay and locked-out of normal life.

One could say that I was locked-out of a normal life because beginning in high school I was not attracted to girls' looks but only their personalities and only then when thinking about having someone with which to go to movies or other non-sexual activities associated with dating—at that time I only fantasized sexually about boys. Although this has not been as explosively traumatic as being stuck under tons of hay and the result thereof, this type of locked-out was nonetheless a chronically mild trauma whose persistent presence kept building consequences beyond it's apparent significance. Of course it didn't help that apparently none of my female classmates took any interest, sexual or otherwise, in me either even though I was always a gentleman, respectful, and spoke with them easily. However, I never asked any of them for a date and they never offered either.

As I've mentioned in prior stories, my emotional trauma caused by my parents incorrectly shutting me out of their divorce situation and my father erroneously waiting to tell me about it the night before he left, was for me the most important and crippling locked-out or locked-in depending upon point of view. Having access to only half, if even that much, of the range of possible human emotions is not desirable or even close to being a good thing. If one is so severely locked-in to depression and locked-out of empathy, how could one feel the opposites? I could not feel joy or true happiness as they were denied me until the effects of the emotional locked-out could be reversed or canceled. Fortunately, for me, as I have stated before, I am now free of those influences and am emotionally whole, but still learning how to deal with the new emotions.

Being free of emotional lockouts does not prevent my unfortunate tendency towards being physically locked-out. After I got married a new mental condition surfaced—forgetfulness. I suspect I may have had it before, but my wife certainly was able to point it out. I don't know if it is a genetic condition or if it is a naturally occurring phenomenon of marriage as I've heard almost all wives complaining about their husbands’ lack of memory.

My wife and I once visited Arches National Monument on a nice hot summer day. As I exited the vehicle and shut the door, I suddenly realized that I had left the keys in the ignition. My wife had left her purse under the seat so we had no keys and the doors were locked. We were locked-out of our vehicle and locked-in to the great American Desert—without a cell phone—without water—without clothing for nighttime in the desert—and most importantly without a coat-hanger or any other object with which to unlock the door. Eventually, another tourist happened by and gave us a hanger.

I tend to believe in my genetic theory of carelessness or forgetfulness; perhaps they are really manifestations of the same thing. Even when my wife was not around to be involved, I would still lock myself out of my vehicles occasionally but still far too often. This was most evident and embarrassing while I was serving as a Missile Security Officer in Montana, Arkansas, and South Dakota.

Part of my military duty was to drive around the “missile field” to visit and inspect the security police guards. I had a deserved reputation of locking myself out of my vehicle while over 200-miles away from the base where the spare keys were. Fortunately, I had personnel on my security flight that grew up in New York City, so they had the skills needed to open locked vehicles and they were only 20-miles away on the average.

Eventually, I began to carry two sets of vehicle keys with me whenever I leave home. I still lock myself out occasionally, but now I don't need help when it happens. Who says you can't teach a senior citizen new tricks?

© 9 January 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

The Women in My Life by Ray S

Contrary to some, not all, there still exists the opinion on the part of some sociologists, psychologists, and worst of all the public citizenry that the shared lot in this life is the fault of the mother.

Not wishing to be branded a misogynist, God forbid I hasten to rise to the defense of all of the innocent, or otherwise, mothers that have brought forth a world of heterosexual beings and very special homosexual beings. Get serious, those fare ladies didn’t have the slightest idea of how that 3 minutes or 3 seconds of passion would turn out. Nowadays medical science has taken the surprise out of all that labor during childbirth and the proud parents know ahead of time whether it will be a son and heir to carry on the family name, or a Madam Currie’ or Lady Ga Ga. So what does this preamble have to do with our subject today? Guess!

As an aftermath of my own coming out party, oh I don’t mean that October day some 80+ years ago, it dawned on me that in spite of my life long fondness for boys, consciously or sub-consciously, most of my best friends have been women, or girls when we were very young.

Sure, I yearned to be like and envied the guys I’ve grown up with--seeing them as role models I could never be--but it was then and is now that the women in my life that have made me what I am, well sort of.

I had planned to submit a list of all of my very own women’s names, but have run out of time and besides you all have your own special names in mind. So suffice it to say, “Where would we be without some special female of the species?” And that is meant literally as well as emotionally.

© 11/24/14

About the Author

Signposts by Phillip Hoyle

Ted grew up on a large farm in southwestern Kansas, near Liberal. Ted seemed to have inherited his musical ear and talent from his mother, a fine pianist who accompanied her son’s solos throughout his childhood and teens. Ted’s clear, resonant, and lovely voice and his ability to interpret songs came from somewhere. His mom? His dad? I didn’t know them well enough to judge. Ted did seem to have inherited from his dad his tall frame, his good looks, his organizational ability, and his alcoholism. Ted sang in church and school choirs and pranced down Main Street and around the football field as drum major of the high school band. He was also a straight-A student.

When Ted was fifteen he attended the Fred Waring Choral Summer Workshop where he learned a lot about music and had sex with a man. When he got home, he asked his mom if he could see a psychiatrist. “You need a psychiatrist like I need a hole in my head,” she responded. That ended the conversation but not Ted’s worry over his life and its direction.

Ted attended college at Wichita State University as a music education major with vocal and choral options. One of his college teachers told me Ted was brilliant, not just smart, perhaps the most brilliant student she had ever taught. I figured she might know something about that since she had taught grade school, high school, college, and graduate courses. While an undergraduate student, Ted ably led the choir in his Wichita church. Upon graduation he began his music career as a vocal and choral instructor in a small church-related college in north-central Kansas. That’s where I met him during my last semester.

Ted and I seemed very much alike yet at the same time quite different. I had been married about a year and a half; the summer before we met, Ted had terminated his engagement to be married. We did share our love of vocal and choral music. We both had been directing choirs. Somehow I also knew that like me he would be open to sex with another man. He too may have known that about me, but we didn’t move toward that kind of relationship. Rather we became good friends.

Ted’s musical brilliance was supported by his tremendous organizing skills and natural gift as a teacher. He made musicians of his students. A couple of years into his work at the college, he tried again to court and to marry but in so doing pushed himself into an emotional and mental breakdown. His high-school self analysis had been too accurate.

By then, my wife and I lived in Wichita. Ted entered the graduate music program in voice at WSU. On weekends he’d stay with us and our new baby boy. One weekend he came out to me and seemed a little angry with me when I told him I’d realized he was gay the very first time I met him. When he lived with us a couple of months the following summer, Ted’s homosexuality revealed itself to be as intense as his brilliance, musicality, musicianship, and ability to organize. He and I stayed with our chosen friendship, yet he told me many, many things about his life, including some of his sexual experiences. He seemed a little disappointed as well as relived when his psychiatrist and counselors at the mental hospital where over a number of years he received care told him they were not treating his homosexuality; they did not consider it an illness. We continued to become even greater friends. Ted was a friend with my wife as well and an uncle to our son.

Ted left college teaching and followed his voice teacher to Texas where he studied music at Trinity University. I visited him in San Antonio, saw the university, met teachers, observed his great choral programming at a church where he was music director, sang with him, and more. On that trip Ted became my gay educator interpreting such phenomena as gay bars, drag queens, gay language (verbal and non-), gay people, and the emerging gay literature; and he told me many more stories from his own experience.

Eventually Ted moved to San Francisco where he plunged into a gay scene not imaginable in Wichita, San Antonio, Houston, or Dallas. There he sang in the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus, organized and led the SFGM Chorale. He taught voice at a community music school, led other ensembles, and sang professionally in a Catholic Church choir. On one visit I went to mass with him. The organist and all the singers seemed to be gay. But even more than all these things, and in a very personal way equally important, Ted became an A-List masochist. He contracted HIV, doctored at San Francisco General Hospital, and became an AIDS activist. Ted showed me the photo of himself at a party wearing his mother’s mink stole and explained he was exploring his feminine side. He told me stories of unrequited love. When we walked around together he made comments about beautiful men we encountered. I must add this: Ted lived at 944 Castro. Do I really need to say more? I’m sure Ted was the gayest person I ever met.

Ted died from AIDS-related conditions. I attended his balloon-crowded memorial service at First Congregational Church, heard spoken tributes by a number of his gay friends, listen to his beloved chorale sing, and enjoyed a gay party after the service. When I came to Denver to live as a gay man, I dedicated myself to giving massages to people living with HIV/AIDS in his memory. Ted was and continues to be my gay icon.

 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