Preparation, by Gillian

Oh, Heavens! The things that spring to mind! An ounce of preparation is worth a pound of cure,  Preparation H, emergency preparedness, hope for the best and prepare for the worst, look to the past to prepare for the future, and prepare to meet your maker.

In my younger days I suppose I did quite a lot of preparation. I recall preparing, with my mother, for my first day of school, for my church Confirmation and after it for my first Communion, and probably many more firsts. They tend to pile up on you in your youth. Then, in school and college, there were endless tests and exams to prepare for. I prepared to go to college and, in what seemed like no time, prepared to leave.

Then, without any conscious intent, I seem to have entered a long phase of my life when I made little, if any, preparation for anything. Events occurred in an apparently random, haphazard, way. This went well; that did not. This happened; that did not. Oh well! Shrug it off. Move on. I most assuredly did not prepare to come out; certainly not to myself, anyway. You cannot really prepare to be hit by a runaway train.

Now, in the latter part of life, I find myself regressing, in the matter of preparation as with many other things, to the ways of my youth. If I don't prepare for just about anything and everything, I shall forget some vitally important words or deeds, or both. When we prepare for camping or road trips, Betsy and I now set up 'staging areas' where we collect things for weeks before we leave, so as not to forget some essential. We used to basically just get in the car and start driving, and get wherever we got. Not anymore! We plan the route, fussing over getting through congested areas before or after rush hour. Or sometimes we plan quite lengthy detours to avoid braving six lanes of freeway at 5.00pm. On the other hand, we need to prepare a route that gets us to a campground in time to settle in before dark. No more midnight arrivals for us!

One thing I know for sure about preparation; it can be incredibly beneficial when it comes to practicalities, but for emotions it's a bust. At least for me. I tried, if only vaguely, most of my life, to prepare myself for the death of my parents. That is, after all, the normal natural course of events for most of us. It didn't work; I might as well never have given it a thought. I was simply felled by their deaths. Devastated. And the heartbreak went on and on. It was at least ten years before I was really OK with it, and that was only after a lot of work on my spirituality. We have too many friends ending up in hospice lately. Naturally, given those circumstances, we give it our best to prepare ourselves emotionally for imminent loss. It doesn't seem to help. Grief remains grief even though it is not accompanied by shock. Even though we tell ourselves it was for the best they didn't linger longer.

When Betsy and I decided, two years ago, to get legally married while we were on a visit to California, we truly meant it when we said to family and friends, 'Oh it's no big deal. We've been together for ever after all. It's just signing a piece of paper.'

Wrong again! We were both completely taken by surprise by the strength of emotion we felt. Both so close to tears, we could barely say those words we had waited almost thirty years to say.  We had thought we were completely prepared, and once more might as well not have given it a thought for as wrong as we got it.

So all I'm trying to do now, as far as emotional preparedness goes, is preparing to be surprised. I shall prepare by acknowledging that I don't have a clue how I'm going to feel, wherever and whenever, about anything. And again I surprise myself. This unpreparedness actually feels good. It's liberating. It's living in the moment.

I shall know what I feel when I feel it. What on earth is wrong with that?

© 24 Aug 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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.

Nothing Is Forever, Forever Is Now, by Betsy

How often are these words spoken: “I’ll love you forever.  I’ll hate him/her forever. His/her spirit will live forever. His/her work will go on forever. Etc.”  Well, I think we all know what that REALLY means. Forever means as long as the person speaking the words is here on this planet in human form willing and able to relate to the person, experience the event, do the deed, or whatever. And that period of time and place is very small indeed when put in the context of the timeless universe and even in the context of geologic time as we now understand it. The real meaning of forever is something I cannot comprehend. Forever can only be in a place where there is no time dimension or a dimension much different from anything we can possibly imagine.

As for our world, this world that we know, forever is a relative term.  “I will love you forever,” is a much longer forever than, say, “I was on hold forever,” or “I waited in line forever.”  Even the forever in, “I will be forever grateful to you for the ride,” the life of that forever is totally dependent on the life of the memory of the person who says the words.

The fact of it is that to me it makes no difference what the real meaning is.  We mostly understand what a person means when they use the word forever. And I am trying, really trying, to live in the NOW.  So, in the end, which will also be the NOW, does it matter what the real meaning is? I don’t think so.  Did I just say that forever is now?  I’m going to stop right here and now.

© 20 Mar 2016 

About the Author 

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

Where Do We Go from Here? by Will Stanton

Where do we go from here? It beats the hell out of me. I will, however, give you a few personal thoughts that come to mind. These reflect my own nature and values.

It's hard for me to surmise the fate of our future. There are some good people and positive events in our country and the world that, theoretically, could lead us to a better future; however, there also is so much negativity and violence that I am not particularly encouraged. Yes, I realize that such concerns are not unique to our times. I am very aware that history is replete with hate, violence, and stupidity. I would think, or at least hope, however, that humankind would steadily improve over the centuries. A selective minority of people may have advanced, yet it appears to me that the vast majority of people still are prone to the same insanity that has plagued mankind forever. This fact mystifies and discourages me; for, by nature, I cherish honesty and empathy, along with my wish for all people to engage in helpful, constructive behavior.

Too often, those few people who are more knowledgeable, who are positive and empathetic, are vilified and overwhelmed by the masses of reptilian-minded hordes whose inclinations lead to greed, mindless policies, and harm to people and nations. Had President Gore been permitted to serve his two terms in office, I can only imagine how different our country and the world would be today. Instead, the Neocons in the Bush junta lied us into an unwarranted war that so severely disrupted the Middle East that we now are suffering the horrendous consequences of their hubris and stupidity. Such people continue to promote harmful domestic policies and political machinations that are equally counterproductive.

And now, we are plagued with a slate of Republican Presidential candidates who display many of the same religiosity traits that got us into so much trouble in the first place. Their continual character assassinations and bellicose rhetoric offend my deeply ingrained sense of honesty, morality, and empathy. Listening to all those (and here's a phrase I frequently am prone to use because I have ample opportunity now) bloviating ignoramuses on the debate stage nauseates me. I find watching them disturbing and toxic, so much so that I feel that I do not possess the endurance and resilience to listen to them for extended lengths of time.

The only rational solution that I have heard recently has been from candidate Bernie Sanders. He repeatedly has explained, and quite rightly, too, that he sees the only way of improving our situation is for our young to become very knowledgeable, active, and to organize and vote in great numbers. To some extent, this was done for the first election of President Obama. Since then, however, young people seem to have drifted off into their own little worlds.

I know of no other recourse. If nothing is done to reverse this descent into an abyss of banality and chaos, I guess that I will have to find some way of moving to Shangri-La, perhaps Lyonesse, or the Elysian Fields.

© 18 December 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.

Rickyisms, by Ricky

These are NOT "jokes" they are positively, undoubtedly, irrevocably–infallible TRUTHS!!!

THINGS I LEARNED WHILE STATIONED IN THE SOUTH WITH THE AIR FORCE

A 'possum is a flat animal that sleeps in the middle of the road.

There are 5,000 types of snakes and 4,998 of them live in the South.

There are 10,000 types of spiders. All 10,000 of them live in the
South, plus a couple no one's seen before.

There are NO cockroaches in the South.  There is, however, an abundance of Palmetto bugs which, oddly, are found only in the South.

If it grows, it'll stick ya. If it crawls, it'll bite cha.

“Onced” and “Twiced” are words.

It is not a shopping cart; it is a buggy!

“Jawl-P?” means, “Did everyone go to the bathroom?”

People actually grow, eat, and like okra.

“Fixinto” is one word. It means “I'm going to do that.”

There is no such thing as lunch. There is only dinner and then there's supper.  (I guess no southern preacher ever told his flock the last supper was held a little over 2,000 years ago.)

Iced tea is appropriate for all meals and all occasions.  One starts drinking it when two years old. We do like a little tea with our sugar. It is referred to as the “Wine of the South.”

"Backwards and forwards" means, “I know everything about you.”

The word “jeet” is actually a question meaning, “Did you eat?”

The word “squeet” means, “Let’s go eat.”

You don't have to wear a watch, because it doesn't matter what time it is, you work until you're done or it's too dark to see.

You don't PUSH buttons, you MASH ‘em.

“Ya'll” is singular. “All ya'll” is plural.

All the festivals in a Southern state are named after a fruit, vegetable, grain, insect, fish, or animal.

You carry jumper cables in your car—for your OWN car.

There are only six condiments: salt, pepper, vinegar, mustard, ketchup and Tabasco.

Mayonnaise is NOT a condiment—it is a food group.

The local papers cover national and international news on one page, the other five pages are for local high school sports, motor sports, and gossip.

Everyone you meet is a Honey, Sugar, Miss (first name) or Mr. (first name)

The first day of any hunting season is treated as a national holiday.

You already know what a “hissy fit” is.

Fried catfish is the other, “other white meat”.

We don't need no dang Drivers Ed. If Mama says we can drive, we can drive!!!

A vampire and a priest decided to commit a burglary together.  Once inside their target building, the vampire became nervous and suspicious about the priest, who was displaying signs of untrustworthiness.  So, the vampire turns to the priest and says, “You better not double-cross me.”

Which knight of the Round Table was the best at math? — Sir Cumference.

If a red house is made of red bricks, a yellow house is made of yellow bricks, a blue house is made of blue bricks, and a brown house is made of brown bricks, what is a green house made of? — glass.

© 14 December 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.

What I Did on My Vacation from Story Time, by Ray S

Some time ago I met this lovely Brit on the Waterloo Bridge in London. She had transported me there through the medium of Story Time at the GLBTQ Center. That is when I fell in love with her and also her equally lovely partner.

Since then we have enjoyed a warm friendship. You can imagine what a pleasant surprise it was when I answered her phone call. Her message told of the distressing news that due to the impending blizzard and snowstorm, we wouldn’t be able to meet for Story Time that day.

Thus all of the storytellers were left to their own devices. That opened a can of worms for so many worms. I’d guess it was very dangerous for some. For me, I was reduced to doing the laundry.

But what a chance to break the routine and not do a darn thing—except all of the stuff in the procrastination file.

Low and behold the snow didn’t quite live up to the weather man’s expectation—nothing new there—and I didn’t have to get dressed or undressed for bed. I never got out of my robe all day. What luxury. All of that and a good book that saved me from another edition of the Antiques Road Show.

© February 2016 

About the Author 

Hospitality, by Phillip Hoyle

My parents lived truly hospitable lives. As a couple striving to live within the Christian and biblical tradition, they entertained strangers and travelers. They knew the stories of heavenly visitors that sometimes showed up asking for a meal or a place to spend the night. They were familiar with the Old Testament story of Abraham and Sarah’s visit by angels and the New Testament interpretation that the same thing could still happen. They read the biblical commendations of individuals and churches that welcomed travelling prophets and evangelists. In their own time they lived out the spirit of those old stories and interpretations.

They also entertained their children. Of course that idea is not caught up in the hospitality laws and traditions of Hebraic antiquity, for in Jesus’ teachings there was no righteousness in taking care of one’s children or parents. Anyone with dependants simply was responsible for the attendant burdens. Yet when I contrast my parents’ providence and attitudes toward their children with what I know happens too often in other children’s families, my parent’s home shines as a place of true hospitality toward progeny, offspring who were treated as persons not property. Our home went beyond the ancient values that treated wives and children as a man’s chattels, for my parents treated one another humanely and their children as well. They also treated other people as human beings of value, and thus they related responsively to and responsibly toward them. Surely such a distinction can be listed as hospitality, extraordinary hospitality.

I enjoyed a great upbringing in a hospitable home environment. So did Myrna, my wife. Upon coming together, we saw our home as an environment for rearing children and entertaining friends and strangers. Thus we accepted foster children and “foster” adults into our home. For five years we entertained, as it were, foster children when we served as a boarding home for the Kansas Children’s Service League, a group I knew about due to my mother’s long-time support of them. We also welcomed relatives and friends to live with us while they went to school: Myrna’s sister who attended medical assistant school, a foster-daughter of my sister’s who attended cosmetology school, our friend Ted who attended graduate school, an old classmate Donna who likewise attended graduate school, and friends of our son and daughter, kids who needed familial support in various ways. We welcomed a friend of our son’s who as a young adult lived with us for several months, and we welcomed a slightly crazy woman to live with us for several more months, a woman who seemed always to be almost one inch from living on the street. These experiences among many others kept our house lively, taught the two of us strength, adaptability, and perseverance. Our home became a crash pad, a loving support, an oasis, a place of cross-cultural learning, a bed and breakfast, and the center of loving tolerance. The experiences changed our lives, our perceptions of social reality, and our willingness to take chances on other persons’ lives.

I wonder then why we were unable to enfold my homosexuality into such an enduring relationship and environment. Perhaps hospitality and homophobia don’t mix well and the antipathy against homosexuality is too well institutionalized in western society, too highly integrated into myths of otherness, sin, and transgression. Both my wife and I were surprised at how quickly we moved towards separation when details of my sexual truth became extrovert. We remain friends and when together still wonder why we live separately. We are both hospitable; using our separate homes to benefit others, and we are pleased that our children do the same. Still the question lingers.

An elderly minister and I once discussed the injunction in Matthew’s Gospel that allowed for a church to kick out a member who would not act right. The wise man pointed out that according to other good news passages such a sinner had to be welcomed just like a brother or sister. But somehow, when homosexuality enters the picture, there emerges a deep rift of disappointment, dirt, despicability, disrespect, and dire detriment, enough so as to rip apart an intergenerational, long-standing love and hospitality. Obviously marriages are not magic; nor is hospitality uncomplicated.

Hospitality must have been very difficult for Rafael’s mother, yet eventually she welcomed me into her life on behalf of her dying son.

She had to enter the home he shared with his gay American partner, a man her own age.

She had learned of her son’s homosexuality only about three months before when he was in legal trouble. Then she learned that her eldest son was gay, he was ill with HIV, and soon after that he was living with an American man.

Rafael’s father was warm. His brother was warm. His sister was warm. I had to read body language to understand those things. His mother was not mean, but she wasn’t warm towards me. Some of what I understood about her I learned from her son. She was not happy with the situation. It was against the church. It was against all her dreams for her son and all the expectations she had held for her own life. Sure her son had fathered a son for her, but he was supposed to stay with his family, not run off to America and live with some gay man.

Rafael told his parents they were welcome to stay at our home while they were visiting him, but I was part of the deal. They were to be our guests. Of course, he didn’t make it home until we were arranging home hospice for him. Then he stayed less than thirty hours for when the home nurse tried to insert a catheter to his bladder, she got blood. He had just been diagnosed with full-term Hepatitis C.

Cultural expectations were going to be a problem. I did housecleaning although I knew it was women’s work. Once his father invited me to come sit with him. Of course we could not talk. He wanted things to be as normal and proper as possible with his wife and daughter doing the cooking and cleaning.

I too was gracious and hospitable.

I have received the hospitality of strangers.

I have received strangers into my hospitality.

Home life and hospitality.

Myrna: Hospitality and generosity.

OT traditions, NT traditions.

Users and the hospitable, the foundation of a prejudice.

Hospitality and spiritual dimensions of growth.

Pragmatic considerations in hospitality.

Jesus’ words of hospitality—both to receive it and give it. Holy images.

Hospitals

Hostels

Hosts

Invitations

© 12 Mar 2013 

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

Once in a Lifetime, by Pat Gourley

It was in the summer of 1973 and I was living on Elati Street in Denver in a railroad duplex we were renting from a landlord who I seem to recall lived in Texas. There was at any one time 3-6 folks inhabiting the place. We had all recently relocated from Champaign, Illinois. The men all had homosexual tendencies, which for the most part were still in a state of unactualized potential and a couple of, I believe, straight women who were fluidly moving in and out of residence.

One of these women named Sue had recently checked out the hospital a few blocks to the east named at that time Denver General, now called Denver Health. She came home telling the mostly under-employed men in the household that the hospital was hiring several different positions and maybe we should check it out. I was at the time working down in Englewood at Craig Rehab hospital in their kitchen and having some minimal patient contact. Having no car it was a bus ride back and forth down Broadway and I was anxious for a more challenging change closer to home.

In August of that summer of 1973 I was hired as a hospital attendant at Denver General on the inpatient psychiatric ward, 4-West. The attendant staff was all male and all my co-workers conscientious objectors. I had avoided the draft by having a high lottery number and the good sense to not volunteer and end up possibly coming back to the States in a body bag from Vietnam.

The attendant staff was all male I suspect to provide muscle for the all female nurses so I am not sure why I got the job being all of 145-pounds soaking wet in those days. This turned out to be my “once in a lifetime” decision that has given my professional life direction for the past 42-years. I am assuming that something that is once in a lifetime should have more impact that one’s usual run of the mill life happenings and this decision to wade into nursing was it for me. The duties of the attendants did include elements of what I call real nursing i.e. hands on interaction with clients. No advanced degree was necessary with the ability to communicate with people in distress being the main requisite of the job.

Back in the early 1970’s the mentally ill, especially the homeless mentally ill, had a much better chance of hospitalization rather than today's all too frequent option of incarceration. And so began my several decades of interacting with Denver’s most disenfranchised. I did detour for 10-years to what was then called Colorado General but in those days they actually served the indigent uninsured as part of their mission.  That hospital has also changed its named, moved to Aurora and now has TV ads featuring Peyton Manning. I find the tone and pitch of these commercials to be very off-putting but I will not explore that further at this time.

This personal lifetime of nursing is particularly poignant for me today since back on the 28^th of November 2015 was my last day of work as a nurse at Denver Health. It was a long very busy 13-hour day in Urgent Care attending to many of the same type of folks and their issues as I was back in 1973.

I’ll close this piece with a couple things. First, is that Colorado has the chance to vote on single payer health care in November 2016. We as a state currently have a very high rate of medically insured thanks in large part to accepting federal Medicaid support through the Affordable Care Act. Single payer would though be a great improvement in spite of this current commendable high-insured rate.

Secondly, I want to share a series of encounters I had with a homeless fellow I ran across on my walks into work my last two days on the job. The first occurred at 0600 on Friday the 27^th. It was a cold snowy morning and this fellow was under a blanket on the Cherry Creek Bridge on Broadway just south of Speer Blvd. This is often a favorite spot for the homeless folks and he seemed bundled up and out of the wind so I proceeded to work thinking though I might see him later in Urgent Care.

At the end of my shift about 7:15 pm I walked home the same way and was surprised he was still in the same spot but now sitting up and still covered in his blanket. My assumption, perhaps wrong, was that he had spent the day out in the sub-freezing elements. I kept walking but after crossing Broadway I turned around thinking this is really not OK even for a seasoned homeless person.  I cautiously engaged him and he popped his head out of the blanket. He said he was OK that the blanket was warm. The next words out his mouth were to ask if I had a smoke. Despite the obvious health issues related to smoking to lecture him on this under the current circumstances seemed ludicrous. Instead I gave him the four bucks I had and encouraged him to walk the one block down to Denver Health where he could spend the night in the Emergency Department waiting room at least.

The next morning walking into work again I was stunned he was in the same spot. Still under his blanket, a thick coat and pretty good hat and rhythmic breathing quite noticeable. He was not lying directly on the pavement but still this could not have been comfortable. I have over the years encountered numerous homeless who prefer even sub-zero weather to the shelters for a variety of reasons. I decided I would walk home later the same way and if still there I would give him the $20 bucks I had. He was however not there in the evening and I wondered if he had walked down to the hospital or to a shelter or much more likely just moved on.

He had selected a spot out of the wind, temperatures in the high teens with lots of traffic and pedestrians within a few feet and he was reasonably dressed so I never thought the situation life threatening but if not careful frost bite could have been an issue for his toes at least. The greatest clothing need for homeless shelters is socks. I should have brought him a couple pairs from work. Since I walk central Denver a lot I plan to always venture out especially in wintertime with an extra pair in my bag.

© December 2015 

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.

Forever, by Gillian

Well of course there's no such thing. In human time, we'll all die someday. In historic time, we see that everything comes to an end; even in geologic time nothing is forever. Continents wander about the surface of the earth, joining and separating and pushing up mountains. Even our planet is about halfway through its lifespan. In another four and a half billion years, give or take time out for weekends and holidays, Earth as we know it will grind to a halt. As our planet cools, it will become, perhaps, rather as Mars is now; in the same way as Mars was, perhaps, once rather as Earth is now.

Nothing is forever. But it's tricky.

Via our own memories, or through education, we know a great deal about so much that has gone before; has not been forever. What is hard, is to grasp the current absences that will not remain forever, so many of which we ourselves have lived. We had, in our youth, no concept of the absence of a Ground Positioning System. We cannot grasp the lack of something we don't know will ever exist. Or that GPS would in turn would lead to a voice coming from a device in your car and giving you detailed moment by moment directions, guiding you from A to B. We did not dream that phones would not be forever attached to the wall or that in a relatively short time they would be capable of delivering to their users vast amounts of information. We never knew that someday we would say, there's an app. for that! And it's not just technology that shows so little sign of forever. Most of us, people of a certain age, did not know that life in the closet we inhabited was not forever. We could not dream that we would live to see, some incredible day, The White House alight in rainbow colors. Come to that, we had no vision of the significance which would one day become attached to those colors; that rainbow. Nor could we see our part in it.

Betsy and I, along with most of the world's population, watched the Women's Soccer World Cup. I remarked to her that the fact that there even is such a thing as women playing soccer at all, never mind a World Cup watched, in the U.S. alone, by almost 30-million people, is as completely incredible to me as the recent, amazing, legalizing, throughout the entire U.S., of same-sex marriage. It was little more than two years ago that I stated, in one of my Storytime writings, that I did believe it would arrive, some day, but not in my lifetime. Of course, in my youth, it was something I could not conceive of in the very best of my imaginings. All that existed was a void in thought, word, and deed, which I could only suppose would last forever.

One of the good things, I find, about growing old is that we really do get it. We really know that those good times will not last forever, so we enjoy them more intensely, perhaps more frequently, while at the same time managing not to feel that terrible sense of loss and regret when they are over. By the same token, we know that the bad times are not forever. We will get over it, and life will go on. Or we will not, and we will die. And quite honestly, I cannot believe that will be forever, either. Nothing else is, as far as I know, in the entire universe. So why would death be the single exception? What will follow I don't even speculate. It is simply another of those conceptual voids, like women's soccer and gay marriage once were to me, which will not last forever. Someday it will be filled. I just don't know with what.

© 13 Jul 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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.

Sports, by Betsy

As a child I was not involved in any organized sports.  No soccer leagues, no softball for girls, mostly just playtime and as an older child “hanging out.”

We did play sports in school.  I remember kick ball--just like baseball only you kick a soccer-sized rubber ball--then run around the bases. I loved that game.  Also dodge ball was big in elementary grades. 

When I was about ten my father took me out on skis a few times. Not to a ski area, rather cross country.  Being in the lumber business he knew where the old abandoned roads were and I was proud of myself indeed to be out on skis with my Daddy.  For a few years the family would venture up to Old Forge in the Adirondack Mountains, stay in a hotel and ski at the ski area. In those days in NY State a rope tow was the best means of propulsion to the top of the ridge.

I loved skiing, except for getting cold.  Today 70 years later I am still skiing and have no intention of giving it up any time soon.

Also in the winter we had many opportunities for ice skating. We would skate on the nearby lake, in fact, I could skate to school at the other end of the lake.  In New Jersey our lake froze over quite often as I remember. 

On a couple of occasions as a child my Daddy took me to the local horse stables where we could rent a couple of horses and off we would go. Just walking an old nag, I’m sure.  But again, I was on top of the world because I was with my Daddy. That was probably the best sports experience of those early days and we probably only went out on horses a couple of times. I was devastated when I had to quit that because I was allergic to horses.

My mother was not athletic and did not like sports except bowling which she participated in weekly for many years.  I do believe it was more of a social activity for her than a competition. However, she always went along on the ski trips and was a good sport about it.

Around age 15 my Daddy taught me to play golf.  He was a avid golfer and quite skilled at the game. In the ensuing year I came to take it quite seriously, playing for fun and in occasional competitive events in high school and college.

As I am writing this, I keep thinking of more and more sports which were introduced to me by my father. He really had been quite an athlete himself in college. I know that because at home in the attic I happened upon some of the medals and certificates awarded to him.

I am also reminded of sporting events my father took me to watch. What I remember best are the hot dogs at Ebbets Field or maybe it was Yankee Stadium.  The game I thought boring to watch, but I enjoyed the yummy hot dogs slathered in mayo, mustard, and pickles.

Also memorable was the time we went to see Babe Didrikson Zaharias* play golf in an LPGA [Ladies Professional Golf Association] tournament in New Orleans. Babe was the greatest woman athlete of her day.  Having competed in the Olympic games in track, she was now a golf champion. I must have been around 16 or 17 at the time of that event since we lived near New Orleans. I will never forget approaching her when she was practicing on the putting green before a match.  She signed my program for me and my heart went thumpity-thump.

Another sport my father taught me was ping pong. We had an enclosed sun porch at the back of our house in New Jersey which housed our ping pong table. Daddy would challenge me to a game and start out by announcing that he would even the playing field, so to speak, by tying his right arm behind him, or spotting me a number of points. As I grew older and more adept, the number of points he spotted me diminished until finally we were even. He could not have been happier, which was a message to me about what is really important in sports.

When I was in high school we were forced to move from New Jersey, a rather progressive place, to Louisiana, the ultimate in conservatism and tradition. We, of course, had to give up the winter sports. After the move in  school my sports participation came to a rather screeching halt. Girls did not do sports in my Louisiana high school.  It might cause a girl to sweat, which is not lady-like.The best I could do was to be a cheer leader and cheer on the boys.

It was then that my father taught me to play golf. It was my saving grace when it comes to sports participation during those three years in Louisiana.

My choice to leave the deep south and go back north to college was probably driven somewhat by my love of sports and particularly winter sports.

When I married and became the mother of three children, I gave up golf and took up tennis.  I found that I could from time to time manage an hour of tennis, but never could I find a half a day for a round of golf. Also money was tight. Public tennis courts are free, not so with the golf course, even public ones.  Also during my years of mothering I coached my girls’ recreational soccer league teams.  When that was over and I was age 40 something I started playing the game until I turned 60. 

I continued playing tennis for the rest of my life, my Patty Berg signature golf clubs gathering dust in the attic. I have been tempted but have not found time to get back into golf.  I’m spending too much time and having too much fun on the tennis court.

The sports introduced to me by my father have been very important to me throughout my life and continue to be so. They have opened up doors, brought me closer to friends and family simply by being able to play together. Teaching and participating in sports with each of my three children I know has brought us closer together over the years.

Some of my best friendships have grown out of my interest and participation in sports.  I play regularly with good friends at the Denver Tennis Club, tennis and ping pong. I’m happy to say that my lovely Gillian has joined me in ping pong.  She is a formidable player and we have our own table at home.

I still play ping pong, ski cross-country and downhill. I have taught skiing to the disabled for 16 years at the National Sports Center for Disabled, which has been an educational experience, and enlightening.

Did I mention cycling? Like most kids I had a bicycle back in New Jersey as a youngster.  I rode it to school and rode around the area with my friends.  We pedaled our bikes to the movies on Saturdays and to the drug store for sodas.

I took up serious cycling when I retired in 1998.  My ambition upon retirement had been to hike the Colorado Trail.  I had worked as a volunteer building the trail now I wanted to hike the entire length. When the time came, I had to give up the idea because of a chronic back condition. So instead I took up cycling and have had some of the best adventures of my life as a result--the ultimate being the trip from the Pacific to the Atlantic which I pedaled in 2005. 

I am fortunate that I have an aptitude and a proclivity for sports--most sports, and have had the opportunity to learn to play, to practice, and the health to participate in them which is truly the love of my life--well, one of them anyway.

*Babe Didrikson Zaharias

© 13 Nov 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), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

My Favorite Water Sport, by Will Stanton

I suppose I could regard this topic of “My Favorite Water Sport” to be rather presumptuous. It assumes that I engage in a variety of water sports, let alone doing any at all - - which I don't.  I never have.

I do, however, swim frequently; and I have done that most of my life.  Of course for me, that's not a sport.  Swimming would fall under the athletic heading of “physical education and recreation,” that is, I do it for exercise and health.  Ergo, “re-creation.”

My parents taught me very young to swim, probably starting around two or three.  We would go frequently to the university swimming pool.  I never have enjoyed being exposed to chlorine, but the indoor pool had the advantage of being open during inclement and cold weather.

I actually signed up for, and completed, a life-guard class so that I could get a job at the city pool during the summer.  The teacher, however, after the class was completed, refused to give me my certificate because she said that, at age fifteen, I was too young.  I had to be sixteen.  Thanks a lot!  Why didn't she tell me that at the start?

By the time I was twenty, I had developed sufficient breath capacity that I could swim 2 ¼ lengths of the pool under water in one breath.  Now that I am superannuated, I don't even put my face under.

During summers, my brother and I used to go to the city pool.  That was the setting for my first sexual dream, “seeing” a girl swimming under water, nude.  I wasn't all that fond of the city pool.  It was situated near the junk yard next to the river, which occasionally flooded the whole area including the pool.  My knowing what was in that flood-water did not thrill me very much.  And, that flooding didn't even have anything to do with the “Baby Ruth” that I saw floating there one day.

During some summers, I swam in a variety of lakes.  There were two man-made lakes nearby.  Also, my family and I did some camping near lakes, and we invariably swam.  I recall one called “Crystal Lake,“ and it certainly was.  The lake had a pure white, sandy bottom with nothing growing and with no fish.  I could look straight down to the bottom.  I also attended several summer camps, and, of course, they always were situated adjacent to lakes.

On several occasions, I swam in the ocean.  I did not care for the salt and the waves and, sometimes, cold, especially on the North-Atlantic coast.  I especially was wary of the Portuguese men-of-war floating about or on the beach in Florida.

 At least, I did not suffer the fate of the scuba-diver off the lighthouse point who was pulled under and killed by a giant squid.  Those who recovered his body claimed that, from the size of the sucker marks on him, that the squid may have been sixty feet long.  That sounds rather extreme, but recent explorations have filmed squid bigger than that. That could not have been a very enjoyable way to go.

I still swim several days per week at the pool here in the city.  That assumes, of course, that it is not shut down again for maintenance.  As I said before, I now am superannuated; therefore, I choose to attend the “seniors swim hour,” which I refer to as “the old farts' swim.” 

 

Elderly Man Swimming

During summers when they have had youth swimming classes just before ours, and the boys in the locker room see us shambling wrecks of dissipated humanity, I wonder what they think.  Or perhaps, they, being so young, cannot relate to us.  Perhaps they regard us as non-human aliens.       

Young Swimmer

© 22 Oct 2016 

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.

The Females in My Life, by Ricky

Like everyone else on this planet, the first woman in my life was my mother.  Mom was the care giver when I was young, but she was also the rat-fink of my life.  She would always tell my father of my daily misdeeds and he was the disciplinarian in the family.  During that time period, discipline consisted of not too gentle spankings, so I learned to fear both of them.  Mom was also the one who came to Minnesota, while I was living with my grandparents, to be a bridesmaid for her sister and then did not take me back to California when she left Minnesota after the wedding.  I think I subconsciously resent her even to this day for leaving me and for being a rat-fink.

The second woman was my father's mother.  After I was born she came to live with us for about one year.  I don't remember that time period much and as I grew up, I did not see her very often.  The next female in my life was my beloved Bonnie, a black and white collie, who became the best baby sitter a two-year old toddler could not escape; that is until I learned to take her with me when I left the yard.  Sadly, she got distemper and passed before her first birthday.  I don't remember if I grieved for her very much.  I only now remember her from old photographs and the stories my parents told me over time.

Next was a girl in my Kindergarten class at the Hawthorn Christian School in Hawthorn, California.  Her name was Sandra Flora.  She was like a girlfriend to me, or more precisely, I was a boyfriend to her.  With long curly hair and the full dress that little girls wore at that time, she looked like a young Shirley Temple.  I carried her Kindergarten school photo in my wallet well into my 40's when I finally lost it.

The next woman in my life would be my mother's mother.  I lived with her and my grandfather for two years on a farm in central Minnesota from the age of 8 until two-weeks before I turned 10.  She was a reasonable surrogate mother but at 9-years of age, I ended up with a mild ‟school boy crush” on my 4^th grade teacher, Mrs. Knoll.  She was a very young beautiful lady and in her second year as a teacher.  The crush was mild because she was married so I knew I had no chance and I was not quite into full blown puberty.  My 3^rd grade teacher, Mrs. Sorensen, was a good but matronly teacher and thus of no interest to me.

Back on the farm, my aunt Darlene, my mother's younger and only sister, would visit occasionally with her husband.  When I was 8, I was a ring-bearer (like Bilbo and Frodo) at her wedding.  My younger cousin, Pamela Anderson, was the flower-girl.  There was one other female on the farm that I had a platonic relationship with, at least on my part.  Her name was Peanuts and she was a Guernsey cow.  Her stall was the first one as I would enter the barn and so she became my favorite, almost like a pet.

One week before I turned 10, my mother and new step-father came to Minnesota to pick me up and take me back to California.  They also introduced me to the next female to enter my life, my little baby sister, Gale.  For the next 9 years she and her twin brother and I had a close family relationship.  They were the kids and I was the babysitter.  Not too much personal time for me, but we did have some amount of fun growing up until I went away to college and then the military.  She still lives at our ‟home town” of South Lake Tahoe.

The next female was never alive in the literal sense but she really was a lady.  She was the Skipalong, my step-father's 39 foot cabin cruiser he used as a tour-boat on Lake Tahoe during 1957 and '58.  I was his deckhand in 1958 and I really loved the ‟job” and the boat.  All I had was that one summer with her as the next summer, at the beginning of the season, she sank at a pier while her engine was being overhauled and was sold for salvage.  I still miss her even today as that summer was perhaps the happiest of my childhood.

She had a colorful career.  It is believed she was built in the 1920's in Morris Heights, New York by the Consolidated Shipbuilding Corporation.  She was originally 36 feet long but upon arrival in San Francisco she was modified to 39 feet long and a ‟lookout cockpit” was added to the bow as she began service as a rum runner during Prohibition.

In the Fall of 1958, after that wonderful summer, I developed another school boy crush.  This time it was during full blown puberty and on my unmarried, first year 5^th grade teacher, Miss Herbert.  She was beautiful, young, and had a wonderful personality.  I was in LOVE!  Then she got married over Christmas vacation.  I was devastated.  It appeared to me that I would never get the women I loved, which due to the age differences, is probably a good thing.

The next female arrived at our house on Red Lake Road, in South Lake Tahoe when I was 12.  She was ¾ Oriental Poodle and ¼ Pomeranian—a little, black, shaggy, and “yippy” lap dog.  She bonded to me the first night in our house and became the first female I slept with for the next 9-years.  I was monogamous but she was a very prolific bitch. No! I was not the father of her litters.

After I joined the Air Force, I met my first girlfriend as an adult.  She was the best friend of the woman I would marry 5-years later.  During the intervening years, I also met the woman who taught me about making out and foreplay.  Then there was the woman who took my virginity.  Actually, I guess it was a mutual thing as she did not have to twist my arm to get it.

Then I married Deborah and we enjoyed 27-years and 9-months together before she passed from complications of breast cancer.  During those years, the final women in my life were born to us—our three daughters, one of which made me a grandfather with her 2-daughters.

So those are the women and other females in my life.  I chose not to tell about my two female cats, so be thankful for small favors.

© 23 November 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.