A Defining Word, by Will Stanton

OK, so I know that two words are a term, not a word; but that is what I have chosen to write about, a term: “sexual preference.” I have chosen those two words because, over the years, they have been used so much, yet they certainly are not defining words.

Yes, I know what people usually mean when they employ that term when asking, “What is your sexual preference?” Most likely, they mean “straight or gay.” I usually answer, “I'm not sure. It's hard for me to choose between blond or brunette. One day, I lean toward blond; yet, on other days, I'm drawn to dark-brown hair, maybe even black.”

A person's preference may have little to do with sexual identity. For one example, I can conceive of a person born homosexual whose preference would be to be heterosexual. And of course, someone's preference might be to a person of the opposite gender.

In addition, a person's preference may be a partner who is young, or old, same race or different race, very good-looking or, instead, a very good person, looks being of less importance. Many gay guys seem to be preoccupied with the size of male genitalia. Other people could not care less, placing far more importance on someone's other attributes.

In order to avoid confusion or misinterpretation, I prefer communication to be as precise as possible. Therefore, because genetics and brain structure are major determinants of each person's drives and attractions, I suggest that the more logical term should be “sexual orientation;” and this is what I use if the subject comes up in conversation. Even then, that term is not completely defining, for people are complex and of varied natures.

And, as long as we are talking about commonly used terms, a little bell goes off each time I hear the frequently used term “bisexual.” My having involved myself for several decades in human behavioral treatment, the term “bisexual” always connotes for me a possible biological influence in someone's nature or physical structure. After all, human sexuality is not binary, that is, either heterosexual or homosexual. Someone's nature or orientation lies somewhere on a linear graph. For those individuals who may engage in sexual relations with people of both heterosexual and homosexual orientation, perhaps a more accurate term would be “ambisexual,” rather like in baseball, a “switch-hitter.” Or, if you would enjoy something more humorous, you might use the term “heteroflexible.”

Finally, generally I avoid popular, overused labels when describing people. People are far too varied and complex. Labeling people hinders the process of getting to know and truly understand someone. Besides, for those persons fortunate enough to have become self-actualized and broad in their interests, sexual orientation is only one part of a human, complex personality.

© 02 February 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.

True Colors, by Ricky

Oh say, what is truth? Can you describe for me what color is? Is it true that we all see the same color when looking at an object? Can colors lie? In normal daylight my car looks to be colored either burgundy or brown depending upon what angle one is looking at the vehicle. In twilight, it looks black. So what is the color of my car? Is it burgundy, brown, or black? Officially the manufacturer states the color is burgundy. Thus under different lighting conditions and angles the color shifts, in essence, lying about itself.

Electromagnetic radiation has many frequencies. Visible light is but a small range of those frequencies. The cone structures in our eyes perceive those frequencies and pass the information on to one’s brain where we “see” images containing what we call color. If you and I both could see just one specific Ångström of light, would our brains interpret it as the same shade of whatever color the frequency represents? Or, because of differences in our brains, do we each “see” slightly different colors?

What is true about colors? In my youth, the color red was for firetrucks, stop signs, and anger. Now firetrucks are safety-green or yellow. Back then, yellow was for cowardice, warning, and jaundice. Nonetheless, I Am Curious Yellow made it into the movies. Green is for: go, money, cheese on the moon, grass on the other side of the fence, and envy. Blue has always been for: eyes, the sky, depression, music, and calm. Violet is used to name little girls, a flower, and as a young female character in Ronald Dahl’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Brown is used for dirt, a comic character named Charlie, and of course—yummy chocolate.

One place where colors are “true” is when they are lined up in a rainbow. The colors are always lined up the same each time. They are dependable and bring me a feeling of happiness whenever I see one. 

Colors are very useful. English has many “colorful” words, if they are used correctly. Two such words are Crayola Crayons. When used as nouns, they bring children and adults some joy when making colorful pictures on paper or walls or floors or white shirts.

Before you think up some other colorful words for this lame piece of fluff. I’ll quit writing about it. See ya’ll later.

© 29 February 2016

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

What I Did for Love, by Ray S

As far back as memory reaches the euphemism “passed away” was a familiar phrase in polite society. As a little child I was expected to attend the services, another euphemism, of family and those who had passed on. At that age I just accepted the story my parents told me, and just understood I was included among the mourners as an act of respect and/or love. That kind of death and funerals were to say the least, remote in the perception of a six year old. It was a time of observation and learning, not a sense of loss.

Of course, with the passage of time the reality of what all of this meant to the adults and me as well, became evident. In retrospect I see it as preparation emotionally and intellectually for dealing with custom and the loss of a loved one. The loss of parents you loved and family members, too, have been peaceful or tragic, but the inevitable had to be accepted and one could only rely on the everlasting love that memories held.

Nothing seems to compare in what I did for love as the experience of having to decide that it was time to take our dying family cat to the vet for his final rites. I had never sat by anyone’s deathbed, but this was as close to it as I had been. I could guess you might feel this is quite trivial in light of the beginning of this story, but it is a different kind of personal tragedy; only to be followed by a second trip to the vet’s a couple of years later for the euthanasia of our good buddy and constant buddy and would-be guardian, Harvey the cat. This time my wife chose to remain in our car after saying goodbye to Harvey; she just couldn’t make the trip into the doctor’s office. As the saying goes, “You have to do what you have to do.” And that is what we did for love.

Denver, © 16 November 2015

About the Author

Still Learning after All These Years, by Phillip Hoyle

My artist and poet friend Sue keeps learning. She has studied art with teachers and has produced art in several mediums for years. She has managed co-op art galleries, displayed her works in solo and group shows, and taught art to youngsters. But now Sue has extremely limited money resources. For awhile she kept up her learning about art processes by watching arts and crafts shows on TV. When she got a PC, she switched to following art blogs and watching tutorials. Still she is learning. Still she keeps experimenting. Still.

I likewise keep learning bolstered in my resolve to do so by watching Sue’s creative efforts and by recalling the concept of lifelong learning I promoted during my long career as a minister. I try to practice what I preached. For instance, I have long participated in a writers group that, although it does not critique pieces, affords me a constant source of response and learning. When I read something to that group of writers, I hear my words differently and pick up problems I’ve missed in my own reading and editing. I also get positive feedback.

When possible I have attended art workshops. One of the most helpful processes I learned in a week-long event with Houston artist Polly Hammett in 1998 was a process of self-criticism. She recommended the process that continues to teach me about my work and its direction. Her SELF-CRITIQUE is this:

Select from your current work several of the pieces. Set them up as a gallery. Decide three things you like about each piece.

1. See them. As you look at each piece see what you like.

2. Say them. Aloud say what it is that you like. Say aloud all three things.

3. Write them. Write down those things you have decided. If you are working on paper, write them on the back of the piece itself. If not, write them in a notebook. Write them.

Then choose your favorite piece. Decide, say, and write why it is your favorite, how it is related to the other pieces, and how it is different. “Do this,” she said, “so you keep affirming what you like. You will do again such things if you repeat them verbally.” She also stressed not to spend any time on the things you don’t like or you’ll end up doing them again and again! I have applied her advice to my work over the past fifteen years.

When I worked at a spa clients would sometimes ask, “How long have you been doing massage?”

I told them, “I’ve given massages professionally for eight years.”

“What did you do before that?” they almost always responded.

“I was a minister,” I said. That stopped the conversation almost as effectively as being introduced as a minister to a group of people drinking heavily in a bar.

“That’s really different,” many of them would eventually respond.

“No,” I answered with a chuckle. “My clients still tell me their problems.”

We’d laugh together. Then I’d clarify. “Actually it is different. In the massage context they edit their stories much less.”

Even in this last year of massage I have been learning new processes, new applications of things I learned in school, and sometimes a realization of what my teachers were trying to communicate about the work all those years ago.

In 2013 I am still learning not only about my art and massage, but also about personal relationships, things I never before could have imagined. The things people have told me about their lives probably were just details I couldn’t imagine about folk in churches when they told me their troubles. I have learned about life and about people, including many things about the varieties of GLBT folk!

Enough of these stories. Here’s my elder advice:

* In learning and work, both go it alone and collaborate with others.

* Adopt a rookie attitude about your life, skills, and learning even if you are ancient.

* Like Sue, find novel ways to learn.

* Keep your eyes open, your ideas transportable, and your attitudes creatively engaged.

And let me tell you; I hope to keep learning right up to my last breath.

Denver, © 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

The Men in My Life, by Lewis

Preamble 

I have lain awake at night more than once this past week thinking about what I might write on this subject, trying to find some common theme amidst the tenuous and sparse connections I have had with two of the three men with whom I have lived. Perhaps it was the place, perchance the time. Whatever the reason, I can honestly say that when it comes to the masculine persona, “Yay, verily, I have barely known ye.”

What are men afraid of? Is it a part of being “macho”? It seems to me that it is not related to sexual orientation. I see it even in this Storytellers group—men are reluctant to share their vulnerability, their pain. Perhaps it is because we are all Baby-Boomers or older. Perhaps it was growing up in the decades of seemingly endless wars, whether hot or cold. It could have been our heroes on TV and movie screens—Charlton Heston, Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne. Perhaps it was ubiquitous homophobia, insinuating into our lives the scandalousness of showing tenderness or warm affection toward any man. Whatever the source, it is a theme that has run throughout my associations with men from my earliest days. And that has left a hole in my soul that remains unfilled to this day.

In recalling the men in my life and writing about them, wounds have been opened that never healed but were only glazed over by time and circumstance. They are the neglected infrastructure of my life and I have run into a deep pothole. Perhaps in writing this, I can throw some “cold patch” into it and smooth out some of the pain.

Homer

Homer E. Wright was my maternal grandfather, the only grandparent I ever knew. My mother was the oldest of six children growing up on the outskirts of Pratt, Kansas, in the nineteen-teens and –twenties. A couple of cows and a few chickens shared the yard. Granddad worked his entire life for the Rock Island RR. His wife, Alma, died in 1943 of colon cancer. He continued living in Pratt until he retired in 1952. It was then that he moved to Hutchinson to live with my parents and six-year-old “Lewis the Third” in a newer, larger house on which he made the down payment on the $12,500 mortgage. The house had three small bedrooms, one bath, a single-car attached garage, a large yard, and no basement. Because Dad used one of the bedrooms as an office, Granddad and I shared a bedroom. He got the bed and I slept on a wire-frame divan with removable cushions. (I can remember that I liked to sleep on my stomach and let one leg drop down into the cradle formed by the tucked in sheets.)

Granddad was very generous with his money. He bought us our first TV that same year—even before there was a broadcast station within range. He also paid for my first bicycle and only pet dog.

In 1955, we all piled into Granddad’s ‘52 Packard and headed for Washington, D.C., New York City, Boston, and Newport, Connecticut, to see the sights and visit aunts and uncles on my mother’s side. While climbing the Statue of Liberty, I left Granddad’s Kodak box camera on a bench at a rest stop halfway up the long, long staircase. It was gone by the time we came back down. I feared his wrath but, as with other emotions, it was missing in action.

When he died in November of 1955, he left each of his six children $15,000. My parents used the money to pay off the mortgage. We burned it in the fireplace.

As generous as Granddad was with his money, he was every bit as parsimonious with his personal attention. I have no memory of having a conversation with him or any physical touching. Even when he gave me a gift, it was not because he handed it to me. It just “appeared”. With a tip of the bowler to Winston Churchill, he was “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma”.

Perhaps it is not a coincidence that his offspring scattered to the four winds, Harold to a farm in the far southeast corner of Kansas; Carl to Alaska and Mossy Rock, WA; Merle to Stone Mountain, GA; Ruth to New London, CT; and Verna to somewhere in Texas. Perhaps it wasn’t Granddad. Maybe it was only escaping Kansas that was important.

Dad

Dad was the oldest of four boys born on a farm near Cheney, Kansas. I never knew either of his parents but he told the story of their losing their farm during the Depression. It was the only time he ever saw either of them cry. It moved him so deeply that he resolved to spend his working life helping farmers get the loans they needed to prosper.

My dad was much more approachable than Granddad. Before I was old enough for kindergarten, on Sunday mornings I would sit on his lap while he read the comics to me. I would ask him to “point” so I could follow along. It gave me a great “leg up” on learning to read myself.

His relationship with my mother was almost like a business partnership. If it weren’t for the Sunday evening every month that their bridge club met, there would have been hardly any socializing at all. My ex-wife remembers my mother criticizing my dad’s driving while vacationing. (My dad drove as part of his business. He put 30,000 miles per year on his company car without ever causing an accident.) They slept in twin beds--like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz but without the bickering—and even dressed in separate rooms. Dad was a “soft touch”. Everybody liked him. I think Mom resented him for being that way but her latent lesbianism meant she couldn’t stand intimacy, either.

Dad had no idea how to parent. Mother handled all the disciplining, including spanking. He didn’t know how to be truly tender, either. When he found the dog Homer had given me dead in the street—I’m not sure it wasn’t his car that did it—he was annoyed at having to find a spot in the backyard to bury him. The only “heart-to-heart” talk I can ever remember having with him was when I was entering middle school and he felt obligated to tell me what a jock strap was for. I think he was more uncomfortable that I was.

Still, I felt I understood Dad more than I ever did Mom. I think I adopted many of his ways, especially the way he took care of business in his office at home, sort of like being there but not being there. That was true of me much of the time while my kids were growing up. It is the biggest regret of my life.

Laurin

There’s a neat kind of symmetry to having been in love with one woman and one man. It would have been even more remarkable were I able to say that I was single for the first 26 years of my life (true), married to a woman for the second 26 years (also true) and then married to a man for the final 26-year installment of my life. I only got to live with Laurin for half that long. Had he not been twenty years older than I, we might have made it to that milestone.

Laurin and I filed for divorce from our wives when it became apparent that we had something truly special going on between us. He had been married for nearly fifty years and he and his wife had five children, all grown. Laurin had the “hots” for me from the moment we first met. He was not shy about expressing it. The way he looked me in the eyes without saying a word embarrassed me in the extreme. His directness was something I had never encountered before in a man.

I was at that time in the process of getting in touch with my innate sexuality. I was seeing a gay therapist in Ann Arbor. He was urging me to go slow. The fact that Laurin lived 55 miles away in Flint, where he taught high school social studies, gave me the space I needed to sort things out. It took a lot of sorting—seven years in fact. We stayed in touch through letters—the snail-mail kind. By 1998, I was openly investigating the gay culture.

That May, I attended a weekend financial seminar for gay men and women over 50. The keynote speaker was Quentin Crisp, author of The Naked Civil Servant. Laurin was there also. We picked up where we had left off. Laurin’s wife had been living for many years in Hylton Head, South Carolina, where they owned a condominium. Although we still lived 55 miles apart, we met on a few occasions for dinner or to attend the monthly meetings of Body Electric in Detroit.

I wrote Laurin a letter to inform him that I thought I was ready to take our friendship to a deeper level. I had been reading books by men who were gay but living a closeted existence within a heterosexual marriage. In the car one day that May, I told my wife, Janet, about a case I had read about involving a Mormon couple who took annual vacations to New York City with their children. She would spend the week taking the children to museums, concerts, and the theater while Dad would check out the gay bars. At the end of the week, they would resume their “normal” existence back in Utah.

Janet’s response was to ask me, “Is that what you want?” I said, “No”. She asked what it was I did want. I told her that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with a man. That night, I slept in our son’s former bedroom and we began the process of getting a divorce.

Three weeks later, I participated in a workshop for gay men seeking deeper same-sex relationships. I waited for a response to my letter from Laurin. Nothing came. A couple of months went by; still no response. Finally, one of us called the other. I don’t remember who was which. I asked Laurin about the letter. He said, “What letter?” Turns out, I had typed the letter but never mailed it. Freud lives!

The die had been cast, nevertheless, and the two of us began to plan a vacation tryst in a place with sand, palm trees, and privacy. But first, we needed a trial run. We arranged to rendezvous at the very cabin in Lakelands Trail State Park, MI, where we first met. I was there to greet Laurin as he drove up. He got out of his second-hand Cadillac and immediately removed his toupee and flung it across the trunk. For both of us, the moment marked the end of pretending to be who we were not.

Laurin was unlike any man I had ever met. He delighted in his body and in mine. He was spontaneous, direct, and completely devoted to my happiness. His favorite movie was The Unsinkable Molly Brown (he was a Colorado native). Early in the movie there is a scene where Harve Presnell and Debby Reynolds are laying in the grass under a tree. He sings to his love, Molly, “I’ll Never Say ‘No’”. Laurin vowed that he would never say “No” to me—and he kept that promise for the fourteen years we were together. (This is not to say that he never did things I would not have approved, if given a chance.)

That’s what made Laurin so precious to me. He went wherever I went and vice versa. We couldn’t get enough of each other. I had finally found a man who truly enjoyed my company, who wanted nothing more than to wake up next to me in the morning. For the first time in my life, I felt that I truly mattered to another man. It was like heaven.

© 28 March 2016

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Sad but True, by Gillian

It is undeniably true, and equally undeniably sad, that selfish, inconsiderate, people keep insisting upon dying; often at very inconvenient times and in equally inconvenient places. Often they don't even bother giving me any warning; which actually is of no consequence because, when I do have some presentiment of bad behavior on their part and sternly insist that they mend their ways, do they pay attention? No! They just pop their clogs, topple off their perches, in total disregard of my needs and wants.

Now, most of these people are old enough to know better. They must know that I, at a similar age, am too old to deal with emotional upheavals. Bad things just keep getting harder to deal with. So, do they cease and desist from such things? Far from it. In fact old friends insist on dying with ever-increasing frequency.

Take just last week. Nancy, the chef from Betsy's cross-country bike trip, died unexpectedly. She was not only cook and bottle-washer, but she also rode her bike, along with the others. So her death was almost a double whammy: the loss of Nan the cook, and Nancy, the co-rider. She was also the first of the group to die, so that hit everyone very hard. I mean, just how inconsiderate is that? She was a perfectionist, and very competitive, so I guess she just had to be #1. (Actually, that whole group was made up of some very competitive people, so in a way it would not have been surprising if they'd chased each other right into the arms of that old Grim Reaper, like lemmings going over the cliffs.) But no, in the event, Nancy had to be first.

On top of that she was only 68, abandoning ship early, leaving old souls like Betsy to pedal on.

In a final act of selfishness, she had to go and die in some remote half-a-horse Wyoming town in the middle of winter. Whoa! How's that for heaping it on? Just because she fell in love with this Wyoming rancher, just because she wanted to live on his remote ranch, just because she adored the midst of nowhere, we had to traverse the sleet and snow of Windy Wyoming on bitterly cold February days. Huh!

-----------------

With that, I guess my attempt at some kind of dark humor has fizzled out. I suppose I had to try it as the only way, at this particular moment, to deal with the sad but true fact that as we age we lose so many friends; faster and faster they fall. All the tired old platitudes, such as death is just a part of life, offer me nothing, though I do try to remind myself constantly that in fact I am very fortunate: in order to lose so many friends you first have to have so many friends. Still, I hate that feeling of always waiting for another shoe to drop, dreading who will be next. Then, one day, I shall be the one who is next. Sad but true.

© February 2016

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.

Belief, by Will Stanton

So many people, far too many people, are convinced that belief is truth; belief is the same thing as fact. Nothing could be further from the truth. For centuries, most people believed that the earth was flat; the sun circled the earth. I am saddened by the fact that many people's hard-held beliefs defy fact and reality, and too often with dire consequences.

To the horrific discredit of humankind, many Nazis believed that all Jews should be eliminated. Pastor Anderson in Tempe, Arizona, believes that all homosexuals should be executed, supposedly because the Bible says so. Some beliefs can be shocking and deadly.

Very often, people thoughtlessly quote the hackneyed expression, “Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs.” In addition to that quotation being bad grammar, I logically disagree with the statement. If a belief is false and can cause harm to others, I feel then that one is not entitled to harbor that belief.

Yet, we daily hear evidence that so many people hold false beliefs; and, in doing so, they cause among the populace suspicion, fear, distrust, disdain, hate. For example, “President Obama is not American; his birth certificate is forged; he hates America; all the generals and admirals are quitting because they are refusing Obama's orders to bomb our own cities.” I view such beliefs as nothing less than insanity. For the life of me, I can not understand the depth and pervasiveness of such insanity. Yet, exist is does, and in abundance.

The idea of belief in religion also raises questions in my own mind, albeit anyone questioning religion at all is an anathema to many people. I have heard Christians say that the world is a better place with religion and point to, what they refer to as, “good works” as an immediate benefit of religion, let alone supposedly having an “afterlife.” A rational person, of course, will point out that good works can be performed without the adjunct of religion, regardless of the fact that many people, such a Bill O'Reilly, claim that such humanitarian works “do not count” unless the good Samaritan is a “person of faith.” Far worse, we all are aware that, throughout history, some religious beliefs have resulted in millions of deaths from war, Inquisitions, and terror.

My whole life, I have pondered the human mind. On one hand, I am amazed by the great, creative works some notable people have contributed to the world. Yet at the same time, I remain puzzled and saddened by the pervasiveness of distorted thinking and beliefs that are so common among the populace. Without being too technical, I am aware that researches have found that some people's brains are more prone to clutching onto beliefs for a sense of certainty and safety, rather than rationally exploring all the facts available to them. Then of course, much depends upon what one has learned and how it was learned. I frequently have witnessed religiosity-minded people becoming defensive and hostile when confronted with facts that call into question their hard-held beliefs.

All of us, to one degree or another, have beliefs that we wish to maintain. I, for one, believe that the world would be a far better place if every person cherished life, always treated each other with empathy and respect, learned to love each other. Yet, I actually have been confronted with people who have stated to me that they do not share such beliefs.

I also believe in the benefit of moral behavior. For example, I believe that American politics would be far more constructive and tolerable if all concerned acted in a moral fashion without misrepresentation, lying, denigration, character-assassination, and even theft of elections or actual assassination. Yet, I have had conversations with several religiosity-minded people who literally do not comprehend the concept that I am proposing. They believe that only winning is important and that whatever machinations are required to do so are perfectly OK. My belief in morality is not shared by them.

On a lighter note, I can think of a belief that I have held that turned out to be true even without my initially having all the facts. For some time, I held a belief, based upon experience and some research, that not all music is of equal quality, that some music is healthful and, what I call, “pro-human,” whereas some aural experiences, called “music,” are toxic to humans and animals. Some people, aware of my belief, dismissed it with disdain, claiming that my belief had no factual basis. They claimed that all music is of equal quality and that what one listens to simply is a matter of taste and preference. Then to my surprise and, I admit, my satisfaction, recent scientific research with both humans and animals has supported my early belief, and definitively so.

So, sometimes beliefs can be accurate, even without all the supporting evidence that we would prefer to have. I should hasten to say, however, this may be true, but within reason. I still feel that I reasonably can dismiss the belief that President Obama ordered our generals to bomb our cities. So, when we talk about believing something, we really should be rational and accurately know what we are talking about. Do I believe that all humans eventually will think and behave in this manner? Not really. But as for myself, I make an effort.

© 7 January 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.

Bumper Stickers, by Ricky

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”*

Hiking along the chosen road, I am thinking about how can I incorporate into my life a bumper sticker admonition, “Practice random acts of kindness and commit senseless acts of beauty.” Traveling on, I soon perceive why this road is less traveled.

Not far from the fork in the road, (which I pick up and place in my knapsack) ancient and majestic oaks grow o’er the way, eventually shutting out the noon-day sun and providing only a dim twilight to illuminate the way forward. Thick and thorny underbrush steadily crowd in from both sides, forcing travelers towards the center and ever onward. Retreat finally becomes nearly impossible as thorns grab and tear if one attempts to go back.

The road, now a trail turned path, twists, writhes, and bends to and fro so often all sense of location and direction become scrambled. The very air grows thick and ever more oppressive with the deepening gloom and each forward step. One can almost feel malice emanating from the surrounding forest, feeding rising fear and urging speed to hurry forward to path’s end, leaving this cursed wood behind.

A state of depressed desperation occupies my mind as the trail seems to end at the mouth of a small abandoned mine. Tracks in the dirt ahead clearly indicate the path continues into what ultimately becomes a large cave. Passing through the entrance, I travel not far, when blocking my progress forward and any egress to the rear, are four large and starving trolls.

While I fight the urge to panic, which can result only in mental paralysis, the trolls force me deeper into the cave. Once near their cooking pots, just like in all the stories I’ve heard, they begin to argue on how to cook me for their dinner. Before their discussion can lead to some rash action towards me, I decide to turn on all my charm and personality in a ploy for them to release me unharmed. I do not use my good looks because I believe trolls are not influenced by human beauty.

I manage to convince them that I can supply unlimited food almost immediately, if I can but leave intact. At first they are against my plan, then skeptical, and finally in agreement. I leave the cave and fight my way back through the thorns to the divergent point of the two roads. I search all around until I find some appropriate old wooden planks and make a sign along the road less traveled but near to the divergent point.

My plan works perfectly. The next year, I replace the sign with a beautiful but fake U.S. Forest Service information sign, thus fulfilling the bumper sticker’s admonition. The sign is the senseless act of beauty and feeding the starving trolls is the random act of kindness.

The sign reads: “WARNING! Troll Cave Ahead. Enter at your own risk!”

The sign tells the truth, but the foolish don’t believe the warning and eagerly travel to the cave anyway. Thus, I provide our society with an act of kindness by slowly and steadily removing fools from the gene pool and proving once and for all that old cliché, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

Yes. I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference to the trolls, me, and many fools.

© 5 January 2015

*From The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, 1916

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.

Depressed, by Ray S

Now, class, in order to understand better the many words that begin with the 4th and 5th letters of the alphabet please open your Depressed dictionaries to page number—oh no, you figure the page number with all of the clues I’ve already given you.

We need to start a list of the words that either begin with the 4th and 5th alphabet letters or sound almost like them and your interpretation:

Depressed—getting down low, or is it low down?
Digressed—not concentrating on your homework
Disappointed—oh well, better luck next time
Diverted—keep your mind on the ultimate climax
Demented—what happens when you have too much fun
Devoted—when you’re fortunate enough to find a loving partner
Demanding—watch out for those dominatrixes
Dormant—sorry, the wrong letters and a sign of my depressing condition
Distraught—at least I got the letter ‘D’ in there, and this word is more than enough to describe my depression
Depraved—well that is a matter of which way the pendulum swings when it comes to opinions and teachings of a lot of people about the Gay Way when in reality it is simply (though not always simple) another version of the Gods’ and Demigods’ way of varying the mix of the earth’s beautiful creatures. Also there is the constant reality of the depressing state of world and national affairs.

And then you could touch upon the despicable: like Donald Trump or guns in hands and who and what they kill, and of course, the Democrats and those elephant worshippers.

My, my, Class, you’ve done quite well with this exercise in DE words. For your next week’s lesson, I want each of you to choose one of the DE word subjects and prepare an essay to be read in class—no more than 965 words each.

Class is dismissed and perhaps Depressed.

© 7 December 2015

About the Author

Shopping, by Phillip Hoyle

We’d been out dancing together earlier in the week—Ronnie, my wife, and I–and were planning another outing. I liked Ronnie, thought he was really funny and cute in his own peculiar way. He was clever with language and image, always laughing, a serious two-stepper in his western boots twirling my wife this way and that with an ease I could never quite master. We’d go dancing, and she’d keep us both busy so teetotaler she would never have to stop and consider that she was dancing in a country western bar. That afternoon, while sitting in a booth with several employees at the Marie Calendar’s restaurant where Ronnie and my wife worked, I heard him say he liked to shop.

I phoned him to ask, “Were you kidding about liking to shop?”

“No.”

“Do you like to shop for clothes?”

“My favorite.”

“I need you this Wednesday or the next because I have several hundred dollars a friend sent me to buy clothes to wear at my daughter’s high school graduation. He doesn’t want me to embarrass her. I need to spend the money in one afternoon because shopping depresses me.” Ronnie agreed to take me shopping. We met at the apartment and went to a variety of stores.

He asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Grey.”

“No, no. We can’t have you in grey. Grey will just wash out on you,” he declared as he whipped down rack after rack of shirts. “Go to the dressing room and start trying on these,” he instructed as he handed me several shirts. So away I went, and down more aisles of TJMax he flew. Several more shirts in bright colors: turquoise, purple, and red were shoved through the door. I tried them on one after another. They all fit and to me looked really good. Then in came pants for me to try. Only one pair didn’t fit. It must have been mis-sized.

Usually I would go shopping alone and get discouraged after two or three tries, feel depressed, and take home clothes that didn’t really fit. This time Ronnie dressed me; everything fit. We went to Burlington Coat Factory where we decided on a silk sports jacket to go with the shirts and pants. I told him I wanted a belt I had seen at the Pendleton store in Old Town. We drove down there only to discover they didn’t have it in my size.

While there Ronnie tried on some western hats at my encouragement. He looked lovely; well I mean handsome; well actually sexy. I told him I’d buy him one that fit perfectly. He refused. I told him it wasn’t my money anyway, but he said, “No.” Around that time I wondered just what I was shopping for. We went back to the northeast heights to Ross’ and found a satisfactory belt. Then we looked at swim wear for the coming summer, and he let me buy him trunks and a t-shirt.

I went to the Missouri graduation outfitted in colors. I still enjoy looking at photos of me in my turquoise shirt playing with my grandson Kenneth. We had such fun. I was happy to get back to Albuquerque to see Ronnie and tell him stories of the success of my clothes. That’s when I clarified another level of my shopping, one that never made me depressed. So Ronnie and I started going out alone at times when my wife was working. We went to play pool even though neither one of us was any good at it. We’d go to those over-lighted straight places and share a pitcher of beer and play with lots of noise making: groans, cheers, and laughter. I suspect people thought we were a couple of irritating queers who insisted on being seen together in public. Finally one night when we were driving north on Wyoming Boulevard I rested my hand on Ronnie’s belly. Soon after that night we started playing sex games together.

I still don’t like shopping and every time I think about having to go buy some piece of clothing I think of Ronnie and our Wednesday shopping spree. I learned about color. I learned not to care about the money I was spending since it was marked for that purpose. I was happy to share the experience with a gay guy who loved to shop. I still don’t like to shop except for art supplies, but I do so when necessary. I miss my fashion consultant and all the things we did together back in those days.

We had fun, Ronnie, Myrna, and I. I had fun with Myrna. I had fun with Ronnie. I loved having a male lover, one close to home whom I could see more than two or three times a year, maybe even two or three times a week. I loved having a male lover who wanted to have sex with me often, and who liked the ways we played off each other. I liked being desired. I liked desiring this very funny man.

Such memories of shopping!

© 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.com

Depression, by Gillian

I have talked before of how fortunate, indeed blessed, my life has been, and certainly a large part of that is not to have been afflicted with depression. Sure, I have my ups and downs, sadness and loss; I've shed my share of tears. I've occasionally spent a few miserable days in what a friend calls a 'mean green funk'. But when I'm low it's the result of an identifiable cause; something that has happened. I have never suffered from long-lasting depression coming upon me apparently for no reason, though probably the result of some unidentified cerebral chemical imbalance, and most likely requiring some kind of medication to eliminate, or at least alleviate, the problem. Alas, I know too many people who do suffer from clinical depression to remain unaware of the depth of gratitude I must feel for not having been its victim.

I also escaped the Great Depression with all its miseries, not being born until 1942. But I find great similarities in the attitudes of those who survived the thirties with my own, learned in World War Two. Make do and mend, never waste anything, were the watchwords children in my world grew up with, as they were for the children of the Great Depression. Reading memoirs of survivors, the things they say could just as easily be said by Depression children as wartime kids.

I still turn off the lights when I leave a room. I save every little thing in case I might be able to use it sometime in the future. It was a great equalizer, everyone we knew was in the same fix.

We were kids: we didn't know we had nothing, everyone had nothing. Our parents tried to hide the real hardships from us. One person collecting interviews sums it up, 'Frugality: it is their middle name.' Yes indeedy!!

Tropical depressions; I'm sure I have been in several, but so far have been fortunate enough not to encounter their more developed selves, hurricanes. Betsy and I came uncomfortably close to tornadoes here and there occasionally on our travels, but I have never been anywhere near a hurricane. I wish I may go to my grave saying that.

Depressions in the earth sometimes collapse suddenly creating sinkholes of various sizes. These have been known to swallow up cars, trucks, buses, houses and people. A police SUV fell into a sinkhole in Sheridan, Colorado, this summer. In 2014 eight classic Corvettes in the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky, disappeared into a sinkhole. People in Florida have fallen into sinkholes and never been recovered. And these things appear all around the world, not just in this country.

Depressions of all kinds seem, inevitably, to be ....... well, depressing. I looked for an appropriate quote as an ending to this piece, and found I was becoming ..... well, depressed. Then I chanced on this one by Emanuel Celler -

“The panic of the Depression loosened my inhibitions against being different.”

I could be myself.

Okey dokey! We all know the importance of being yourself: different, free of inhibitions. So maybe depressions, whether cerebral, climactic, fiscal or physical, are not all bad after all.

I'll try to remember that when I'm trapped in my car in a sinkhole in the middle of a hurricane and I can't quite reach the glovebox where I left my Prozac.

© December 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.

Compulsion, by Will Stanton

I suppose that it is human nature for many of us to succumb to compulsive behavior. If we attempted to list every possible form of compulsion, we would be here all day.

Eating certainly is one of the most prevalent compulsions, especially in America. I once was invited by a 400-pound man to join him and a few others for dim-sung dinner. I tried to avert my eyes while he ravenously ate multiple courses, along with everything left over from other diners at the table. I will never subject myself to that kind of disturbing experience again. America is so notorious for overeating that someone posted on-line a photo-shopped image of Michelangelo's “David” supposedly after visiting here and eating too much American food.

Chunky David

I fell pray to overeating for a few years, all because of chronic stress. My partner died. He also was my business partner, and I tried to do both jobs. Further, in our profession, we were required to deal with many people's ongoing problems, which was hard enough. I also had to be concerned with professional clinical and legal liability. Worse, most competing clinics were thoroughly corrupt, making tons of money, and stealing away most of my clients. Big stress.

For a while, a little place close by, B.J.'s Carousel, became the antidote to my own stress. I must have driven by B.J.'s 10,000 times before someone told me that there was a little restaurant in the back that served solid American-style food at reasonable prices. In addition, the regular patrons and staff were exceptionally friendly and accommodating. Frequently, patrons chatted with each other from table to table, fostering a warm, supportive atmosphere. The restaurant played soft, classical music, rather than the pounding drums and screaming that most restaurants play now-days. Also in the winter, they had a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room that made the area very cozy. That's where I would go to unwind.

Once my evening therapy groups were gone, and I had discussed each person's case with my contract psychologist, and I had prepared the individual sessions notes for the clinical files, I felt drained. I would jump into my car and race down to B.J.'s, which stayed open late, and order an excess of comfort-food - - meat, potatoes, salad, veggies, and (of course) desert. This went on for a few years, and I must have been oblivious to the consequence until it became more obvious. Fortunately, I rarely eat that way now. The fact that B.J.'s since has shut down probably removed a pit-fall from my path.

Over those many evening dinners and Sunday brunches that I had at B.J.'s, I got to know one of the other regular patrons. It turns out that this person had a life-long obsession with trains - - - real trains, model trains, train videos and DVDs, train paintings, train artifacts and clothes. He even chose what cities in which to work so that he could be around trains. His compulsion to continually buy train stuff resulted in his living in a house crammed so full that one would need a front-loader to clear it out. His having a lot of discretionary income in retirement, he could afford to buy a state-of-the-art Lionel “Big Boy” steam locomotive that lists for $3,000.

Big Boy Locomotive

I later found out that the front of B.J.'s was a bar that was known as the place where drag-queens could go and to be in occasional drag-shows. Although popular with some people, I never have had the slightest interest in that phenomenon and don't quite understand the compulsion to dress-up like that. But, I could not escape noticing them on show-nights when some of them would wander through the back restaurant. I truly admire natural beauty, but I can't say that any of those individuals fit into that category. I sense that most of them realize that they never will look like ravishing, natural beauties, and some probably dress up with some sense of satire. There may be those occasional individuals who do try to look like Hollywood models. B.J.'s, however, was not Hollywood nor Los Vegas, and I never did see anything appealingly eye-catching. Instead, homely faces, chunky bodies, big feet, ungraceful movements, and lip-syncing tended to betray any efforts to look truly attractive.

Drag-Queens

I recall one individual who, from time to time, would come stomping through the restaurant section in a most ungraceful manner, carrying high-heels, on his way to the dressing area. That poor person's face looked as though he once had suffered a bad case of acne. Between those pockmarks and his usual grumpy scowl, I might have surmised that this sad person once had worked at McDonald's and possibly had a compulsion to bob for fries.

I suppose that it is inevitable that, wherever there are drag-queens, there is a certain percentage of them who become titillated with the idea of toying with female hormones. For some time now, I have understood the theory of clinical transgender orientation, and I intellectually can handle that concept. These are the people who seriously think of themselves as the opposite gender, and their transition is carried out, over time, carefully and seriously, with the assistance and advice of professional doctors and therapists.

However, as naïve as I usually am and until recent years, I was totally unaware of the fact that, throughout the world, there is an amazingly large number of young guys whose compulsion is to take massive doses of female hormone, permanently changing their bodies but with no intention of surgically fully transitioning to female. They rashly do this with black-market hormones and without the supervision of professional therapists. Instead, they turn themselves into, what is crudely called, “shemales,” neither male nor female, but individuals with male genitalia and, in addition, breasts, wide hips, and large buttocks. These are the hybrid individuals who Robin Williams jokingly referred to as “The Swiss Army Knife of Sex.”

Finally made aware of this phenomenon, I have tried to intellectually handle well this phenomenon of hybrid gender, but I have a hard time handling it emotionally. What disturbs me most is that many of these individuals start out as very good looking young males; yet their masculinity is destroyed forever. To my personal way of thinking, that is a waste.

She Male

I also understand that such unpredictable use of hormones may not always turn out well. There was one tall, good-looking guy who decided to secretly take hormones. He told me that he always was afraid that his family might find out. Oddly enough, his day-job was as a tow-truck driver. He hid from his coworkers what he was doing by wearing heavy, loose clothes. Then he would change into women's clothing and go to B.J.'s. Later, after he had developed breasts, I overheard him lament that he was sorry that he had taken those hormones because now he no longer could take his clothes off and go swimming.

More bizarrely, I saw one evening a short, previously normally built teenager, who had been named “Miss Teen Queen,” who, from taking hormones, quickly put on a vast amount of weight and ended up with huge, bulging belly, drooping breasts, and bizarrely wide hips. I found that sight very disturbing. I was very puzzled as to why that boy had such a irresistible compulsion to so dramatically change his body. Did he imagine the results being different?

Then, a skinny, drag-queen waiter told me that he once had considered taking hormones until he saw what happened to one of his friends who had succumbed to that compulsion. His friend took lots of black-market hormones and then (in the waiter's own words) “really freaked out and totally lost it” when he saw how dramatically his body had changed and also realized that those changes were permanent, especially the expanded bone-structure of his hips. Just the idea of his doing that to himself freaks me out, especially since the friend obviously never thoroughly thought through what he was doing or sought advice from any therapists.

I guess that the “trains-on-the-brains” guy's compulsion to continually buy model trains, train artifacts and clothes, especially since he has the money to do so, is pretty mild in contrast to the kid who totally freaked out. At least, compulsive train-guy can trade or sell-off his trains if he wants to. And as for me, I can fairly safely continue my obsession with classical music by spending an inordinate amount of time playing and listening to good music. The freaked-out kid, however, will have to live a long time with the all-too obvious consequences of his compulsion.

© 06 October 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.

Queer as a Three-Dollar Bill, by Ray S

Possibly this has happened to you at some time. You go to the storage room in search of some sort of old legal paper stored for safety because you couldn’t tell when you might need it.

The other day this became my mission. So I was buried in a collection of storage boxes and file boxes searching for a copy of a paid mortgage.

Of course, I became completely diverted by a box of old photographs: portraits and snapshots. At the bottom of this box I found a thin blue book titled “Our Baby” complete with faded pictures and notes.

Curiosity got the best of me, so I settled down to read the writer’s detailed description of the baby’s arrival, weight (7 lbs.), length (21”), etc, as well as the mother’s pleasure about the food and rest she’d gotten in the hospital. Then there was the list of gifts and their donors, and a ribbon-tied bundle of letters and cards.

At this point I decided the latter was too much a tackle and put it back into its niche. At this point I saw a yellow envelope that had been hidden by those cards and letters.

The printed name on the envelope read “Western Union Telegraph” and was addressed to Mr. J. W. Wulf, Cleveland, Ohio. It was a copy for the sender’s file. Of course, I had to read the enclosed telegram.

The message stated:

Ray Wulf arrived 11:35 AM

Oct 19, 1926, Berwyn Hospital

Berwyn, Illinois

Baby and mother doing fine.

Signed Homer E. Sylvester

It was the everlasting three dollar bill, where or from whom it came from, but it has lasted for 90 years.

© 14 March 2016 

About the Author 

Exploring, by Ricky

Boys and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and civil-unions because it is part of a boy’s job description. I began my career as an explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on the floor and tasting small objects I encountered. Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds. I don't think the term “baby-proofing” existed yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me. Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind, exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.

Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very dangerous and to stay away from them. I suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.” Once I began to open doors and explore outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do some serious exploring. I quickly learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.

My exploration of kindergarten began in September 1953. I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate) with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora. I loved to color and play with all the messy artistic stuff. In first grade, Sandra and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on how to work quietly. I’m sure I did not measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat, quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with lots of pictures. Being unsuccessful in finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and eventually sent us back to our class.

Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my parents were arranging their divorce. Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately), autumn, winter, and spring in rotation. Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest explorer and trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back east to wear. (Okay, so they really were not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear hides only smaller.)

1956 was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop guarded by a vicious rooster, granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the stink you “enjoyed” twice a day). State and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns for varieties of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, bailers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders, thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.

As summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends.

I rode a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new. One of my neighboring farm friends and I were part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning. Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).

Another schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games. One favorite among all students (townies and farm boys) was marbles. Our version involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school, placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed. If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process until there was only one shooter in the depression. The winner would then collect all the marbles in the hole and the betting process would begin again. Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this game.

The second game we called Stretch. I can’t speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school). In this game two boys would face each other and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg. If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved and the other boy took his turn. If the knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had been standing. If he was successful in touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife, returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife. If he could not touch the knife, he lost the game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.

The third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously reserved for winter recess). I trust I do not need to describe these. In all of these games, we boys were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.

The elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three-story edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two floors and storage rooms on the third floor. The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’ restroom. “Yes,” even during a pee break (raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to” “explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class, (mischievous is in a boy’s job description).

Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe. My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities. About this time, I also began to explore other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not. Well, to be completely honest, of course there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or campouts.

During those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not what a person looks like on the outside but what a person is on the inside that really matters. Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.

Those early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined with a love of knowledge. Those who know me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers. If that bothers some people, it is just too bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.

© 29 April 2013

About the Author

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

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