Flowers, by Ray S

Here is a detour down memory lane or maybe the Primrose Path of flowers. It is a good likely-hood that most of you have trodden both, but it is those thorny Primroses that can tell the more interesting stories, or maybe you don’t talk about that.

One of the questionable benefits of hanging on so long is the memories of another time and place. Things like a Hobo sitting on the back steps eating a handout Mother made for him, or the popular songs like “Minnie the Moocher” and “Brother Can You Spare a Dime?” and of course F.D. R. and the WPA and NRA.

With the above as background I take you to 1933-34 school year to see the Intermediate School’s (Junior High School to you youngsters) spring production of a memorable Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta—the name of which escapes me now. Maybe “the Mikado” or “HMS Pinafore”. No matter, the point of all of this is in deference to the “Flower” topic for our assignment today. The vision you’ll see and hear is one of all 195 pre-teen sopranos—boys and girls alike—straining to the jaunty words of “The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring,” etc., etc.

Here I present another flower. Long ago there was a World War I commemoration celebrated on November 11th called Armistice Day (later renamed Veteran’s Day in 1954). At school we were taught about that war and the terrible loss of lives to our country and our Allies’. In honor of the occasion volunteers and some veterans peopled the street corners with bouquets of red paper poppies, a symbol of Flanders Field where so many rested. With each contribution you received a poppy.

A sudden change of geography and landscape brought a new world of flowers to me. Imagine discovering magnolia trees, Poinciana trees, citrus trees, bougainvilleas, hibiscus in bloom, sights you’ve never seen up north. Those are just a few flowers and horticulture exposed to a kid from Illinois. Florida in 1939 was a complete culture shock.

A return to the land of four seasons and it was time for Victory Gardens, not many flowers except for flowering fruit trees. And perhaps the Junior-Senior Prom and the appropriate gardenia or camellias corsage for a young woman who didn’t have a date until the night before the dance. It was then that I began to wonder why the really sought-after girls didn’t attract me as much as the girls who were well known for their friendliness to dumb little weird boys like me.

Then there were the war years and all of those funereal wreaths, and the Japanese cherry blossom trees in Washington DC.

That war was followed by one more conflict after another until today. Believe me there aren’t enough paper poppies to meet the never ending need.

For all the beauty of nature’s abundant flowers, sometimes I feel when we push aside the curtain of flowers; our flower of the future will be a man-eating species.

And if that doesn’t catch us, there is always Mother Nature’s way—bud-bloom-wilt-and wither and return to where it all originated.

The Flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, tra-la.

(I really like being a sensitive, thoughtful pansy—since I can’t be man of my dreams with lots of hair on my chest.) You do the best you are able to.

© 13 February 2017

About the Author

The Energy Drain, by Phillip Hoyle

I had been worrying over what I called an energy drain and presented my concern to my doctor along with my generally feeling off, itchy, and lethargic. I said, “I wonder if one of the two prescriptions I’m taking could be to blame.” Dr. Elango picked up his smart phone and started punching at it. I assumed he was connecting with the HMO’s website. The room was silent as he concentrated, his face expressionless like a student in a library. He frowned, then smiled at me and said, “Neither of your meds have those side effects.”

“Good,” I said, “because they seem to be helping me.”

The doctor asked, “Phillip, don’t you take some supplements?”

“I’ve quit most of them but still take a multi-vitamin and a single Saint John’s Wort capsule daily,” I said.

Doctor started poking at his phone again. “The symptoms you described are all possible side effects of St. John’s Wort. You know," he looked up, "even supplements have side effects.”

I agreed to quit taking that pill even though I had an extra bottle not yet opened. I so wanted to feel better that practicality lost. Still, the next morning as I prepared to get rid of the pills, I hesitated since I had begun taking the herbal anti-depressant years before when my partner Michael died. Back then I didn’t want to slide into some emotional morass due to the grief I was experiencing. With the pill I seemed to do just fine. About two years later when Rafael died, I upped the dosage to two capsules a day mindful of a character in the TV show “Will and Grace” who finally admitted he’d been taking eight capsules daily. I didn’t want to be like him. Even though I had doubled my dosage, I found my grief more intense that time as if I were experiencing grief on top of grief. Eventually I returned to one pill daily and seemed just fine. But the fine effect apparently failed after fifteen years and gave me the group of symptoms I described to my doctor. I quit and have nothing more to say about the episode except that when I followed my doctor’s advice those symptoms disappeared.

But now some months later I am worrying over a slight feeling of anxiety I cannot seem to overcome. I’m tired of how I feel, but at least I’ll have something to say to my doctor at my next physical still seven months off. I feel worked up and have less energy than I want, but I don’t have those age-related unrealistic desires like returning to what I was at age thirty-five. I just want more pep so I can accomplish more things with the time I have available. I am open to advice from friends but most of them think I’m already too busy. I don’t want more social responsibilities or more leadership in any programs. I have plenty of that to keep me at least half awake, and some nights way too awake or awakening from some responsibility dream or worse yet some date I had made but hadn’t put on the family calendar. But to call any of this actual worry or actual anxiety—you know of the clinical type—doesn’t seem warranted.

Doctor did give me some great practical advice about one of my symptoms, dry skin. He said, "Get some lotion and put it on every day." I had been using sunscreen for many years but hadn’t considered adding just plain old lotion. I didn’t want to begin smelling like a rose or a lily so I bought lotion for men. Even so, a friend embracing me one day said, “You smell good.”

Like a good queer I said, “Well thank you,” but just at the last second stopped myself from saying, “I try.” You see I’m a self-respecting queer. So surely I will get over the energy drain quickly enough. And I’ll begin wearing enough lotion the rest of my life for the wind not to cause unnecessary friction and enough for anxieties to slide right off my shoulders. At least those are my goals. “Energy drain, be gone.”

© 28 November 2016

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

Rejoice, by Pat Gourley

“Privilege is when you think something is not a problem because it’s not a problem for you.” 

Margaret Sala, Twitter – May 7th, 2016

Definitions of rejoice include showing great joy or delight. For me personally this is something I find impossible following the results of the presidential election on November 8th. I refuse to look for any silver lining and do not accept Donald Trump as my president. To accept the fact that he is now the country’s leader and that this requires support with an effort to get behind him for the greater good would mean to me at least a passive acceptance of all that is so odious about him.

It is no consolation to me that he may very well not have any firm beliefs or policy formulations around anything that he is not capable flipping and flopping on. He is definitely dragging into positions of power lots of folks who are very sure of their beliefs: misogyny, racism, xenophobia and homophobia. I also fear the influence and power of Mike Pence maybe more so that Trump. Trump is a showman and con artist, Pence a zealot.

Though I do not rule out street activism on my part, those days are mostly decades gone by. I am thinking about how best to engage in active resistance to this pestilence. Compromise only congers up the great Jim Hightower and his observation that the middle of the road is only for yellow stripes and dead armadillos.

Now nearly two weeks out from the catastrophe of November 8th I am still waking up thinking maybe this was all a bad dream and then it hits me that it wasn’t and the miasma sets in again. One of my greatest fears is that something untoward might happen to Trump or more likely that he will resign for some trumped up reason or the other before his first term ends. Lets face it the actuarial tables for a 70 year old, overweight, habitual steak eater are not really very good. Those have got to be some gummed up president-elect coronary arteries.

With Trump out of the picture though Mike Pence becomes president and it might then really be time for all women of reproductive age and queers of all stripes to head north for the Canadian border. Despite the disheartening estimate that about 14% of LGBTQ voters actually voted for Trump we may though be the one minority with a unique opportunity to stay in the country and resist.

Over the past 40 years we queer folk have become quite uppity and unlike many other minorities, especially religious and racial, we truly are everywhere. Even if we don’t live in large numbers in rural rust belt settings we still might have biological family there and the coming out process has and will continue to usually have positive impact on the hetero family members left behind. Having lived for years in Manhattan perhaps Trump has realized the power of the queer community and that is why he was interestingly silent on trashing us during his campaign. That analysis though certainly begs the question when you look at his selection of the likes of Bannon, Pence and Sessions.

So I am actually emerging somewhat from the funk and looking about as to how I can productively resist. A free press remains vital. I am donating again with a bit more this year to Democracy Now and I hope to have enough at the end of the year to send a few coins to Paul Jay and The Real News based out of Baltimore. And of course a donation to Planned Parenthood in Mike Pence’s name. That gets him a note from Planned Parenthood thanking him for his support.

And finally, though I am sure many other ways to be a resistance fighter will appear, I am renewing my personal commitment to a vegan way of eating, something that has proven very difficult for me to stick with in the past. The biggest blow to the planet and the survival of much of sentient life in the not so long run may come from Trump’s denial of climate change and the carbon binging hordes he is going to unleash. I will encourage other friends to take a look at the meatless option as a great personal action that does more to decrease one’s carbon footprint than any other action – we really don’t need to be eating one million chickens an hour in this country - really a million an hour.

Please take the time to watch this You Tube video by Neil Barnard my longtime diet guru: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLqINF26LSA

And I hope to see you all at the barricades chowing down on a veggie-burrito or at least on occasion in the fruit and vegetable aisle of any grocery store.

November 2016

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.

The Recliner, by Nicholas

Last week I mentioned that my heroes include my parents, whom I strive to emulate in many ways. One of those ways is napping.

When I was a kid, my mother worked so I and my sisters had chores to do in getting dinner ready like cooking a pot of potatoes and setting the table. Mom would come home and put the finishing touches on dinner. We would all gather and share dinner and then Mom would put things away as I or my sisters washed the dishes.

Then Mom would go upstairs and change out of her work clothes and into a nice warm caftan and her slippers for an evening of relaxing.

If it wasn’t my night to wash dishes, right after dinner I’d head to the big recliner in the living room, put my feet up using the wood crank on the side to lift the footrest and read or watch TV. I knew it was my only chance to get into that chair because it was Mom’s chair. She only needed to walk over to the chair, look at whoever was occupying it, and you knew your time was up. My father knew never even to try but we kids would steal a few minutes now and then. We might pretend to resist but just a glance from Mom was enough to enforce her prior right to the recliner. Objections were made only in jest. I would, in grumpy kid fashion, of course yield, put down my feet, slowly rise from the chair, and find somewhere else to sit. She would joke how I’d warmed it up nicely for her.

Mom took to her recliner like it was her nightly throne. Putting her legs up on the raised footrest, she would read the newspaper or watch some TV. Many times she would pull out her favorite rosary and say her prayers, a habit she continued from her mother who prayed many rosaries every day.

Pretty soon, however, the recliner triumphed. Mom’s head would droop forward or to the side, her eyes closed, rosary beads lying still in her hands. After a bit of a snooze, she would awake all refreshed and act like nothing had happened. She joined in any conversation going on and then continued her prayers or watching TV. I marveled at how watching TV did not seem to interfere with her prayers nor vice versa.

I don’t own a recliner but I do have a Morris chair in my living room which can be adjusted to almost recliner levels. After dinner, while Jamie cleans up, I stretch out in my chair. Rarely do I have to chase Jamie out of it. He knows whose chair this is. I don’t say rosaries and there is no TV to watch but I do sometimes wrap myself in a cozy, light wool blanket on a cold evening as I settle in to do some reading. I read until the book starts to droop along with my eyelids which eventually shut as I doze off. After a short time, the book clatters to the floor, rudely waking me up. And then I’m good for a few more chapters.

© January 2017

About the Author

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

Not the Apocalypse, by Louis Brown

Why Donald Trump getting elected POTUS is not the Apocalypse or End of Days, as so many liberals claim:

(1) Most Democratic politicians and rank and file Dems. are “devastated” by DT’s victory. I’m not.

(2) When I could not vote for Bernie Sanders, I chose Jill Stein. But even she is overreacting in her revulsion for DT.

(3) DT claimed, for example, he is going to impose tariffs on products, especially on automobiles that are imported here from foreign countries especially when those products could/should have been produced here. Buy American!

(4) The allegedly pro-Labor Democrats claim that protectionism is in the long run counterproductive because it impedes free trade. Well, yes, when so-called free trade make companies profitable, which it does do, 99.9% of the profits, however, go to the upper 1/10 of 1% of the population. The American working class gets unemployed and impoverished on a massive scale.

(5) Also, DT has hinted that he is going to adopt Rand Paul’s isolationist foreign policy. If he does, that means peace for a change. All we are saying is give peace a chance. What is the actual difference between left-wing pacifism and rightwing isolationism anyway?

(6) DT said he will do business with Bernie Sanders when the time comes.

(7) Most everyone has noticed that Hillary Clinton goes to war at the drop of a hat while Barack Obama has fallen head over heel in love with perpetual war in Afghanistan. The American people do not want this war at least not forever. If HC got into office again, it would have meant more and bigger wars and endless hostile trade deals.

(8) In other words, DT is promising (at least) important concessions to the real liberal left. We should be gratified not “devastated.”

(9) Over my life time, I have been told that protectionism and isolationism are unworkable and extremely destructive in the long run. Considering everything, this is exactly what we desperately need right now.

(10) Did you notice that Hillary Clinton’s campaign attracted the approval and support of three undesirables: Meg Whitman, Michael Bloomberg and Henry Kissinger? That should make you suspicious. “Be afraid, be very afraid!” as Rachel Maddow puts it.

(11) Bernie Sanders heroically and ultimately unsuccessfully tried to dissuade HC from courting the favor of Wall Street and its leaders. I think Bernie Sanders should think in terms of starting a third political party, he should abandon the sinking ship that is and will be soon be the “new” conservative Democratic Party, as it becomes more bellicose and hostile to American working people, the Dem. Party will, next election, definitely shrink dramatically in size and influence.

(12) I thought the election campaign went on too long; the word “hate” was used much too often.

(13) Of course, Hillary Clinton did get more votes than DT, yet DT is going to be President. That does seem unfair.

(14) Anti-Trump Democrats repeated endlessly that DT was a racist and hated and disrespected women. Personally that did not ring true at least not to my ears. DT is not a racist and he does not hate women. In fact, in general, DT seems broad-minded and willing to negotiate.

(15) My elder and elderly brother, until this last election, voted Democratic, Democratic, Democratic in almost all Presidential elections. In this past election, he voted for DT. DT appears to be actually less of a rightwing reactionary than Hillary, if he follows through with his campaign promises. If he does keep his promises, he will be reelected easily 4 years from now.

© 12 November 2016

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Greens, by Gillian

Sitting on the patio writing this, I see at least twenty-five shades of green in the plants around me without really looking very hard. Several of them are in the spruce trees, though, and we call them blue, so maybe I'm cheating a little. So I'll leave them out. Even without them there is still an amazing display of innumerable varieties of greens.

Green was my mother's favorite color. Now, personally, sorry Mum, I find choosing one color as a favorite quite ridiculous. All colors are incredible in their endless shades of beauty. But she couldn't help herself. She taught first graders all her life and it's simply one of the many silly things you ask little kids. What's your favorite color/animal/food? in turn necessitating choosing one yourself.

On the more sensible side of my mother, however, I don't recall her ever saying anything as foolish as, be sure to eat your greens! I'm not sure that we had much concept of greens supposedly being an essential part of a healthy diet back in the distant days of my childhood.

We just ate what was available whenever it was until it was gone, and on to the next. I don't think anyone valued green beans or lettuce over orange carrots or yellow onions.

One of my stepsons, however, went through a phase during which he abhorred all green food. I, even in my pre-destined role of evil stepmother, never insisted he eat his greens. But my husband was not to be so easily deterred from the rightness of things, and insisted.

'But it's greeeeen', wailed Davie, in tears every time beans or peas, lettuce or spinach, appeared on his plate. It was not a dislike of vegetables per se, but simply anything green. This was aptly demonstrated in a masterful stroke of vindictiveness by his sister when she sweet-talked her friend's innocent mother into making him a green birthday cake, which he greeted with howls and tears and steadfastly refused to eat.

Now, fifty years later, he grows, and eats, all manner of green things and has no memory of what it was he ever had against them.

Whatever it was I doubt it came down in his DNA because his grandmother, mother of my ex-husband, loved to cook collard greens. She fried bacon, then tossed the leaves into the pan and stirred it all up into a greasy green mess which, I am forced to confess, was delicious, though I can feel my arteries grinding to a halt just at the memory.

These days, of course, green is synonymous with healthy: good. We have MAD Greens restaurants, and Green Superfood for sale, the Green Ride to DIA, the U.S. Green Building Council, and green energy. We even have a Green Party to vote for in November. Green is in; green is good.

But I wouldn't be too sure it will last. After all, we have a long history of believing that the grass is always greener somewhere else!

© August 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.

Hunting, by Betsy

I am a hunter. I’ve been hunting all my life, at least for that bit of my life that is within memory, I have been hunting for some answers to some very basic questions. I’ve had my sight set for different targets at different stages of my life. But the answers to the more profound questions almost always elude me. Just like the hunter and its prey. Sometimes I get a glimpse of an answer, only to have it disappear until the next time I seek it out, until one day I hit the target—an answer evolves which satisfies me.

Early in life I sought an answer to the question “Where do we come from?” Lately I’ve been asking “Where do we go when we die—where do I go when I die? Do we all go the same place? My current belief is that we go back to where we came from, which is—I don’t know where. Seems logical. So that question cannot be answered really, that is, we can’t know the answer to that question, hence the belief.

Early in life I asked “What is the purpose of my life?” Lately I ask “What is the purpose of any life? Still stalking an answer to that one.

Earlier I asked “What is my place in the universe?” Lately I ask “What is the place of our solar system in a seemingly infinite universe?” Then I ask “Is the universe infinite?” When I learn that the latest information tells us our universe—just as our galaxy—was born and is dying and does have an end, I realize I have no more questions on that subject. I guess a new universe will be born when this one dies—just like stars, galaxies, and solar systems.

Early in life I asked, “Who am I?” Lately I have come to realize the answer to that question changes daily—evolves with each passing day. I also realize that early in life I did not look inside for the answer to who am I, I looked totally to others for not just clues but for answers. Later in mid-life I started looking in a much better place—looking inside myself.

I don’t spend a lot of time searching out answers to these mysteries of life. Because I realize the answers for most people are held in beliefs. Most of these questions cannot be answered empirically. They are only answered by taking the leap of faith and holding a belief. Early in my life I did that. Lately I have not taken the leap. For some reason I don’t feel the need.

In the meantime, I will continue to fill my day with questions I do have answers for; such as,

“Shall I do the laundry today? Shall I water the garden? What shall I eat? What can I come up with on the topic of ‘HUNTING’ for our meeting today?”

Here’s a good question and I often spend a whole day hunting for the answer: “What can I do to bring some joy into the world today. What can I do to enhance my honey’s day?” These are two good everyday questions. Their answers are also worth a good hunt.

© 26 September 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.

Purple, by Ricky

In the early days of my memory, colors were not memorable or perhaps my brain was not developed enough for colors to form memories. My oldest memory of color was my first home in Lawndale, California. The house was painted yellow with white trim abound the windows and front door. Next to the front door was a wall with a small octagonal window also with white trim. I still have no memory of the colors of the inside of the house.

I finally arrived at that age of mobility and language. Along with it came a bit more of color memory. We got a pet dog. It must have been viewed as MY dog because I was allowed to name her. The song “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” was popular then (at least within my home or nursery school) so, I named her “Bonnie”. Because she was a purebred collie, my parents listed her name on the registration papers as “Lady Bonita” thinking that it more closely befitted her. To me, she was just Bonnie. Bonnie was black with a white mane as I remember. She was a good toddler sitter and playmate playfully knocking me down and licking my face as she was still less than a year old. She would pitch a fit barking and whining whenever I would open the gate of our home’s white picket-fence. I can “see” in my mind the fence, gate, and the yard but, not the grass. I have seen photos of the house and yard so I know it had grass which logically was probably green but I have no memory of its color.

As I wrote above, Bonnie would pitch a fit if I left the yard but left her inside the fence. Of course this would bring my mother out to see what the fuss was all about and managed to cut my explorations (interpret that as “freedom”) very short lived. This happened so often that my escapes lasted increasingly shorter and shorter.

Necessity, being the mother of inventions, and Shirley, being my mother, often had major discussions about me. Mom wanted me to stay in the yard. Necessity provided her with methods of securing the gate so I could not open it. They both failed. I opened every attempt to keep the gate locked. Necessity’s son, Precocious, had been arguing that I should not be confined to the yard since I needed to explore. So he decided to defy the two mothers and keep me safe at the same time. He gave me the idea of taking Bonnie with me whenever I would leave the yard. First, I would put Bonnie in my red wagon and pull her about the yard. Then when I judged that no one was looking, I opened the gate and pulled her out with me. Guess what! No fit pitching. I was then off-to-the-races. My mother worried less because she knew she could find me by looking for the dog also. Besides, I always went to the house two doors down to visit another boy who lived there — without permission of course.

At the age of three or four, my color memory was beginning to yield results. Arriving at that age about the same time that we moved to a new house in Redondo Beach, California. That house was purchased through the VA. It was white stucco on the outside with a brown porch railing. The windows were trimmed in a mid-range light-blue. My bedroom had a circus motif linoleum floor with blue walls and a red ceiling meant to resemble a circus tent. I had a Bozo the Clown light switch whose red bulbous nose was pushed up or down to operate the ceiling light. Blue became my favorite color ever since then up to this day.

In 2010 I finally admitted to myself that I was normal and attracted to males. Surprisingly, along with that attraction came an increasing appreciation for and interest in shades of purple. This interest in purple is vying for the position of my favorite color. It is so strong an attraction, I asked a friend if gay men gravitate to the color because they are gay — a manifestation of gayness perhaps. In my case, it may be true but, I am not convinced yet. I remember another possible cause. When I was two-years old, my mother took me to a baby show, which was a popular thing to do back then. I was crowned King of my show.

Purple has been associated with royalty for many centuries. I think that my attraction to purple has to do with my royal past inserting its influence over my favorite color changing from blue to purple as it is more fitting to my heritage.

The next time I attend our Telling Your Story group, I will be wearing my Royal Purple shirt. You may then call me “Your Highness”, “King John”, or “Purple Dude”. Just don’t call me “Late for Dinner”.

© 6 Mar 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

Marking the Seasons, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.

I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks flowers will appear.

When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary coastal winter with their delicate brightness.

Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by about a month.

Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows, oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days. Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that will kill them off.

Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them. Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the weather is more favorable.

Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them all to the ground.

When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day. Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end of May.

Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.

When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they, frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However, the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.

All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula flowers seem to be especial favorites.

I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows. But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August. Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers. And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.

Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.

So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.

© February 2017

About the Author

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

Pack Rat, by Ray S

As long as I can remember saving bits and scraps of memories, Christmas and birthday cards, grade school report cards, birth announcements, baby books, funeral memorials, and anything else that was too important to discard in good conscience.

Like the bad penny, no matter how deeply buried all of that one-time vitally important stuff comes to the surface—no pennies don’t float, but you know what I mean.

Then there are the material things acquired over the years. For me just about all of that stuff can tell a story and the prospect of sentencing it to a new life at ARC or Goodwill can be like divorce or a death in the family. So much for untold years of materialism.

Just don’t give a damn and announce an estate sale, but be warned: what happens if no one shows. There is always the Salvation Army. That might save the day as well as you too.

This one is a lot of work but it might work.

Label with history tags all of the stuff you’ve saved since World War II so the recipient will know its provenance. Then gather family and close friends for a Free for All.

Again you run the risk like “Smarty, Smarty had a party” and nobody came. No matter how hard you try to cut the “silver cord”—like even the rest of your life, it’s been one more blinking choice you have to chance it.

You know, trying to get rid of that self nurtured rot leads to this solution: just get up from your easy chair, leave all of that clutter on the floor, open the door, lock it, and go out to the bar with a friend. Tomorrow is another life!

© 24 October 2016

About the Author

Main Street Kansas, by Phillip Hoyle

I moved into my apartment on Capitol Hill soon after reaching Denver in my fifty-second year. There I lived in the third block south of Colfax Avenue, that old highway that has claimed to be the longest main street in America. Not owning a car, I walked everywhere, but was surprised when a friend asked, “Aren’t you afraid to walk along East Colfax?”

“No,” I immediately answered. “It’s just like the main street in the town where I grew up.” I wasn’t freaked out to walk down an avenue with bars, tattoo parlors, Army surplus stores, small groceries, gas stations, two-story buildings with markets below and apartments or offices above, theatres, people of various races, even drunks on the street. Strolling along Colfax always reminded me of my hometown Junction City, Kansas that was located adjacent to the US Army Base, Fort Riley.

I had spent my childhood and early teen years living in the third block west of Washington Street, the long main street that offered in addition to groceries, clothing, theaters, lawyers, and real estate, a variety of beers, tattoos, Army surplus, pawned goods, drunks, and prostitutes. My family lived on West Eleventh Street, but the more colorful array of folks and their bad habits rarely made it that far off the main drag.

Washington Street ran for eighteen blocks from Grand Avenue on the north, the gateway to Fort Riley, to I-70 on the south—well eventually when the Interstate made its way that far west. On the south end of Washington Street our family ate at the Circle Cafe that offered Cantonese and American food. Dad ordered Chinese food, Mom her favorite fried chicken, and we kids our regular hamburger, French fries, and a Coke. Later, when I began working at the store, I had lunch sometimes at the Downtown Cafe where, much to my junior high delight, I discovered chicken fried steaks. I already knew the middle part of Washington Street from walks with Mom when she shopped, but also from visits to the two Hoyle’s IGA stores, both located along Washington, one at 9th, the other at 13th. Then there was the Kaw Theater where we watched movies and ate the homemade cinnamon and horehound candies made by Mr. Hyle, the owner and the father of my Aunt Barbara. Duckwall’s and Woolworth’s stores sat on the east side of the street in the same block as Cole’s Department Store where Mother used to model clothes on occasion. I had seen photos of her as a young model posing on the runway.

I got to know Washington Street. North, between 15th and 16th streets stood Washington School where I attend grades one through five. On occasion I got to be the crossing guard on the main street, wearing the white halter that symbolized enough authority to push the button for the stop light and walk halfway across the four-lane street with a stop sign. No accidents occurred on my watch. The school playground for older students was on Washington Street so I saw its activity from swings, monkey bars, and see saws. Walking down that street one afternoon when our class went on an outing to visit the local potato chip factory seems as real today as it was then. Across the street from the school was Kroger’s, and across the street from our store that Dad managed, sat Dillon’s. I knew these stores to be the competition. Next to Dillon’s was the Dairy Queen where we kids liked to go on Sunday nights after church. I knew Washington Street.

As older elementary kids we neighborhood boys began to walk the street without adults. There we discovered the bars, a variety of shops including the Army Surplus stores where we looked longingly at the gear of soldiers, the barbershop where my best friend Keith got his flattop haircuts and where I first saw professional wresting on TV, and tattoo parlors where we’d choose our future body ornamentation from designs displayed in the windows. From Washington Street, we’d gaze down East Ninth where we knew several houses of prostitution stood. We’d continue on to Duckwalls and Woolworth’s where we loved to look at toys and sometimes swiped them, to the Junction Theater where we ogled the ads for adult films we never got to watch, or to Clewel's Drug Store where we drank sodas at the fountain where they mixed drinks and I often ordered a grape Coke. Occasionally we’d walk on to Dewey Park where we saw small children dancing at the city band concerts, where a statue of the 19th century Admiral George Dewey with his drooping handlebar mustache stood atop a classical archway, and where large WWII cannons stood sentry. By day people sat there in the shade of huge elms and more than once on hot summer afternoons we waded in the fountain that dominated the middle of the park.

I never entered any of the many bars but was fascinated by their neon lights, dark spaces with cool air wafting strange odors out the front doors. I wondered about the men we saw inside sitting at the bar drinking beers, usually quiet but sometimes with juke box blaring and loud talk and laughter, especially around payday when the GIs came to town to squander their meager paychecks in the dives on Washington Street and the whore houses on East Ninth. The challenging presences rarely made it over to where I lived, but of course, we boys had planned all our escape routes in case we might have run-ins with drunks. Our survival tactics were actually just another form of play; after all we were kids, boys with dreams of self-sufficiency, survival, and strength.

Life changed for me over the decades between my fifteenth birthday when we left Junction City and my fifty-first birthday when I showed up along Denver’s Colfax Ave. My experiences along the unusual Kansas main street prepared me for living in the city. In my fifties I continued to spend time among people of various races and backgrounds. I ate Chinese food, chicken fried steaks, and really nice hamburgers along Colfax. In contrast to my childhood activities, I did go into bars and did get a tattoo. I still didn’t go into whorehouses. In this real, really large city I walked down many streets and greeted many people. I shared a new life with them but still kept my eyes open to possible developing trouble and chose my routes with the wisdom I had learned in childhood walking along Washington Street with my friends. Then I walked unafraid but never unaware. I still do.

Denver, © 2012

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

Self Acceptance, by Pat Gourley

Well this phrase certainly sums up the entire “gay agenda” now doesn’t it?

One of the insidious accusations pitched our way around a “gay agenda” is that we need to recruit to our ranks. Reproducing, per conventional wisdom, is not one of our strong points, this despite the fact that many queers do reproduce.

I would though argue that self-acceptance is really a very potent recruitment tool. That is if you define recruitment as the creation of safe space for people to get in touch and express their intrinsic identity. No brainwashing or perverted sexual enticement needed, just provide a bit of sunlight and water and voila. Not to indulge too much in a trite metaphor but it is like a flower blooming. When given the chance queerness reaches its full potential and gloriously presents itself for all to see and appreciate. Homophobia both from external sources and the more insidious internalized form can prevent this from happening.

I could pontificate on this for a few more paragraphs and come up with a few more cheesy metaphors but since this is meant to be a personal story telling exercise I’ll just say a few words about my own self-acceptance. I was very fortunate to come of age sexually in my late teens in an environment that was in rebellion on many fronts. Civil rights, women’s liberation, strong anti-war sentiment and exploding gay liberation were all ingredients in the stew I found myself in.

We will mark the 50th anniversary of the summer of love this coming year, 2017. I strongly encourage pilgrimages to the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood in San Francisco. The neighborhood is suffering under the ravages of gentrification but a bit less so than other parts of the City. Since I rarely pass on the opportunity to quote lyrics from my favorite band these couple of lines seem appropriate here:

Nothin' shakin' on shakedown street. used to be the heart of town.

Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart. you just gotta poke around.

Shakedown Street. Garcia/Hunter

If you get the chance to visit slowly amble along Haight Street and poke around a bit.

My own coming out was certainly facilitated by the social, political and cultural upheavals of the late 1960’s. It is however the personal self-acceptance on a deep soul level that provides the spark for queer actualization and this can take awhile. It is a process and rarely a single bolt of enlightenment. There were ups and downs along this path for me during the first 10 years of that self-discovery. I would date those years of maturing self-acceptance to be roughly from 1966 to 1976. It was capped off and really cemented with the “coming-out” letter I wrote to my father.

His response to my letter was rather unexpected, loving and astonishingly thoughtful. He said that my gayness explained a lot and he now understood better why I had always been sensitive to the underdog. Being Catholic he also encouraged me to search out the Gay Catholic group Dignity. I did that but my participation was fleeting.

I truly regret loosing his letter and not following up better with inquiries as to how he found out about Dignity; dad died in August of 1980 a few short days after the second national gathering of Radical Fairies ended here in Colorado. I suspect though that the Dignity referral came from the same parish priest who I came out to in the early 1970’s. This man, who after a painful counseling session involving my expression of personal doubt about my gay path, put his arm around me and said I would make a great priest! That did not happen.

I do realize that my own personal self-acceptance was much less traumatic that it has been for many. I was truly lucky in this regard and so fortunate to have had a great dad in my corner to help the process along.

I have for some reason been listening to lots of Lucinda Williams these days, especially it seems since November 8th. She has a song that seems apropos to the whole self-acceptance gig for us queers. The title of the tune is “A World Without Tears”: Here is aYou Tube link to aversion of it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-W-qKAQJQo

© December 2016

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.

No to the 'Cision and the Italian Renaissance, by Louis Brown

In my humble case, I was born October 23, 1944. I was delivered by a Dr. Levy. A day or two after I was born, Dr. Levy told my mother that it was time for me to go to the chopping block. My mother said “no.” I have always wondered exactly what my mother might have actually said. Maybe she said, “No, thanks, I am not into infant mutilation.” I have always wondered why some Jewish men I have spoken to speak lovingly of circumcision because it brings them, the victims, closer to God. What are they talking about? I think most people would agree that, if an adult uncircumcised Jewish man chooses to get circumcised, no one would object. Otherwise leave the babies alone. I believe the euphemism for that body part is “French lace.”

Birthday in French is la naissance. The rebirth is la renaissance. Think of the Italian Renaissance! Why should I? Because the Italian Renaissance was another golden age for gay men. Recently I was talking with a recent college grad who said he did not know what the word Europe meant. If this college graduate does not know what Europe means, he certainly is not going to be up on his Italian Renaissance history. So, is it not our responsibility to foster a discussion of the IR? Especially inform gay men of their, our, illustrious past.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, 1475-1564, Leonardo da Vinci, 1452-1519, Andrea del Sarto, 1486-1530, Caravaggio, 1571-1610, Sandro Botticelli, 1445-1510. Benevuto Cellini, 1500-1571. And the biographer who kept track of their lives, Giorgio Vasari, 1511-1574.

Speaking of birthdays, how about the Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticello? Or the birth of Adam, as portrayed by Michaelangelo Buonaroti on the Sistine Chapel ceiling?

I am sure for us this is all old hat, but for the recent not so well-informed college graduates, this is all unknown territory. How do we change this situation?

Giorgio Vasari (Le vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori, una serie di biografie nella quale egli copre l'intero canone artistico teso tra Trecento e Cinquecento.)

I visited Florence and Rome, Italy, once in 1969. Rome will knock your socks off. I never saw so many blushing nuns. They are in their holy city and there are statues of naked athletes in public squares. Some of the cherub statues are even peeing into basins. Not to mention the naked pagan goddesses and nymphs and dryads.

© 9 November 2016

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Heroes, by Gillian

With a great stretch of the imagination I just might be able to see myself having a momentary lapse of concentration and running into the burning building to rescue a baby. It would require my being carried away on a huge rush of adrenaline, plus the balance of my mind being temporarily disturbed, but it just might happen. Though, to be fair, I should add that this is more a statement a previous me might have made, rather than the current one. I cannot imagine myself actually running anywhere these days, and toddling into the flames does not ring with great promise.

The kind of heroism I can never envision for myself, however, is that which must endure: day after day, month after month, even year after year, perhaps for a lifetime. This kind of courage has always been around, still is, and, human kind being what it is, doubtless always will be. Those of our generation probably leap most easily to tales of derring-do from the Second World War for such stories of silent, unseen, unsung heroes. I don't mean only the romantic figures of The Resistance, who certainly helped in the eventual Allied victory; but the many invisible, unseen, and mostly unheard-of men and women from all walks of life who risked their ordinary lives every ordinary day. Their names are unknown to most of us. Do you know the name of the owners of the attic where Ann Frank so famously hid? I don't. Do the names Caecilia Loots, Irena Sendler, Giorgio Perlasca, Frank Foley mean anything to you; to me? Yet they are just four of the 26,000 people from 49 different countries to receive the honorific 'Righteous Among Nations'; an award bestowed by Israel on non-Jewish people who saved Jewish lives during the holocaust. And that doesn't count all the non-Jews saved from the Nazis. And just think how countless many other simple saviors there must have been, who have slipped unacknowledged into the past

Le Chambon-sur-Lignon was a Protestant village in a predominantly Roman Catholic region of southern France. The village became a hiding place for Jews from every part of Europe. Between 1940 and 1944, Le Chambon and other nearby villages provided refuge for more than 5,000 people fleeing Nazi persecution, about 3,500 of whom were Jewish. (The exact numbers are, understandably, uncertain.) For four years, these people went about their daily lives, acting normally, while every single day they were at risk of discovery which would doubtless lead to torture and eventual death. How did they do that, these silent, invisible, unsung heroes? Where do you find that kind of ceaseless courage? In this community, also of around 5,000 people, no-one gave away any secrets either on purpose or accidentally. In 1943, the Nazis offered a reward for the local Minister who had been forced to go into hiding. Most of the population, including many children, knew where he was, but nobody talked. The Minister's cousin, who ran the local orphanage, was arrested in 1943 and sent to Buchenwald where he died. And still they continued their dangerous efforts. It was long after the war that this village's exploits became known, and then no-one wanted credit. They did what they did, as did all those on the 'Righteous Among Nations' list, along with so many unknown others, for no other reason than it was the right thing to do.

Raised, as I was, in post-war Britain, I grew up with exaggerated, lurid, fiction versions of such heroic escape stories. Naturally, in my youth, I fantasized. I became my own secret, silent, unsung hero engineering miraculous escapes at great personal risk. But in reality I think I always questioned how brave I would really be under such circumstances. Would you really risk torture and death for others, strangers who meant nothing to you? I asked myself. Reluctantly, I was forced to face doubts as to my own courage.

Now, since the election of the Orange Oligarch, I unwittingly and unwillingly find that I am asking myself those same questions again - for the first time in over fifty years. No, I am not so far fallen into fear that I imagine myself facing some modern version of storm troupers and the gestapo. Though my insides do double back flips as I say that, so apparently I am not quite as sure of it as I would wish to be. Also, I am confident that most residents of Germany in the early 1930's would have said the same thing, which does not exactly fill me with confidence for our future.

In fact, since the election, I have a general, unformed, non-specific, fear which manifests as a cold hard lump of ice somewhere deep in my gut. I know that it is actually made up of a myriad of 'what ifs', which for the most part I just ignore. I have struggled along in this life long enough to know that letting those 'what ifs' crowd my every waking moment is not in any way a good thing. I go on with my life. But that cold hard fear remains.

So perhaps it is better, once in a while, to look closely at those 'what ifs' and test their validity.

Perhaps, when waved about in the fresh air, they will disintegrate. Vanish. Gingerly I reach deep down into my psyche and bring them out.

There is an outer ring of somewhat general fears. What if, as seems increasingly likely, we start a war? Multiple wars? What if, as seems increasingly likely, we deny the reality of climate change? What if, as seems increasingly likely, our economy crashes in burning rubble about our feet? Or what if, as some pundits insist, the economy will grow exponentially under the guidance of the Orange Ogre: most people's lives become better. Life is good. Then we're back to Germany in 1933: a booming economy, a better life for all. Well, no, not for all. But let's not notice who has to pay the price as long as we're all doing so well.

Those are not the 'what ifs' which really haunt me. They are too big: too unmanageable, beyond my capacity to fix. All I can do is make phone calls, write letters, protest, and generally try to turn the oncoming tide.

But the inner layer of 'what ifs', they squeeze my very soul. They ask about me. What will I do?

I am in control of my responses. Will I be my own silent invisible unsung hero?

That can be as simple as voting for, or encouraging action that is, the right thing to do but against our better interests. A few days ago, one of the endless on-line petitions I was asked to sign was urging Mayor Hancock to make Denver a Sanctuary City, as so many in the U.S. have done.

To my shame, I hesitated. The 'Orrible Orange has threatened to cut off all Federal Funding to communities so designated. I am not sure, without some research, what exactly that would mean. But I am sure that one of the fastest-growing cities in this country would certainly have to tighten it's belt. I added my name. But the hesitation, over such a small thing, once again made me question the courage of my convictions.

When that list of Muslims becomes a reality, will I really, as I now so glibly promise, add my name to it without knowing the consequences? Or worse, when I know that there will be very dire consequences? Will I do my part to make the list as meaningless as the Danes made the Jew's yellow star during the war, when everyone wore one?

I honestly don't know.

When it is forbidden for Muslims to enter the Mosque, will I walk beside them facing being beaten or shot by the riot police? Or will I cower at home and stare in fear and shame at the stories unfolding on TV?

I honestly don't know.

When Mike Pence, our bigoted, homophobic, VP, has pushed our legislators into outlawing any gathering of GLBT people, will this group continue? Will we meet right here in this room, waiting for the enforcers of the law to burst through that door, guns blazing; or at best to haul us all off to prison? Or will we continue to meet, but secretly, in a different location each week so we don't get caught? And will I be with you? Or will I slink away silently into the darkness to hide, to keep my head down at home; not the silent invisible unsung hero of my dreams but the silent invisible non-hero of my 'what ifs'?

I honestly don't know.

Right now, my very best hope for the future is that I am never forced to find out.

© January 2017

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.

My Favorite Place, by Betsy

On a mountain trail, riding on my bicycle through a beautiful setting with no traffic, on the tennis court, with family, with my honey especially in her arms--all of these are places I love to be. But favorite means ONE place, not a dozen. So I have to really think about this. It came to me rather quickly actually. My favorite place is IN THE NOW. To be in the now is to be totally present wherever I am. To be in the now means not worrying about the future or evaluating the past.

My partner and I are currently trying to learn what it means to be in the now. So, in truth, I am a long way from mastering the concept promoted by Ekhart Tolle in his book The Power of NOW.

According to Tolle being in the now means being in an enlightened state of consciousness. Letting go of one’s ego and entering a state of elevated consciousness. I cannot say that I have ever gotten even close to this.

It’s not difficult. Do not try to understand this with your mind, says Mr. Tolle. Just FEEL it.

Ekhart Tolle is one of the great spiritual teachers of our time, and I really do want to learn from him. I cannot disagree with anything he teaches. Such as the concept that our minds and our egos get in the way of our reaching enlightenment, the Now. The same question keeps popping up in my head: Why is it so hard for us to get beyond our egos and beyond the interference of our minds, our thoughts? Thoughts just have way of creeping in most of the time.

Back to the topic--my favorite place. What I am speaking of is the NOW meaning the present moment. Put in other words: my favorite place is wherever I am at the moment. Right now my favorite place is here, trying to sort out my thoughts and put them down on paper so you all can get some understanding of what I am trying to say. On Monday afternoon my favorite place will be here in this room listening to your wise words. Oh, oh! There I go thinking about the future, already projecting myself into it. Who knows, I might be sick on Monday and then nowhere would be my favorite place except asleep in my bed.

We do get ourselves into trouble, do we not, when we anticipate the future.

We do ourselves a disservice when we anticipate something in the future. We may be setting ourselves up for disappointment or disillusionment.

And how many of us have ever completely tormented ourselves over something that happened in the past--a few minutes ago or long ago. Or something bad happens a few minutes ago or long ago and we cannot let go of it. We go over and over and over it in our minds. Both past and future are constructs of the mind and are illusions, says Tolle. Only the now is real. I like the concept.

Have you ever been in a place where you wanted desperately to capture the moment and make it last forever, such as a place of indescribable beauty? Visiting some of our national parks lately, I have noticed that everyone has a camera. This is a way of making the beauty last--taking it home with you. I am very glad that Gill and I have thousands of photos and I enjoy looking at them just as much as anyone.

But what you cannot take home with you is how it FELT to be surrounded by awesome natural beauty. The memory is not the same as the feeling itself. Tolle speaks of being one with the universe. Surrounded by incredible natural beauty and really taking it in is perhaps the closest I will ever be in my current human form to that feeling.

Tolle’s concepts are the same that have been handed down through the ages by many of the great spiritual teachers. Just spelled out in a different way. I will continue to read his books. That’s the easy part. Applying the principles to everyday issues and happenings is the hard part. But it’s a good place to be.

© June 2013

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.

Family, by Ricky

Too many choices to pick from. Which family should I write about – my growing up family, my waiting for the divorce family, my step-father family, my Boy Scout family, my married family, or my widower family? I have actually written about all of these “my families” before so if you want to read of them again look up my past stories on the SAGE blog or my personal blog.

So this leaves me with only my LGBT family to write about. I did not list LGBTQ because I don’t know of any Q’s in my LGBT family unless I make the Q stand for “queer” instead of “questioning”. I also did not list the “LGBTQ alphabet” written about by Will a couple of years ago because, if I did write about it, I would still be here reading it to you when you came back next week and would still not be finished.

In the vernacular of the times, it appears that the LGBT “family” is referred to as a “community”. In a particular viewpoint, community is correct as a metaphor. After all towns and cities are made up of neighborhoods and communities of biological families or individuals. LGBT communities are made up of non-biological groups / ”families” of lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgenders; each category which also has sub-categories of preferences.

Since LGBT marriages are now legal, there will also be legitimate biological LGBT families with children either natural or adopted. These relationships existed before but were not usually sanctioned by law or the hetero communities they lived within.

There was a time in the not distant past (which may come again) when gays were persecuted. When meeting together in public places they would talk among themselves using female names do disguise the fact they were gay. This practice continues to this day in the modified version of calling each other “girl”. I personally dislike the practice because, I am gay but I am definitely not a girl.

To close on a positive note, I have a gay friend who if he wants to know if someone is gay will ask, “Is he family.”

© 5 September 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

Choices, by Ray S.

Never had to make a choice or decision because my mother always did that for me. That’s what mothers do.

The US government decided I was draftable like all the other boys my age in 1943. Faced with making a choice as to what branch of the service would want me, it resulted in a trip to the US Army Air Force office and enlisting in their air cadet program. It seemed the best choice of all evils and besides I didn’t think I’d fit nicely into a tight white sailor suit.

Footnote here: Can you imagine me flying an airplane? I couldn’t even drive a car then.

The air corps was making all of our choices now having replaced Mama. As good fortune would have it, the cadet program was oversubscribed, so the powers that be (or were) scattered all of this wet behind the ears pubescent material to the winds. The talented ones went to aircraft mechanics school. The rest of the class members, having finished basic training in the wilds of Gulfport, were shipped off to a military police contingent where they were assigned to 11 pm to 7 am guard duty. Here we could reflect on our recently basic training that had taught all of the little boys how to be good little soldiers, drink beer, smoke cigarettes, strip down and reassemble a carbine, report on parade grounds at 6 am dressed only in your issue raincoat for “short arm” VD inspection (and he wouldn’t show us his), learn the intricacies of KP duty, and checking the scenery in the barracks shower.

Eventually through discovery, familiarity, or unknowing choices, the appearance of latent libidos or the right time and the right place, this boy found out what people meant by the pejoratives “queer” and “fairy.” However there was a conscious effort called ‘in denial’ to not own those words openly for some thirty to forty years hence.

Dating and girls:

It was a blind date that never ended until she delivered an ultimatum. The morning of the wedding the butterflies kept saying, “Do you really want this?” But, the die was cast, no choice, just make the best of it … for fifty-five years. And there were many good times and some not so good.

Is chance a choice or is choice a chance? A sunny day in June, crowds gathered at Civic Center Plaza, and I chose to hang out on the perimeter of all the action observing what PRIDE was all about.

Another CHOICE, after all of this time it was becoming easier—attending a SAGE of the Rockies conference. Meeting and learning to know there was a place for me in this beautiful tribe; and I belonged. Knowing I could reach out and love freely and openly. Finding I finally could come out of a closet I had lived in all of these years. I realize now that I might be the only person that didn’t know or suspect I was and am queer—in the most positive sense. My closet like many others suffered from structural transparency.

Now I am faced with another CHOICE. Trying to determine is this ‘indiscriminate love’ or ‘unconditional love’ that I feel for all of you; and is there really that much of a difference?


© 11 July 2016

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