GLBT Hopes, by Ray S

Hope springs eternal, at least I hope so. When I take stock of my many hopes, some almost transcendental and spiritual, others seemingly hopeless. Often, hopes for a loved one, here now or passed on, high hopes for desire ringing from hearing a favorite music composition, eating a gourmet meal, visiting an art gallery, or enjoying the excitement of a sporting event. And of course, the finale and climax of a lover’s encounter with Eros, the god of love.

Somewhere amongst all this our tribe has and will continue to be confronted by our hopes and actions to further equal rights for not only GLBTs but for everyone. There are as many but of different complexities as we have faced in the past.

Support the Cause, hope positively, and fight like hell! Onward and upward to Stonewall Number Two!

© 9 January 2017

About the Author

Anxious Moments, by Phillip Hoyle

When I heard the sound of the rattle I froze. Here alone with no one knowing I had even gone anywhere. My day off. No one at home. No cell phones. Late March afternoon on the West Mesa across the river from Albuquerque. I’d come here alone to look at the petroglyphs so I could look and look without anyone becoming bored or impatient. I’d started up a trail I’d never walked following its diagonal slope across the steep south exposure when I realized I really wanted to be off the path searching out there where no one was likely to have looked. And now I heard this surprising sound. It was too cold to worry over snakes, yet the distinctive, bone-chilling sound was from a rattlesnake. Where was it? I searched the large rock I was standing on. I studied the sage brush, rubber rabbit bushes, snake weed, and yuccas in every direction. I saw nothing, but recalled all too clearly my Scout training that had taught me these places make snakes hard to see. I wondered just how close the snake might be hoping it had moved away. I moved slightly. No sound. I waved my arms. The rattle resumed, and then stopped when I stopped. I moved my arms periodically hoping to discover just where the rattler had coiled. No such luck. I supposed my shadow had tipped off the snake in the first place. Recalling what I’d learned about snakes I realized it probably didn’t know where I was, just aware that I’d caused a shadow. Even though I couldn’t see a snake I knew not to step forward.

I’d go back the way I had come, but since I had been climbing slightly upward I’d have to go down, not a good thing in this rugged terrain. I knew a man who once stepped over a rock right onto a rattler. He got bit. Not me. I figured if I walked up hill to rejoin the well-travelled trail, (you know zag after my zig) I could then continue. I would walk uphill toward my shadow hoping not to see a snake, yet hoping to see one before it saw me. Did I want to be that close? No. Gingerly—no word for an outdoors adventurer but acutely accurate for this city slicker’s picking his way through the wilderness—I made my way ridiculously waving my arms like a windmill. Within a few yards I was startled to see the tail of a snake disappear into what I surmised was its den in the hillside. The snake had apparently been sunning on his front porch before being rudely interrupted by this quaking interloper. I was then super alert to my surroundings, and on my way up to the safety of the trail, I spotted two more disappearing snake tails. I must have been in a suburban Rattlesnake village.

Back on the trodden path I continued to the top of the mesa still alert to everything I could see to be afraid of. At the top there was mostly shade on the ground, no rattlesnake chaise lounges that I could see. I continued to a wide gully on the north side and reasoned I could safely descend where there had been no sunshine for quite a long time and probably no front porches at all. With relief but still quite a bit of anxiety running through my body, I picked a place to descend and had walked about two thirds of the way to the bottom when a loud crackling sent me almost into a panic. I saw with relief that I had frightened a rabbit. Still, several lower-body organs seemed caught in my throat. I laughed at myself the rest of the way down the hill where I was pleased to view some petroglyphs along the base of the escarpment even ones that had been viewed by thousands of other people. I really just needed to look at them, not discover new ones. Several were beautiful, and I was pleased none of them pictured rattlesnakes.

© 12 June 2017

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

Where I Was when Kennedy Was Shot, by Louis Brown

Wikipedia: On November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, was fatally shot in Dallas, Texas while riding in a motorcade in Dallas' Dealey Plaza, at 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time.[1]

On that date I was a sophomore at Queens College, located in Flushing, Queens, NY. I was on my way to a swimming class in a gym building that looked like and still looks like an airplane hangar. As I was approaching the front door of the building another student told me what happened and we both walked over to a car parked in the parking lot in front of the gym-swimming pool building, and the owner of the car put his car radio on leaving the front door open; and we all listened. It was horrifying and frightening, of course.

Politically, I would say that, in the USA, it has been downhill ever since. And with the exception of Jimmy Carter, we really have not had any president with as much potential and enlightened attitude, as shown by John Kennedy, since. At least Jimmy Carter had morals. Barack Obama was good for the first 6 years then he conked out when he got enthused about TPP.

The whole nation was dazzled when John F. Kennedy was elected. One reason for Kennedy’s power was his granting a seat to the AFL-CIO at the table of power-making decisions. And the AFL-CIO delivered in those days. Working people had protections, status and reason to believe in a better future. About two years ago I called the AFL-CIO of Colorado, and they said they are not on speaking terms with the Democratic Party. To state the obvious, when the Democratic Party decided to stop advocating for working people, they got massacred by the wealthier, very nasty Republican Party. If the Democratic Party does return to advocating for working people and really listens to the AFL-CIO, they will become the majority party again. Otherwise they will shrink even further.

John Kennedy valued working people, granted appropriate power to the AFL-CIO, he valued college graduates. He believed our educational system should be well-financed and respected. Back in the early 1960’s the American educational system was number one in the world. Today it is about number 38 and declining.

Mrs. John F. Kennedy, Jacqueline née Bouvier (later Onassis) was not only beautiful but knew how to decorate mansion interiors and so decorated the White House with a French accent. The Kennedy’s were fabulously popular in Europe and Latin America. Americans were proud of their political leaders, of course, now we are ashamed and embarrassed, really ashamed.

Although I am a Bernie Sanders/Jill Stein fan, I think we should continue along the path of enlightened capitalism, as advocated by John F. Kennedy. Although I don’t have a phobia of socialism that the establishment constantly promotes, John F. Kennedy’s economic philosophy actually worked for the vast majority of Americans.

+++++++++++++++++=

3-17-13 Thinking of the Kennedy’s on St. Patrick’s Day

It must have been in the late 1990’s, when I was working as a caseworker for the NYC Human Resources Administration, I was sent to Headquarters at 330 Church Street in way downtown New York, that is to say Manhattan. Back then I could easily see the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. I had a Citibank checking account, and there was an ATM about 2 blocks around the corner from where I would go about 3 times a week to get lunch money. One afternoon I went, and I noticed an extremely handsome Irish-looking fellow. It took a few seconds, but I realized that the other young man was John F. Kennedy, Jr. Like any “peasant”, JFK Jr. went to the ATM and did his routine to withdraw what I presume was a small sum of money to get through his day.

Occasionally, he was accompanied by a tall pretty woman who dressed like a hippy. Back then all I had to do was watch the news and I learned that she was Carolyn née Bessette Kennedy. As the months passed, I saw both of them frequently. I learned why they were using that particular ATM. It was located in SoHo which at that time was undergoing gentrification, and John and Carolyn had purchased an expensive condo in one of the tall apartment buildings nearby. The two of them were actually my “neighbors” for the duration of my assignment downtown. I never got up the nerve to say “hello” or “hi there”, but occasionally I would roll my eyes at another person waiting to use the ATM to indicate there was someone famous in front of us.

Eventually, my assignment ended, and I no longer got to ogle the handsome Kennedy couple. Then about a year later I heard he and Carolyn had died in an airplane crash, actually, July 16, 1999, Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard. The news of this accident really saddened me.

Some speak of the “curse of the Kennedy’s”. It could be a curse, I guess, or is something going on behind the scenes that the public is not aware of?

© 2 April 2017

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.

Back Seat of the Car, by Gillian

Back in the days when I was young and foolish enough to indulge in gropings in the back seats of cars, I was still young and foolish enough to be doing it with boys. By the time I was old and wise enough to figure out who I really wanted to be groping, I was old and wise enough to have a lovely bedroom available for such purposes, as did most of the gropees, so the back seat of the car held no appeal.

I can only think of one car back seat that I remember with any affection. Betsy and I were in our early days together, so it must have been in 1987 or '88. Two younger women friends, temporarily a couple, decided to go to Santa Fe for a romantic weekend and invited us to go along. They had a lot of money, or at least spent as if they did, and at the time had a brand new Mercedes. Friday night after work they picked us up at Betsy's house and installed us in the back of the car. It smelled deliciously of brand new upholstery; leather, of course. Who has ever caught a wonderful whiff of vinyl? The back set creaked and sighed elegantly as we settled ourselves. Surround sound speakers spilled gentle music. Ah, luxury! Speeding south on I25 heading out of Denver, a subtly disguised side panel slide open, to display an expansive cooler; electronically cooled, of course, in which nestled bottles of expensive champagne and two perfectly cooled glasses.

'Help yourselves,' called Jan, the driver.

'Will either of us be driving at all?' Betsy asked, cautiously.

'Nope!' came the chorus from the front.

'We're doing the driving. You two just have fun.'

No need to tell us twice. We sipped and snacked. The cooler also contained a selection of very expensive cheeses, and crackers. A softly-sighing little spring door opened to offered entertainment in the form of playing cards and puzzle books, this being before the days of those dreadful little overhead car TV's, but we declined, simply sitting back to watch the night lights go by and sing along with the music. Try a night like that now, and we'd both be rolling around on that spacious back seat fast asleep. But that night we stayed well awake the entire six hours. Of course we did not realize just how drunk we were until we attempted to get out of the car upon arrival at a very swanky adobe dwelling where we crashed for a sadly short time before that blazing New Mexico sun came streaming in the window to wake us up.

Now, our old VW camper, Brunhilda, was not exactly the lap of luxury - except when compared to sleeping on the cold hard ground. The transformation of the back seat tot combine with the cargo floor into a double bed often required much tussling with stubborn metal catches that refused to release and hinges that declined to bend until the necessary level of grunting had been reached or the magic bad words yelled. But after a little blood and sweat - we were never quite driven to tears - we always succeeded, to snuggle down together for the night at least partly on the back seat. So in a sense I guess we could say we spent literally hundreds of nights on the back seat of the car; and loved every single one of them!

© March 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.

Where I Was when Kennedy Was Shot, by Betsy

November 22, 1963—I had to look up the exact date—I don’t remember where I was, but I can go backwards and figure it out. We came to Denver in 1970. Before that we lived in Leiden, The Netherlands. We went to the Netherlands in 1966 from Scottsville, New York. My youngest child was born in 1964. My second child was born in 1962, so the time we are trying to pinpoint was between the births of my 2nd and 3rd child. In fact I would have been pregnant with my 3rd child at the time. I can visualize our home in Scottsville. I must have been at home. Yes! I would have been at home; I had two babies to take care of.

I do remember now watching the news on TV as the tragic event was unfolding. At the time I tuned in Kennedy was in the hospital still alive. I do remember the announcement shortly after, that he had expired, that doctors could do nothing to save him.

Then there was the swearing in of Lyndon Johnson on Air Force One.

What is more memorable to me is watching the heartbreaking funeral procession down Pennsylvania Avenue— the riderless horse, the casket, Jackie Kennedy and John Jr. and the famous salute the young child gave to honor his father. These are all images that have been etched into the memories of most Americans—and there were very few who were not paying attention at the time.

Trying to remember that day I find to be an interesting exercise. I am asking why do I not remember how I felt about our president being assassinated. Thinking back, my emotions seemed flat when viewed from the perspective of 2017. Not only can I not remember feeling what would seem to be the appropriate emotion, but also I cannot come up with the physical place where I was at the time of the incident without calculating where I must have been.

In retrospect that disconnect with my past seems odd to me. I have not often thought about being unable to be in closer touch with the Betsy of November 22, 1963 until considering the topic for today.

In recent years I have come to the realization that in my day-to-day life before I came to terms with my sexuality I was not fully “present.” I was partially “shut down.” Not depressed, not withdrawn, not unhappy—just not fully present. As if some of my nerve endings were absent or deadened. I did not drink too much, I did not do drugs. Yet looking back from today’s vantage point it feels as if at that earlier time I was not an integrated person. I was, in fact, some other person especially in one very important basic aspect.

So it has been very useful for me to write on today’s topic. It has given me some added insight into that part of my life—a time before I understood my true nature. And writing even these few words helps bring a measure of clarity.

Another less personal thought generated by the topic for today comes to mind. That is this: After the Kennedy assassination many assumed that presidents no longer would expose themselves to any possibility that a lone gunman could snuff out his/her life by simply squeezing a trigger from a distant, unsuspected, isolated location .

Anyone who is president has enemies. And enemies who are dedicated to ridding the world of the hated powerful person. It only takes one to pull that trigger. Literally millions of dollars are spent to protect the president and his family. More in the current administration that ever. So I suppose it would be more difficult today than in 1963 to pull off an assassination.

The gun issue at this point rears its ugly head. I haven’t heard it suggested by the NRA that the president himself be armed at all times, as is suggested for the rest of us—the school teachers, shop keepers, mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, people living alone, people living with others, single people, married people, sick people, healthy people, virtually everyone should carry a gun, says the NRA.

In spite of his support of the NRA, I doubt our current president carries a gun. And since Kennedy’s assassination, presidents have not been hiding from public exposure. Since then our presidents have chosen to walk or ride out in the open, wave to the crowds, and make themselves visible. And I don’t blame them one bit for doing so. I understand the feeling. They want to be totally visible just as I myself was driven to be.

I have often made the statement to family and friends, “I refuse to live in fear.” Applying common sense is a good thing, but living in an emotional state of fear, unable to live life to the fullest because of what COULD happen or because of what happened to someone else is handing victory over to the enemy and capitulating to an unknown entity which wants to exercise its power at your expense.

Kind of reminds me of the same pep talk I gave myself at different stages of coming out. But then it’s not my life that was at steak, just my quality of life or perhaps a temporary emotional set-back. But the principle is the same. Living in fear is no way to live.

© 3 April 2017

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.

Connections, by Ricky

The Earth is a spider-web of connections: gravitational, magnetic, electrical, chemical, mechanical, physical, and metaphysical. We, as Earthlings, maneuver ourselves and navigate these webs without much conscious thought, except for safety (not counting those under the age of 25).

Everyone surely realizes that all of us are connected to something, if only to our electronic devices, or perhaps to our bank accounts, or vehicles, or pets, or relatives if they are lucky and one gets careless. These tend to be emotional connections rather than those I previously listed. One could also make a case that, besides being mostly a bag of water, Earthlings are just a collection of living connections in the manner of the hip bone is connected to the thigh bone, etc.

Everyone has connections. I have connections and not just with my God Father. (Or is that Father God? At my age, I have seen too many movies to keep it straight.) I am connected to my electronic devices and my friends and relatives, living and departed. Through a hobby of genealogy, I stay connected to my forebears and the proverbial three bears. I am even connected to Dr. Seuss’s Tweetle Beetles.

“Let’s have a little talk about tweetle beetles.

When tweetle beetles fight,

it's called a tweetle beetle battle.

And when they battle in a puddle,

it's a tweetle beetle puddle battle.

AND when tweetle beetles battle with paddles in a puddle,

they call it a tweetle beetle puddle paddle battle.

AND...

When beetles battle beetles in a puddle paddle battle

and the beetle battle puddle is a puddle in a bottle...

...they call this a tweetle beetle bottle puddle paddle battle muddle.

AND...

When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles

and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles...

...they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle

bottle paddle battle.” From Fox in Sox © by Dr. Seuss

Mayhap my 12-year old persona is connected to Dr. Seuss but it is also connected to Peter Pan. In fact, both of my personas are intimately connected. I know Peter’s favorite place to eat — Wendy’s. Does anyone know Peter better than I? Can you tell me why Peter flies? I know. He flies because he Neverlands.

I feel connected to each of you in our story telling group. Although, some of those connections may have been weakened or broken entirely by the previous trio of juvenile revelry.

I am connected: to the historical past, to those who die tragically in accidents or acts of Satan or acts of man. In other words, I am emotionally connected to everyone to some degree or another. That is why I often cry.

Perhaps the poet John Donne expressed it best (400 years ago) in his poem No Man is an Island.

No man is an island, entire of itself;

every man is a piece of the continent,

a part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

as well as if a promontory were,

as well as if a manor of thy friend’s

or of thine own were.

Any man’s death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind;

and therefore never send to know

for whom the bell tolls;

it tolls for thee.

The end of the poem tells us that when we hear the bells ringing that someone has died, we don’t need to ask who it is. It is as if a part of us died as well because we are all connected to each other. Although it seems like a sad poem when one first reads it, understanding the idea of it – that we are all connected and important – can help one be more concerned about other people. When something happens on the other side of the world, it still affects everyone. If one feels sad or happy about something that seems unrelated to you, this poem explains why that is okay. It’s okay to be interested in people one doesn’t know. It’s okay to be concerned about people one has never met. Because, everyone is a part of mankind — including me and my Rickyisms.

© 24 April 2017

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

Ghosts, by Ray S

One day I read a book quite by a happy coincidence. A very wise literary mentor directed my attention to an author’s works that I would find not only well written but outstanding gay fiction and with wonderful character development.

As a child I was a slow reader as they called us in grade school. Reading was rarely fun and generally regarded a tedious chore. I wonder now that I ever got through sixteen years of reading assignments.

Update to that encounter in the library. My quest for a good erotic read had been answered. There were five or six volumes by the recommended author. Not being too adventurous I selected a slim book as an introduction to the make believe world of escapism.

My recent departure from sixty years of closeted double life required a great deal of catching up. There’s no time to waste; it’s not like you were sixteen and too dumb to know who you might be. Now that you’re at the threshold of full-blown “geom.”, it seems there is too little time and too many friends to meet.

The small book was more than a “good read” and having returned it, I went back to the well for a greater challenge. Bravely I picked up a 600 page book entitled How Long Has this Been Going On? by Ethan Mordden. For someone who was scared of any book longer than my third-grade Peter and Peggy, this choice was probably foolhardy.

Suffice it to say that my initial exposure to my author’s writing spurred me on to unknown stories and pleasures. Turns out that this volume was divided into related but not continuous stories. No chapters. Eventually I was tempted to make a family tree of the many characters just to keep up with each other’s life stories. As the saying goes, I couldn’t put the book down; my reading Renaissance had begun.

One day I finished How Long… and set it aside to return it to the library. Procrastination set in and the book kept company with some others—mostly unfinished.

The longer it stayed here at my reading chair, the longer I kept seeing all of those wonderful heroes and heroines in my quiet moments or my dreams. Something was unfinished. I can’t say they were all ghosts; ghosts are usually in another world, maybe even what we call dead.

I loved those beautiful men and women. They are alive to me and like Alice I just needed to step through the looking glass to be with all of them.

I’ve lived through the late 40s and 50s, the war protests, the fight for equal rights, AIDs, Stonewall, Harvey Milk, the wars, and up to Gay Pride March in NYC 1991.

These were stories of real people you could vicariously become and share their experiences, devoted friendships, passionate homoerotic encounters and love that we all have somewhere down deep for each other.

This is a ghost story, if you will, that I need to share with you, as you do each week with me. And I am in the process of re-reading How Long Has this Been Going On? It is more rewarding the second time, like coming home again or being there with my un-ghostly companions.

© 24 April 2017

About the Author

Figures, by Phillip Hoyle

Following a fifth grade public humiliation in art class, I decided I could not draw figures. I was slightly interested but never liked what I drew after that. In seventh grade I signed up for wood shop to be in class with my best friend Keith. The only thing I actually liked in that class, besides cleaning varnish brushes (I liked the way twirling bristles full of soap felt on the palms of my hands), was drawing and wood burning a design onto the bookends I made. I should have signed up for art but I just knew I wasn’t an artist.

Due to my responsibilities in religious education I organized art programs for children. One teacher taught figure drawing. She made sure it included things like crosses and globes so the parents would understand why. Mostly I was interested that children grow artistically (music, drama, and visual arts) seeing them as religious expression, skills they would never forget from their childhood years in church.

Eventually I knew I needed to draw, so I bought a book on how to draw in a natural way, a large drawing tablet, and a set of art pencils. I worked at it and learned much more that I could incorporate into art projects I planned for others. Still I wasn’t a strong drawer. When I later signed up for a drawing workshop the thing didn’t get enough enrollees. I kept at my own figure drawing, even used my slight skills in my work.

Figures of speech were much more familiar to me. I had learned speech and some rhetoric in college and graduate school, wrote many papers to satisfy my professors, used the assigned topics in my own way in order to do research related to what intrigued me in the classes, preached a bit and eventually wrote professionally (probably a figure of speech itself although I did get paid for my work). I wasn’t a strong speaker, but I did enjoy turning ideas into written pieces.

Important figures in my life, you know those special people known or read about, include: my parents and grandparents, Lakota leader Sitting Bull, local minister W. F. Lown, a family friend who took me to powwows, The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., Professor James Van Buren, several other profs, two music performance teachers, late-in-life art teachers, Myrna Hoyle my long-time wife and mother of our children, a few other partners in my gay life, many authors, some editors, the late Winston Weathers, and now some creative writing teachers.

I figure it has taken a village of thinkers, writers, musicians, and artists to make me into what I have become these days. I celebrate them and the many, many people who have put up with me in the home, work, friendships, general community, and of course, in the SAGE Telling Your Story group at the GLBT Center of Colorado. And I add; these last tributes are not just figures of speech, but rather, real live influences and personal realities that I appreciate and revere.

© 5 June 2017

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 Recliner, by Pat Gourley

Sometime round 1993 my partner who was then suffering significant side effects from advanced HIV disease and near incapacitating peripheral neuropathy purchased two blue recliners. We had them located in our basement right in front of the TV. They brought great comfort and the ability for a modicum of relaxation to him in his final years.

I therefore highly recommend recliners for the terminally ill. If, however, you are not looking imminent death in the face I absolutely do not recommend recliners. If you occasionally feel the need to recline there are sofas, beds or in a pinch even the floor for that and for god-sakes don’t add a nearby TV or computer screen to the mix.

One of my greatest personal fears with advancing age is the possibility of debilitating dementia. Being the vain, drama queen I am a loss of cognitive function leads my hit parade of bad things that could go wrong. Living alone and with that reality unlikely to change, the thought of winding up in a near vegetative state in a nursing home really lacks appeal. The reality of course is that HIV will probably do me in first. Or perhaps some nasty side-effect from the meds I take to keep “full-blown” AIDS at bay will be my cause of death long before I have the chance to develop dementia. HIV meds are a strong driver for metabolic syndrome and its possible ramifications like diabetes, heart disease or stroke. Living to a ripe old age does present us with an ever-increasing menu of options for returning to the stardust we all are.

But the at times all consuming drive to postpone the inevitable tends to occupy an inordinate number of my waking hours. I was therefore very interested in a recently published study out of Canada dealing with exercise as a viable intervention for postponing or possibly preventing the development of vascular dementia, Parkinson’s disease or Alzheimer’s disease. Lets face it in this era of Trump all things Canadian have particular appeal.

There is a known genetic mutation that increases the chances of getting dementia. This gene is called the apolipoprotein E (APOE). What this study strongly implied was that even if you didn’t have this APOE that might pre-dispose you to dementia by not exercising you blew the benefit of not having the bad gene. It is an important caveat though to know this study showed association only and not causation. In other words the study did not prove that lack of exercise causes dementia.

People with this APOE gene are believed to have three to four times the risk of developing dementia. However people without the gene who did not exercise had the same risk for dementia as those with it. The amount of exercise needed to decrease risk was modest – brisk walking three times a week.

Remember regular aerobic exercise seems to lower the risk of dementia, Parkinsons and Alzheimers - gene or no gene. The bottom line here is get your ass out of the recliner.

I have included a link to a review article for this study: http://www.cbsnews.com/news/lack-of-exercise-might-invite-dementia/

© February 2017

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.

Ghosts: Aaron Burr, Patrick Swayze, etc. by Louis Brown

Aaron Burr’s mother was Esther Edwards (my great, great XXXX Aunt)

Aaron Burr Jr. (February 6, 1756 – September 14, 1836) was an American politician. He was the third vice president of the United States (1801–1805), serving during President Thomas Jefferson's first term. Burr served as a Continental Army officer in the Revolutionary War, after which he became a successful lawyer and politician. He was elected twice to the New York State Assembly (1784–1785, 1798–1799),[1] was appointed New York state attorney general (1789–1791), was chosen as a United States senator (1791–1797) from the state of New York, and reached the apex of his career as vice president.

Born Gore Vidal = Eugene Louis Vidal October 3, 1925 West Point, New York, U.S.
Died July 31, 2012 (aged 86) Hollywood Hills, California, U.S. Nationality American
Other names Eugene Luther Vidal, Jr.
Education Phillips Exeter Academy
Occupation Writer, novelist, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, actor
Known for The City and the Pillar (1948) Julian (1964) Myra Breckinridge (1968) Burr (1973) Lincoln (1984)
Political party Democratic

Movement Postmodernism Ghost is a 1990 American romantic fantasy thriller film starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, Whoopi Goldberg, Tony Goldwyn, and Rick Aviles. It was written by Bruce Joel Rubin and directed by Jerry Zucker.[3] Of course, poor Patrick Swayze is dead.
Born Patrick Wayne Swayze August 18, 1952 Houston, Texas, U.S.
Died September 14, 2009 (aged 57) Los Angeles, California, U.S.
Cause of death Pancreatic cancer
Resting place Ashes scattered in New Mexico ranch
Nationality American
Alma mater Coastal Carolina University
Occupation * Actor * dancer * singer-songwriter
Years active 1979–2009
Spouse(s) Lisa Niemi (m. 1975; his death 2009)

**********************************************

I, Louis L. Brown, qualify as being a ghost since, in a bicycle accident 3 years ago, after I was taken via ambulance to the ICU at Denver Health Center, technically I died, according to the woman doctor, Dr. Johnson, who described what happened to me since personally I do not recall any of the trauma I suffered. I was bicycling in Wheat Ridge, near 52nd Avenue and Chase Street, and to judge by the bending and denting of my bicycle chain guard, I must have been hit by a car or truck or some vehicle.

Dr. Johnson said she did not personally save me, it was a medical technician. While in the ICU, I did not have the energy to ask to meet and thank the medical technician. I was there 3 weeks then I was transferred to Presbyterian Medical

Center in Denver, and, from there, I was transferred to Briarwood Rehab Center for another three weeks. The second half of my stay at Briarwood was quite pleasant and the food was very good. During the first half of my stay there I was fed through a stomach tube. I did not really adjust to that, so I barfed a a lot. Boo!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Another interesting “ghost” for me is my deceased brother Thomas D. Brown who, for 2 years while he was attending Queens College (in New York City), reacted to the War in Vietnam by applying for status as conscientious objector. At the end of the 2 years, the military denied his claim to be a conscientious objector but gave him a I-Y status (like I have). If necessary, I would have applied for status as a conscientious objector, but things did not go that way in my case. A lot of draft eligible men resettled in Canada. Eventually Thomas D. Brown died of lung cancer. He smoked too many cigarettes.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Another interesting ghost for me is my other younger brother, Charles F. Brown who worked as a manager in the 42nd Street Library in Manhattan. Like both of my parents, he was also against the War in Vietnam. He had an exceptionally beautiful Italian boyfriend, Pat Marra; they lived in the Bronx. Pat looked like a DaVinci painting. His hands were a work of art. Charlie died from drinking too many whiskey sours and Manhattans and Martini’s, etc. Pat Marra died from an overdose of cocaine.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

My parents, DeWitt Brown and Elinor Brown were also interesting characters who are no longer alive, but I will save them for another prompt in the future.

© 24 April 2017

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.

Merit Badges, by Gillian

In my misspent youth I used to think casts were Merit Badges. In my really early days, arms and legs in casts were usually associated with the wounded returning from World War Two - beyond doubt, heroes one and all. Later I connected them more with soccer and rugby injuries, the owners of which were, beyond doubt, heroes one and all. Much later in life, I came to the sad realization that many of the soccer/rugby damages were incurred not during the game but afterwards in a drunken pub brawl. So .... not heroes one and all; not all Merit Badges.

The three casts which I have had so far in my life, and I certainly hope to have no necessity for more, were most definitely not merit badges; nothing whatsoever to do with heroics.

The first, which I have written about before so will not fully detail, would at best qualify for an Inattention Badge. I earned it seven years ago, walking around a hilly campground in the flat light of dusk. I really needed to take more notice of the rocky path on which I walked, and the steep drop-off at it's edge. But no! I peered through the early moonlight at swooping birds, and up at the scudding clouds which seemed to leap across the sky in that Wyoming wind. Crack! I heard the bone go at the same instant as I felt my foot doubling beneath me at a dangerous angle as I, helplessly, sat down firmly on it. No, not a Merit Badge, that ensuing cast.

Then three or four years ago, overzealous in a doubles ping-pong game, I propelled myself sideways at the fastest speed I could create. I was determined to make it to the far side of the room to hit that feisty little white ball right back to the far side of the table. But before I got there, my sideways-moving leading foot caught on the indoor-outdoor carpet on which we were playing and I crashed into the point where the floor meets the wall. I met both the floor and the wall. Crack! I heard that most unwelcome sound as I hit the floor and looked sadly at the rapidly-swelling wrist - the right one, of course.

'Oh,' I heard my voice saying, calmly, 'I think I broke my wrist.'

No, not a Merit Badge for that cast either. I know you can't drag your feet sideways at speed on a carpet, albeit of the indoor/outdoor variety. No merit; no heroics. More likely a Stupidity Award, or, being kind, a Poor Judgment Badge.

Now I find myself in my third and, I certainly hope, final, cast. No crack! this time. Just a lot of pain. I didn't know I'd done it and tried to convince myself, and Betsy, that somehow, unknown to myself, I had sprained it. Anyway, as Storytime progressed last Monday, we dashed off to Kaiser where I was told, most definitely, that it was broken. Betsy reminded them that I had broken this same bone a few years back. They brought up the x-ray. Identical with today's. A small fracture line runs across the base of the fibula and down towards the tip. How, I wonder, can a small break in a small bone create such pain and consequent disruption of my life? How, I wonder simultaneously, can it be so identical to the the break of seven years ago?

I am told that sometimes the bone appears to be completely healed but is in fact not. Then it can break again for little reason. The most frequent causes of this incomplete healing are diabetes and lifelong smoking, neither of which apply to me. I offer lifelong drinking as an alternative. He agrees that can cause many bad things but not this one. He falls back into default mode; sometimes it's just the luck of the draw.

So my current cast is no Merit Badge; neither is it any kind of de-merit. Apparently, it's the result of one of life's situations at which you can do no more than shrug and say, oh well. It's one of those things we learn to do over a lifetime; accept that there is not always going to be a reason, or none that we can accept. We've done everything right and still everything goes wrong. We shrug it off.

I am happy to be the proud owner of a Shrug Badge.

© August 1016

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.

No White Wash, by Eym

Winter beds down the earth. Its plush blanket white floats and fills like down. Brilliance from sunshine may launch a startle to the eyes. Snow lives its life unchanged from chill and fall to warm and soak. Never withholds, this white of winter, from anything below its deep wide mother sky. It gives with total acceptance. Though we name it purist white, this blanket symphony requires myriad colors.

Forest rich and green, skies so blue or gray or white gleam back from the face of a lake. Water clear contributes not one color of its own. Water as snow made crisp in cold a color cannot own. From afar our blue marble earth rests on vast dark sand. Soaring down to more closely perceive, the peoples are no more white than snow. Like water of lake or winter’s crystal the flow of humankind reflects all color and cultures.

In the storm of snow the fluff of human bias or opinion evaporates into the bracing breeze. Only silly ice in thinking prevents the wholeness of peace. If colors appearing this winter seem only white, the ice of ignorance has formed a path so slippery and so thin.

A holy and diverse yet common love connects us one to another. The colors of winter subtle and true remain the reflection of the whole in all our sacred lovely earth. Winter water widely nourishes all the earth and all the creatures as one.

© Dec 2016

About the Author

A native of Colorado, Eydie followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people. and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.

Games, by Betsy

1982 was an eventful year: the closet door opened for me completely that year. And I stepped out with my head held high. At the same time the world of athletic opportunity opened for members of the LGBT community world wide. 1982 was the year of the first and inaugural Gay Olympics. This event started out as and has continued to be the largest sporting and cultural event specifically for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. The event is modeled after the Olympic Games. It was early on that the Olympic Games authorities pressured the Gay Olympics authorities to drop the name “Olympics” lest there be some perceived connection between the two events. Thus the title “Gay Games” came to be.

The following is the statement of concept and purpose of the Federation of Gay Games:

“The purpose of The Federation of Gay Games, Inc. (the “Federation”) shall be to foster and augment the self-respect of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and all sexually-fluid or gender-variant individuals (LGBT+) throughout the world and to promote respect and understanding from others, primarily by organising and administering the international quadrennial sport and cultural event known as the “Gay Games.”[4]

The games held every four years are open to individuals and teams from all over the world. Entry into the games is not restricted to GLBT individuals. All people are welcomed into the competition which has become the largest sporting and cultural event in the world exceeding the number of athletes participating in the Olympics.

The 1982 and 1986 events were held in San Francisco. Since then athletes have gone all over the world to compete in such countries as Canada, the Netherlands, Australia, Germany. Paris is slated to host the 2018 games.

In the late 1980’s I was making friends and acquaintances in the LGBT community. Though I had never heard of the Gay Games, I knew a woman active in the lesbian community who played tennis and had been a high school tennis coach. I had actually been on the court with her a few times. She asked me if I would like to enter the women’s tennis competition as her doubles partner in the upcoming Gay Games. “What’s that?” I answered. All I needed was the smallest explanation and I was ready to pack my bags for Vancouver, the site of the 1990 Gay Games.

The competition was quite wonderful I did come away with a silver medal in tennis. Preparing for the event was equally satisfying. We actually had a Colorado tennis team made up of probably a dozen men and women—mostly men. I soon discovered that there existed a A Gay Games Team Colorado made up of maybe 200 athletes including swimmers (mostly), runners, cyclists, and many others. We had uniforms—really nice—black with pink trim warm up suits. We were given a send-off at none other than Boetcher concert hall. I remember standing on the stage with my 200 or so team mates with balloons dropping from above when the cheers went up from the full hall of supporters. I stepped on one of those balloons, fell down, and came very close to being trampled by my teammates.

Or was that the send off for the New York games of 1994? I’m really not sure I remember correctly. But I know I did have the privilege of attending two Gay Games events—1990 in Vancouver, and 1994 in New York City. Two of the proudest moments of my life were marching with my team into the stadiums in those two cities in their opening and closing ceremonies.

The New York event drew 12,500 participants from 40 countries.

That games experience was very special in that my lesbian daughter was participating as well— as a member of the Connecticut women’s soccer team. It was definitely a proud and memorable moment for me when I found myself marching with my daughter in a parade of 12,000 LGBT athletes through Yankee stadium to the cheers of tens of thousands of supporters and spectators. (aside:) the reason Lynne and I were able to march together was only because Colorado and Connecticut both start with C. Team Connecticut directly followed Team Colorado in the alphabet and in the parade of athletes. What luck!!

I say we were marching with 12,000 LGBT “athletes.” It is important to note that the event was never intended to be focused on athletic ability alone, however. In the words of Olympic track star Tom Waddell whose inspiration gave birth to the games in the 1980s, “The Gay Games are not separatist, they are not exclusive, they are not oriented to victory, and they are not for commercial gain. They are, however, intended to bring a global community together in friendship, to experience participation, to elevate consciousness and self-esteem and to achieve a form of cultural and intellectual synergy.....We are involved in the process of altering opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance. “

Some of this I wrote about a few years ago in a piece called “Game, Set, Match:” I love this one particular anecdote and want to take the opportunity to repeat it here:

“Four years {after the Vancouver Games} I would participate in Gay Games IV in New York. I was able to share this experience with my daughter Lynne who lived not far from NY City in New Haven, Connecticut. This is when my lesbian daughter came out to me. When I told her I was coming to New York to play tennis in the Gay Games she replied ‘Oh good!! We’ll go together. I’m going to participate in the games too, Mom. I’m playing on the Connecticut women’s soccer team.’ Yes, that was her coming out statement to me! We did enjoy that time together and watched each other in our respective competitions and cheered each other on.”

The events of that day did much indeed to define our very strong and positive future mother-daughter relationship.

These amazing games have continued every four years since their inception in 1982 and I have described my participation experience in just one of the competitions, tennis. There have been and continue to be literally hundreds of such competitive exhibitions from croquet to weight lifting to volleyball and basketball to diving and water polo—all events similar to those of the Olympic Games.

There is another aspect of the extravaganza which is worthy of mention ‘though I am not as personally familiar with its activities. The Gay Games includes cultural activities as well. Many, many LGBT choruses, musicians, and performers of all kinds gather to perform for all audiences, and to share their talent and craft.

I truly believe the Gay Games has more than fulfilled the dreams of Tom Wadell and those others who were its founders. There is no doubt the games continue to bring the LGBT community together in friendship and sharing, to “elevate consciousness and self-esteem,” and “to alter outside opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance.”

Those who work to ensure the event’s future are all heroes and heroines.

Neither my daughter nor I have been to any of the games since New York, but we will both remember our experiences for the rest of our days. I was indeed privileged and I am very proud to have been a part of both the Vancouver and the New York Gay Games.

© 10 January 2017

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.

Limericks, by Will Stanton

There once was a possimum.
T’was said he had no guts inum.
On the highway one day
He got in the way.
Keep superlative remarks to a minimum.

There once was a sea-sick lama
On a ferry to Rama.
A hippo near by
Got it on the fly.
Oh! The resulting drama!

There once was a hip’podimi
Who loved raspberry pie.
He’d roar and roar
Until he got more.
He was the only purple one I seen.

There once was a purple papoose
Who lived with a Manhatten moose.
For dinner one day
A bale of hay
Was picked from the moose’s toothes.

Here he lies dead
With a tombstone at his head.
But at his feet
A lily sweet?
No----broccoli instead.

A burly baboon
From deep in Rangoon
Swam in a race with a schooner.
He took out a spoon
And whipped up a typhoon
And got to the finish the sooner.

There once was an old dinosaur
Who loved a wrinkled condor.
He gave her a ring
And jumped on her wing
And neither’s been seen any more.

© 1962 by Will Stanton

About the Author

Will Stanton had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. He also realized that, although his own life had not brought him particular fame or fortune, he too had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. In the SAGE Story Time group, he derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. He always put thought and effort into his stories hoping his readers would find them interesting.

Monitor's note: These poems from Will's papers were submitted in his memory by Ricky .

Limerick, by Ron Zutz

There was a young man from Lake Tahoe

Whose puns were so bad we cried, “Oh, no!”

Said he with a grin,

“My puns are no sin.

My wit makes no sense ’cause I’m Homo sapien.”

© 13 June 2017

About the Author

Ron Zutz was born in New Jersey, lived in New England, and retired to Denver. The best parts of his biography have yet to be written.

Flowers, by Ricky

Seeds are in the soil. Some are purposely planted and some arrive at their location via the whims of Mother Nature. All of them only need sunshine and water to germinate. If the top soil is rich in nutrients, the germinated seeds grow into wonderful specimens of whatever plant the internal DNA guides them to become, whether tree, garden or wild flower, provender, forage, or weed. If the top soil is thin, parched, and poor in nutrients, the germinated seeds only grow into a shadow of what the rich top soil plants achieved.

The cut flower arrangements people buy and send to funeral services are beautiful, colorful, and represent love and

sympathy for the deceased and family members. But the flowers soon lose their glory and beauty as they rapidly fade and wither away, revealing their true identity as being like a whited sepulcher on the outside, but inside being filled with dead men’s’ bones.




So also, are the cut (and therefore – dead) flowers symbolic

of words of love and promises that all too often fade with the withering flowers, thrown out with the trash, and are remembered no more. Better to show love daily with words and deeds of love rather than giving one’s cherished companion dead things to throw away.

People are like flowers. When human seedlings begin to grow in a liquid environment and fed healthful nutrients, the child gets a good start in life. If the parents keep nurturing the child physically and mentally through to adulthood, society will have many mighty oak trees to keep society strong – many willow trees whose flexibility to bend will help society to weather tough and challenging times – many giant sequoias to provide awe, reflection, and respect for all things older than present society. Those children whose parents are not

able to richly nurture, will perchance, grow to be the lesser plants of society being sheltered and protected by the trees. Most of these lesser plants will be garden or wild flowers bringing to society much colorful beauty and variety – unfortunately, some will become weeds.

I am like a perennial flower, trying to blossom every year. Some years I am in rich soil and blossom bright and beautiful. Other years, I am in poor soil and present dull and wilted foliage.

I began life in what to me seemed like fertile, if not rich topsoil. I did not know of any toxicity in my environment. Dad and mom bought a nearby café for my mother to own, work in, and run. Once that was stabilized, I was sent to live in Minnesota with my grandparents – another fertile topsoil location.

I was never bullied in schools. Of course, the Minnesota kids teased me about my California accent, but also became friendly because of it. The accent disappeared during the two school years I was there. When I returned to California with my mom and step-dad, the California kids teased me due to my Minnesota accent, but also became friendly because of it.

As the years came and went, I continued to blossom strong or weak depending upon the soil I was in. When my wife passed away, I was in rich soil but could not or maybe would not partake of the nutrients available. I was an oak tree for my children, but inside I was a weeping willow. After 9-years I finally began to live again when I met 4-men who collectively filled the hole in my heart left by my departed spouse.

Then in 2014 Stephen was diagnosed with leukemia and given 6 to 18 months to live. In December of 2014, Stephen was hospitalized for about a week with 0-blood platelets but treatment for I.T.P. was “successful” so he could go home, but with weekly monitoring. During the next 2-years, Stephen’s blood platelets varied between 110K and 50K on any given weekly test – more or less stable.

Just like with my wife, I had put the possibility of death out of my conscious mind.

In October 2016, three days after taking the Kaiser recommended flu immunization, Stephen’s immune system went berserk. His downward slide to the end began relatively slowly but increased in speed. Of all his friends that I am aware of, I was the only one who had the time and freedom to be with him during this period. On December 11th, Stephen entered the hospital for the last time.

One by one, the doctors tried many treatments, some overlapping. One by one the treatments failed to stop the internal bleeding. I chose to be an oak tree for Stephen while there was still hope but sometime before the 31st, I lost all hope but still remained outwardly an oak tree for Stephen. But my blossoms faded and began to wilt.

On the evening of the 31st, Stephen had given up hope. Myself and his niece Kathy, convenience him to not say anything to the doctors until the morning to see if the latest effort to stop the bleeding had worked. The morning came and with it the doctors. The latest effort did not work. Stephen told the doctors to stop all treatment and revoked his “do not resuscitate” instructions. He was told that in doing so, he would probably die before the next morning. At this point, I became outwardly a weeping willow and spent the majority of my time that day holding Stephen’s hand or arm and rubbing his thigh right up to the end at 10:34pm, 1 January 2017. It was the worst way to start a new year.

After a short while, a gentleman came in to discuss miscellaneous things that Kathy, the only relative present, needed to know and to answer her questions. I was sitting on the couch by the window facing the room door and the others were sitting in a semi-circle facing me. After losing interest in the discussion and spending most of my time looking at Stephen, I noticed that no one had done what they usually do in the movies I have seen. So, I said, “I’m tired of this.”, got up walked over to Stephen’s bed. I reached out and shut his eyes (Yes. You actually can do that.) and then pulled the sheet over his head.

About half an hour later, I was just finishing packing up my things when all the others left the room and started walking down the hall. I finished packing my bag, walked over to Stephen, lifted the sheet, kissed him on the forehead, said goodbye, re-covered his face, and walked out closing the door behind me. That was the last time I saw Stephen.

I have had holes punched in my heart four times in my life. There have been more family deaths, but only four deaths punched holes. I am tired of having holes in my heart. My blossoms are dull and wilting as a result.

It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes a forest to protect the flowers of society. We need more forests and flowers. I need more forests and flowers.

© 12 February 2017

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

Sorting It Out, by Ray S

Sorting, keeping and/or disposing of the lifetime of trash and memorabilia in the attic or basement.

When to make an ICU hospital visit

All of the above

World peace

World war

The bomb

What and who’s a bigot

The laundry

Why?

Love

Passion

Elevation

Dedication

Desire

Need

Anger

Denial

Procrastination

Challenge 

Decisions

Family

Friends

Sex

On a day like today I couldn’t know what, much less how to focus on one specific “sortable”. As you see there are so very many “ITS” for me that it is necessary to simply avoid any of this and go on my gay and merry way!

Tomorrow is another day.

© 8 May 2017

Dont!, by Phillip Hoyle

Surely back when I was a kid there was plenty of parental advice given, but I don’t remember much of it, certainly not many precautionary prohibitions starting with Don’t. Our parents trusted us kids—all five of us. We got freedom. A few years ago my youngest sister, Jewel, said of the folks, “They gave us too much freedom.” I was not sure what she meant but I did know that as a kid I had a life my parents knew little or nothing of. Then as a young teen that life was getting less illegal and more sinful. As an older teen it was more deplorable, but to describe my perspective more accurately, the deplorable self lived at peace with the non-deplorable self. I always liked the freedom, the lack of Don’ts, the trust merited or not.

My eldest sister, Lynn, advised, “If Dad gets angry, don’t argue, just listen.” He was mainly pleased with me, but one evening I had to follow her advice. My protracted goodbye at my girlfriend’s door went on too long. Perhaps Dad imagined I was kissing her too much while the truth was that I was trying to get up my courage to kiss her at all. I wanted to but couldn’t make myself do so. I followed Lynn’s advice when he scolded me in the car. He seemed angry that he had to wait on me. I listened and apologized without saying anything about what I was doing or unable to do, just for inconveniencing him.

My reluctance about kissing disappeared a couple of years later under the tutelage of a boyfriend. After going to his school which offered several classes and then his moving away, I finally kissed two different girls. One of them wondered what had got into me; the other expected that behavior from her boys. My second year in college I kissed Myrna much to her surprise. She got nervous and bit my ear. I thought she loved it and knew I was on my way to becoming a real man or something pathetic like that. I really enjoyed kissing her like my boyfriend had taught me and teaching her to enjoy it as well. Finally I understood what someone had written about French kissing: that it was the French answer to the need for birth control. We kissed passionately, and it did fill in for the Don’t factor for the two of us.

I prescribed a few don’ts for myself. Don’t try to answer all the teacher’s questions; doing so will only make other students despise you. Don’t forget to smile. Don’t forget to stand up for your own ideas in discussion. Don’t argue needlessly. Don’t overdress or underdress. But those are not terribly important.

Eventually I advised myself a Do. Do find a guy to do that really fun kissing with, and do it now.

© 22 May 2017

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