Don't, by Pat Gourley

“ Do or do not. There is no try.”

The Buddha

This quotation, ostensibly from the Buddha, is on my current favorite t-shirt. This is my favorite shirt since it has a long tail and easily covers my big belly. The belly fat is due in large part to two things: my major sweet tooth that seems to primarily kick in between seven and nine PM every night and my HIV meds that rapidly accelerate the metabolic syndrome that leads to abdominal fat deposition. My protruding belly is in stark contrast to my gaunt, wasted looking face that makes even Keith Richards look good on his worst days. I won’t even address the current sorry state of my ass.

The above quote may remind some of you of a line from Star Wars spoken by Yoda. The Yoda version also goes something like this just with more dramatic punctuation: “Do. Or do not. There is no try.” (The Empire Strikes Back).

Supposedly Yoda lived to be 900 years old but the Buddha still has him beat by living at least several millennia prior, so I am going with Buddha as the originator of this famous line. This I suppose could be a phrase comparable to the infamous “shit or get off the pot”. No hanging out on the throne reading the paper. For god-sakes focus and commit to the task at hand or not.

At first blush with this topic I thought I want to be a ‘doer’ rather than responding to the often-harsh command: don’t! Then it quickly occurred to me that there have been many “don’t-directives” in my life that I have to say have proved helpful. A few that come to mind are: don’t play in traffic, don’t own a gun, and don’t eat lead paint chips, don’t pick-up that snake or don’t sashay into a straight bar on Bronco Sunday afternoon and ask, what ya watchin’ fellas?  And the one that I saw recently on Facebook, “don’t come out of the bathroom smelling your fingers no matter how fragrant the hand soap was you just used.”

Perhaps I was overly primed to see the following based on today’s topic but in reading a nice long article on Larry Kramer in the NYT’s from last week I was particularly drawn to several quotes by Kramer using the word “don’t”.

NYT's Article on Larry Kramer

I’ll get to the quotes in a bit but for those of you perhaps not familiar with Larry Kramer he first came on the national gay scene in a significant way with the publication of his prescient 1978 novel Faggots. The novel was a rather unflattering though brutally honest look at the wild sexual abandon of gay male life in the later half of the 1970’s.  Kramer as a result was persona non grata in the gay world but with the onset of the AIDS nightmare a few years later Faggots took on an air of prophecy.

Kramer also has significant accomplishment’s in the worlds of film, theatre and literature but perhaps in some ways most impacting were his successful efforts around AIDS activism. He was a seminal founder of both the New York based Gay Men’s Health Crisis and a few years later of the iconic and change creating movement called Act Up. I have included a link to this NYT piece on Kramer and highly recommend it as an important historical snapshot of this great gay man and his many accomplishments. He is a consummate example of the real life advice contained in the phrase “don’t be afraid” or to again shamelessly exploit an old Buddhist bromide “leap and a net shall appear”.

Quoting Kramer from the NYT’s article: “I don’t basically have fences to mend anymore. The people I had fights with down the line, some are dead. But even when we fought, I think we were always — I love gay people, and I think that’s the overriding thing in any relationship that I have with anyone else who’s gay. Never enough to throw them out of my life. I’ve never had huge fights with anybody. Much as I hate things about the system and this country, in terms of the people I deal with, I don’t have any.”

I have been keenly aware of Larry Kramer and his many bold and often at times very controversial proclamations and actions since 1978.  He has pricked my conscience on numerous occasions shaming me actually to do more than I would have without his kick in the ass but still never achieving his level of fearless integrity. I still today in many ways lamely persist with my own at times crippled activism.

It is 2017, almost 40 years since the publication of Faggots, and as Larry reminds us, at age 81, in his last quote in the article the struggle continues: “I don’t think that things are better generally,” he said. “We have people running this government who hate us, and have said they hate us. The fight’s never over.”

© 21 May 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. 

My Happiest Day, by Gillian

I thought I might begin with some really icky remark such as, every day is My Happiest Day, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it! Equally, I couldn't begin to pick out my very happiest days, never mind one single day. I have been blessed, and the vast majority of my days have been happy, though with some, inevitably, more so than others.

But, on giving the topic some serious thought, I decided that I owe the presence of this multitude of Happy Days to the few bad ones. They were the days which taught me humility and compassion and, above all, gratitude; the very gratitude which has given me so many Happy Days.

I could never describe the day I spent visiting Auschwitz as a Happy Day, but I will always be grateful for it. The shock and horror of the awful place, with its indescribably dreadful memories, afforded me huge gratitude for the time and place in which I live my own life of peace and tranquility; a peace brought about not by denying the evils of the past, and, alas, the present in too many other places, but by acknowledging how unbelievably fortunate I have been, and continue to be, in my own life.

The days my parents died were most certainly not Happy Days, but their deaths, and the depths of my loss, brought it home to me, perhaps really for the first time, how much I loved them and how grateful I am to them for the start they gave me in this wonderful life. Barely a day goes by when I don't think of one or both of them with a love so strong that it still catches me by surprise.

A few years ago a blood clot found its way into my lung and couldn't find its way out again. As I lay in the hospital bed with oxygen tubes in my nose and blood thinner I.V. in my arm, I was feeling a bit sorry for myself. Poor me! Why me? Then I recalled that a blood clot in her lung was what had finally killed my hundred-year-old ex-mother-in-law. I remembered a TV interview with tennis legend Serena Williams in which she talked of being 'on her death bed' with a clot in her lung. It hit me; I was lucky to be alive! In a nanosecond I went from being sad and sorry to being oh so very grateful to be alive. A miserable day was suddenly a Happy Day.

Of course, the bad days that end up creating the good, don't have to be huge dramas. Small incidents can have much the same effects. A good, longtime, friend of ours died a couple of years ago. Barb was a lifelong Cubs fan, and it hit me last week how sad it is that she is not around to revel in her team's first grab at glory in over a hundred years. But, remembering the many Happy Days Betsy and I shared with her and her partner over the decades, my gratitude for them, both on my own behalf and that of Barb, relegated baseball to a mere speck of dust on the reality of life.

Poor Stephen, suffering all his current health problems, offered in an e-mail that he was grateful he was not in pain.

Right there is the secret of Happy Days; gratitude. Gratitude for everything that is.

I am so in thrall to gratitude that I am endlessly grateful for it.

And that's the last I shall say about gratitude, for which I am sure you will all be very grateful.

© 17 Nov 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.

Gym³, by Ricky

Gym¹  

          It was in early June 1956, when I was banished (due to divorce proceedings) from California and sent to Minnesota to live with my grandparents on their farm.  I had just turned 8 years old on the 9^th.  At the time, I expected to be gone for only the summer; but it turned into a 2 year “prison sentence” away from home and “loving” parents.

          I shared a room and bed with my uncle, Dixon, who was 11 in December of 1955 and 11 ½ by June of '56; and about to enter 6^th grade, while I was looking at starting 3^rd grade.  Due to that traumatic spanking I received when only 4 or 5, I was extremely shy and reluctant to let anyone see me dressing, undressing, in my underwear, or bathing; and would “pitch a fit” if someone tried.  Of course, I couldn't do much when Grandma bathed me the first two times in the summer kitchen's galvanized “wash tub” because I hadn't washed all the dirt off by myself.  I quickly learned to do that however.  I was dirty because farm life is not soil free and baths were only on Saturday nights to be fresh for church on Sunday.  I had to use my uncle's used bathwater so perhaps I never really got clean.

          When school began, my uncle, who by then knew from personal experience of my extreme reactions to any attempt to breach my “modesty”, began to tell me about having to take showers naked with other boys present after gym classes beginning in 6^th grade.  Daily school showers were a necessity back then as most farms did not have indoor plumbing and once a week bathing on the farm just wasn't sufficient in a close social environment.  Pubescent boys smell as they perspire during gym activities and recess playtime.

          As a result of my uncle's teasing about showering naked with other boys, I began to develop a fear of 6^th grade, even though it was 3 school years away and I expected to return to California soon.  The months of my exile passed, and a new school year began and I realized that 6^th grade was now closer than desired and my fear level increased but mostly ignored for the time being.  Fortunately, I was given a reprieve and my “sentence” was commuted in late May of 1958 and I was taken back to California to live with my mother and her new husband.

          When I began 5^th grade at So. Lake Tahoe, I discovered that there were no showers after recess or any P.E. classes in elementary school, those being reserved and mandatory in high school only.  I was able to put my fear and stress level on hold for 4 more years, while I got to “enjoy” the beginnings of puberty.

          In September of 1962 I finally had to face my fear as I had finally arrived at high school and the dreaded after P.E. mandatory naked showers with other boys.  By now, due to my well-established desire to see any boy naked, I no longer feared being naked among boys (or girls for that matter).  What I was afraid of was having a spontaneous erection while showering, because at 14, I was still having random ones. 

          At school, they mostly struck when I was sitting in front of my 9^th grade English teacher, Mrs. Joyce Holmstad.  She wore low cut blouses and sat on the front edge of her desk (directly in front of me) and would often lean forward revealing to me (or maybe exposing to me) some bra and more than sufficient for erection purposes, cleavage.  I always had to hide my crotch with books when I left at the end of the class period.  But I digress from the gym.  In all the four years of mandatory PE showers, no one ever got an erection that I could tell, and I certainly took every opportunity to look for one.

          Gym²

          Actually, gym² is really Jim #1.  I met Jim Robertson when he was 11 and I was 13.  We became friends and he asked me to go to church with him one Sunday and we went for about one month until the pastor and his baby were killed in a car crash.  I invited Jim to join Boy Scouts with me and he did.  We were two of seven boys who ended up starting a new troop, #456, at So. Lake Tahoe.  I taught him about sex and we became sex-playmates on sleep over nights but never did anything together during scout campouts.  He ended up going to live with his aunt and, according to him, began to really enjoy sex with his female cousin.

          Gym³

          As you may have guessed, gym³ is really Jim #2.  Jim Dunn was the son of a California highway patrolman and joined my scout troop when he was 12 and I was 14.  He was taller than most boys his age and matched my height of 5' 11”.  His hair was blondish and eyes a very nice shade of blue.  I liked him for his looks and gentle personality.  Strangely, I was never sexually attracted to him probably because he did not look “interested”.  I was so naïve about that stuff. 

          As we aged and moved into Explorer Scouts, we shared a couple of experiences that should have tipped me off that he was interested in boy sex play, but I never caught on.  As an adult, I learned that he died early from AIDS.

          That's all of my “gym” memories. 

© 24 Oct 2011 

About the Author 

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

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Shades of Winter, by Ray S

During the past thirty years archaeologists have reconstructed important areas of the city of Ephesus in what was Asia Minor, now western Turkey. Although ranked a secondary discovery by comparison to the major art work, the so called Winter Shades have an importantly obscure presence to a small group of art historians. These scholars are referred to by their academic name of Winterous Shaditis.

This small group of long-buried paintings and mosaics are remarkable due to their very limited palette of neutral to very dark colors. There is little evidence of any warm hues. Theory has it that it is the celebration of the pagan Autumnal Equinox. A very cool time of the year.

Beside the almost colorless landscapes there is pictured a series of erotic celebrants surrounding a large fire pit—only instead of red hot flames there appears an ethereal cloud against a pale blue sky. The flesh tones of the nude women and men stand out against the soft gray and blue shades. Thus, the name Shadites.

Since this discovery, the temple of Winter Shades has become a very popular tourist attraction, to rival the other majestic remains of the city Ephesus, especially at the Autumnal Equinox when hotels and other accommodations are fully booked by new celebrants of the “Winter Shades of the Goddess Artemis”. There are many smoking pots now and luxurious warming rooms segregated for all persuasions. The holiday lasts for about ten days and then the ethereal clouds subside and collapse from exhaustion.

Make your reservations at least a year ahead for the Shadite lecture series to be followed by the circle celebration.

Temple of Artemis, Ephesus, 6^th Century BCE

This concludes my Winter Shades lecture; but review your notes and do further research as there will be an exam next week.

Anyone interested in a practice circle may attend rehearsal on next Saturday at the university gym, 8 to 12 pm. Clothing not optional.

© 13 March 2017 

About the Author 

My First GLBT Acquaintance, by Phillip Hoyle

My first gay acquaintance had a rather elegant name, Edward F. Printz, III, something I never expected of a person from a western Kansas farm. I knew him as Ted. Of course he drove a tractor, but he also sang at school, was the drum major for the high school band, and by the time I met him he’d been hired as the music director for our little college. My last semester there Ted led the choir I sang in and taught me vocal technique. I learned so much from him.

While I was unschooled in language like “gay” and had heard “queer” as an old fashioned word one of my grandmother’s used with some regularity, I knew in a flash that Ted would be interested to do some of the sexual things that I also would be interested to do had I not got married a year and a half before meeting him. I really liked his buoyant and outgoing personality and hoped he would never ask me to do those interesting things with him. I knew I would not ask him to do them with me. Still I realized that we were much the same and came to understand that sameness to be gayness. I picked up the gay word from reading a book in the school library, a sociological study that along with its main topic defined some common gay male words. I learned more about this world of gay and found myself interested, oh so interested.

 I felt no compelling need to enter that world but still was curious. Ted and I became life-long friends. He became a regular visitor in our home after I graduated. Since we had moved to the city where his voice teacher lived, Ted visited us some weekends. One summer while he was in graduate school and lived with us, Ted served as tenor soloist in the Chancel Choir I directed. Our friendship became more complex. The relationship between the ever-teacher Ted and the ever-student Phil endured until Ted’s death on his 47th birthday, April 29, 1994. Eventually I did enter Ted’s gay world. I lived as an openly gay man and dedicated my fifteen years of massage work with HIV positive persons to his memory. And I recall his wisdom and humor almost daily.

© 17 July 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

Sorting It Out, by Pat Gourley

On seeing this topic for today’s Story Telling Group the first thing that popped into my head was how often I hear the word “sorted” spoken on the several English and occasionally Australian shows, often murder mysteries, I watch on Netflix.  I was left to wonder if the phrase “sorting it out” is just not the American version.

Checking the Urban Dictionary, the number one definition for “sorted” was using it in reference to be completing a task or an idea. For example, I have got it “sorted” mate or will you “sort” that for me mate. I must say I much prefer hearing “sort or sorted” in an English accent than I do the mundane mid-western American version: “I’ll sort that out for you”.

There are also many other, some much more colorful, definitions of “sorted” that are apparently part of British slang. For example, it can mean to be under the influence of Ecstasy or that one’s class A recreational drugs have arrived or perhaps my favorite usage getting fucked up but not to the point of blacking out. I am sorted!

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Sorted

I will now make a sharp left turn and return to the specific phrase “sorting it out” and how this may have relevance in my current life. Though I am relatively comfortable with my lack of belief in a god or gods, which I guess, makes me an atheist, I do at times get a bit squishy with this world-view and fall back on maybe being an agnostic. The word agnostic conjures up a phrase used by the Korean Zen Master Seung Sahn “Only Don’t Know”. His use was, I am sure, more sophisticated than my superficial view around whether or not there is a god, but I can honestly say when pondering the Universe and how the hell we all got here I really “only don’t know”.

To be very honest though I am still sorting this “god-thing” out. Oh, I have absolutely no problem throwing out the overwhelming mythical teachings of all the world’s great monotheistic religions, Hinduism and even much from certain Buddhist schools. In hindsight it was harder to give up a belief in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny than it was to jettison many of the tenets of the Catholic Religion I was indoctrinated in.

Those original questions Harry Hay used in helping to challenge and flesh-out our queer identity, that of our being a real cultural minority he believed, seem pertinent for me today in “sorting it out”: Who are we, where did we come from, and what are we for.

Questions it seems that can easily be expanded beyond just coming to grips with and adding meaning and substance to being gay.

Which brings me to why I am reading two books currently. Both are by men who have been intellectual, and dare I say Spiritual, influences on me over the years.  These are authors I have read seeking answers on this whole supreme-being thing or a more sophisticated question perhaps being: Is evolution, not only of life on earth but of the ever-expanding Universe as a whole, really spirit in action and what the hell are the implications of that, for me of course.

The first book is by Stephen Batchelor and is titled Secular Buddhism – Imagining the Dharma in an Uncertain World (Stephen is also the author of Buddhism Without Beliefs and Confessions of a Buddhist Atheist among others) and the second is The Religion of Tomorrow by Ken Wilber. Wilber’s book clocks in at 806 pages with relatively small print and no pictures. So, if this tome provides guidance for me in “sorting it out” don’t expect an update for probably at least six months and most likely much longer.

Actually, I am most likely reading both of these books because I am just a lazy fuck looking for a short cut - an answer to the question of what is our true nature and that of the whole amazing Universe. Both Wilber and Batchelor have decades of very disciplined meditative practice informing and guiding their views. I on the other hand have spent more cushion time than the average bear but in comparison to these two guys my effort is like a single grain of sand on the beach. All of this reading of course may well be folly if I am not willing to do the work. I wonder sometimes what is ‘faith’ really but a con foisted on folks i.e. no need to do the work just accept our word for it and it will all be fine.

“Stay tuned to this space.” -- Rachel Maddow

© 8 May 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.

Fond Memories, by Gillian

In the basement I have a box labeled MEMORABILIA. In it are all kinds of bits and pieces from my childhood; mainly things which once belonged to my parents. It is indeed a motley collection. You will be glad I have brought only one to share.

My mother occasionally wore a headscarf the like of which I have never seen on or off anyone's head since, though I understand many of them were produced. It is made of silk, and rather than the usual flowers or paisley patterns or famous landmarks, it bears a map. These 'escape maps' as they were called, first originated in Britain in 1940, and  over three million were eventually produced throughout the war years by both Britain and then the United States. The intent was to help airmen downed behind enemy lines to find an escape route and evade capture, and I imagine a spy or two might have found them useful. They were made of silk primarily because so much of it was available from damaged parachutes. But silk is durable and light-weight but also warm - a blessing in an unheated plane, and, I should guess, if you found yourself trying to survive in Poland in January. This particular map is of part of Eastern Europe and The Balkans. Sadly, I never had a photo of Mum wearing it as headscarf, a purpose for which it was, of course, never intended, but at least I still have it, and in fact I can probably see her in it in my memories much more clearly than I would in an old faded photograph.

OK, an interesting little bit of trivia, but my fond memories of the scarf stretch out beyond those of Mum wearing it. To begin with, unlike most of the occupants of that memorabilia box, I remember when and how this one entered our lives.

I think I was six or seven, so it was somewhere in the late 1940's, when a young German man came to stay with us. I have absolutely no idea why, but my father brought him so maybe it had something to do with my dad's job. Dad had spent a little time in Germany after the war; something to do with rebuilding German industry with Allied help rather than with Communist assistance. The young man's name was, rather unremarkably, Hans, and I was completely captivated by him, as, though with a little more subtlety, was my mother and, I think, even my father.

He was the archetypal Arian, a Hitler poster-boy: tall, slim, piercing blue eyes and a shock of white-blond hair. He was also charming, and, apparently, charmed by all things English - including us. He bowed and clicked his heels, rising deferentially from his chair every time my mother or even I rose from ours. He asked my father interminable questions about anything and everything and clung to every word of his reply. This was fine when the topics were manly things like machinery and especially cars, but not so good when other responses were solicited.

'Oh vat iss thiss, please, in English?' asked poor innocent Hans, delicately fingering a daffodil.

'Oh, that's a dandelion,' replied my father, carelessly, as one to whom all yellow flowers are dandelions.

'Oh, ja, so this iss the dandelion!'

Poor Hans seemed enraptured. Luckily my mother was there to come to the rescue.

This was the first time in my young life that anyone had ever stayed with us. I don't remember how long Hans visited, but the days he was there were magic. I became a beautiful, charming adult. My mother became a vivacious teenager and my dad, at least by his own standards, became positively verbose. It was as if we were suddenly able to do everything a little better, but with less effort, than before. When he left, our beautiful, light, colorful, bubble burst. We floated back to earth and became ourselves once more. But none of us ever forgot that visit. It was as if this magical stranger had shown us, for a little while, who and what we could be.

Before he left, Hans gave my mother a gift in appreciation of her hospitality. There was no such thing as gift-wrap paper anywhere to be found either in Germany or Britain at that time, so very apologetically he handed her this little package wrapped very neatly in tattered old brown paper.

He further apologized for the gift itself. Gifts of any kind were not thick on the ground in either of our countries at that time, either, so he really did not need to apologize, but, this was all he had, he said, looking completely downcast.

All three of us looked in some confusion at this cloth map. The history of 'escape maps' only surfaced many years later. If Hans had any idea of it's true purpose, he said nothing. He shrugged. 'It iss ... jou know,' he gestured over his head, lightly skimming his beautiful hair, 'for the head covering ..'

British Silk Escape Map Fig 1

The light dawned. Mum immediately popped it over her head, knotting it loosely at her neck and striking a kind of would-be film star pose. It was, in fact, a strange kid of headscarf, but my mother didn't care - and anyway she loved maps - and I was too young to judge. My dad smiled appreciatively. To him, I think my mother was beautiful whatever she wore.

'Ja. Iss goot!' Hans approved.

A few minutes later he caught the local bus into town and we never, as far as I know, saw or heard from him again.

For the rest of my life, as my knowledge of World War Two progressed, I wondered endlessly about Hans and his part in the war, and before. Had he been in the Hitler Youth? Almost certainly, I would think. Was he in the Gestapo? The SS? Or a mere foot-soldier? He had no visible scars or missing limbs or a tell-tale limp. He looked too robust to have been in a concentration camp; neither did he have numbers on his arm. Perhaps he hadn't lived in Germany at all? But he did soon after the war. And finally, most puzzling of all, why and how did he possess a British escape map?

British Silk Escape Map Fig  2

British Silk Escape Map Fig 3

British Silk Escape May Fig 4

I shall never know the answers to any of my questions, and finally I have become at peace with the handsome and charming Hans, whoever he was; whatever he once had been. Now, I simply find it incredibly ironic that one of my most treasured objects, and all the fond memories that go with it, was given with such sincere humility, by a German. It took a German to cast, just for a few days, a cheerful light to brighten my corner of the endless gray gloom that was Postwar Britain.

© October 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.

New Year and Houses, by Ricky

At this point in my life, I have experienced 63 “new years”.  That’s a lot of days to review for anything to write about, especially when you must also include New Year’s Eves as well for a total of 124 days of activities.  The first one that stands out would be the one in 1958 (when I was 9 ½) which followed 3 days after my father told me about the divorce of my parents.  It was the year that began with me in a new family arrangement with an older stepbrother (a good guy) and younger twin half-brother & sister (also good).  The remaining months of school passed fairly quickly and in late May my mother, babies, and stepfather came to my grandparent’s farm to show off the twins and to pick me up.  Later that fall I became sexualized and my life further changed.

          The next new year of note would be 1968 where at age 19 ½ I found myself in Air Force basic training at Amarillo AFB, Texas and later in tech school at Goodfellow AFB in San Angelo, Texas to become a Radio Intercept Analyst.  Looking back at those days, it was actually a good thing the base psychiatrist washed me out of that program.  I did come away with a Top Secret security clearance, which followed me for the next four years.  The other good thing that came out of this “rejection” was I was sent to Florida where I met my future spouse on December 21^st.  (So there really can be a “silver lining” in the clouds of life’s storms.).  Naturally, at the time I was “washed out” I was not happy, in fact my ego was pretty much devastated as I had been the top student in my Phase 1 training class. 

          1968 was also the year I joined the LDS church, which is why I met my future spouse on 21 December.  The following New Year (1969) began many years of church association bringing me outer peace and occasionally inner joy.

          In 1971, the “new year” began with me completely dropping out of college in January after one semester to work at the Anaconda copper mine in Sahuarita, Arizona, before beginning training as a deputy sheriff.  Sixteen weeks later, in early December, I was sworn-in as a deputy in Pima County, Arizona.  I completely enjoyed that experience for the next 3 ½ years before returning to college to obtain a BS degree. 

          I would be very remiss if I did not include 1974, 1978, 1981, 1983, 1988, and 2001 as very significant because they are the first new years to follow: my marriage; the births of our four children; and the passing of my spouse and best friend of 27 ¾ years in 2001, four days after 9/11.

          While there are many new years between 1988 and 2011, those following Deborah’s death through 2010 were filled with major depression and memories I’d rather not recall.  By contrast, 2011 appears to be a year filled with opportunities for happiness at last.  It is the first new year following my coming out and finding people my age who are friendly, fun-loving, and good at making a “newbie” feel welcome.  I am looking forward now instead of living in the past.

          There are many things that our topic word “house” could bring up memories, emotions, or passions in anyone: House the TV show, House of Commons, whorehouse, White House, House of Representatives, and others are some.  In all honesty, those were suggested to me by my friend Michael King after I told him that only my houses came to mind.  Since I had already started to write about them I decided to continue in that vein; to do otherwise, those of you reading this would not be sufficiently bored.

          My life is filled with memories of the different houses I’ve occupied.  The first was in 1948 at Lawndale, California, a suburb of Los Angeles.  I remember a small octagon window set in the wall of our porch by the front door.  I remember our first pet—a purebred black and white collie named Bonnie.  My parents asked me to name her and I chose Bonnie because I liked the song “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean” which was played over the radio rather frequently.  My parents thought that a purebred should have a fancier name so she was registered as “Lady Bonita”.

          According to my mother, Bonnie was a wonderful nursemaid or watchdog for me.  If I got past the gate to the sidewalk, Bonnie would bark up a storm; not necessarily to attract my mother’s attention but to call out to me to let her come with me.  Mother didn’t care what the motivation was; she promptly returned me to our yard and tried another way to “lock” the gate.  Eventually, I learned to take Bonnie with me, which stopped the barking, and I got “free” much more often and for longer periods.  Sadly, Bonnie got distemper and died before her 1^st birthday.

          In 1952, our next house was in Redondo Beach (also a suburb), was brand new, and bought with my father’s VA secured loan for his service in WW2.  That’s the house I unintentionally scared my mother into thinking I was missing, lost, or kidnapped.  I had been eating, playing, or just being naughty in the little café my mother owned two lots behind our house and she had told me to go home and go to bed. 

          I did go home, but being rather head-strong, naughty, and disobedient, I started playing in our side yard with Mike Pollard; my friend from across the street.  I looked up and saw my mother come out of the restaurant and come my way.  Believing that she had not yet seen me, I quickly told my friend to go home and ran in the backdoor (located on the side of the house where my mother could not see) and took off my shoes and jumped into bed pulling the covers and bedspread over me, and laying on my back, pretended to be asleep. 

          I heard my mother come into my room and then begin to call my name.  Since I was supposed to be asleep, I didn’t respond.  She then left my room and began to call my name throughout the house.  Finally, I heard her leave and I got up got undressed and went back to bed and I actually fell asleep, not awakening until much later.

          The rest of this story was told to me by my mother years later when I was about 15 or 16 when I reminded her of that day.  Apparently, after she had left the house not finding me in it, she had rather frantically looked for me over at the Pollard’s house and other homes on our short block.  Still not locating me, she then called my father at work to report me missing. 

          He left work early (losing pay for the time missed) and came home where by this time I had rolled onto my side so when he looked into my room he saw me sleeping peacefully in my bed.  Mom didn’t relate to me the exact conversation they then had, but she summarized it by saying that he thought she was crazy.

          Apparently, when I first jumped into bed and went under the covers, I pulled them over me in such a fashion that the bed looked unoccupied.  It was my habit to sleep with my head completely under the covers for many years and I was laying flat on my back, my head under the pillow.  The mattress was 6 inches of foam rubber, which I “sank” into so there was no “lump” to show I was in the bed, thus she thought I was missing.

          My favorite house was in Minnesota at which I arrived in 1956.  This was my mother’s parent’s two-story home on their farm I’ve spoken to you about before in conversations.  I’m not fluent enough in describing things so just picture in your minds a typical mid-west, 1900’s turn-of-the-century, nearly square, white-stucco, lightening rod studded farm-house typically shown on older movies.  What makes this house memorable was not only that it is the house of the divorce-notice previously mentioned, but also the one where my uncle showed me the facts of life when I was eleven (and also because it was very fun living there).  It was fun I suspect only because I was not required to work but enjoyed: riding on the tractor with my grandfather, helping with farm chores and work (where I could), and just watching when I could not.

          Naturally, as I grew and left home, marrying and raising a family I have lived in a collection of cabins, apartments, houses, military housing, and one time, in a tent.  I will not continue with this narrative except to say they also have positive and negative memories but I don’t wish to document them at this time.  I’m sure you will all understand and be greatly relieved that this, reading a long narrative, ordeal is finally over.

© 6 Jan 2011 

About the Author 

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

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

The Recliner, by Ray S

The weekly ritual would begin, by necessity, of dragging two dining room chairs into the little TV room so there was room for the four of us to watch one of our host’s DVDs.

As a rule the wall opposite the big screen sported a slim Modern Danish lounge chair and ottoman next to a broken-down somewhat ponderous in scale leather recliner. When its occupant seated himself, it was necessary to force the chair-back until it slammed the wall in back in order to attain a suitable viewing position. Mechanically the chair didn’t do what you wanted it to do. Instead it grabbed you and wouldn’t separate from one without a struggle. Note: nobody sat in this chair but its owner-victim.

When we inquired about why the owner and the handicapped recliner had spent so long tolerating the chair’s posture misadventures, the reply was that the two had just grown old together.

At this point our conspiracy bloomed to a planned visit to a Recliner Emporium when we all paraded through a forest of overstuffed but functioning mechanical chairs that were guaranteed to obey their masters.

After some deliberation, a new brown leather model was approved. There was one remaining question: the tariff that would find a new home for the chair in question.

Our “little movie theatre” owner allowed as how he had gone along with our dream-charade, but was truly not even considering replacing the chair someone had given him and his partner years ago. It hadn’t crippled him yet.

End of story? Not quite. We three decided to surprise our friendly movie-mogul on the occasion of his birthday with the new and approved recliner. It wasn’t until we had unpacked the new chair on the sidewalk of his home and pushed the doorbell that he discovered the new arrival. Once the decrepit old chair was relegated to the alley and the new recliner in place “the show must go on.”

Today this is all a memory, a happy one at that, but sadly to say our fourth friend and host (and for all we know) have moved on to some old and maybe some new movies in the heavenly beyond. A life well lived and many stories well told.

In memory of Stephen F. Krause

© 6 Feb 2017 

About the Author  

The Recliner, by Phillip Hoyle

Some years ago when my back started hurting I got a new swivel chair for my desk at work. Then my wife and I bought a new firm mattress. These two steps were helpful yet did not solve the problem totally. Then I bought myself better shoes that gave my arches adequate support. I was really beginning to feel fine. Then Myrna bought me a recliner, a small one from La-Z-Boy®. I was not quite sure of the message, but I did find the chair moderately comfortable. From my point of view the seemed unnecessary, maybe not a good choice for I had never been able to sit or sleep comfortably in such chairs. Still, this model seemed okay for me due to the facts it was more firm than our mattress and it was not one of those monster-size chairs made for retired football linemen. The recliner sat next to the bed. I got a lamp so I could read while sitting in it. That was in the days when I was reading five books a week. Using a pillow, I could read for hours and not hurt my back. My back got even better—actually stronger—when I added Super Circuit at the gym as well as my marathon reading in the recliner.

Some people at the church where I worked thought we would enjoy a new TV. They bought a nice SONY model, a really large one. It was fine but we didn’t really want nor need a TV to replace the smaller one that worked just fine. In fact, the new TV required that we buy an entertainment center large enough to hold it. We found a nice one but realized we had no place for it in the living room. So it went into our rather large bedroom, and of course the kids wanted to come and watch the big one. I rarely watched TV. My space was being eroded. I wondered if I would become a recliner potato, but couldn’t recline in the new chair to watch the big TV because my new glasses were bifocal.  

Oh the problems of modern life for the ageing. As you may suppose I was ageing a long time ago! And the process hasn’t ended. Actually I’m pleased about that. If I ever start not ageing…. Well I suspect you’ve already been thinking about such things. Where I live now there two recliners. I suspect I‘ll be using both of them for even more reclining while my life is declining, but I do hope that’s a ways off for me.

© 6 Feb 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