Purple Rage, by Lewis Thompson

In his brilliant and encyclopedic new book, Why the Right Went Wrong:  Conservatism from Goldwater to the Tea Party and Beyond, E. J. Dionne, Jr., spells out in exhaustive detail how the Grand Ol’ Party evolved from the Middle American conservatism of Dwight David Eisenhower to the rabid, ranting, rage of Donald Trumps’ avid band of Storm Troopers.  In a nutshell, it happened when the bedrock conservative vision of Barry Goldwater--which had given rise to the hopes of millions of conservative, white working-class people that their superior status among the races was assured—sustained set-back after set-back politically in the decades to follow.  

Not only did Goldwater lose in a landslide resulting in the election of LBJ who ushered in the Voting Rights Act but the next Republican president, Richard M. Nixon turned out to be a stealth liberal whose term ended in utter shame and embarrassment. In his 1978 memoir, RN, Nixon wrote, “I won a majority of every key population group identified by Gallup except the blacks and the Democrats.  Four of those groups—manual workers, Catholics, members of labor union families and people with only grade school educations—had never before been in the Republican camp in all the years since Gallup had begun keeping these records.”  [Why the Right Went Wrong, p.74.]

“Now,” Nixon wrote, “I planned to give expression to the more conservative values and beliefs of the New Majority throughout the country….I intended to revitalize the Republican Party along New Majority lines.”  [ibid.]

The migration of white Southern Democrats to the GOP had been going on since LBJ’s hay-day as president.  But it was Ronald Reagan’s failed 1976 campaign, whereby he “rais[ed] a banner of no pale pastels but bold colors which make it unmistakenly clear where we stand” that launched the “Reagan Revolution” toward which the Party stills displays undying fealty.  It was a banner that Gerald Ford hastened to pick up, as has every GOP president since, though George H. W. Bush dropped it more than once.

His son, George W. Bush, who liked to call himself a “compassionate conservative”, further frustrated those who considered themselves to be “true conservatives”.  His bumbling engagement in two costly wars in southern Asia and the Middle East further alienated his conservative base and the Great Recession which closed out his term in office left many of them in a sad way economically.

In Dionne’s view, this, combined with the ascension of a black man to the Presidency, is what led to the level of vitriol we now see on the faces of the men and women who comprise a typical Donald Trump mob today.  They are the new base of the GOP.  They come from “red states” as well as “blue states”.  (Thus my title for this piece, Purple Rage.)  They see change not as something they can believe in but as something to fear.  It is not stalemate in Washington that they lament but an arc of history that for them is bending toward the Left.  For almost 50 years, they have witnessed one frustration after another coming out of Washington.  The only bright light for them is Ronald Reagan.  He made this country, in their eyes, “great”. 

Now, along comes The Donald, promising to make America great again.  He is unlike any politician they have ever known—brash, tough, taking no crap.  He is rich, he is powerful and he’s bold.  Perhaps they haven’t noticed that his posture on stage, his swagger, suggests no one--as someone on the Bill Maher Show last Friday pointed out—so much as “Il Duce” himself, Benito Mussolini.  I like to think of him as “Donito Trumponi”.

I don’t know how similar the situation in the United States today is to that of Eastern and Southern Europe in the days following World War I and the Great Depression.  But I do believe that the kind of change the world has undergone over the past 60 years can produce a great deal of fear—and the concomitant anger—in those whose core values appear to be steadily eroding.  I have seen their faces in the crowds surrounding Mr. Trump and it frightens me.  I am frightened even though I have made the attempt to understand from where they are coming.  But when I think of what lies in store for America and the rest of the world should Mr. Trump become the most powerful man in that world, my knees start to rattle.  It is not too late to interrupt this eventuality.  I still believe that there are more Americans who welcome progress toward a better life for all than resent it.  But those of us of that mind must follow through on what we know is the only peaceful means available to interrupt that darker vision and that is to vote for the side that still believes that justice for all and animosity for none is the better way.

P.S.   Here’s a quote that I just ran across.  The source is unknown:

“When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.”

© 7 Mar 2016  

About the Author  

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Ne Me Ouitte Pas / Don't Leave Me, by Gillian

If You Go Away has been recorded by many famous singers, but I first became aware of it with the Neil Diamond* release in 1971. It's a sad song but I always liked it well enough, singing along with it on the radio. I also had it on a Neil Diamond album on cassette.

If you go away

On this summer day

Then you might as well

Take the sun away ...........

The refrain is simply if you go away repeated four times.

I'm sure many of you are familiar with the song.

I never thought a whole lot about the lyrics until, several years later, I stumbled upon the original version. In French, it was written in 1959 by Belgian singer/songwriter Jacques Brel. Like it's English counterpart, it has been recorded by many artists in many languages: 24 to be precise. The English adaptation was done by Rod McKuen and, sadly, to me, is a mere hint of the beauty and power of the original French.

That was when I began actually listening to the English lyrics of If You Go Away. That phrase is undeniably poignant, but repeating it in sets of three several times, in retrospect, seems a slight overkill. My life is going to be turned upside down if you go away ...... if you go away ...... OK, I get it. Somehow there seemed something slightly irritating about that conditional; that if. It made me feel like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Alright already! Apparently, it's not yet a done deal so stop whimpering in the corner and get up and fight! Do something about it!

There is a middle passage of the song which turns hopeful.

But if you stay

I'll make you a day

Like no day has been

Or will be again ...........

But ... really? Is that it? If I stay with you, I get one wonderful day. That's it? No more? Business as usual? Hardly a compelling argument. If I'm dying, if that's why I might go away, perhaps the offer might inspire me to the strength to hang on just one more day. But to be realistic, it's hardly likely to be the wonderful one on offer, and even if it were I probably could not delay my leaving for more than just one day.

No, the English lyrics do not stand up to too much examination.

But the French. Oh, the original French. What power. What tragedy. What pathos. We lost everything when we translated the simple, ever-powerful, ne me quitte pas, don't leave me, into the somewhat insipid if you go away. (Of course, I should not even use the word translate. If I had translated don't leave me into if you go away in my high school French exams, I'd have flunked for sure. Poetic license can be a dangerous thing.)

Today it's easy to find an English translation of the original lyrics of Ne Me Quitte Pas, as opposed to our English adaptation from the '60's. In the early '80's when I first discovered the original French version, my command of the language was insufficient for me to gain more than a loose understanding of most of the meaning. Now I know that the original, for instance of I'll make you a day etc, was -

I will offer you

Pearls made of rain

Coming from countries

Where it never rains ..........

Slightly more imaginative. But what did it matter? All you really need is that gut-wrenching repeated phrase: ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, don't leave me, don't leave me.

My favorite version** is by the inimitable Nina Simone, American singer, songwriter, and political activist. Her throaty, almost tear-filled, voice, is almost enough to make me cry without benefit of words. The song haunts me. It leaps into my head each time one more friend or loved one leaves this earth, which sadly happens more frequently as we age.

To stick with French, it is a cri de coeur, a cry from the heart.

Ne me quite pas. Don't leave me.

Although sung in almost a whisper, it is a howl from the depth of the soul.

Ne me quitte pas. Don't leave me.

It is a beg for mercy.

Ne me quitte pas. Don't leave me.

Finally the words sink to their knees in despair.

Ne  me  quitte  pas.

Don't   leave    me.

* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52B7ZWfJNHE

** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Q7w7gk1JhQ

© January 2017 

About the Author 

 I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.

Igpay Atinlay, by Ricky

          In the summer of 1964, I turned 16.  My father and I drove north to visit my uncle.  When we arrived, my aunt and uncle were not home; dad went to visit with them while they were at a mutual friend’s home elsewhere in the city.  This left my two cousins (ages 14 and 12) and me, home alone for several hours.

          Being mischievous and mean spirited, my older cousin decided to lock his brother out of the house.  I actually helped him to do it, but he wanted it to last for a while.  In any case, the younger cousin left to ride his bike to a friend’s house, so my conscience was mostly clear.

          At this point, my older cousin chose to use the bathroom.  After what seemed like 10-minutes, or at least plenty of time to finish his business, I knocked on the door and asked how much longer he would be in there.  He said, “Not long.”  I then suspected that he might be doing more than what is customary in a bathroom; not an unreasonable supposition considering that we had sex play each time I had visited before.

          I found the “junk drawer” in the kitchen and found a small screwdriver and I inserted it into the bathroom doorknob to “pop” the lock into the unlock position.  It did so with a very loud “pop” sound.  My cousin immediately shouted, “Don’t come in!”  I rattled the knob, but did not go in.  About a minute later he said, “Okay, you can come in now.”  Not knowing what to expect, I entered.

          My cousin asked me if I wanted to play as if we were the Gestapo torturing prisoners for information.  I said okay and asked, “What are the rules?”  He explained that the prisoner would stand in the bathtub with his hands holding the shower curtain rod and could not let go; as if he were tied up.  The other person would pretend to torture the prisoner any way he wanted as long as it was pretend and not painful.  He even volunteered to be the first prisoner.  How could I say no?  I began to play torture him, which did not take too long evolving into sex play.  We eventually traded places, so I had my turn also as the prisoner.

          As soon as we finished and exited the bathroom, there was a knock on the door.  We thought it was the younger cousin returning home.  It was not.  Instead, it was a 12-year old friend of my younger cousin.  We let him in and introductions followed.  He and I were chatting away about nothing important while sitting at the kitchen table.  He asked me if I spoke Pig Latin.

          When I was in elementary school, some of us kids did dabble in it for a week or so, but it was not very interesting to us so we dropped it; so I told him, “No.  I don’t speak it.”  He promptly turned to my cousin and said, “Owhay igbay isway ishay ickday?”  My cousin held up his hands about 7-inches apart.  I then said, “No it’s not.  It’s about this big,” holding up my hands to indicate the size.  The friend of my cousin then said, “I thought you said you didn’t speak Pig Latin.”  I told him that I don’t speak it, but I never said I didn’t understand it.

          The boy wanted to see me naked right then, but my cousin told him to wait until that night.  As it turned out, that night my two cousins, the boy, his 16-year old brother, and I had a sleepover in the family’s steam bath outbuilding.  There was a lot more sex play, which started out by playing a game of Strip Go Fish.

          Oh what a day, the night was even better.

© 24 Sep 2012  

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.

Figures, by Ray S

It’s 6 AM, my eyes creep open, throw back the covers, swing my legs out of bed, checking to see if I can stand surely enough to hit the head.

Ah! I made it and as I addressed the American Standard porcelain I wondered what “Figures” of mine would be interesting to my woman-and-man-kind enough to avail them with. I began to list some in my mind. To me, the word "Figures" means the visual arts, Michael Angelo’s David, Winged Victory, the Statue of Liberty in NY Harbor, the Acropolis, Mona Lisa, Rodin’s sculptures, something you can see, feel, or imagine.

What about numbers? Well, look how our fearless leader spurts out the “thousands", “millions” and “trillions” at the drop of a twitter, yet stumbles on into one of his own "cowpies" after another. That’s some America First figure.

Numbers, numbers everywhere, if I could only translate them in my mind into something meaningful. Having limited mathematical skills from a bout of childhood dyslexia, I could visualize the measurements of a yardstick, but talk miles or heights of mountains, depths of the oceans, and those figures escaped me. I was and still am proud that I mastered my 3rd-grade times tables.

Today, figures like names of places and people escape me. Is it a sign of dementia or just plain forgetfulness? You know! I just can’t figure all of this out, so I’ll simply continue to count the petals on the daisy and not figure how many there are. Life’s too short, or too large; go figure.

© 5 June 2017 

About the Author 

Group Grief, by Phillip Hoyle

Group grief again. I am not looking forward to our grief while I also anticipate receiving support from the SAGE Telling Your Story group. That’s an enigma, one I can live with.

Randy Wren felt close to the church, somehow to his faith. He liked the Episcopalian Church although in him I sensed little religious doctrinal fervor. In his telling, that church was the "A List" of non-Roman Catholic organizations. I say this only as a description. Randy’s life was lived; his stories of that life were actions and various relationships. He shared them without shame, fear, or regret, and in this, he was my teacher. He seemed to like the way words sounded together rather than how such combinations might reveal a philosophical truth. He didn’t seem to worry, not even when he thought he was having a heart attack. Some kind of enthusiasm seemed always to be bubbling inside him, and each bubble led him immediately to a recalled similarity whether a person, address, relationship, or experience. He wove webs out of these materials as he freely shared his story. While he cavorted with the rich and famous as it were, he never projected disdain for the plain and simple. He was too full of life for that. I liked Randy Wren and I appreciated what he brought to this group. He told me often that Monday afternoon was the best time of his week.

Thanks, Randy Wren. We’re missing you.

© 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 

Finding Your Voice, by Louis Brown

I find my voice most clearly at the Monday afternoon sessions of “Telling your Story”. In fact, in an ideal world, we would have generous sponsors who would give us a radio station so that, when we come in, each one of us sits in front of a microphone. Once we have told our stories, Phillip will take calls from the radio audience.

One caller calls and asks what our mission is exactly. Phillip says he has his opinion, and Tell your Story’s corporate papers have a mission statement, but Phillip says he would like us participants to answer that question, that is those of us who are so inclined. After an hour or so of discussing our mission, the general consensus emerges that our mission is to liberate gay and Lesbian people from oppression by developing a new mass media that different gay communities can use to communicate with one another. Another important goal is to record how gay and Lesbian people perceive the society in which they are obliged to live. Thirdly, we must develop a political liberation strategy that includes keeping close tabs on the activities of our opponents, i.e. Focus on the Family, the Family Research Council and more recently Mike Pence who, according to Donald Trump, wants to hang all gay and Lesbian people. Jokes like these we can do without.

After a month or two on the air, we get a grant to set up a political newspaper for gay people who live in the Denver area. Maybe such a newspaper already exists. This new publication should promote our gay civic groups and print gay liberation type literature of all kinds.

Other groups also perceive irrational hostility directed toward them. For instance, in the last election, when we had a choice between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, we did not really have an authentic liberal alternative. Was the public really satisfied with these candidates? Hillary Clinton admires the memory of Barry Goldwater and still admires Henry Kissinger. That makes her clearly a right-winger despite her dubious claim to being a progressive. Barry Goldwater, Henry Kissinger and more recently Donald Rumsfeld all became discredited warmongers. As Gilbert & Sullivan would say, “You can put them on the list, you can put them on the list, and they’ll none of them be missed, they’ll none of them be missed.

 Politicians who accept their legitimacy should be discarded by the public. The peaceniks of the 1960’s and their numerous followers in today’s culture need to develop an alternative mass media outlet to counter the current blackout on real political information.

Our gay magazine or newspaper of the future should hook up with one these newspaper enterprises. Perhaps Rolling Stone, something of that ilk. Rolling Stone started up as a new independent alternate culture media tool.

And then, of course, the Socialists. Bernie Sanders says he is a democratic socialist but who, according to the current media, did not convince a significant number of black people that he was their candidate. I will admit I was waiting for Bernie Sanders to tell black people in a loud public way that, in addition to promoting perpetual war, capitalism promotes racism because it is very profitable. In the early nineteenth century, slavery in Dixieland was very, very profitable. Also, pitting one ethnic group against another is an easy way to break up labor unions. These are basic socialist tenets. Bernie never really developed this in his speeches.

And Bernie Sanders never really expanded on the relationship between capitalism and perpetual war. War is very profitable, and the resulting profits are more important to the war profiteers than the lives of a few million people. Of course, the war profiteers eagerly purchase senators and U. S. representatives and Supreme Court Justices. To a large number of people, this is all obvious and a truism, but many Americans do not seem to be aware of these purchases of public representatives.

Did you notice the large number of protesters in Hamburg, Germany, during the G-20 Summit? This indicates a large number of people recognize they are locked out of the current status quo, and they need another media outlet to promote their point of view.

Also, huge protests occurred when the U. S. started the unjustifiable war in Iraq. The mainstream media made sure they were not covered. Another reason for developing a new independent media.

Thus we see the necessity for developing a new more independent alternative media. In my fantasy, I am one of the   CEO’s of this alternative media. I will have found my voice. Wish me a Happy Birthday.

© 23 Oct 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.

True Colors, by Lewis Thompson

My favorite color has always been green.  Not chartreuse or pea or celery but dark metallic as in British racing green.  My second car was a 1958 Ford Fairlane 500 convertible.

It was 1964 and I was a senior in high school and anxious to make a good impression on my classmates.  Mine was light yellow with a black-and-white vinyl interior.  The car had been in a wreck and had been lovingly restored to “like new” condition.

I hadn’t had the car a year when another driver ran a stop sign and swiped the front end.  Since the car would have to be repainted anyway, I could choose my color.  Naturally, I chose British racing green—a color that seemed outside the experience of the fellow at the body shop.  He showed me the color chart and I found one that looked pretty close to BRG.  When the car was ready for pickup, to my horror, I saw that the color was way too dark—almost metallic black.  Well, there wasn’t much I could do about it and--with a new white convertible top--didn’t look at all bad.  Of course, I would never have allowed Graham Hill or Jimmy Clark see me in anything but true British Racing Green.

Graham Hill

Jimmy Clark

© 28 Feb 2016  

About the Author  

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. 

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's hometown. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Flowers, by Gillian

I was going to begin with the words, my mother loved flowers. But love is such an overused elasticated word that we are never sure just what it means, so I'll simply say, flowers were among the most important things in my mother's life. She rejoiced in the look, feel, and smell of them; the art and science of them. She caressed them with her fingers, her eyes and nose, and her mouth as she whispered their names to them. Not only could she identify any flower with its English name, but for many, she also knew the Botanical. As she read endlessly and traveled more she began eagerly to learn their names in French, German, Spanish, or alternate identities assigned to them in other English-speaking countries.

Take just one example; the simple buttercup. Being water-loving plants, these thrive in Britain. Where we lived they grew like weeds but that did nothing to diminish Mum's appreciation both of and for them.

The morning sun shone on a cluster of the creeping variety, highlighting their soft golden glow still brightened by the dew.

'Well, good morning my Beautiful Buttercups,' she might greet them, whispering so as not to disturb them, very gently caressing the velvet gold petals with the tip of her little finger.

'How are my favorite little Ranunculi this morning? My Ranunculus repens?'

Then perhaps she would slip into an attempt at a French accent.

'My bouton d'Or.'

'Coyote's eyes', she might add, in dreadfully Humphrey Bogart American.

She had read, somewhere, that in parts of the Pacific Northwest of the United States buttercups are called "Coyote’s eyes" by the native peoples. According to legend, an apparently very foolish coyote was tossing his eyes up in the air and catching them again when an eagle snatched them. Unable to see, the foolish, but evidently extremely creative coyote, made eyes from buttercups.

She would even offer up poems. In the case of the buttercups, all I remember was one by A.A. Milne, famously the author of the Winnie the Pooh stories, which Mum quoted as -

Head above the buttercups,

Walking by the stream,

Down among the buttercups,

Lost in a dream.

Having just this moment looked up the poem for the purposes of this story, I see that she was misquoting. The original begins -

Where is Anne?

Head above the buttercups,

Walking by the stream,

Down among the buttercups.

Where is Anne?

Walking with her man,

Lost in a dream.

How typical of my mother, I think now, that she should leave out the part about a man. Had there been mention of a child, she probably would have suppressed that, too. For her, I see through the magic of hindsight, love of flowers was a way to forget all humans and the pain that relationships with them can bring. She was safe with flowers. I used to witness the look in her eyes when she caressed them, and ache inside. She never looked at me like that. She didn't caress me like that. Looking back now, I wonder if my dad ever wondered why she never treated him to such adoration either.

My father was the absolute opposite of my mother when it came to flowers, as was the case with most things. To him, they all belonged in a few very simple generic categories. A red flower was a rose, a blue one a bluebell, a white one a daisy, and a yellow one a dandelion. I think he really did have a genuine disinterest in flowers, quite typical of men of his time and place. Vegetables were a man's plants. Flowers were women's work. What good were they? You couldn't eat them. They were simply a waste of valuable space. They harrumphed at their beauty and trampled their delicacy. Dad didn't want to destroy them, he simply had no interest in them. But I do think his extreme disinterest and feigned ignorance was at least to some extent simply to tease my mother. Referring to a beautiful bed of dancing daffodils, Mum's precious narcissus, jonquil, daffadowndilly, as dandelions, or the papery translucent lily as a daisy, was inevitable met with a very irritated, 'Oh, Edward!' from Mum and a broad wink from my father to me. Did he persist in this as much when I was not there? I have to wonder now.

Whatever the human dynamics, flowers were a source of much joy to my mother throughout her life. My example of the buttercup was played out with practically every flower she ever encountered, whether nurtured in the garden or wild in the woods. The last time I saw her I arrived at the nursing home with an armful of lilacs from a friend's garden. She reached out her arms; not to embrace me but to gather the flowers to her.

'Oh, Syringa!' she whispered: burying her face in the blossoms, burying her nose in the delicious fragrance. A young girl just bringing in the tea looked at me in puzzlement. She was the daughter of someone I went to school with and new my name perfectly well. She scuttled out as fast as she could when Mum broke into -

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,

And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,

I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

She had a remarkable memory. I do not. I had to look this up from what little of it I could remember, eventually tracking it down in a poem by Walt Whitman.

The second verse reads -

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love.

I had to laugh, even after all these years. Of course, it would be the first verse she quoted, ignoring the second where humans inserted themselves, again unwanted.

It's OK Mum, I tell her now. We all hope to find whatever gets us through the night. And what could anyone find, in their hour of need, offering more uplift for the spirit, more peace for the soul, than flowers?

© February 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.

Quirky Domestic Tidbits, by Ricky

          Me?  Quirky?  I don't think so.  I'm perfectly normal in every way even for a gay guy.  Very nondescript, average looking, wonderful personality (so I've been told, and I choose to believe it) and nothing quirky about me.  So, I felt very secure in asking my oldest daughter if she thought there was anything quirky about me; knowing all along that she couldn't think of anything even if she thought more than her 30-second attention span for caring about anything I say.

          Apparently, it was a case of me not seeing the forest because the trees were in the way; or (as the Bible puts it in Matthew, Chapter 7) a case of “mote” “beam” sickness.  Let's see if I can remember accurately.  My daughter thought for all of 3 seconds and came up with “The Lord of the Rings”. 

          Apparently, every time we have guests over I always ask them at some point if they like to read books and if so what type.  (My daughter keeps track of these things somehow; I don't keep count.)  Not long after the topic of books and movies turns up, someone, not always me, will bring up “The Lord of the Rings”; at which time a 15 to a 30-minute discussion of the book and movie will follow.  My daughter has grown very tired of hearing it over and over.

          The last time it happened was two weeks ago.  She had invited the church missionaries over for dinner.  I was on my way home from somewhere and called to let her know.  She informed me that the missionaries were there for dinner, so I asked if I was invited or should I eat before I came home.  She told me to come on home.  She told us all later, that at this point she wanted to add that I could come home to eat if I did not talk about “The Lord of the Rings” but she did not say it.  I came home.  We all sat down to eat and during the small talk, my daughter asked one of the missionaries where he lived and went to school.  He replied, “Sacramento.”  My daughter thought to herself, “Oh no.”  I said, “I went to college in Sacramento.”  When asked where I replied, “Sacramento State College” and I flunked out after two semesters.  (My daughter is now screaming in her head, “No. No. Nooooo.".) When asked why did I flunk out, I couldn't lie so I said because my English 101 teacher made us read “The Lord of the Rings.”  After the ensuing 20 minute discussion, my daughter told us what she did not tell me when I called and then she said, “and I ended up giving the lead-in question to the topic I hate.”  I think my daughter is the quirky one.

          I'm sure I'm not quirky, but quirky things seem to go on around me.  For example, my daughter's mother-in-law, Maria, was raised on a collective farm in the old Soviet Union.  As a result, she has worked all her life.  When she came to live with us no one asked her to help around the house, but she doesn't know how to be “retired”.  So, she is constantly cleaning, cooking, doing laundry (until the washer broke), and generally being every man's ideal housewife.  When she does want a private time, she goes to our old tool and garden shed where she has made herself what I call a “nest”; goes in and hides.  It's rather cozy actually, but she is the quirky one.

          Maria's husband, Gari, who also lives with us, is a bit quirky or maybe just eccentric.  He walks ¾ of a mile to the grocery store and back and generally ignores the traffic signs for walk and don't walk; at least until last month when he did it in front of Lakewood's “finest” and received a $79 ticket for walking across the street at an intersection against the don't walk sign.  That's the first time I've ever heard of someone getting what is essentially a jay-walking type citation.  I don't know if he is quirky or if it’s just the situation that's quirky.

          My daughter's husband and Maria's son, Artur, is rather quirky.  Today when I told him that our Himalayan cat was pregnant he became his quirky self.  At first, anger stating that he would throw her out and then a few seconds later he demanded we get the cat an abortion.  When my daughter pointed out that he always had said he wanted the cat to have kittens, he responded that it was true but not by an alley cat (paraphrased).  Once it was explained that the father was ½ Persian or ½ Himalayan he calmed down a bit.  In a day or two, he will be fine with the situation—that's his quirk.  In fact, we don't know for sure who the father is.  The only cat we've seen in her company was the one we mentioned.  I also will not tell him that on the weekends when he and his mother are gone all day, I repeatedly let the cat out knowing she was in heat. I did it for two reasons.  I got tired of listening to the cat yowling and I like kittens.  Maybe that's my quirk.

© 17 Apr 2012 

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 

Mothers Day Take Five, by Ray S

On Mothers Day

We lock all children far away,

It’s only fair for us to say,

So all those mothers can go out to play.

Do you know what is a limerick?

It must have four linking lines,

And they all have to rhyme,

So if you take the thymes, you have a limerick.

What is hot and certainly arousing?

Many a lass

And boys with that kind of class

That’s what leads to intimate carousing.

There is a cute fellow from Pawtucket,

Who believes he can always luck it

’Til along came Ella,

Who said “No,” to our fella

Not without a raincoat and umbrella.

Until today we were limerick ignorant

To know what that is or why could it be signiforant?

So you find it’s a four line thing that rhymes on its ends

And is a county in Eire where they all talk different.

© 15 May 2017 

About the Author