Friday, March 30, 2018

Setting Up House, by Ray S


I am reminded of an old saying by today’s topic: “A Home Is Where Your Heart Is.”

When I take stock of the stuff I’ve gathered over the years it seems like just so much acquired materialism. Then after closer reflection every bit of the “stuff” sparks a memory. A memory of a friend, a memory of a particular time of your life, time place, or something that says “Hello, you’re home again and this is your place to be.”

Yes, it’s just stuff, some even qualifies as junk, but no matter if it is an accumulation of a lifetime or not more than a few surviving photos, it is what makes a house a home—no matter where or whose house you finally land in. Hang on to some sort of stuff, even if it is only in your heart and mind.

© 12 September 2016


About the Author





Thursday, March 29, 2018

Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle

I find strange that crossword puzzles, including the New York Times, use Paradise as a clue for Eden. I hate to argue with cultural assumptions widely held, even if they come from a great poet like John Milton. But Paradise connects with a mythological afterlife in Christian terms, Eden uses a mythological origins story from the Hebrew tradition. To call Eden Paradise seems way too simple. The old garden was no utopia. The story makes that clear. Besides it’s an origin story for agriculture. The first humans tended the garden.
     The view of Paradise is a poet’s elaboration on a myth of afterlife. Utopia seems another matter altogether. A dreamer’s world of relationship. But both Eden and Paradise caution such perfectionist dreamers that problems will always be present. The need for change continues whatever the vision. 
     The main thing I like in utopian fantasies is the assumption that things in the world could be better. Well, you see, I’m schooled in the liberal tradition of democracies and the like. Yet I have a practical bent (Kansan perhaps) that cautions utopians not to suppose their ability to dream accomplishes what they are dreaming of.
     So this utopian-considering middle aged man left the trials and tribulations of straight life to live in gay life. He did not believe in salvation by gaydom, and it was a good thing he didn’t. He moved into the gayest part of the city, and started living in this new way in a gay environment only to discover gay was no less complicated than being straight. Oh, he and his ex-wife did agree living single was easier than being paired, but finding a perfect companion didn’t occur. There were none in this imagined utopia. And besides, gay men were people with traditions, inequities, and thousands of dreams—many unfounded—of what the gay utopia should be. Living there was as difficult as a career in marriage and church work. The only utopia he found was to get a job, continue to make friends, help neighbors, and laugh a lot. He’d already been doing that.
     Now this is not an essay to down anyone or any community. It is just about the non-existence of utopia except as a literary device of social critique, the theme of which is “things are going to get better” or let’s hope so anyway. 

© 4 February 2108


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


Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Hooves, by Pat Gourley


“That horse has left the barn”

When I hear the word “hooves” in nearly any context I think of horses though many different mammals have hooves. My early days on the farm never involved horses so I may have made the association of hooves with horses after watching Gene Autry and Roy Rogers on 1950’s TV.

I remember that the often ridiculous and blatantly racist TV westerns seemed to distinguish between native American horse-hoof prints from those of the always white settlers, American law men and cavalry by noting whether the horses had been shod or not. Native horses had no shoes where as those of the white folk always did, a simplistic view since many native tribes were quite adept at acquiring horses from settlers and others who shod their horses. On these TV shows blacksmiths were often shown dramatically forging by fire while shaping the shoes and then nailing them onto the horses’ hooves. This really is the extent of my connection with the word hooves, though I do vaguely recall older male relatives on occasion playing “horseshoes”. That was a game though that never caught on for me personally.

Another memory of hooves was the apparent use of fake cows’ hoofs being used by moonshiners wearing them to throw off federal agents chasing them during Prohibition. Not sure exactly how this worked since cows have four feet and humans only two. However wasting time on thinking about this application of hoof-foot-wear as a means to sneak to one’s moonshine still in the woods will do little to address any real world problems these days I am afraid.

I can though make a tangential leap from hooves by way of horses and cows to the phrase: “That horse has already left the Barn”. This implies of course to the after-the-fact reality that it is too late to do anything about whatever. If one adapts this as a world view these days there are many things that seem too late to do much about whether we want to admit that reality of not.

Climate change sadly is one reality that it may very well be too late to do much about. That horse seems to have galloped away and kicked the door shut with both of his back hooves. Still in my more optimistic moments I can’t help but think that if we were to embark on a Manhattan Project to save the planet that salvaging an at least livable, though probably less than desirable, planet might be doable.

Laughably perhaps I can hope that the recent hurricane evacuations for both Trump’s Mar-a-Lago estate and Rush Limbaugh’s beachfront properties in Florida might turn into teachable moments. That however does not seem likely.

My go to person around all things climate change and how this is intimately tied to capitalism specifically is Naomi Klein.

I highly recommend her two most recent works: This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The Climate and “NO is Not Enough” subtitle “Resisting Trump’s Shock Politics and Winning The World We Want”. Here is a link to these works and Naomi in general: http://www.naomiklein.org/meet-naomi

It isn’t that the Donald Trump’s and Rush Limbaugh’s of the world don’t believe in climate change, I actually expect they do. It is that they realize better than many of us that the only effective possibility for addressing this catastrophe is a direct threat to their worldview and way of life. That their greedy accumulation of goods and capital will save them from the resulting hell-scape in the end is truly delusional thinking on their part.

I feel the only viable solution being an acceptance of the socialist ethos: From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.

© October 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.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Utopia, by Louis Brown


(1) Who was Rosemary Gianuzzi?

(a) She was my close friend who lived in Whitestone, NY, with husband Frank Mershon.

(b)Rosemary is quadriplegic.

(c) She died last Tuesday of sepsis, blood-poisoning.

(d)She was an effective advocate for the rights of the physically disabled. That was her search for Utopia.


(2) The Paramahanda Yogananda Self-Realization Center is located on Garrison Street in Lakewood. These yoga people are searching for Nirvana, their spiritual utopia.

(3) Communists are Utopians. What was the psychology of Ho Chi Minh? Politically and in the area of ideology, he was a French communist. Did he achieve his version of Utopia? No. He died 9-2-1969 of congestive heart failure before the Tet Offensive was completed though that began Jan. 30- 1968.

(4) I heard that the Italian communists are helping and advising the communist rebels in Colombia, South America, that 1/3 of Colombia is run by the Communists, another 1/3 is run by the drug lords and the other 1/3 is run by the right-wing, so-called “pro-American” government.

(5) I also heard that southern Mexico is run by a communist insurgent force called the Chiapas. Is that still true?

(6) Venezuela. Nicolas Maduro claims to be a socialist, a sort of Utopian. He is still in business. Will he be able to maintain what he perceives as his utopia, a socialist Venezuela?

(7) My personal search for Utopia included trips to the Dominican Republic, Charleston, S. C., Nancy, France and more recently Wheat Ridge, CO. A lot of war protesters went to Canada in the 1970’s.

(8) Gay Utopias:

(a) Cherry Grove: a real estate venture that was started in the 1920’s. Although it is basically a summer resort, there turned out to be broader implications. It is or was a true gay and Lesbian Utopia. It consists of a long boardwalk, and grocery deliveries are made with a motorized wagon; but otherwise there are no automobiles or motorcycles. Just Nature and geographical isolation.

(b)Nearby Isle of Pines: an even grander seaside resort which is a utopia of bisexual homeowners.

(c) New Hope, PA, and Provincetown, Massachusetts. Like San Francisco the heterosexual majority is very tolerant of gay people and support our civil rights. The gay businesses are integrated into the whole community. 



Is this Utopia?

© 29 February 2018


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.

Monday, March 26, 2018

Tears, by Gillian


I saw my father cry three times.

When I was four or five we had a tiny 6-weeks-old kitten. He was all black, and sadly found a shaggy black rug a cozy place to sleep. My mother, no idea he was there, stepped right on him. We heard the terrible sound of crunching tiny bones. Tears were running down my dad's face as he scooped up the screaming little body to take it outside and put an end to its suffering.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

When our old dog, for years Dad's constant companion, died, my dad cried.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

For very different reasons neither of us cried. I, even as a child, somehow was playing a part; not being the real me. So, until the time I came out to myself in my early forties, when I did finally become the real me and no longer was simply an actor on life's stage, I felt very little real emotion. I do not remember ever crying as a child.

My mother never got over losing two children, ages two and four, before I was born. She shut down. She refused to let herself feel any more personal sorrow. She did cry, quite frequently, but never over anything personal; anything really in her life. The first time I remember her doing this was when horrific newspaper photographs accompanied the stories of Allied troops liberating Hitler's death camps; and why not, that was plenty to cry about. But she also cried at sad plays on the radio, or newspaper tales of abused animals or injured children - anything not actually personal to her. The few times I hurt myself pretty badly, as children do, neither of us cried.

But my dad had tears in his eyes when he carried a toddler me home from a pretty bad fall.

The third time I saw my dad actually cry was after I had come out. I was the authentic me. I had been back to England for a visit and when the day to leave arrived, Dad drove me to the train. As it pulled out of the station and I leaned out of the window to wave, I saw that he was crying. One of several things over my lifetime that I would rather not have seen, but you cannot unsee things.

I sobbed all the way to London. How much easier my former life spent playing a part had been, feeling emotions at best superficially.

Now, I cry at so many things, tears of sorrow or tears of joy; though tears do not necessarily flow. I find the feelings to be much the same whether in fact I literally cry, or cry just on the inside. I cried at the sight of The White House lit up in rainbow colors after The Supreme Court ruled on behalf of Marriage Equality.

I cried for the loss of Stephen and Randy, of this group, as I cry for every loss of yet another friend. I even cry when friends' pets die.

I cry for our country which currently feels like one more loss, as I cry for the planet as we know it, which is another.

But I have no regrets for my tears. Having lived for so long without them, I welcome them. I almost revel in them; celebrate them. They serve to remind me, I am really me!

© October 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.

Friday, March 23, 2018

Fairy Tales, by Ricky


I know I’m not the only one who noticed how fairy tales are used to teach safety, appreciation, and “standards” of conduct. The brothers Grimm and Aesop are perhaps the best known to my youth. The Grimm’s tales were often rather grim (pun intended) and Aesop is known for the “moral” aspect of his tales.

While the overall stories seem adventurous enough for small children, the overt warnings are clear--all step-mothers are wicked (Cinderella, Hansel & Gretel, Snow White), witches are evil (Snow White, Hansel & Gretel), never take candy (or gingerbread) from strangers (Hansel & Gretel), the woods are dangerous places (Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel & Gretel, Wizard of Oz—which is just a very long fairy tale).

Then just when a child has it all internalized, the contradictions become apparent. Not everyone in the woods is evil or bad (Snow White’s dwarfs, Little Red Riding Hood’s woodsman, Wizard of Oz’s Tin Woodsman). All princes are handsome and heroic (Snow White & Cinderella, but not the singer Prinz). Mothers believe their sons are not very intelligent (Jack and the Beanstalk) nor do they believe in magic. Adults (who trade beans for cows) don’t believe in magic even when they say they do (Jack and the Beanstalk). Children do believe in magic, that’s why the beans did grow.

The fairy tales tell of justice served, if not always measured. Wolves get killed and grandmas rescued (Little Red Riding Hood). Bad little boys get eaten (the Boy Who Cried Wolf). Evil witches are destroyed, some in ovens and some by falling houses (Hansel & Gretel, Wizard of Oz). The ultimate “justice served” is of course the “Happily Ever After” part.

Now the third most important question concerning fairy tales follows. Except for Glenda in the Wizard of Oz, “Why are there no good witches in fairy tales?”

The second most important question is dealing with fairy tales is, “Why are there no wicked step-fathers?” Perhaps because men wrote or told the stories???

I will now answer the most important question. The answer is “Peter Pan.” Why? You ask. Because that is my favorite fairy tale, (Tinkerbelle is a fairy so it counts as a fairy tale). I don’t know why it is my favorite, it just is. Hmmmmmm. Let’s see—Peter Pan, playing with the Lost Boys and a fairy. Hey! Peter Pan is gay!!!

© 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 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

Thursday, March 22, 2018

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 American 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



Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Time and Preparation, by Phillip Hoyle


The freedoms of college life and schedule demonstrated for me I would have to learn to manage my time, but I took years to figure out how my personality and preferences affected my ability to finish projects on time. At the beginning of a semester I’d study the prospectus of each class and begin figuring out how to approach papers that would be due. I’d go to the library, my favorite space in any school, where I’d search, research, and check out books. I loved digging into books and finding topics and approaches that made sense to me. Still I was writing and typing the piece right up to the last minute. Once I stayed up all night to do so but decided never to do that again. I needed my sleep! I’d just have to start earlier. Still I’d go to class re-reading the paper and changing spelling and even grammar by hand on the typed sheets. I realized Profs would like that I knew spelling and grammar better than typing. None of them criticized my last minute corrections.

One graduate school history project really captured me. I found a short 17th century German pietist theological treatise by August Hermann Franke titled “The Spiritual Affects” (of course in translation). My related paper compared it with a long book, René Descartes’ Passions of the Soul. I hoped to show Franke was not Cartesian. I was pushed for time so hired a neighbor to type the paper for me. As the deadline approached I gave her my introduction, then my first chapter that covered Franke. I was writing the conclusion while she was typing the second chapter that presented Descartes. I started wondering: maybe the old German was Cartesian. My thesis had asserted that he was not, but now that I was done writing, I thought he probably was and at the last minute concluded he actually was Cartesian. Looking again at the introduction and the conclusion, I decided I could have my typist change just a word or two in the intro, and I hurriedly rewrote the part of the conclusion. Somehow the logic of yes or no was a bit arbitrary to my analysis. But it just made more sense (at least ultimately)—a logical sense—a challenge for me since illogic seems as powerful and as helpful to me as logic. I changed the lines. The professor was amazed at the paper and agreed with my revised thesis, and I learned more about my relationship to time and preparation.

Some years later I was introduced to the Myers Briggs preferences inventory and found that I sat right on the line (zero) between thinker and feeler and on the line between judge and perceiver. Maybe that was why I had problems with those old papers. I wanted to read another book! I took another test that measured one’s preferences under stress. Aha. Under stress I become a thinker and an effective judge. That’s how I now do my work, with plenty of time to play around and a deadline to make me finish it. In the 1990s, when writing for a publishing company, I turned in all writing projects on time or even early. I suspect that is why they kept using me. The preparation was never a problem for me, but the deadline pushed me into being enough of a thinker and judge so as to complete the work.

These days I rely on SAGE Telling Your Story’s Monday 1:30 deadline to get my work done although I am still changing sentences, grammar, and spelling while riding the Zero bus on my way to the meetings.

© 29 January 2018


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.” 


Tuesday, March 20, 2018

When I Played Santa Clause, by Pat Gourley


Full disclosure right out of the box here I have never played Santa Claus. I did get to read the “Jesus lines’ in a Catholic grade school play around Easter time my 8th grade year. We were “performing” part of one of the New Testament gospels right up to the crucifixion, which was allowed to happen only off stage in people’s imaginations. I imagine there was a sibling or cousin or classmate or two who would have liked to see me actually get nailed to a cross.

Certainly for anyone who has known me over the past 50 plus years my being selected to read the Jesus lines was irony at it’s finest. As mentioned above it was an 8th grade play and that would have made me 13 or 14 and in the throws of my budding and extremely confused feelings of being somehow profoundly different from most around me.

It seems right for a Grateful Dead reference here especially since it’s been at least a few months since I have included one in my writing. These are a couple of short verses from a 1972 song written by Robert Hunter and several members of the band titled Playin’ in the Band”:

Some folks look for answers
Others look for fights
Some folks up in treetops
Just look to see the sights

But I can tell your future Well, just look what's in your hand But I can't stop for nothing I'm just playing in the band

Believe me when I tell you what was in my hand a disturbing amount of the time at age 14 was not the New Testament, but rather a bodily appendage that rhymes with sock.

Christmas with my family when growing up was really a pretty big deal. There was at least tons of excitement if not always a lot of money to shovel Santa’s way for presents. Being the oldest child, not just in my immediate family but also among the many cousins living within close proximity, I was the first I think to get the news that this was all a ruse and that Santa did not exist. He bit the dust along with the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny. It was a series of crushing childhood blows but amazingly I did survive even after indulging for a few years in that sort of magical thinking which certainly was soothing.

In hindsight I wish the myth debunking had extended to most of the religious indoctrination I had received in my first 14 years. Unfortunately it did not and it would take another decade to get that monkey off my back.

The harsh reality that Santa and a whole host of other magical figures and beliefs do not exist does make me long at times for a safer and sweeter time that existed for me before age 6. Though Santa Claus is certainly a specific culturally bound source of joy and solace, and according to Megyn Kelly he is white, I would hope there are similar myths for kids of other cultures, ah the innocence and bliss of early childhood. It does make me very sad though to think how we, and by that I mean the U.S.A, are destroying the wonderful early years of myth for so many in the world today.

It is, I imagine, hard to have wonderful fanciful thoughts when you are dying of cholera in Yemen or shaking in abject terror when U.S. made barrel bombs are landing in Syrian cities destroying any semblance of safety and security to say nothing of your life many times. A bit of understanding as to why we as a country participate in such atrocities in the world at large may be provided in how willingly we all to often treat one another here at home.

The examples are legion of course but a recent one came to my attention the other day in a piece in the Huffington Post. It was the story of a 93-year-old woman in Orlando Florida who was forcibly removed from her senior housing apartment and arrested for not paying rent. Partial rent payments had been made but apparently Scrooge didn’t feel that was adequate for an old woman undoubtedly on a very fixed income. Perhaps Senator Grassley is right and she was frittering away her income on male escorts, booze and movies. After two days in jail and turning 94 she was released to a motel and a local homeless coalition is helping her find housing.

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/93-year-old-woman-arrested-rent_us_5a314874e4b091ca26849ee3?ncid=inblnkushpmg00000009

Of course there are also legions of Americans doing right by one another every day in many ways. I can’t help but think though that Santa would say it is not enough.

In an attempt at least to be a bit upbeat at this time of the returning sun we could all engage for a day or two in the old Thick Nhat Hahn meditation. That would involve noting or keeping track of all the small human courtesies one encounters in going about our daily lives. The smiles, nodding acknowledgements, doors held open, the ‘excuse me’s and of course the hugs and kisses that come our way. These often inadvertent and spontaneous loving gestures of humanity almost always far outnumber the nasty ones. So there is hope and maybe we can make Santa proud.

© December 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.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Tears, by Louis Brown


The tragic myth of Niobe, etc

(a) The tragic tale of Niobe is one of the most memorable Greek myths, for Niobe's story features a striking example of the consequences of hubris, a Greek term defined as arrogance or excessive pride. This myth was popular in ancient literature, poetry and art. Therefore, it is not a surprise that the legend of Niobe appears in one of our oldest and best sources for Greek myths, the Iliad of Homer.

Her father was Tantalus, king of a town above Mount Sipylus in Anatolia, but we do not know exactly who her mother was. Niobe had two brothers, Broteas and Pelops, who would later be a legendary hero and would give his name to Peloponnese. When Niobe grew up, she got married to Amphion, king of Thebes. This was a turning point in her life and a series of tragic events followed, to give her a distinct place in one of the most tragic dramas in Greek mythology. Niobe and Amphion gave birth to fourteen children, seven sons and seven daughters.

The fatal mistake and the horrible crime. At a ceremony held in honor of Leto, the mother of the divine twins, Apollo and Artemis, who was also living in Thebes, Niobe, in a fit of arrogance, bragged about her fourteen children. In fact, Niobe said that she was superior to Leto, as she had fourteen children and not only two. When the twins knew this insult, they got enraged and at once, came down to Earth to kill the children of Niobe. Apollo, the god of light and music, killed all seven of Niobe's sons with his powerful arrows in front of their mother's eyes. Although Niobe was pleading Apollo to feel mercy for her last surviving son, Apollo's lethal arrow had already left his bow to find its mark with deadly accuracy, thus wiping out all the male descendants of Niobe.

Artemis, the virgin goddess of nature and hunting, killed Niobe's seven daughters with her lethal arrows and their dead bodies were lying unburied for nine days. Turning into a rock Devastated by the slaughter of his children, Amphion committed suicide. Some versions say that he too was killed by Apollo when he tried to avenge his children's deaths. And so it was that Niobe's entire family had been wiped out by the gods in a matter of moments, and in deep anguish, she ran to Mount Sipylus.

There she pleaded [with the] Gods to [put] … an end to … her pain. Zeus felt sorry for her and transformed her into a rock, to make her feelings [express themselves from the] … stone. However, even as a rock, Niobe continued to cry. Her endless tears poured forth as a stream from the rock and it [her statue] seems to stand as a moving reminder of a mother's eternal mourning. To this day, Niobe is mourning for her children and people believe that her faint image can still be seen carved on a limestone rock cliff on Mount Sipylus, with the water that seeps out of the porous rocks bearing a strong allusion to her ceaseless tears.

The meaning of the Myth the tragic tale of Niobe centered on the consequences of hybris, a strange concept in the Greek antiquity, which said that, if you act with arrogance towards the Gods, then you will be punished. Actually Niobe's story is a classic example of the wrath of gods against human weaknesses and has been beautifully narrated in Homer's Iliad. The tale of Niobe also finds mention in Metamorphoses, a narrative poem, written by the renowned Roman poet Ovid, who, however, has inverted the traditionally accepted order and portrayed the desires and conquests of the gods with aversion, while elevating human passions to a higher Source:

(b) O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn! Version of Bruce Springsteen

"O Mary Don't You Weep"

Well if I could, I surely would, Stand on the rock where Moses stood, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Well Mary wore three links of chain, On every link was Jesus name,

Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Well one of these nights about 12 o'clock, This old world is gonna rock, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Well Moses stood on the Red Sea shore, Smote the water with a two by four, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Well old Mister Satan he got mad, Missed that soul that he thought he had, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Brothers and sisters, don't you cry, There'll be good times by and by, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. God gave Noah the rainbow sign,

No more water, but fire next time, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep. Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep, Oh Mary don't you weep no more, Oh Mary don't you weep no more. Pharoh's army got drownded, Oh Mary don't you weep.

_______________

The phrase vale of tears (Latin vallis lacrimarum) is a Christian phrase referring to the tribulations of life that Christian doctrine says are left behind only when one leaves the world and enters Heaven. The term "valley of tears" is also used sometimes. (Wikepedia).

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. His Lacrimosa (weeping) is part of his Requiem Mass 1792. Was completed by Sysmayr.

Cry Me a River Diana Krall

Now you say you're lonely
You cry the whole night through
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you.

Now you say you're sorry
For being so untrue
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you

You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember all that you said
Told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me

And now you say you love me
Well, just to prove you do
Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you

You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I…

16 October 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.

Friday, March 16, 2018

Finding My Voice, by Gillian


Finding my voice has never been difficult for me. Finding it when I should be losing it is what has always been my problem. From my early school days on, if a group of us were somewhere we should not be or doing something we should not do, I was always the one who got caught. My voice just naturally carries, so even if no-one witnessed our misbehavior, someone was sure to identify my voice and name me as one of the otherwise unidentified miscreants.

For a shamefully long time I failed to learn from this the obvious advantage of keeping my mouth shut! I was a fount of firm opinions, and rarely failed to voice them. This led to many arguments, a considerable number of which I lost because I tended to find my voice without the necessary accompaniment of engaging my brain. Later I would often ask myself, why on earth would you say that? What in the world were you thinking? I failed to answer myself, as I should have, by saying, that's the problem isn't it? You were not thinking.

I added to my difficulties by consistently finding my voice when I was angry; and if there ever is a time to lose your voice, that is it. But no, my voice would be off, seemingly of it's own, volition, speaking whatever words it wanted without reference to me, and most certainly not to my brain which remained silent except occasionally to mumble indistinctly and very sotto voce about big mistakes and future regrets. I could not begin to count how many times I was forced into abject apologies the following day. (I can never decide whether this means I completely flunk steps 8, 9, and possibly 10 of Alcoholics Anonymous, or possibly I have already completed them with flying colors. Suspecting the former must be why I doggedly remain absent from AA.)

However, despite my lack of assistance from AA, I did eventually accept that I needed to change my ways, and for this I needed help. I turned for this to Spirituality. I have been especially blessed in my efforts to follow this path in that my Beautiful Betsy accompanies me. Finding your way along an unfamiliar and often difficult trail is always easier with a companion rather than having to go it alone - especially when that companion is also your soul-mate and the love of your life. Together we have read many books, joined Spirituality groups, listened to CDs and watched wonderfully articulate guests on Oprah's TV series, Supers Soul Sunday.

One of the early books we read, though more self-help in general than Spirituality, contained simple advise I have never forgotten. Remember to ask yourself from time to time, the author says, why am I talking? I find this the ultimate relaxation tool for group situations. Can't get a word in? Not familiar with, or no interest in, the topic? Relax. Just listen. You have no need to talk.

I have become a much more peaceful person, both for others to be around and within myself, since I started down the path of Spirituality. Anger is almost a thing of my past, and when it does overcome me at least I no longer find my voice, at least until I have thought through what I really need to say and how I need to say it. I don't mean to make it sound easy. Given our current socio-political situation in this country, I struggle with the extent to which I should in fact control my anger. I know that in theory I should negate the anger and replace it with calm, positive, action. But is there never a time when anger is justified? Ah, I still have a lot of work to do. Spirituality, like so many things, requires eternal vigilance. And that, in turn, requires something so important to you that you never question the need to pay it constant attention. I have found that in Spirituality. I never intend to go back to the days of finding my voice when I should be losing it.

© October 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.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Men and Women, by Betsy


Outside of the biologically assigned functions of copulation, child bearing and nurturing I don’t see that much INNATELY different between men and women. Most people would not agree with me on this. But I emphasize that I don’t believe there to be huge INHERENT differences. I believe most of the differences are superficial and acquired. Right from day one in our culture it is of the utmost importance to raise your child’s awareness of and flaunt his/her gender. Pink or blue, dolls or trucks, ribbons and bows or baseball cap, long hair or short, everyone knows the norm. Ways of highlighting, accentuating, detailing, and belaboring the differences between the sexes seems to be a preoccupation, if not an obsession, present in our culture. 

This can be easily observed in the traditional roles men and women assign themselves as well. For example, women do the cooking and serving of food; that is until it’s time to cook on the grill outside. Then the man takes over. Is that because women are not supposed to get their hands dirty? I’ve never been able to figure that out. I know men who wouldn’t be caught dead cooking meat in the oven in the kitchen, yet pride themselves on grilling a piece of meat or an entire family dinner on the patio. 

Men fix things, build things, do the driving. Most likely it is the man who does the outside work and possesses the tools. But in reality women can do these things too. Personally, I did not and do not fit well into the traditional roles for which men and women have volunteered. I have always been the one who possessed the tools even when I was married to Bill. I wonder. Is that because I have always been a lesbian; i.e. a deviant female—even when I didn’t know it? I don’t think so. I think it’s because I like tools and I like fixing things. 

My father taught me to use an axe and to use it effectively. Even though I was a puny child I learned well how to split a large log. Fortunately, or maybe by design, I married a man who did not need to play the traditional male roles all the time in order to secure his feeling of manhood. Often I would find myself outside chopping wood for the fire while he was in the kitchen cooking. He actually loved to cook—once in a while. I give him credit too for doing the clean up as well. On the other hand I know some women who do not want and will not allow their husbands or anyone else in “their” kitchen. So perhaps domain has a lot to do with the roles people take on along with personal preference; not just intrinsic gender differences. 

Sure, bearing and nurturing the children and caring for them naturally falls to the female. That means women are more likely to stay home while the men go off to work, to hunt, to cultivate the fields, to fight the wars, etc. 

However, in these modern times it is not unheard of for the care-taking roles to be reversed. There are many women who actually prefer working outside of the home. This I suppose applies mostly to professional women on a career path. At the same time there are many men who love staying home and raising the children. As a mother, I stayed home when the children were babies. I considered myself fortunate to be able to do this, but at the same time I envied my husband who was developing his life-long career of choice. Although it was I who stayed home, I was not the ideal adult to take care of young children. As much as I love my children, I often felt trapped in those early days, unable to get out of my house and out into the adult world. I never felt that I was cut out to be a child care-taker. 

Many women and many men are very good at caring for and educating young children and love to do it. Today men and women do this professionally while mothers and fathers spend their days working their careers. Career or no, today in most cases both parents are working out of necessity. In any case at day’s end working parents are eager and happy to see their little ones. Maybe this is a better way of raising children. 

Another notable but superficial difference between men and women is the clothes they wear. Myself? I’ve always preferred men’s clothes to women’s. They are far more practical and far, far more comfortable. Whose idea was it to put 3 inch spike heels on women’s shoes? Probably someone related to the people who invented foot binding in China. Fortunately we women today are spared from wearing the corsets, bustles, petticoats and other such torture apparel of the past. The spike-heeled shoes are still prevalent however. 

Men, on the other hand, have not totally escaped the inconvenient dictates of fashion. Spats, top hats, and stiff collars would never be appealing in the comfort department. For convenience, simplicity, and ease I’ve often thought going back to the toga might not be a bad idea. This would not go over well with the fashion industry which is thriving in our capitalist system. Now there are the Chinese. The Chinese dress comfortably and in a unisex fashion. But I don’t care to dress in a quilt, no thanks. 

Men definitely have the edge when it comes to physical strength. And it’s a good thing. I am constantly looking for a man to open the cap on my water bottle. Women have better endurance and pain tolerance it seems. So even though we’re not the same in that department, we balance out. 

I have a friend who transitioned from male to female in middle age. She tells me that when you are born male you get a pass that females don’t ever get. Now there’s food for thought and maybe a topic for later discussion. It seems to me, after considering this subject, that there ARE, in fact, some, but very few, INNATE differences between men and women. I would say most of the distinguishing characteristics are the ones people, cultures, and societies have created over the ages and are still constantly devising and fostering.

© 1 May 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.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Tearer, by Ricky


Not to “down-play” the feelings, but tears are nothing more than a physical response to extreme emotions. Tears caused by circumstances that are too horrible to even think about, like: being buried alive or being a passenger on an airliner that is falling to its doom from 40,000 feet or catching the Ebola virus or discovering too late that vampires, werewolves, and zombies are real. Since these thoughts really are too unsettling to think about, I will write about other forms of tears.

Among the less stressful tears in the animal kingdom are the Wire Hair Fox Tearer, the Boston Bull Tearer, and the Scottish Tearer.

Moving up to the next tier on the tear-ladder, most of us can remember Dennis Mitchell, commonly known as Dennis the Menace. His neighbor, Mr. Wilson, considered Dennis to be a Holy Tearer for causing him to shed many tears. Another such boy you may recall is Johnny Dorset who was made famous by O. Henry in his book, The Ransom of Red Chief. Johnny is such a Holy Tearer that his kidnappers paid the boy’s father to take him back. Even The Little Old Lady from Pasadena is known as “The Tearer of Colorado Boulevard” for causing tears in the eyes of all the racers she beat. Hmmmmm. Here’s a thought. Before their son was old enough to know right from wrong, would Joseph and Mary’s many tears caused by a mischievous Jesus label him as being a Holy Tearer?

Many people want to cry tears when extremely happy but can’t, because it would be a patent violation. Some woman owns the rights to all tears. Now known as “Tears of Joy” ®.

If you stop and think about it, we all have been a tearer at one time or another. Most notably when we try to open a small letter or package where the instructions tell us, “To open, tear along the dotted line.” Failing in the act of doing so and crying about it, identifies us as a tearer. People who are very good at tearing are known as tearerists.

To paraphrase FDR, the only thing we must tear-up about is that the Republican Party has again gained control of Congress and the Presidency. Now that is worthy of producing tearerists!

© 23 Oct 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

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Assumptions, by Ray S


Over some 90 decades my life has been one assumption after another, some good, but the majority not so. I recall another old adage, “Never assume; it can make an ass of you and me.” So be alerted. Assumptions can not only be habit forming but lead to some curious circumstances the result of our own making. Again, some good, some not so.

That day I stood on the Capitol steps looking west across Lincoln Street at the Gay Pride celebration in Civic Center Park. It marked the time and place that I committed, after years of stealthy hiding in my hetero-closet, that I joined the tribe. My assumption being that a place called the GLBTQ Center would have room for one more late-blooming queer Troll—a popular term for active geriatrics. That was a good assumption.

It felt so wonderful to be out to family and the three very close straight couples who responded happily for me with the classic rejoinder, “We always knew.” There’s another assumption—who me?

Naively, upon one impulsive search for an evening’s recreation I ventured into the local gentlemen’s athletic club—no, not the DAC or YMCA, but maybe with that song ringing in my ears, Y-M-C-A. This club sported both outdoor and indoor swimming pools and was noted for its hospitality and comradeship. There. ASSUME on that while I commence to relate what followed after I was buzzed in through their hallowed gates.

Many years had passed since my first impromptu visit to these premises, and you guessed it, I assumed nothing had changed but perhaps some twenty-five years on my shoulders. Well things did change that evening. The gate keeper “regretted” to inform me that under new management they had chosen to limit their clientele to what I would call (in the gay vernacular) “Twinks” (free lockers 18-20 aged, and no one that even neared the appearance of being over 32 years of age. It may have amounted to gross discrimination to any gay man even edging the neighborhood of geriatric maturity, no how much dignity and class and elegance a bit of seniority would have leant.

“Sorry, sir, why don’t you try the Uptown on Zuni Street.” Head unbowed I followed his suggestion, no assumption.

I offer this bit of history to those that assume we’re never too old to dream, or assume. As I stated at the beginning of this tale, life is just one big assumption after another until the coroner assumes for you.

I leave you with a very sage assumption by one poet laureate Robert Frost:

“Forgive me, O Lord, my little jokes on thee,
And I’ll forgive thy great big one on me.”



© 27 March 2017


About the Author



Monday, March 12, 2018

Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle


Perhaps I’m too practical to be interested in utopian fantasies. They’ve never appealed to me. After all, I grew up in Kansas and even the Wizard of Oz lived somewhere else and, when found, was shown to be a fraud. I had a friend who grew up near Liberal, Kansas, right there in the center of Dorothy country. He was brilliant, talented in music and organization, a teacher, and probably had red slippers in men’s size 12. He was gay and came to understand life was never utopian although he could dream. I had a different kind of Kansas imagination, but we liked each other and were fine friends for many years. He fled the wheat fields of southwest Kansas. I left the state for more education. We met up in Colorado, Texas, New Mexico, and eventually San Francisco. Now this latter place seemed utopian to him and opened him wide to his sexuality. He lived high on the hill on Castro Street, could watch big ships move in and out of the port, had lots of fun, and felt the kind of acceptance he needed. But it was no utopia. He loved it there, but life in gay San Francisco was not without its hazards. To me it seemed he lived rather fully into all of those hazards. They took their toll, and I made my last trip there to memorialize him, a man who lived and worked to make a gay utopia deliver the goods so Kansans and other people could enjoy who they were or who they wanted to become. I applaud his efforts; I miss him still many years after his memorial service.

I don’t tell this as a sad tale. Of course I cried at my loss of him. I too understood the attraction of the utopia out there by the western sea. I loved being with him walking up and down the steep hills, hearing great musical performances, visiting parks, strolling along the beach, hiking out to Land’s End, talking about life and his life and my own.

The experiments for this kind of utopian life continue in urban centers far beyond the reach of his lifetime. Anytime I am involved, I recall Ted’s contributions. We made music together, danced, and laughed in the little utopia of our friendship. Such utopias are necessary. Their pursuit brings quality and love into human relations. Their possibility asks us to be kind to one another, to applaud all human efforts for equality and freedom, to create pockets of such mutual respect in order to keep hope alive. With this account I memorialize a deceased friend to an extraordinary group of elders and in this most appropriate place where we celebrate our comradeship through telling stories and listening to the stories of others. Our sharing keeps alive the necessary and possible kind of community to support our lives in freedom and in love, even if that community is somewhat less than utopian.

© 5 February 2018


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

Friday, March 9, 2018

Birds, by Pat Gourley

Birds, by Pat Gourley


I attended the local Women’s March on Saturday (1/20/2018) here in Denver. It was an extremely exhilarating event. I have not felt the same empowering and invigorating feeling since some of the earlier Gay Pride demonstrations back when we called them marches and not parades. Yesterday’s Women’s March, estimated by the Denver Post to be 50,000+ strong, most probably had more openly queer folk in attendance than the Pride Marches of the late 1970’s. As discouraging as things seem to be at times today we really are winning the revolution though considerable work and diligence on our part remains so as not to lose any ground.

In keeping with the spirit of powerful women so openly on display yesterday I’d like to acknowledge the work of the great pioneering environmentalist and semi-closeted lesbian Rachel Carson. Her 1962 book Silent Spring is often credited with kick-starting the modern environmental movement. In thinking about today’s topic of Birds it was her book that first came to mind. A significant part of her silent spring would involve the die-off of songbirds, dead and gone due to exposure to chemical pesticides and herbicides.

I certainly did not read Silent Spring when it came out in 1962. I was a farm boy in northern Indiana and perhaps directly involved in spraying DDT containing pesticides on anything that moved. I do remember though reading the book and being profoundly moved by it probably though not until I reached my freshman or sophomore year in college in the late 1960’s.

Carson believed that the eggshells, particularly of large birds of prey, including the American Bald Eagle, were being softened and then collapsing unable to reach hatching maturation by exposure to ddt something so ubiquitous at the time that it was practically being sprinkled on our breakfast cereal. This onslaught from DDT continued until it was banned in 1972 with the Bald Eagle in particular at that time being in danger of extinction in the lower 48 states. The ban though resulted in a gradual increase in Bald Eagle breeding pairs per an article in Scientific American and they were removed from the endangered species list in 2007 in large part due to the pioneering work of our lesbian sister Rachel Carson.

Carson unfortunately died of complications from breast cancer in 1964 and never got to see the fruits of her dedicated labor. It was in a piece from the web site http://queerbio.com/wiki/index.php?title=Main_Page that I learned details of her relationship with another woman. http://queerbio.com/wiki/index.php?title=Rachel_Carson

Carson started a long-term relationship with a married woman named Dorothy Freedman in 1953. The entire relationship though apparently was rather closeted and sadly resulted in Carson destroying all of her personal correspondence before her death, presumably including that with Freedman. This was of course back in the age of letter writing and decades before Facebook and Instagram

Though the two women, again according to the queerbio piece, readily acknowledged their relationship she wanted to avoid the publicity perhaps to not detract from her life’s work and therefore got rid of their correspondence. Sad but understandable, it was 1964 after all. The queerbio piece also states in describing their relationship that there was “no certainty to the extent of its sexual nature”. This observation though screams for my often-repeated Harry Hay belief that “the only thing we have in common with straight people is what we do in bed”.

© January 2018




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.

Thursday, March 8, 2018

Ramsey-Scott Fund, by Jude Gassaway


When my senior thesis abstract was accepted for presentation at the Geological society of America Meeting held at Portland State University, Oregon in 1973, my registration fee and airline travel from San Diego State to Portland State was covered by my Geology Department. Other out-of-pocket expenses were to be borne by myself—a graduate student still living at home. Luckily, the family financial stars were aligned in my favor. My second cousin, Sandy Gassaway, was a Professor of Economic Geography at Portland State. Sandy and his wife, Carolyn, were able to provide room, board, local transportation, and emotional support for my first public appearance in the scientific world.

I was set-up in Sandy’s home office with a comfortable sofa. I examined he books in his study. One item of note was a bound copy of his Doctoral Dissertation. Sandy’s fieldwork took place in inland Scandinavia, near Russia, during the Cold War.

Its loosely remembered title had to do with mapping and interpreting routes of reindeer migration as accompanied by Finn-markians.

One fun and interesting item to be checked in papers such as this (where I did not exactly comprehend the vocabulary or the importance of the study) is to scan the Acknowledgments section. Sandy’s thanks were extensive and comprehensive regarding his professors and Carolyn.

There were two items that I had questions about.

The first was a line-long object/word in a Scandinavian dialect that Sandy thanked profusely for careful and attentive and complete watching of him in his travels throughout the country.

“So”, I asked Sandy, “what did that word and the accompanying phrase mean, exactly?” Prior to Graduate School, Sandy had spent time in the U.S. Army, doing air-photo reconnaissance regarding where Paratroopers should or should no land in battle situations. “Some hops fields, with long pointy sticks holding up the crops, would make a shish-ka-bob of a soldier who landed on one,” he told me. He looked older than most college students.

Although his studies involved extensive walking around in the back-country, getting to individual study areas involved long trips in small commuter ships that plied up and down each fjord, with many stops a day. Once on board, Sandy noticed a man dressed in snap-brim Fedora and a long overcoat, the only person so attired. The man appeared to be watching him. So, to test his theory, Sandy approached the man, and asked for a light for his cigarette. The man complied, their eyes met, Sandy thanked the man, and he wandered off to smoke his cigarette.

At the next stop, Sandy watched as his cigarette lighter man hurried off the ship and headed for a dock-side telephone booth. After a short telephone call, the man reboarded the ship. At the next port, Sandy watched as the first man left the ship—apparently being replaced by another man—also wearing a snap brim hat and a long coat. The men did not acknowledge one another as they passed each other. After the ship continued on, Sandy would casually approach the second man, and again ask for a light for his cigarette.

Otherwise boring trips were brightened as this scene got engineered and repeated several times. Hence the acknowledgment of the watchfulness and dedication of the homeland’s secret service. Here is the actual quota from Sandy’s dissertation: “the members of Norges Sikkerhetsjenneste who provided constant watchful protection and bolstered the author’s spirits with continual amateur entertainment during the field period…”

The second acknowledgement that caught my eye was, at the end, “Thanks for financial aid from The Ramsey Fund of Portland, Oregon.”

Now, I knew this was Alexander Ramsey Gassaway himself, my second cousin, and, upon my query, he immediately announced the creation of the “Ramsey-Scott fund”, which “honored and funded students who supported their own filed studies.” Myself (whose middle name is Scott) was now included. And our partnership was set.

Every now and then, I’d hear from Augustus Ramsey (our fictional patriarch, the President of the Ramsey-Scott Fund). Later on, Sandy and I agreed that the Fund’s permanent address be Box 1, Bonita, California (my parents’ address), because I no longer lived there, and it gave distance and plausibility to the existence of actual disbursable funds.

I eventually became employed by the US Geological Survey, and as a beginning field geologist, I noticed that my field work continued to be supported by my own funds, (also known as The Ramsey-Scott Fund). I would get an Official Travel Authorization to do fieldwork on my project. I would be paid my hourly wage (travel time included) while in the field. I could not get over-time because those costs normally came out of Project Funds, and my Project was simply not funded. I drove my own truck and paid my own way.

Promotions at the USGS were considered by a Committee of peers every year. And every year required up-dating and re-writing one’s in-house resume. Once, noticing a blank space on a page, I just added, in the honorable family tradition: “1984 to present: partially funded by: The Ramsey-Scott fund, Box 1, Bonita, CA”. This also tidied up the page.

Several promotion cycles (years) later, a bright-eyed peer noticed my funding windfall, and she inquired regarding getting funding for her own field work. This request came to the attention of the Branch chief who observed, in horror, that one of his employees, a Federal Civil Servant, was receiving financial aid from An Unknown and Un-vetted Source (and had been, for several years).

I contracted to explain this, and after “telling my story” to the Branch Chief, I made a fast call to Sandy—who immediately got some letterhead and business cards printed. Sandy composed an explanatory letter to the Chief. He explained, (in Augustus Ramsey’s clipped British style) “the fund’s continued enthusiasm and support of Ms Gassaway’s important research on silcrete”; he enclosed the business card, and mailed it to the Branch Chief.

I still didn’t get a promotion and based on some other things, I ceased employment there the following year. The Ramsey-Scott Fund is now retired.

© May 2017



About the Author




Retired USGS Field Geologist.

Founding member, Denver Womens Chorus





Wednesday, March 7, 2018

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 Telling 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 alternate media. I will have found my voice. Wish me a Happy Birthday.

© 23 October 2017



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.