A Picture to Remember, by Ricky

While researching my mind and previous stories, I found one where I described how I would ponder many unusual concepts, ideas, or things in general and then ask “off the wall” questions about those subjects. Last week or so, I had another episode of that behavior and will share it will you.

Can you picture this?

What would a pipe organ sound like if it were tuned to the Oriental music scale?

Try and picture this.

Why are butterflies not called flutter-byes which would be more descriptive?

Last Wednesday, Donald and I went to the Butterfly Museum as neither of us had been there before. We both found it very interesting. At one point, a butterfly landed on Donald’s head and rested for awhile. 




Not long after, one landed on the front of my right thigh and stayed for a respectful amount time before flying off.

We stayed to see the release of newly hatched butterflies into the habitat. A young boy carefully and slowly walked by into the release area while we waited. What was remarkable about the boy was the large butterfly perched on his shoulder. I was getting my camera ready to take a photo and when the boy noticed, he turned and posed for the picture.  

When it was time for the release, a docent described each butterfly as she released one of each of the different types. When she released a swallow-tail butterfly, it flew in a beeline straight for me and landed on the front of my left thigh. This one was in no hurry to leave and actually overstayed its welcome.

For about 10 minutes, I alternated between standing and walking about the habitat providing free transportation to my getting to be unwelcome guest. Donald and I finally arrived at a small gazebo with two benches. We sat down to rest and the butterfly still clung to my leg showing no intention of leaving. At last I tried to get it to leave my leg by offering my finger and the creature moved to my finger.

After a short passage of time, we transferred it to one of Donald’s fingers






and then to a nearby leaf where it stayed while Donald and I left.

The photos I took will help me remember this event well into the future.

Photos by the author

© 13 April 2015

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

A Picture to Remember, by Carol White

In the early 1980s my partner Judith and I had attended the Gay Games in San Francisco, the second one to be held in that city.  It’s actually the Gay Olympics, but the “real” Olympics would not allow us to use that word, so the founders decided to call it the Gay Games.  And they decided that the third one should be held outside the United States, but not too far away, so that it would have more of an “international” flavor to it.  They decided on Vancouver, British Columbia for August 1990, and they would call it Celebration ’90: Gay Games and Cultural Festival, since they were adding many of the arts as well as the sporting events.

Around the beginning of 1988 I got a harebrained idea that it would be fun to organize and conduct a world chorus to sing at that event, and that it would be called the Celebration ’90 Festival Chorus.  So I made a couple of trips to Vancouver to meet with the organizers of the games and managed to convince them to let me do it! 

We formed a small organizing committee in Denver that met in our living room, and we began two years of effort to make that dream come true.  At that time we had no computers and no email and no Facebook or websites to aid us in our recruitment efforts.  So we began to put ads in gay and lesbian publications across the country, as well as advertising through the Gay Games themselves, and trying to use GALA Choruses too, although most of the choruses were not interested because they were so busy with their own rehearsals and concerts.  I rented a P.O. Box at a nearby post office, and I would go by there every day and check to see if we had a new soprano or alto or tenor or bass. 

I decided what music we would sing and we raised money to order all the music, as well as black folders and T-shirts that one of our members had designed.  Somehow I got rehearsal tapes made, which were really the old cassette tapes, and as the time approached, we had mailing parties to send out all the music and tapes and fold and pack all the shirts. 

Meanwhile we were working full time at our jobs and we were not out at work.

After many trials and tribulations, we flew to Vancouver on a Friday in August of 1990 with great anticipation but not knowing exactly what to expect.  The next morning we went to the church where we were supposed to rehearse, and 400 singers showed up with music in hand and ready to go.  We had members from 20 states, seven Canadian provinces, the Yukon Territory, Australia, England, Germany, France, and South Africa.  We arranged them in sections where the congregation would normally sit, and I was up front.  You can just imaging that the first sounds that came out of that choir were absolutely thrilling! 

We had three hours to rehearse that morning, then a lunch break, and that afternoon we rehearsed at B.C. Place, which was Vancouver’s domed stadium, to perform there that very night with three songs for Opening Ceremonies.  They had built risers for us and they were set up on the field. 

By the time we got to the stadium that night for Opening Ceremonies, the energy was through the roof.  There were approximately 10,000 athletes from all over the world, and approximately 10,000 spectators from around the world in the stands who had come to observe.  The chorus went out onto the risers and sang, “Come celebrate, come celebrate, come celebrate our spirit.  The sound of hearts that beat with pride, now let the whole world hear it.” 

Then we sat together in the stands while we had the parade of athletes just like the Olympics, where they marched in in teams from all the different countries and they congregated in the middle of the field.  After some speeches and other performances, the chorus went back out and sang “Do You Hear the People Sing” from Les Mis.  This song happened while they were running the torch into the stadium, and just as they ran up the stairs and lit the Olympic flame, we finished the song with “Tomorrow comes.”  It was midnight. 

The next morning I could hardly get out of bed.  My body ached all over.  But we had to rehearse all morning every morning for a concert that we were going to give on Friday night at the Plaza of Nations, an outdoor venue which had been built for the World’s Fair when it was held there. 

So Sunday through Friday we worked on the concert program as follows:  Diversity, Music of the Night from Phantom of the Opera, March of the Hebrew Captives from Verdi’s Nabucco, Song of Peace from Finlandia, Living with AIDS, The Great Peace March, Brothers and Sisters, and Singing for Our Lives.  And early Friday evening we performed all of those selections to a packed crowd at the Plaza of Nations.  Here is the “picture to remember” from that concert.

Then we rehearsed again on Saturday for the Closing Ceremonies that were to be held that night back at B.C. Place, where we sang “We’re gonna keep on moving forward, Keep on moving forward, Keep on moving forward, Never Turning Back, Never Turning Back.” 

After the chorus sang that night, Judith and our friend Bob and I went up into the stands to watch the rest of the show.  They used the chorus on the field to form two long lines holding up flags for the big parade to pass through.  I remember looking down at that scene as the happiest time in my whole life.  We had actually pulled it off!  I think it was an extremely happy time for a lot of other people there too.

After everyone went back home, several of the individuals who had sung in that chorus organized gay and lesbian choruses in their home towns, including Winnipeg, Manitoba; Toronto, Ontario; Victoria, B.C., and Sydney, Australia. 

I have not attended any Gay Games since then, but it is my understanding that each one has included a Festival Chorus.

© April 2015

About the Author 

I was born in Louisiana in 1939, went to Southern Methodist University in Dallas from 1957 through 1963, with majors in sacred music and choral conducting, was a minister of music for a large Methodist church in Houston for four years, and was fired for being gay in 1967.  After five years of searching, I settled in Denver and spent 30 years here as a freelance court reporter.  From 1980 forward I have been involved with PFLAG Denver, and started and conducted four GLBT choruses:  the PFLAG Festival Chorus, the Denver Women’s Chorus, the Celebration ’90 Festival Chorus for the Gay Games in Vancouver, and Harmony.  I am enjoying my 11-year retirement with my life partner of 32 years, Judith Nelson, riding our bikes, going to concerts, and writing stories for the great SAGE group.

A Picture to Remember by Nicholas

Picture this. Jamie and I are decked out in our tuxedos with purple silk bow ties and purple cummerbund, standing near to each other—he a head taller than me. We have boutonnieres of white carnations in our lapels and we are smiling. We look like two grooms because we are two grooms, celebrating our wedding in 2008.

Now, picture this. We are in a hospital room. Jamie, in a hospital gown, is in bed and has a nasal-gastric tube in his nose. I’m standing next to him wearing a polo shirt and khaki slacks. The minister who officiated at our ceremony is signing our marriage license as our witnesses—my sister, Jamie’s sister-in-law, my nephew, and Jamie’s mom—watch. Just married. Our smiles are trying to make the best of a bad situation.

Which picture is true? Which picture do we really remember? The answer is: both. We have the official picture of our wedding, as it was supposed to have happened. And we have the actual picture of our wedding, as it did happen in Stanford University Hospital. The official photo, which is actually from a reception we held months later, sits proudly on our mantel. The other rests indelibly in our memories of that August day in 2008 when the grand celebration we’d planned all summer turned into a desperate rush to the nearest ER. It sits in a box on a closet shelf.

Early on the morning of our wedding day, Jamie complained of a stomach ache that seemed more than a case of wedding day nerves. At 6 a.m., we went to the Emergency Room at Stanford Hospital where doctors quickly diagnosed that they didn’t know exactly what was going on but Jamie had to stay in the hospital until they could figure it out. Sorry, said the doctors, no wedding that day.

Then someone, I don’t recall who, asked about having our wedding in the hospital. The docs were surprised but said, sure, if the nurses were OK with it. The nurses were thrilled to have a wedding in their hospital and they set about making Jamie look presentable.

We hastily arranged for just family to squeeze into Stanford’s tiny chapel where we recited our vows and were pronounced married. The reception with catered dinner and fancy cake with two grooms on top went on as scheduled since we had 80 people gathered—some travelling from far away—to help us celebrate this momentous day. Jamie, of course, had to remain in the hospital while I, so tired I could hardly think, had to play host—alone. Yes, I received countless good wishes that day but I barely remember that.

A few days later, Jamie was operated on to relieve a bowel obstruction and began a long, slow recovery that kept us both in California for over a month but not for the honeymoon we’d planned.

So, we have our pictures—the one we happily remember and the one we can’t forget.

© March 2015

About the Author

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