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.

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.

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.

Pushing the Buttons, by Lewis Thompson

When I took Drivers' Ed back in 1960, we did our on-the-road learning in a 1957 Mercury Monterey with push-button automatic transmission controls mounted to the left of the steering column on the lower instrument panel.  (Most people over 60, like me, associate push-button shifting with Chrysler Corporation vehicles.)  Mercury went back to column-mounted shifting a year or two later.  I assume that a few too many of their customers were downshifting or upshifting when they meant to change the radio station from WLS in Chicago to KOMA in Oklahoma City.

On some very recent car models, pushing a button is how you start the motor, either gasoline or electric.  Many of us will remember when you would push a button to lock the car doors.  Later models often lock the doors for you when the vehicle reaches a certain speed.  One operation that hasn't changed much is the need to push a button to release the lap/shoulder belt.  Many telephones still require the manual dexterity to push a button to dial or take a call but they are rapidly being phased out by phones that require only a soft, tactile touch to a screen.

I can remember push-button operated door bells, light switches, tape recorders, adding machines, typewriters, office phones, air conditioners, electric mixers, car radios, switch blade knives, and pagers.  Some household items still use pushbuttons today.  For example, pop machines, cell phones, elevators, pedestrian crossing signals, car key fobs, and apartment lobby call boxes.  Almost everything else has converted to a modus operandi that does not involve buttons. 

Soon people will be letting their fingernails grow so long that they can no longer push a button without breaking a nail.  Broken nails used to be a problem for women who wore nylon stockings.  However, since woman don't wear nylon stockings anymore--they went out of style concurrently with buttons--broken nails are no longer an issue unless they make it hard to make the desired selection on a touch screen or micro-switch.  I don't know if this is a problem since I still have many possessions with a button.  Therefore, pushing buttons is a push-over for me.

© 23 Jun 2014  

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.

Raindrops, by Lewis Thompson

·       The following are my favorite images and impressions recalled by the thought of rain—

·       A steady rain beating down on the leaves of a deciduous forest.

·       Rain pattering on the roof of my tent.

·       Hard rain on a tin roof.

·       Catching raindrops with my tongue.

·       The tiny craters made by rain on a smooth, sandy beach.

·       That brief, fleeting moment when I must turn on the car’s wipers or else miss seeing a hazard in the road ahead.

·       That first drop of cold rain as it dashes against my bald head and runs thrillingly down behind my ear.

·       Rain on my eyelashes.

·       Rushing to bring the clothes in off the line before they get soaked.

·       The indescribable thrill of that first clap of thunder.

·       The smell of the air after a gully-washer.

·       Sliding under the bedcovers with the window shade fully up and lightning flashing outside.

·       The way the world looks so freshly scrubbed after a thunderstorm.

·       Carefree lovers kissing in the rain at night.

·       Cats running for shelter.

·       Dogs shaking off the water.

·       Me cleaning up the mess my dog has made in shaking off the water.

·       The sound of water dripping off the eaves after the storm has passed.

·       The first rays of sunlight piercing the clouds after the storm.

·       Catching raindrops in my mouth and complaining when they land in my eye.

·       The eager children who can’t wait to go outside into the freshly washed world.

·       Driving from Winter Park to Empire on U.S. 40 with out-of-state friends and seeing a double rainbow near Berthoud Pass.

·       Standing on our balcony with my beloved Laurin watching a thunderstorm roll in from the west washing across Cheeseman Park.

© 4 Apr 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.

Queer as a $3 Bill, by Lewis Thompson

I see little in common between being “queer” (in so far as that term is used in reference to someone’s sexual orientation) and a “$3 bill”.  This room at the GBLT Center of Denver is filled with individuals of a sexual orientation that has been and still is often self-described as “queer”, that term having lost its pejorative connotation not so long ago.  As for the $3 bill, can I see by a show of hands how many of us have ever seen one? [pause]

A much more apropos expression would be “queer as a $2 bill”.  By this I do not mean to further devalue gays but simply to recognize the fact that $2 bills exist.  I enjoy carrying them in my wallet.  For one thing they are handy for tipping.

This topic begs the question as to how many of us there are—queer folk, that is.  And are there degrees of queerness?  It is related to flamboyance?  Affect?  Appearance?  Lifestyle?  In my experience, I would have to say that the long-tenured belief that queers comprised 10% of the population has long been discredited, unless you want to include men and women who admire their own bodies, in which case the number would likely be much, much higher.  Based upon my personal observations, I would have to estimate the fraction of humans who indentify as queer to be in the order of 1-2%.  I have attended every one of Hutchinson, Kansas, High School’s Class of 1964 reunions.  Out of a class of 450, to my knowledge, I am the only alumnus who is “out of the closet”.  There are a few “suspicious” characters among the lot but nothing definitive.  Based upon that unscientific observation, I would have to conclude that queers comprise about 0.4% of the general population—roughly equivalent to my estimate of the fraction of $2 bills within the wallets and purses of the American populace.

If it weren’t for our straight allies, I think we would be much worse off, both spiritually and physically.  So, allow me to raise a toast to all those “$1 bills” that have kept us safe and allowed us the freedom to show our true colors.

© 14 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.

Preparation, by Lewis Thompson

This is a difficult subject to write about.  First of all, doing something that requires "preparation" usually implies that something is about to happen that I would just as soon not happen at all, such as an appointment with my attorney, having blood drawn, restricted diets, going for a job interview (those days are behind me, thank heavens), or having a colonoscopy.  But it also occurs to me that nearly everyone occasionally has these things happen to them so it would only bore them to hear me talk about how I prep myself for them, as it likely is very close to their own groundwork. 

One exception, however--and perhaps someone will have chosen to write about this--is preparing oneself for one's own death.  And, when I say this, I don't mean wills and durable-powers-of-attorney.  I'm talking about how people choose to die--the when, where, and with the assistance of whom.  However, I haven't prepared the necessary groundwork to write about that subject, so I shall have to punt and simply describe what I see as the requisite characteristics of something for which preparation is normally required--or not.  Here is my list:

1.    My first rule on the subject of preparation is to never prepare for something that can be avoided.  Preparation is work, some of it unpleasant or tedious.  It's much better simply to change your plans to allow you to avoid any preparation and simply relax and do something you enjoy instead.

2.    Second, never make preparations yourself that you can get someone else to do for you.  I like to have a clean car when I begin a road trip.  I used to wash my car myself, which only detracted from the pleasure of travelling. Now, I take my car to the car wash and have the hard work done by someone else.  I can recoup the cost simply by driving slower, thus saving on gas.

3.    Third, I avoid potlucks.  At potlucks, you are expected to prepare something to share with others.  Since I don't cook, I usually skip potlucks--unless, that is, I take the time to take advantage of my 2nd point and buy something that someone else has made and take that.

4.    Similarly, I avoid family reunions.  I used to spend hours trying to memorize the names of my family members so I could properly greet them at the reunions.  Since I had nine aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins, that was very time-consuming.  Fortunately, they were scattered to the four corners of the USA, so it was rarely necessary.

5.    As I mentioned before, I don't cook.  The closest I come is when I make popcorn in the microwave.  Cooking is nothing if not preparation.  Now, I take advantage of wonderful cooks who do the prep for me.  They say time is money and, in this case, it is money well-spent--on such things as eating out and frozen entrees and dinners.  I won't tell you which brands I like because I'm not prepared to try to beat you all to the frozen food aisle at Queen Soopers before they're sold out.

As I'm not prepared to write any more, I'll just stop here.  If you take only one thing with you from this little missive of mine, let it be this:  preparations are for people who are either anal-retentive or control freaks.  They should think about being less prepared and more available to enjoy life fully.

© 17 Aug 2017 

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.

Piece O'Cake, by Lewis Thompson

Pope Francis recently announced that his tenure in office might just be more brief than the world had expected.  Not because of a health issue--at least, not his physical health.  No, it seems that Pope Francis is growing tired of the pomp, ceremony, and public attention that goes with his office.  More than power, more than influence, the man longs for the simple, everyday ability to slip out for a pizza without drawing a crowd.

I suspect that Pope Francis, much as I do, realizes that what nurtures his soul is not so much rules and rituals designed to bring us closer to the Divine, however we define that concept.  In the end, as our days get short, we realize that it is the simple things in life that reach our heart the most; the walk in a park, an intimate conversation with a friend, listening to a favorite bit of music, an inspirational speech, an act of kindness, an expression of love, a perfect pizza with a beloved friend--that elicits a tear, sparks a squeal of delight, or makes us feel warm and fuzzy inside.

For me, these are the kinds of things that make me glad to be alive.  They put the icing on the cake.  I think I'll have another piece.

© 16 Mar 2015 

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.

Poetry, by Lewis Thompson

When Death Comes

--by Mary Oliver (Oct 03, 2006)

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn; 

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; 

when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore, I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

--Mary Oliver

© 30 Jun 2014 

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 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.

Ghosts, by Lewis Thompson

Ghosts are not the spirits of the dead hanging around to haunt us. They are creations of our own feelings of guilt. Regret is the only ghost we have to fear.

© 24 April 2017

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 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.

Doors, by Lewis Thompson

There have likely been a few million types of doors throughout history and many purposes for which doors have been employed, privacy and security chief among them. The most important thing to know about any door, however, is not what it's made of or how large or small or how old or intricate its design. No, the only thing that really counts when it comes to doors is whether they are open or closed.

You can tell a lot about a person from knowing how cautious they are about keeping their doors locked. One person on my floor locks her door even when she leaves her apartment to do her laundry at the other end of the hallway.

Some commercial enterprises advertise that their doors are always open. This past weekend was the occasion of the annual Doors Open Denver--a chance to see parts of the city that may not normally be accessible to the unwashed.

In the history of Western Civilization, the most famous door was probably the stone that covered the entrance to the tomb where Jesus' body was placed following his crucifixion. Had it never (as legend has it) been mysteriously opened, one of the world's great religions may well have never taken root.

When I was a boy, we had a small ranch house with a single-car, attached garage. The roll-up door was not powered. I used to catch grasshoppers, pull off their hind legs and put them in the track of the open garage door and then close it so that the roller would pass over them. Did you know that grasshopper guts look like long orange grains of rice?

It seems to me that some people are like closets full of treasures behind locked doors. It's as if they believe that exposing themselves would tempt others to do them harm. Or perhaps they think that others would be disappointed in what was revealed. I used to be one of these people, shut up behind a closed door. I thought if others could see me in the light, they would think I was ugly. But, at long last, one person gently knocked on my door and invited me to come out. I found out that opening the door let the light in and the fear out. Now, I always try to leave the door unlocked with a welcome sign on it.

© 27 April 2015

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 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.

Away from Home, by Lewis Thompson

I have shared here before my story about my first summer camp experience when I was about eleven years old and, after about four days of utter misery and homesickness, wrote a letter to my parents saying, "If you love me, you'll come and get me." Well, that experiment didn't work out as I had hoped so I adapted and learned that being away from home wasn't as bad as it first appeared.

After high school and two years of community college, I was actually eager to go away to university and leave my parents to fend for themselves. I suspect that they were as relieved as I was...or, at least, that was likely true for my mother. I remember that it was at about this time that my dad first started giving me a hug at home-comings and -goings.

After graduation, with engineering degree in hand, I began applying for work. I had only two interviews in my home state--one with Kansas Power and Light and the other with General Electric in Kansas City. My other interviews were with corporations in Ohio or Michigan. When I told my parents that I was accepting a job at Ford, I was pretty certain that Dad would be proud, as he had always been a "Ford Man". But I also knew that he would be sorry to see me move so far away. I was his only child. (My mother had a son and daughter from an earlier marriage who lived in nearby Pratt, Kansas.)

My parents were both pleased when I married and became a father in my own right. They both liked my wife, Jan, and she them. When Jan and I married and bought our first house, I approached my parents about a loan for the down-payment. My mother nixed the idea. It wasn't a lot of money, only $1200, with a promise to pay it off within a year. (The year was 1972. The mortgage was only $24,000. In those days, you could buy a lot of house in Detroit for that money.) We ended up borrowing the money from Jan's parents, interest-free. I never quite forgave my mother for that slight.

My parents and I exchanged visits back-and-forth as often as we could and even took vacations to Colorado together with Jan's parents. My mother, always reserved, seemed to look down her nose a bit at my in-laws, neither of whom was college-educated. Mom did not have a diploma, either, mostly due to the inability to pay for it as her parents thought that sending a daughter to college was a waste of good money. Perhaps that fact sheds some light on why she was so reluctant to help Jan and me out financially. (This thought just occurs to me as I write this. See what writing one's memoirs can do to shed light into long-darkened corners!)

I have attended every high school reunion for the Hutch High Class of 1964 since graduation. On one such occasion, after both of my parents had died, I parked my car across the street from the house I had lived in until I was of kindergarten age. As I sat in the car alone, I was overcome by a wave of grief that left me sobbing uncontrollably--no particular memories, simply gut-wrenching emotion. It was as if a part of me were still there, trapped in that house, and could only be redeemed by getting away from home and never going back.

[P.S. Nothing in this story is intended to be, can be construed to be, or has even the slightest relation to anything "experimental".]

© 3 August 2015

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 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.

Ten Good Things about Being Gay, by Lewis Thompson

1. Not being straight (roads are always more fun when curved).

2. Not needing help to put an outfit together.

3. Being able to enjoy “chic flicks” even when not a chic.

4. Having friends of the other gender without all the bullshit that goes with romance.

5. Never having to shop for fishing gear.

6. Being able to mix with both genders at parties.

7. Never being chastised for not putting the toilet seat down.

8. Being able to trade clothes with my lover.

9. Feeling special without doing anything special.

10. Coming to Storytellers every Monday.


© 27 Jun 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 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.