When I Knew, by Nicholas

Don’t you get tired of being asked, well, when did you know? I don’t know. Or, I always knew. When did you know? 

You know how it goes. If I knew then what I know now would I have done what I did? Or would I have done it sooner? 

When I knew was when I knew enough to know that I didn’t want to know. 

When I knew was when I noticed that my eyes were drawn to seeing men and that women were just walking by.

When I knew was when I began to see those men when they weren’t around. 

When I knew was when I began to see those men when my eyes were closed. 

When I knew was when I was out with a date and she gazed longingly at me while I was thinking: I should go. 

When I knew was when I saw men ballet dancers doing beautiful things with their beautiful bodies. Swaying, leaping, turning, lunging.

When I knew was when I saw a picture in the newspaper of men mourning the passage of a referendum rescinding a civil rights ordinance in St. Paul, Minnesota. I wanted to be with them.

When I knew was when I said to myself: I am goddam sick of being alone.

When I knew was when I walked up to the booth for Gay Rights at the Ohio state fair and said, I’m with you.

When I knew was when I knew I wanted to love those men.

When I knew was when I knew I wanted to be loved by those men.

When I knew was when a friend, soon to be a boyfriend, held me in his arms and got me naked. I’ve been naked ever since.

When I knew was when I a stranger walked into a Dignity meeting and said: God, I’m home.

That’s when I knew

© 2 April 2018

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.

The Effects of Side Effects, by Nicholas

I went to see my doctor the other day. In the course of our visit, I told him that I did not like a medication he put me on a year ago. The medicine seems to work OK in helping me keep my blood pressure at acceptable levels. But I told him I did not care for some of the side effects and I wondered if there was something else that didn’t have those side effects. There are, after all, a million blood pressure meds available.

Yes, of course, he said, here is something else you can take and handed me a new prescription. Great, I thought. I can get rid of those annoying problems. When I got the script filled, the pharmacist asked me if I’d used this med before. I explained to him that this was new to me to avoid the side effects of another med. Yes, he said, it will not give you those problems, but it will cause other side effects, like slowing your heart rate and you might get tired more easily.

But I get tired already, I thought. I don’t need a medication to enhance that. I went home and got on the computer and started Googling this med to see what else it might do that I should be warned about. Up popped a long list of side effects from fatigue to constipation to sleeplessness and about 20 other things I don’t really need help with. I stopped at “in rare cases, may cause an urge to suicide.” So, I guess I’ll stay away from railroad crossings and high bridges.

I sighed. It seemed I was just swapping one unpleasantry for another unpleasantry.

Why is it that medications produce only negative side effects? I want medication with positive side effects. Like these.

Imagine these warnings as part of the requirement for truth in labeling. This medication:

1. May cause a sunny disposition.

2. May enable you to laugh more—even at jokes that aren’t actually that funny.

3. Will enhance the taste of chocolate, especially with red wine, even the cheap stuff from Trader Joe’s.

4. Warning about operating a vehicle: When starting this medication, get in your car and drive. Go as far as you want.

5. Can cause a rash of good feeling toward others.

6. Can cause an itch to travel to exotic places where people wear less clothing.

7. Can make you laugh. If laughing lasts more than four hours, seek medical treatment immediately.

8. May stimulate an urge to listen to old Joan Baez records. Stop taking immediately if listening to Joan Baez for more than four hours.

9. Call your doctor if you notice a funny story to tell about your dog or cat.

10. In rare cases, can improve your tennis serve.

11. Can diminish your fear of Republicans.

12. Do take if you are pregnant, planning to become pregnant, or otherwise will be around children of any age.

13. May cause constipation—in people you don’t like.

14. May cause you to fall in love with the next person you see. Do not administer more than six doses in a 24-hour period.

15. May increase your need to eat banana cream pie.

16. May increase agility on the dance floor.

17. May decrease your urge to read a newspaper or watch the news on TV.

In rare cases, some users of this medication have reported that it actually worked. So, don’t go killing yourself.

© 22 April 2018


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.

Ah, springtime! by Nicholas

I love winter. I love putting the gardens to bed before the freeze sets in. I like the bracing cold and bundling up with scarves and gloves. I love a snowy night huddling up under a blanket to read. I love seeing the snow in the trees. I like the heightened sense of distinction of warm shelter inside and cold outside. I even like the darkness and sleeping in.

But come April, whether the winter has been heavy or light or, like this year, absent, I am ready to throw off all that and welcome the first signs of spring. Whether or not there was much of a freeze, there is always a warm thaw. It feels so good to emerge into the sunshine of a warm day. Each morning gets lighter a little earlier and each evening the light stays a little longer. Soon, I will be awakened around dawn by the birds singing to let the whole neighborhood know that they’re here looking for love in the springtime.
It’s wonderful to see the return of colors in the first blooms—the yellow forsythia always announces the coming of spring in my yard by early March. Then comes the blue of the crocus, the daffodils, the red, yellow, and orange tulips, the white crabapple and, most glorious of all, the purple/magenta of the redbud trees. Already the bees are showing up looking for food in the early blooms.

Because seasons transition gradually and at their own pace, the spring colors can find themselves wearing a topping of winter white. Spring snow has its own beauty—at least when it is not crushing the new flowers with its weight. The other morning, the yellow forsythia seemed even brighter with a white edge on the blooms.

Now it feels great to be outside without battling the elements. It is time to get outside. Time for no jacket and scarf. Of course, other elements present problems—like wind. One day I got out for a bike ride—out from my basement spinning—and was lashed with gusts of wind. Felt good to get outside but my eyes were smarting from the wind and dust.

I am amazed at how quickly the dead brown grass turned a brilliant green. Just a little moisture from snow and rain is all it took.

Jamie and I just finished aerating the little bit of lawn we have— most of our yard is planted in shrubs and perennials and not grass. Next, I will begin to turn over the garden plot to get it ready for planting.

Spring is when I rediscover my garden. Start pulling weeds— weeds always seem to get a jump start on all other plants. I start to uncover the garden from its winter mulch or just junk accumulated or blown into place by the winter wind. I see what has survived and what needs help. The rosemary bush seems to have survived another winter although it needs a good pruning of the winter kill branches. The sage is sprouting new leaves and the tarragon is starting to grow again. Best of all, the arugula and the chives can be picked for delicious spring salads. We are already eating from our backyard. And of course, I start to envision where the new garden will be planted so I will have summer tomatoes and squash and basil and eggplant.

By June, I will be looking forward to the dry heat and the easy living of summer. And all the fresh fruits and vegetables. And then I will look forward again to the cool relief of autumn which will lead again into the cold of winter and the return indoors. But now it is spring and time to watch the earth come back to life.

© 15 April 2018 

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.

GLBT Hopes, by Nicholas

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.

It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to have.

So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.

But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall be allowed to do their business in which ones.

We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.

I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.

Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we want to, not because we have to.

Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating, you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just don’t get it.

© 8 Jan 2017 

[Editor's note: This was first published last year. It still seems so pertinent. Enjoy and be moved.]

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.

How I Learned Some Turkey Anatomy, by Nicholas

It was our first Thanksgiving together so we invited a bunch of friends over to share a dinner. Jamie and I were to cook the turkey and other people were assigned other courses for a sumptuous meal.

We got the bird which was frozen but no problem, we knew enough to leave it in the frig for a few days to thaw out. It seemed to be doing so nicely and on Thanksgiving morning as I prepared the stuffing and prepped the turkey, things were moving along smoothly.Turkey in the oven, we were on our way to a feast.

The first sign of trouble came innocently enough when Jamie was talking to his mother about our celebration. I should point out that this Thanksgiving was a kind of late rebellion on his part. We had decided not to go to his parents for dinner, even though they were nearby, so we could have our own gathering with friends. But mothers have that knack for asking questions that can throw your plans right into the rubbish.

Bragging about our turkey in the oven, mom posed the question, “Did you get the giblets and stuff out of both ends of the turkey?”

What “both ends,” I demanded. Of course we’d pried out a bag of turkey parts from its hollow innards. But was there more in some other secret cavity? Was there something stuffed up its ass, too?

So, we hauled the bird out of the oven and poked around its backside to find out that not only was there another pouch of miscellaneous bits but that our future dinner was still, actually, frozen. Well, it did seem a little stiff when we stuffed it but now we realized we had a still frozen 12-15 pound animal and all bets were off as just when dinner would be served.

We threw the thing back into the oven and cranked up the temperature. Nothing much happened. We turned the oven up higher. Still, not much changed. It was turkey’s revenge—it would cook in its own time and never mind our plans for dinner.

Our guests started arriving and our main course was just thawing out. We had appetizers and wine and conversation while the bird began to show some sign of cooking. We reversed the order of the meal and served other courses like salad, potatoes and vegetable and more wine until at long last we pulled from the oven what we hoped was a cooked turkey. I can’t even remember what it tasted like. I guess it was good or we were all too hungry to care. Everybody ate it, nobody got sick. It was a fun time, even though a disaster.

My first venture into real cooking did not augur well for pursuing culinary delights. But, as it happens, one gets hungry and has to repeatedly do something about it. Peanut butter sandwiches as a diet are not that appealing. So, despite being shamed by a turkey, the lowest form of conscious life on this planet, I did go back into that kitchen with the intention of turning food into meals.

I am happy to report that success followed my persistence. Hunger is a good teacher and I have come since to associate the kitchen with many satisfactions and pleasures.

I love to indulge myself and what higher form of indulgence is there than food. And food grows ever more satisfying with age. Taste grows more complex and nuanced with age and taste buds, unlike other body parts, actually work better as you grow older. Kids can be finicky eaters, it has been said, because their underdeveloped taste buds aren’t working to their full capacity with just sweet and bitter dominating their little palates.

I like food. I like everything to do with food—shopping for it, growing it, picking it in the garden, preparing it, cooking it, eating and sharing it with others. I like reading about food and cooking; I like planning big meals. My favorite store in the whole world is the Savory Spice Shop down on Platte Street. Walking in their door is entering a different world full of wonderful aromas that hint of countless flavors from the dozens of herbs, spices and exotic salts on the shelves. The variations and sensations are near endless in my imagination.

Cooking is now part of my identity. I love to cook. Well, I just love food. Cooking is now a creative endeavor as I tend to use recipes not as instructions but for inspiration and as suggestions as to what goes well together and in what measure. Many times I simply dispense with recipes and make it up on the basis of what’s in the frig and hunches. The hunches—like adding paprika and dry mustard to a stew—usually pay off, i.e., are edible, but sometimes they do not turn out so well. Those I won’t go into.

Food has its rituals that can be likened to religious liturgies culminating with the sharing of sacrament. Food is work and joy, is nourishment and pleasure and connotes special relationships to those you share it with and to the earth it comes from.

So, let me officially launch this great season of holiday feasting—my favorite time of the year—with the words: Ladies and gentlemen, start your ovens. Let the eating begin!

[Editor's note: This piece was first published in this blog in 2012.]

© November 2012

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.

Plumage, by Nicholas

          I like scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people. Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are and even what side you take.

          I’m always surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.

          Scarves can also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes and I have a fuchsia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be so gay.

          Political statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.

          My favorite scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17 districts of the old medieval city.

These banners are used by neighborhood teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15^th century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town. Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and very bright colors.

So, wearing a scarf can be more than putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.

©  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.

Fitness is a Piece of Cake, by Nicholas

Fitness is one of those things that you are better off having than not having. But fitness is also something I love to ridicule and that is because some people—gay men among them—take it to absurd extremes.

Fitness can be hard to define and has many meanings. One man’s fitness can be another man’s piece of cake. The cake of course has to be organic and with a carrot thrown in so it’s healthy. I find if you put enough cream cheese in the frosting, however, you can overcome any health benefit from the carrot. Health and fitness don’t necessarily go together. I was never so fit as when years ago I used to dance all night after doing the right drugs, the kind that make you dance all night. I had a waist so small, I could hardly even measure it. But health wise—I don’t recommend it.

For me, true fitness is an elusive optimal state of health. Right now, in mid-summer, I see myself as being in peak condition. I have for over a month now been bicycling 50 miles each week and have reached a kind of plateau in strength and endurance. My diet has shifted as well to a summer feast of fresh fruits and vegetables, many of which I pick in my own backyard—basil, kale, summer squashes, tomatoes. My summer weight is ten pounds less than my winter weight. Summer means fitness.

Balance of course is key. So, I balance the fresh stuff with a cold beer before dinner and ice cream after. I wouldn’t touch a health shake or a protein bar unless I was starving. Fitness is one thing; health nut is another and I am not a health nut. Optimal means somewhere between energetic and relaxed. I’ll never be accused of overdoing it.

I know some guys who are into what is called cross-fit training. Cross-fit is to fitness what sack cloth and self-flagellation are to religion—a chance to be mean to yourself and feel self-righteous and brag about it. It isn’t fitness or health, it is punishment. Cross fit is ruthless with its extremes of running, jumping, doing push ups and pull ups, lifting weights, and forcing your body to do things it doesn’t want to do and probably shouldn’t.

You might ask: What is all this fitness for? So, you can type faster on your computer? So, you can look prettier on your computer? So you can measure up to the high standards of Grindr. Since muscles have no intrinsic health value, why all this body building? The desire for muscles seems to be in inverse proportion to the need. Having no practical value, I guess that those built up bodies must be for display purposes only.

Physical fitness is good for you but I think we should pay more attention to mental fitness and on that scale our society is pretty flabby. We don’t exercise our minds and feed it constant junk food. Showing intelligence is regarded as just showing off. No wonder some Americans want to get rid of access to health care. And others can’t figure out that that’s a bad idea. Instead of intelligence—or mental fitness—we get the mental equivalent of cross fit training—lots of training to navigate complicated computer programs, for example. But no smarts.

Fitness is for those who have a lifestyle and I gave up a lifestyle ages ago. Nevertheless, I try to stay fit.

© 30 Jul 2017 

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.

Ghosts Are Everywhere, by Nicholas

Now, I don’t believe in ghosts. But I know that my life is full of them. I don’t mean ghosts who go around rearranging the furniture in my house or turning lights off or on. And I don’t mean ghosts that are just faint memories of past people and places. Remembering is part of it but remembering is just a mental act of recall. I mean a sense of the presence of someone or something that is not here. I mean a sense of place when you’re not in that place and haven’t been for a long, long time.

Memories can be triggers. So can sounds, especially music, and flavors and smells. The scent of patchouli always immediately takes me back to Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park in 1968. It’s a sensation, not a thought, of the past. Certain Grateful Dead songs do it, like Black Peter and Sugaree, give me more than a musical memory. Expecting to Fly by Buffalo Springfield, almost anything by the Moody Blues re-create places like funky living rooms in San Francisco flats I have lived in. I associate songs by Steve Miller with climbing Mt. Tamalpais north of San Francisco. I have no idea why. They probably ran through my mind when I was doing that.

Joni Mitchell songs are also very evocative for me. I recall walking down a street one sunny morning hearing Night in the City wafting from someone’s open window. The image has stuck with me. Sometimes when I’m in San Francisco, I walk down that same block as I did decades ago. Yes, the song is still there.

I will be in San Francisco in a few weeks. That city is full of ghosts everywhere. I am still most attached to the two cities where I know the most ghosts: Cleveland where I grew up and San Francisco where I also grew up. Denver holds few ghosts for me and the least attachments though I have lived here a long time.

Hometowns imprint themselves on your memory bank much like first impressions are said to happen with ducklings. The first things seen become the mother of all further impressions, a standard by which all experience is ranked. I guess our creative imaginations are then a blank screen ready to receive whatever pictures show up.

When I go back to my hometown, I see ghosts. The city is a fraction of the size it was when I was a kid. The crowds are mostly gone and with them, the once bustling city. Rapid transit trains that I rode as rattling, noisy and packed are now brand new, quiet and rarely packed. But I see the ghosts.

And when I really want to be with the ghosts, I go to one of the grand old cemeteries that hold members of my family and my ancestors. Those ghosts aren’t going anywhere. I can count on them staying put.

Actually, ghosts don’t move around much. In San Francisco, everybody moves frequently but the ghosts stick around. At the AIDS Memorial Grove in Golden Gate Park there are lots of ghosts. One has only to sit still and they show up. That used to be true of other places around the city but many of those—like the Trocadero disco—are gone and have become ghosts themselves. Even Castro Street has lots of ghosts on it as baby strollers have peculiarly replaced men in plaid flannel shirts.

Ghosts are fun. My ghosts are anyway. They love to dance—many of them are crazy about ABBA and, of course, Diana Ross.

When I was a kid, my father loved to tell stories about when he was a kid and his grandfather knew a bunch of old army veterans from the Civil War. Dad sat and listened as these old guys told their war stories. More than remembering and telling, they, and my dad through them, relived those experiences at each retelling. Now, I know what he felt.

© 23 April 2017

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.

Eyes of Love, by Nicholas

The eyes of my love are blue. A pale blue. The soft blue of a summer morning sky gently waking.

They are sleepy eyes saying good morning.

Sometimes, they are smiling eyes greeting me after I’ve been away.

Sometimes, they are eyes focused on a crossword puzzle, brow furrowed. What’s a three-letter word for love, he calls out. You, I say.

Sometimes, those eyes are more gray with frustration, especially with a computer connection that just won’t work.

Other times, those eyes glare with annoyance or anger at something I did or said. We have a rule in our house: it’s OK to get mad but it is not OK to stay mad. Then we look into each other’s eyes and say I’m sorry.

There have been times when those eyes were dull and downcast and in pain while recovering from illness or a difficult surgery. Gradually, I watched the sparkle come back to those eyes.

A few times, tears have swollen up out of those eyes like the day we both blubbered through our wedding vows.

Sometimes, those eyes look up in surprise catching me just looking at him. What, he says. Oh, nothing, I say.

My favorite, of course, is when those eyes flash with desire and we tumble into one another’s arms and hold on to each other.

The eyes of my love are a pale blue. The eyes I hope to always be in.

© 18 June 2017

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.

Flowers, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.

I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks flowers will appear.

When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary coastal winter with their delicate brightness.

Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by about a month.

Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows, oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days. Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that will kill them off.

Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them. Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the weather is more favorable.

Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them all to the ground.

When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day. Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end of May.

Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.

When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they, frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However, the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.

All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula flowers seem to be especial favorites.

I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows. But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August. Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers. And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.

Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.

So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.

© 13 Jun 17 

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.

LGBT Hopes, by Nicholas

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.

It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to have.

So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.

But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall be allowed to do their business in which ones.

We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.

I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.

Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we want to, not because we have to.

Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating, you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just don’t get it.

© 8 Jan 2017 

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.

I Used to ... but Now I ... by Nicholas

I used to ride 50 miles in a day on my bicycle. Now I do it in a week—most weeks.

I used to use a telephone like a telephone to talk to people. Now I send text messages and check email. Sometimes I’m even hoping that no one answers my call so I can just leave a message and not actually have to talk, as in carry on a conversation, with a human being.

I used to love working in my garden and I still do but my back says, get real, or I’ll hurt you.

I used to wonder what to call Jamie. Now he’s my husband. I agree, we need some new terminology to avoid all the baggage of husband and wife.

I used to think that I had nothing in common with my parents and would live a much better life because I just knew more about how to live a better life. Now, I think of them as my role models for aging well, knowing when to quit it and when to hit it.

I used to think I was brilliant and would go far in this world. Now, I don’t think I’m so brilliant but I have gone far in this world, to many places I never dreamed of, and I’m still pretty smart.

I used to be closeted, confused and alone. Now I’m not. Well, maybe still confused.

I used to try to keep up with national and world events and politics and give excellent opinions on important matters. Now, it’s all beyond me. If I had a prescription for all the world’s ills, or even any one of them, I would not hesitate to send it out to all concerned parties. But I don’t.

I used to read newspapers regularly. Now there aren’t any.

I used to feel free to have second helpings of dessert. Not anymore.

I used to ask God for help, for strength, for forgiveness. Now I’d just ask for an apology.

I used to seek more freedom. Now, I guess I have it.

© 2014

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.

True Colors, by Nicholas

Take a Walk in the Grove

I want to tell a story today that involves one of our own, a member of this group. It’s about a group of people who showed their true colors in their loyalty to one friend and created a unique space for our entire community. Along the South Platte River on the edge of downtown Denver, is an area of Commons Park designated as a spot to remember those who have died of HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. It’s called The Grove and it is one of only two AIDS memorial gardens in this country—the other is in San Francisco. Our own Randy Wren was part of that group that labored for seven years to make it happen.

The Grove started with one man’s vision. Doug McNeil knew of the memorial grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and asked, literally as his dying wish, why can’t Denver create such a spot. Doug died of AIDS in 1993, a time when the LGBT community was focused more on the battle to undo the infamous Amendment 2 than on the AIDS epidemic. Amendment 2, passed by Colorado voters in 1992, prohibited any government or government agency in this state from enacting any provisions to ban discrimination against lesbian and gay people. (There’s an excellent exhibition on that history outside this door in The Center’s lobby.) And it was a time of still rampant AIDS phobia.

A small group of Doug’s friends vowed to carry out his dream for The Grove. They weren’t the usual gaggle of community activists and politicos. They included socialites, arts community supporters, an attorney, and an Episcopal priest. Most were not gay. They organized a non-profit group called The Grove Project, got 501c3 IRS status so they could collect funds, and began the long process of taking on the bureaucracy of the city’s Parks Department.

The Parks Department never openly rejected the idea but negotiations dragged on for years. At first, the area in front of the performing arts complex on Speer Blvd was proposed. The city objected that theatre and concert goers wouldn’t want to be reminded of the awfulness of AIDS on their nights out on the town. Another location in a park in southeast Denver was suggested but that would have left the memorial far from the Capitol Hill neighborhood that was most affected by AIDS.

At some point, the riverfront came into the discussion. At that time, the area was just beginning to be developed. There was a quiet, somewhat out of the way spot in a new park—Commons Park—that the city was planning. That fit the criteria of being visible, centrally located and quiet enough to promote the atmosphere desired.

The Grove was envisioned to be a natural area for contemplation. It was landscaped very simply with trees, natural grasses and shrubs, and some rocks. A simple inscription reads: “Dedicated to the remembrance of those who have lost their lives to AIDS and to their loving caregivers who helped them live out those lives with dignity.”

The Grove was dedicated in a simple ceremony in August 2000. Doug McNeil’s loyal and persistent friends accomplished his dream after seven years of work.

Now, The Grove sits largely ignored and sort of neglected in a recessed corner of Commons Park, near 15th Street and Little Raven Street. It is surrounded by high priced condos and apartments but it is still a quiet and attractive area.

Recently, a movement got underway to renew the spot, clean it up, refresh the landscaping and, most importantly, make the community aware that this historical and spiritual resource exists. In recalling all the individuals who battled, and continue to battle AIDS, we remember how our community grew from that experience. We remember those we’ve lost. We remember when being gay changed from just giving the most fabulous parties to a truly mature community of caregivers and advocates. We remember our past and that we have a history. A history that is the root of our present and future.

I encourage everyone to seek out The Grove and spend a few quiet moments there remembering. And maybe you can help in its renewal. You too can show your true colors.

© 2016

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.

The Recliner, by Nicholas

Last week I mentioned that my heroes include my parents, whom I strive to emulate in many ways. One of those ways is napping.

When I was a kid, my mother worked so I and my sisters had chores to do in getting dinner ready like cooking a pot of potatoes and setting the table. Mom would come home and put the finishing touches on dinner. We would all gather and share dinner and then Mom would put things away as I or my sisters washed the dishes.

Then Mom would go upstairs and change out of her work clothes and into a nice warm caftan and her slippers for an evening of relaxing.

If it wasn’t my night to wash dishes, right after dinner I’d head to the big recliner in the living room, put my feet up using the wood crank on the side to lift the footrest and read or watch TV. I knew it was my only chance to get into that chair because it was Mom’s chair. She only needed to walk over to the chair, look at whoever was occupying it, and you knew your time was up. My father knew never even to try but we kids would steal a few minutes now and then. We might pretend to resist but just a glance from Mom was enough to enforce her prior right to the recliner. Objections were made only in jest. I would, in grumpy kid fashion, of course yield, put down my feet, slowly rise from the chair, and find somewhere else to sit. She would joke how I’d warmed it up nicely for her.

Mom took to her recliner like it was her nightly throne. Putting her legs up on the raised footrest, she would read the newspaper or watch some TV. Many times she would pull out her favorite rosary and say her prayers, a habit she continued from her mother who prayed many rosaries every day.

Pretty soon, however, the recliner triumphed. Mom’s head would droop forward or to the side, her eyes closed, rosary beads lying still in her hands. After a bit of a snooze, she would awake all refreshed and act like nothing had happened. She joined in any conversation going on and then continued her prayers or watching TV. I marveled at how watching TV did not seem to interfere with her prayers nor vice versa.

I don’t own a recliner but I do have a Morris chair in my living room which can be adjusted to almost recliner levels. After dinner, while Jamie cleans up, I stretch out in my chair. Rarely do I have to chase Jamie out of it. He knows whose chair this is. I don’t say rosaries and there is no TV to watch but I do sometimes wrap myself in a cozy, light wool blanket on a cold evening as I settle in to do some reading. I read until the book starts to droop along with my eyelids which eventually shut as I doze off. After a short time, the book clatters to the floor, rudely waking me up. And then I’m good for a few more chapters.

© January 2017

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.

Marking the Seasons, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.

I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks flowers will appear.

When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary coastal winter with their delicate brightness.

Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by about a month.

Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows, oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days. Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that will kill them off.

Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them. Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the weather is more favorable.

Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them all to the ground.

When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day. Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end of May.

Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.

When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they, frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However, the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.

All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula flowers seem to be especial favorites.

I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows. But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August. Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers. And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.

Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.

So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.

© February 2017

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.

New Year Hopes for the Community, by Nicholas

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.

It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to have.

So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.

But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall be allowed to do their business in which ones.

We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.

I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.

Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we want to, not because we have to.

Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating, you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just don’t get it.

© January 2017

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.