Springtime, by Ricky

It is written that in the springtime a young man’s heart turns to romance and love. Who are we kidding? It turns to sex. Romance and love may follow, but not always. To be completely honest, once puberty strikes, a male’s mind (not heart) turns to sex all year long. Any season is highly conducive for the event to be accomplished.

Unfortunately, I am no longer young enough or my heart strong enough to enjoy springtime in the Rockies, except for the 1942 movie. So instead, my heart and my mind take flights of fancy. Fancy this or fancy that or just fancysizing that I am young again revisiting the happy times and events of my past. Or, perhaps I should say the way way past.

Nonetheless, it really is spring and if my autumn, if not winter, memory was any better, I would probably be making a fool of myself while walking down the sidewalk. How? By fancying that set of broad shoulders, those tan legs, cute faces, kissable pouty lips, and gorgeous blue eyes (no offence to you brown and hazel eyed people it is just that I like blue) and flirting with a tall, dark, and handsome server at the Irish Snug. Oh. Wait a minute, that last one I actually do. So maybe my memory is still a summer memory, but I am just as foolish.

© 16 April 2018

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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.

The Truth Is, by Phillip Hoyle

Sometimes we actually search for the truth. Sometimes we think we have found it. Sometimes we are sure it is eluding us. Sometimes we may confess we know nothing of the truth.

I’m sure I went to college to find out the truth. After working a few years, I went on to graduate school because I needed a change in my career. I went on to graduate seminary because in graduate school I discovered I’d rather work in churches than teach in a college. Churches provided greater opportunity for variety. That’s the truth; I valued variety over depth. Still, I got to teach, to study, to use professional time for research, to write, to make music, to encourage people. I was not interested to present any capital T Truth in sermons that people would try hard to believe. Rather, I sought to challenge people in their own best interest to think, to consider, and to commit themselves to a way of life guided by the wisdom of the ages as understood through a modern take on the worlds of reality and belief. To me that seemed close enough to the truth.

My take on ethics and morality was somehow personal and took into view the wisdom of my teachers beginning with the Bible, a positive view of the human body, an appreciation of diversity in human experience and values, a commitment to democracy, and a fascination with new ideas and consequences. The truth is that my commitments suited my ministry but did not make me an especially successful minister. Luckily, I got to work in larger congregations where I could pursue my greater interests.

So now some non-truth sermonic thoughts:

The Bible has no word for “The Truth.” It does like when people are “true”, but that has to do with how they act toward other people, not their adherence to some kind of doctrine. There are two important concepts, though, that have to be accounted for. First is a metaphor, “the word of God”, second an expression, “the apostolic tradition”. The word of God is the common religious territory of Jewish and Christian concern. It was spoken and eventually written. The writings were in Hebrew (gathered over several hundred years), Koine Greek (telling stories and advice that originated in Aramaic of the first century Common Era) and hopefully all retranslated into many newer languages by reliable witnesses. Christianity, in response to the demands of the non-Christian Emperor Constantine had to agree on their beliefs so they could be certified by the Roman Empire. Writing a creed had some benefit; it stopped some of the persecution from the outside. Sadly it also created the ability for Christians to begin persecuting one another over doctrinal matters, a practice that has not subsided since the third century Common Era. In all, orthodoxy has become a sad song for the church to sing. All the beautiful chants and motets, cantatas and oratorios, organs in chapels, churches, and cathedrals, all the sacred classical and popular instruments of Christians across the world over cannot create enough beauty to atone for the evil Christians have wreaked upon themselves and too often upon the rest of the world. And that’s the truth, but not the only truth.

Of course religions also create a lot of love, benevolence, and community as their members emulate the loving acts of the divine, when they live into the spirit rather than the law of their order. That also is the truth in the view of this sometime preacher. I choose to operate these days as a Christian, no matter what any other Christian may think of my life, behaviors, and beliefs. I chose to follow the simple-to-say although difficult-to-live ethic of Jesus, my religious teacher, who said: “Act toward others as you would have them act toward you. Love your enemies. Do good to those who would despitefully use you. Turn the other cheek. Forgive as you would like to be forgiven. As you have acted towards the simplest, neediest, helpless, unimportant, or despicable people, you have done it to me.” This kind of dynamism could change the world, but so far it has not done so. Few enough have even tried to follow such wisdom. And that’s the truth.

And this is the end of my little preach. Amen.

© 23 April 2018

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Escape, by Gillian

The thing is, you can't. Not completely. You can perhaps escape your current location and situation, your lack of money, to some extent your social status; even your family. But you can never escape who you are. You can perhaps escape some of your character traits, your paranoias and phobias. But you can never escape the basic YOU. You cannot escape being male or female, straight or gay. You cannot escape the color of your skin, or your ethnicity.

I have read that the average male thinks about sex every seven seconds. Whether or not that is true, I wonder if there have ever been studies of how many times a day I think of being a woman, or of being a lesbian. How often does Carlos register that he is Latino, in all circumstances.

Sadly, these frequent acknowledgements of who we are are most often, at least in my case, brought about by negatives; not directed at me, but at a woman, or women, a lesbian or members of the LGBT community. My tribe. You attack members of my tribe, you attack me. Or as Jesus said it, (depending on which translation you choose), 'whatsoever you do to the least of these, you do also unto me."

It took me a long time to get over the Orlando nightclub mass shooting; if indeed I have. 49 people died and another 58 were wounded for no other reason than that they were members of, or friends of, the LGBT community. It was ME that man was shooting at; ME that he hated enough to kill.

I saw a news video of blood-lusting ISIS men tossing a man from the rooftop simply because he was gay. I fell with him. It was MY body bursting as it hit the ground like a watermelon fallen from a truck.

The #metoo [Twitter] movement has brought much recent attention to the emotional and physical pain suffered by an appalling number of women in this country. But world-wide the treatment of, and attitude towards, women is frequently so much worse. I feel the pain of every woman forced to marry a man against her wishes, or forced to hide her shameful body in clothes she hates. Crimes against women, rape in particular, are rarely prosecuted or even illegal in so much of the world. In Hungary I met a young woman whose grandmother had been raped many times in World War Two, first by the Germans going East and the by the Russians battling West. Rape has always been a weapon of war; indeed of brutal men everywhere, in all circumstances. I feel for, in every possible sense of the words, those tragic Nigerian schoolgirls kidnapped by Boca Haram and forced to live as nothing less than sex slaves to big, angry, violent men.

In February of this year, Rodrigo Duterte, the mass-murdering president of The Philippines, issued a new order. He reportedly told his soldiers to specifically target women rebel fighters, and not to bother killing them but to shoot them in the vagina because then they will be useless as women anyway.* You could write a book, a whole series of books, about that statement. Except that I am way too angry, and it hurts too much even to address those terrible words. What you do to them, you do to me.

Just last month I read about the neo-Nazis in Australia. (Maybe I would sleep better if I went back to my old favorite Winnie the Pooh books!) They sing a delightful ditty, those modern-day Nazis, the refrain of which is, we will get the seventh million yet. Those words sickened me. But I am not Jewish. Yet I know how very much black lives matter, as I hide here in my white skin. And I am forced then to realize that my tribe is not women; not gays and lesbians. I am stuck with feeling the pain of the whole damn world: the entire bloody human race, all the freakin' people everywhere. And, given the pattern of man's inhumanity to man, I don't see the pain going away any time soon.

But I know, somewhere very deep down, that I welcome the pain; the anguish I feel for every hurting member of my huge tribe. It assures me that I am capable, indeed all too capable, of feeling empathy. And for

that I am indeed grateful. Without it I would be some kind of sociopath; pain free perhaps, but we all know that it's the old story of the yin and the yang, the ups and the downs, and no joy without pain. We see that lack of empathy every day in the Orange Ogre's behavior. We hear it in his words. And being like him is somewhere I never want to go; someone I never want to be.

* https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/feb/13/philippines-rodrigo-duterte-orders-soldiers-to-shoot-female-rebels-in-the-vagina

© April 2018

About the Author

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

Bumper Stickers, by Betsy

So, why do people put stickers on their bumpers? The reasons probably vary from person to person. In my opinion most do it for identity reasons. They want the rest of the world to know who they are. Rather than putting a sticker on their chest or bum they put it on their bumper. After all, signs are specifically made for car bumpers and are readily available for purchase or for making a donation or showing support.

Another reason I think some people sport bumper stickers is that they think it will help to bring about that which they are promoting For example, the election of a particular candidate, or a more peaceful society (War is Not the Answer, Life is Short, Pray Hard, Close Guantanamo, better gun control, etc. ) You name it, there is a bumper sticker for just about any cause. But again, I think a cause soon becomes a part of one’s identity. And if you have a bumper sticker promoting your cause, you better stick with it because it ain’t comin’ off any time soon

Traveling in the northwest many years ago I saw this one: an image of an erupting volcano inside a circle with a line through it. I wondered who put this out. Could there be a movement starting dedicated to stopping volcanoes from erupting? Another one I saw in our travels also on the west coast somewhere. This one is even better than the one that addresses the volcano problem: STOP PLATE TECTONICS. That one was hysterical. I assume the people driving those vehicles want to be funny. I don’t suppose they actually think they can stop........hmmm, I wonder. No, surely they don’t think they can................?? Now wouldn’t that be the ultimate in arrogance. I think they just have a good sense of humor.

Personally, I don’t like bumper stickers because they are impossible to take off the bumper once you put it on. There are solvents that will take off the residual adhesive. The down side is they also remove the paint. So I think twice before sticking the thing on there. One day you feel strongly about a cause. The next day you change your mind about whatever you are promoting. Or let’s say you want to change your image. It’s very hard to get rid of the old labels be they in people’s minds and perceptions or on your bumper. I would like some of the adhesive that is used to stick on bumper stickers; that is, I would like to have a supply of it at home. It’s stronger and longer lasting than super glue.

I guess the lesson of the bumper sticker is: be sure who you want to be or at least who you want to appear to be before you take on a label.

© 5 Jan 2015

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

The Truth Is, by Phillip Hoyle

Sometimes we actually search for the truth. Sometimes we think we have found it. Sometimes we are sure it is eluding us. Sometimes we may confess we know nothing of the truth.

I’m sure I went to college to find out the truth. After working a few years, I went on to graduate school because I needed a change in my career. I went on to graduate seminary because in graduate school I discovered I’d rather work in churches than teach in a college. Churches provided greater opportunity for variety. That’s the truth; I valued variety over depth. Still, I got to teach, to study, to use professional time for research, to write, to make music, to encourage people. I was not interested to present any capital T Truth in sermons that people would try hard to believe. Rather, I sought to challenge people in their own best interest to think, to consider, and to commit themselves to a way of life guided by the wisdom of the ages as understood through a modern take on the worlds of reality and belief. To me that seemed close enough to the truth.

My take on ethics and morality was somehow personal and took into view the wisdom of my teachers beginning with the Bible, a positive view of the human body, an appreciation of diversity in human experience and values, a commitment to democracy, and a fascination with new ideas and consequences. The truth is that my commitments suited my ministry but did not make me an especially successful minister. Luckily, I got to work in larger congregations where I could pursue my greater interests.

So now some non-truth sermonic thoughts:

The Bible has no word for “The Truth.” It does like when people are “true”, but that has to do with how they act toward other people, not their adherence to some kind of doctrine. There are two important concepts, though, that have to be accounted for. First is a metaphor, “the word of God”, second an expression, “the apostolic tradition”. The word of God is the common religious territory of Jewish and Christian concern. It was spoken and eventually written. The writings were in Hebrew (gathered over several hundred years), Koine Greek (telling stories and advice that originated in Aramaic of the first century Common Era) and hopefully all retranslated into many newer languages by reliable witnesses. Christianity, in response to the demands of the non-Christian Emperor Constantine had to agree on their beliefs so they could be certified by the Roman Empire. Writing a creed had some benefit; it stopped some of the persecution from the outside. Sadly it also created the ability for Christians to begin persecuting one another over doctrinal matters, a practice that has not subsided since the third century Common Era. In all, orthodoxy has become a sad song for the church to sing. All the beautiful chants and motets, cantatas and oratorios, organs in chapels, churches, and cathedrals, all the sacred classical and popular instruments of Christians across the world over cannot create enough beauty to atone for the evil Christians have wreaked upon themselves and too often upon the rest of the world. And that’s the truth, but not the only truth.

Of course religions also create a lot of love, benevolence, and community as their members emulate the loving acts of the divine, when they live into the spirit rather than the law of their order. That also is the truth in the view of this sometime preacher. I choose to operate these days as a Christian, no matter what any other Christian may think of my life, behaviors, and beliefs. I chose to follow the simple-to-say although difficult-to-live ethic of Jesus, my religious teacher, who said: “Act toward others as you would have them act toward you. Love your enemies. Do good to those who would despitefully use you. Turn the other cheek. Forgive as you would like to be forgiven. As you have acted towards the simplest, neediest, helpless, unimportant, or despicable people, you have done it to me.” This kind of dynamism could change the world, but so far it has not done so. Few enough have even tried to follow such wisdom. And that’s the truth.

And this is the end of my little preach. Amen.

© 23 April 2018

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

You Don't Want to Go There, by Phillip Hoyle

Believe me. I’m wary of “You don’t want to go there,” something that always sounds like unsought advice. It doesn’t take me seriously enough. But there are situations when the warning should be taken seriously. Just what kind of adventure do you think you successfully can confront? What kind invites you? What danger stimulates your imagination?

Some years ago I read a book that intrigued me, The Brothers Bishop, by Bart Yates (Kensington Press, 2005). I was interested to read about the lives of brothers since I had four sisters and no brothers. Here’s something that got my attention, a kind of “You don’t want to go there” incident. Tommy and Nathan the brothers had a rough upbringing. Tommy was the golden child, Nathan the control freak. Some years later Tommy returns for a summer break at the family cabin. I wondered why did Tommy dove into the ocean at a dangerous spot without his brother Nathan trying to stop him. There had been an argument, a warning, and a “no.” But no fight, no restraint. I reasoned perhaps Tommy had never been restrained. Perhaps his brother would have done the same thing and so wouldn’t interfere. Perhaps he believed Tommy, like usual, would luck out. In the scene, both brothers were deeply upset. Neither was thinking sanely. But should someone have said, “You don’t want to go there”? So much of the strength of the story comes from not having everything explained. The writer asked the reader to think.

I thought about how I didn’t have a brother story of my own, but we neighborhood boys often challenged each other to do daring, sometimes stupid feats. I did many of them but, like a real young queer in training, refused to jump off the neighbor’s garage roof. Not me. These childhood experiences did help me identify with the brothers in Yate’s book.

To some people, “You don’t want to go there,” seems an invitation to fun, even if the place will cause trouble. While I don’t like the phrase, I am not one of those adventuresome people except when “there” stands for a word choice or a concept that is under scrutiny or an argument. I’m always looking for the exception in almost every discussion and sometimes wonder if this un-recommended place will provide me the perspective I am searching for. I did that sort of thing in college and graduate school papers hoping that my writing might win the day even if the concepts did not.

I am not a daredevil but I go to places in my mind that seem quite bizarre. I have memories of intense experiences that many would have wasted their breath warning me against. Life does need daring. But just because someone says, “You don’t want to go there,” doesn’t mean you have to do it or have to pass it up.

© 30 April 2018

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Epiphanies and Little Things Mean a Lot, by Ricky

Epiphanies are generally associated with religious experiences, but they can occur over nearly any subject, topic, or event. It is not an important distinction whether or not the Divine brings on that flash of insight, or our subconscious mind finally “connects-all-the-dots.” That is to say, the distinction may be important to someone’s world-view and not to someone else’s. The point here is that nearly everyone has experienced an epiphany or flash of insight at some time in their life, from whatever cause.

I once thought that epiphanies were all major events or flashes of insight which would lead a person to change their entire future life, as when Jesus appeared to Saul on the road to Damascus or when the Founding Fathers banded together to form our nation. I have had my share of major epiphanies from life changing to mundane during my time on earth. The most recent I would call a major one, but it only came to me at this point in my life when it is nearly too late to recover from neglecting the whole point, lesson, or message of the epiphany. The major flash of insight, revelation, or brain-connecting-the-dots event was how the little things mean a lot more than we generally believe – until later in life when their influence or impact becomes crystal clear.

In the past couple of weeks, I had my epiphany of the little things in my life that had major impacts over time and affect me until today and beyond. This epiphany was not possible for me to have, understand, and believe until I reached the age where it all makes sense due to hindsight.

The first one I remember is when I received that major spanking when I was 4 or 5 of which I have written about before. That was the time my father spanked me for “playing with my penis” instead of being “disobedient” for not getting dressed. A small mistake on his part, just a little thing, but the result had a tremendous impact on my future. I learned from that experience to keep secrets about anything, but especially penis and nudity related. I don't fault my parents for this over reaction. They had no idea I was mildly ADD and easily distracted, which was why I wasn't getting dressed in the first place. At that age, if not before, most kids explore their bodies and that spanking was an over reaction to natural and innocent curiosity and not precocious sexual lust.

The next small thing was being sent to live with my grandparents while my parents went through the divorce process totally unknown to me. Now my feelings at the time were excited when I first went, but at the end of the first summer, I was ready to go home. Somehow, my mother talked me into staying to go to school there. That did not make me happy, but I liked the Cambridge public school better than the Hawthorne Christian School I had been attending in California. The problem occurred when 1½ years later my father arrived during the last week of Christmas vacation. His mistake was to wait until the night before he left before telling me about the divorce. He should have told me immediately when he arrived, so we could grieve together. It was a little thing, but with major consequences. As a result, for the next 53 years I was emotionally incomplete as my brain shut off all negative physical sensations and feelings regarding separations and loss in order to stop my physical and mental pain.

Other little epiphanies I have experienced are not really life changing but more like signposts along the way indicating the right road or providing guidance on current situations. An example of one of these types is when visiting the hospital, the daughter of the man who was ill was talking to me and another couple in the room. Suddenly, I “knew” that she was emotionally charged and needed to vent. So, I held out my arms and she “fell” into them and cried on my shoulder while I hugged her. It was just a small thing, but I remember it as a “it-made-me-happy to comfort-another” thing.

Life is not normally made up of major epiphanies, unless one is a legitimate prophet of the Divine or otherwise visionary. Rather, life is composed of little ordinary events, which can have minor or great impact on our futures. More examples are “Look mommy, I can read this”; “The sunset is beautiful”; “Daddy likes to take me bowling”; “Mommy loves the cards I send her”; “My parents came to watch all my games”; Or “I’m not rich, but I live better than most of the world’s population.”

So, my late in life epiphany is that all the small things in my life taken as a whole from the perspective of senior status, all point to one conclusion, I am loved. Loved by many people and most importantly loved by the Divine. It is still not too late to spread some of that love around to those who really need to feel it. Who knows, maybe my small random acts of kindness will lead to someone else’s epiphany.

© August 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced. 

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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.

The Drain, by Gillian

Searching Google, as I so often do, for inspiration on this topic, I was surprised to see one of the first things to come up was a pop music group of some unknown (to me, at least) variety called The Drain. This has happened amazingly often with our topics. There are apparently, for example, groups called Magic, Guilty Pleasures, Culture Shock and I Did It My Way, all topics on which we have written. There is also one called Horseshoes and Hand Grenades. We have only written on the first part of that, so maybe we should tackle Hand Grenades one of these days.

Tricky things, drains. In the northern hemisphere liquid rotates clockwise as it disappears down a drain; in the southern hemisphere it circles in a counterclockwise motion. We all know that this is simply a function of the rotation of the earth, and yet everyone seems to be fascinated by this one fact of life. Anyone, going for the first time to the other hemisphere, just can't wait to gaze raptly into the bathroom sink to see the water draining in that unaccustomed direction. Yes, it suckered me too, though at the moment of truth, all I could come up with was 'huh!'

So; tricky things, drains. Like many things, we only recognize the true value of them when they cease to do their job. They are designed to consume material, but on occasion they refuse , or even regurgitate, instead. We've all seen times in Denver when the storm drains, blocked by fallen autumn leaves or overwhelmed by the occasional gully-washer downpour, simply refuse to digest the requisite amount of water and leave it to flood intersections and underpasses, and many people say much more than, 'huh!'

There is little more nauseating then the indescribably disgusting gray goo which has to be extricated from the bend in the pipe when the sink drain refuses to absorb anything further.

Did that stuff really come from me? Huh! The horrors from which our drains habitually save us!

At the time that I left the U.K. in the early '60's, the whole country was suffering from what was termed a 'brain drain' - so many with higher education left for other countries as Britain offered so few opportunities. One arm of that drain, however, has always run the other way. In the Britain of my youth it seemed as if almost every doctor was from India, and on once again checking with Google, I find that the situation has not much changed. Those from India still provide the largest number of non-British-born doctors and health professionals in Britain, and, in fact, the National Health Service is currently actively recruiting doctors from India. The current fear, however, is that since the Brexit vote with it's associated real or imagined rise in xenophobia, doctors from India and indeed any other country will be unwilling to commit themselves to a move to the U.K. With a mere 37% of all doctors in Britain currently being British-born white, this does not bode well. Tricky things, drains.

Since the recent U.S. election, many of the same concerns are being voiced here, where more than 25% of all doctors are foreign-born, again, incidentally, with an incredible 10% of all our doctors being from India. There are roughly a million foreign students in our universities, many of whom will remain to contribute greatly to the country. But with the new atmosphere of just about every kind of ism and phobia imaginable, will students from other countries still want to come? Will they feel safe? I can only suppose probably not. This would almost certainly be true of many other potential immigrants except for those sad souls driven by an even greater fear of life in their place of origin. Trump talks of limiting immigration and deporting many of those already here, but if he reverses the flow of that drain, blocking the incoming and increasing the outgoing, our country will be sadly poorer for it. Tricky things, drains.

Now our future leader talks of 'draining' the swamp of the Washington establishment - something many of us would not find discouraging. Cleaning up the quagmire of dark money and general corruption and lies, to replace it with clean fresh honest air, who would argue? Sadly, any vision we might have had of an outward-flowing drain was swiftly dispelled. No, the drain flows in.

And with it it brings a new level of homophobia, racism, xenophobia and anti-Semitism the likes of which most of us never saw coming in our worst nightmares. But we can stop the flow. We can reverse it. With constant vigilance, not to mention a lot of hard work, we can do it. Just don't forget, Donald - tricky things, drains.

© November 2016

About the Author

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

Losing Touch, by Pat Gourley

I suspect when it comes to losing touch sometimes that’s a good thing and sometimes not. Facebook for example seems to be a very powerful tool for reconnecting and staying in touch with folks and not just old school friends but often extended family members. I have used social media to reconnect with long lost friends and relatives and I would probably not remember even my own birthday without a Facebook notification.

For me this reconnecting with especially cousins I have lost touch with has at times been very interesting. I soon realized based on some of their posts that a few of them are bat-shit crazy. In part this seems very possibly related to the fact that they never got the hell out of rural Indiana. Though I rarely post anything to Facebook it has been for the most part fun to reconnect with relatives even the ones who I deeply suspect are Trump supporters. What is the old saying? “Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.” I am not saying any of my relatives are enemies but a few of them are I am sure not on any gay wedding guest lists.

Actually not wanting to offend any of my more conservative friends and relatives does act as good censoring barrier as to what little I do post on Facebook. For example I thought better of posting one of the better signs from the recent Women’s March here in Denver. It was a photo of a sign that read: “I am more pissed off than a Russian hooker.” That is a sentiment I am totally in agreement with but one that would not have gone over too well with my southern Indiana cousins I suspect.

The Internet, Facebook and Instagram all seem to be conspiring to keep us from losing touch whether we want that to be the case or not. Think for a minute about what Facebook knows about you simply based on their lists of “suggested” friends or ‘tagging” someone you may know and suggesting you should really become friends with all their friends ASAP. Remember when it might have taken years of getting to know someone before calling him or her a friend and now that status in your life is simply a click of your index finger away.

A recent example of various unsolicited entities being aware of my business in a rather eerie way was my online search for a new garbage disposal. I had searched through Google for a particular brand of disposal and in a matter of hours an ad for this same item had appeared in my Facebook feed.

It probably does not come as a surprise to many of you that when cleaning house or doing dishes I will go to You Tube for a music video by the Grateful Dead or the current incarnation Dead and Company. This has resulted in my Facebook feed again being clogged with many ads for the latest Dead merchandise and trust me it is endless. And just because of clicking or liking one article about one band I really don’t need to know what every jam band on the face of the earth is up to.

Though I think there are many reasons we should be concerned about the deep state, i.e. FBI, NSA and CIA being the ones we know most about, it really is corporate America that is in our business a thousand ways to hell every single minute of every hour of the day. It would be nice to research garbage disposals or listen on line to the umpteenth version of Dark Star without it resulting in an obnoxious marketing barrage.

So this rant on how everyone on earth is really always in touch these days, and I haven’t even gotten to our cell phones, could go on much longer but let me close with a concern I have. Are we really just lowering the bar as to what constitutes staying in touch in a meaningful manner and debasing many of our relationships with just the latest emoji?

© February 2018

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

How Religion Influenced My Sexual Identity, by Phillip Hoyle

Oh, I was religious. I was so religious that I attended Graduate Seminary pursuing a Master of Divinity degree in preparation for ordination into the ministry of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). I had decided to concentrate on aspects of religious education but found myself more intrigued with the social ethics professor’s offerings. The second course I took from Professor Richard A. Hoehn was called Morality. The first assignment was to write a short paper “How I Came to My Moral Concern.” I wrote something like this:

I am sure I did not conceive of my moral concern as a moral concern. I was reared in a church that assumed that moral concern flowed from religious concern. One sought to be religious; in so doing one would obviously be moral. Not that all believers were moral. More importantly I was taught to be moral at home where its teachings were part of the day to day activities.

Several family decisions of social location established moral contexts and assumptions that greatly affected my life. When my parents were planning to marry, they chose to build their house in the wrong part of town. It was perfect for them: a block from one set of parents, a block from the high school, three blocks from the church, four blocks from Hoyle’s IGA where dad worked, five blocks from elementary schools we kids attended. In the grocery store, all people were treated the same and the customer was, at least in most ways, always right. I grew up in a racially integrated neighborhood, attended integrated schools and classes from kindergarten through ninth grade in an army town where people spoke English, Spanish, German, and Japanese. I grew up knowing preachers and prostitutes, mechanics and madams, choristers and conmen, scholars and sleezes, farmers and fairies, musicians and musclemen, woodworkers and writers. For a kid growing up in a Kansas town of 20,000 population, my world was large. Whatever would become my sense of morality, it would always have to see this larger view of human connection.

Now to the topic of the day: My sexual identity is a part of my human identity, part of my moral identity, part of my Christian identity. I am a person, a nice person, and a religious person (at least in so far as I retain Christian thought in my overall views, Christian values in how I relate to the larger world). In summary, I am a Christian gay man who seeks the common good, (not just of my family, not just of my gay world, not just of my American world, but also of my place in the whole world). I reject any small view of homosexuality or bisexuality or of any of the sexual permutations of that larger term LBGTQAetc, or of queer. I am brother to all gay men and lesbian women and transgendered persons and poly-this-or poly-that folk, and to straight folk of all stripes whether I like or appreciate them or not or can understand anything any of them say. I’d appreciate their acceptance but don’t expect that to be given very freely. So I go on my way into the world and into my future, telling stories, making friends, tolerating, and hoping somehow to be tolerated. And I will continue telling my story as a part of all of you telling yours. I’ll keep smiling and, of course, hanging out with diverse convocations of others who care to get together in celebration of their differences.

Oh, I was religious; still am in an increasingly gay, queer way.

© June 4, 2018

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.” 

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Escape, by Louis Brown

Garrard Conley tries unsuccessfully to escape from his same-sex sexual orientation.

Full Title of book: Boy Erased: A Memoir (2016) by Garrard Conley

Genre: Autobiography

Theme: escaping the deleterious effects of ex-gay therapy

Why notes on books?: When I find a good book, which is rare, if you read my insightful notes, when you read the book, it will be a lot easier and more meaningful.

NOTES

(1) Garrard Conly was the only child of an aspiring Baptist minister in Arkansas. His parents insisted, once they knew he was gay, that he undergo reversion therapy. Garrard was 15 years old.

(2) My guess is there are at least a couple of hundred of books written about the experiences of ex-gay therapy survivors.

(3) When he was 19 years old, Garrard Conley was enrolled in an ex-gay “therapy” program called “Love in Action” (LIA).

(4) Garrard had to enroll in LIA, otherwise his father would not pay for his college education. So, Garrard enrolled.

(5) Needless to say, Garrard fell in love with some of the other program participants who reciprocally “fell in love” with him.

(6) The intention of the author of this book is to get rid of ex-gay therapies because of the obvious (and not so obvious) harm they do.

(7) Because Garrard agrees to go to LIA, he goes to a Presbyterian undergraduate college (sometimes referred to as a seminary), but the location of the college is not divulged.

(8) While at Presbyterian College, Garrard makes friends with Charles and Dominique (he and she) who are black non-believers but who are good gospel singers. Presumably Garrard identifies with them because, like himself, these two black roommates are socially outsiders.

(9) P. 164, Garrard kisses a male art student, named Caleb.

(10) LIA forces Garrard to make a list of his sins in an MI (Moral Inventory).

(11) P. 292, reference to The Firm, a movie produced by Sydney Pollack, that we know was based on a novel by John Grisham. (Louis previously did a Plot Summary of John Grisham’s Sycamore Row).

(12) P. 274, reference to Psycho, the film by Alfred Hitchcock (which by the way I have already reviewed when the prompt was “Drain”. In the movie, the victim’s blood is filmed as flowing down the shower drain, an unforgettable scene.

(13) P. 297, reference to Dorian Gray, a novel by Oscar Wilde.

(14) Pp. 318-9, Garrard ogles J lovingly again. That is, participants in the LIA program are assigned letters of the alphabet to identify them.

(15) This book was made into a film.

(16) Another student at the Presbyterian college is David. Garrard claims that David raped him and also another underage boy. And yet Garrard attends David’s Pentecostal church.

(17) Some LIA instructors are Brother Brandon, Danny Cosby, Brother Hank, Brother Nielson, Brother Stevens and Smid.

(18) P. 92, One of the instructors, Danny Cosby, reminded Garrard of Jeff Goldblum, a character in the movie Jurassic Park. Jeff Goldblum was the skeptical guess of John Hammond and got his leg broken by a rampaging dinosaur.

(19) Back when Garrard was 15 years old, he was paired off with a girl named Chloë. Garrard’s parents expected he would marry her eventually. Garrard tried but failed to have sex with Chloë because, for obvious reasons, he was just not interested.

(20) P. 333, Love in Action was a subsidiary of Exodus International which has since gone out of business (in 1995), and, when they went out of business, they apologized for all the damage they had caused.

© 9 April 2018

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Time and Preparation, by Gillian

This grungy old green tote bag I schlep all my junk in every Monday came as a gift from The Denver Office of Emergency Management and Homeland Security when, about ten years ago, I took a class rather grandiosely titled CITIZEN EMERGENCY RESPONSE TRAINING. It was actually pretty basic, but it did inspire me to a certain basic level of preparedness. No, Betsy and I are not about to go and live in a cave in the wilderness where we have hauled enough supplies for a year, accompanied by enough guns and ammo to fight off the hungry hordes who failed to prepare. But I do believe, especially in these uncertain times, a little planning is worthwhile.

And no, I don't lose sleep worrying over alien invasions (from this planet or any other) or, where we live, floods. Earthquakes and tornadoes are always possible but not huge threats right here. My main concern is our infamous Grid. I fear The Grid could easily fail us. Natural disasters or computer hackers could equally easily bring it down. And no, I don't necessarily mean the real Doomsday scenario in which one big sector comes down which in turn overloads the next until the entire country, or the whole continent, is without power. It probably could happen, but it is beyond the scale of any preparations I plan to make for survival.

Remember the panic over The Millennium? Computers were going to crash so nothing would work: no power, no gas, no groceries? That's very much my vision of life without The Grid. Very little will work. How easily we forget, when we have all those things, our degree of dependence upon The Grid. We've all sat through power outages of a couple of hours; maybe even a couple of days. It really is miserable. We cannot get out of the habit of anything and everything being available at the flick of a switch or the turn of a knob, or more likely the tap of a key. And it's all gone.

My worst-case survival preparation is a month without power. It's not too hard to envision damage to The Grid severe enough that it takes a month to bring it back up. We have enough bottled water and canned food to stretch, very meagerly, for three or four weeks. We have sleeping bags in the basement, which retains a pretty even temperature so we shouldn't burn up in a summer emergency or freeze in mid-winter. We have wind-up flashlights and a lantern - irritating because of the continuous cranking required but good enough until we can replace the inevitably dead batteries in the good lights. And we do have a good supply of batteries. We have endless books for entertainment in the daylight hours, along with playing cards and board games. We have a camp stove with a couple of fuel bottles, so we could heat up food or water, if only occasionally. We have cash - very well hidden so don't even think about it! - because even if any supplies are to be had we clearly will not be able to use credit cards. What we do not have is those guns and ammo the TV survivalists always display, so if we get to the stage of starving marauders breaking and entering I fear we're doomed. Other than that, I'd say we've got a pretty good chance.

When I took that class, it was quite apparent that most of us were Seniors. Who among the young people have time even to think about surviving for a month without power, never mind taking time actually to prepare for such a thing. Good preparation in fact usually saves time in the long run, but most young people find it hard to concentrate on that long run. When we're young we wing it; fly by the seat of our pants. It takes time to prepare and in youth time is scarce - or at least that's how it seems.

As I age I find preparation increasingly important, you might say vital. Fortunately, in retirement I have time for it. I schedule my cups of tea very carefully so that, with a little luck, I will not have to scuttle to the bathroom in the middle of Act One. Before our month-long road trip last year we each had a 'staging area' to collect everything we needed to take with us. This has to be a large area of floor where things can be spread out, so we can check and recheck what we have already placed there. Things cannot be put in the car or into the suitcase because we can't remember what we've packed and spend days or weeks packing and unpacking and repacking.

I never go the grocery store without a carefully prepared list - even if it only has one item on it. If I go without that piece of paper I shall return home with seventeen things I bought in case we're out but I can't remember. The thing I won't have is the one thing I went for in the first place.

Old age is a full-time job!

Problem is, preparation doesn't always work. Just last Monday I carefully gathered up all library items which needed to be returned on my way to The Center, remembered to put my library card with them to check out new books, placed everything in a tote bag which I put right in front of the door into the garage so I couldn't possibly forget it. Come time to leave I picked up the bag and went into the garage. There I remembered my other bag, this old green one I talked about earlier, was still sitting on the table with my story in it. I put down the library bag, went back into the kitchen for the Storytime bag, into the car and I was off! Only as I drove past the library did I remember the bag left sitting on the garage floor.

I fear that our careful emergency prep will fail if ever put to the test. We've hidden the cash so carefully that neither of us will remember where it is and no amount of searching will turn it up.

Our arthritic fingers will be too weak to open any of the cans with the old manual opener, ditto any screw-tops. We might be able to manage the water, but it's stored in carcinogenic plastic bottles so by then will probably kill us.

The fact is that time is running out and no amount of preparation can stop it. I don't find that depressing; I find it deeply relaxing. It relieves an awful lot of pressure. So I'll try to get the list right before I go to the store, and I'll try to return my library books on time. But if I don't, the world will not tilt on it's axis or turn to blue cheese. I have finally found how to live in the now.

© January 2018

About the Author

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

My Happiest Day, by Betsy

First of all. What’s happy? Until I define what happy is for me, I cannot begin to address the question of what was my happiest day. So I click on the dictionary on my dock. Happy: feeling or showing pleasure or contentment. This is not much help. Feeling and Showing are two different things—entirely different. And pleasure and contentment are equally different from one another. So which is it? Never mind. I’ll tackle the question from another angle.

I suppose the day I was born may have actually been my happiest day because if I hadn’t been born, there would have been no happy days—zero, zilch. Contemplating this I realize that something was missing in order for my entrance into the world to make me happy; namely, awareness. One must be aware—conscious—of a situation in order to qualify it. Further, to qualify it in the superlative one must have other experiences, situations, with which to compare.

Another problem with defining my happiest day is that my memory is not good enough for me to remember my degree of happiness in some distant time of my life. Nevertheless, allow me to take a chronological journey beginning with birth in my quest to pick out, well, maybe a few of my happiest days.

At 9 hours of age I was extremely happy, probably desperately happy, to have a nipple stuck in my mouth. I was desperately hungry. No conscious awareness there, just survival instinct. So that doesn’t qualify.

Nine months old—same thing—food and milk. Enter the smiling face looking at me and the cuddling and love I am feeling from my parents. I must be very happy. Look at me I’m laughing.But again there is little or no understanding, so I cant really qualify my feelings.

Nine years old and I have definitely learned the difference between happy and not happy. There are lots of things that make me happy now. Alas, though, today 70 plus years later I cannot bring back the feeling. I just know I probably was happy sometimes. But happiest eludes me. Again it’s just a memory—a pleasant memory, but still a memory.

Twenty nine, thirty nine. Yes that’s it! The birth of my children. Certainly three of the happiest events of my life. Forty nine, acknowledging my true self and coming out of the closet. I don’t remember that being my happiest day. It was a difficult time. Happiness and resolution being the result. Approaching 79 my wedding day to the love of my life, but then we had already been together and happy for nearly 30 years. That day did also represent the triumph of a political movement of which we had been a part. Certainly qualifies as one of my happiest days. But again, THE happiest? No way to measure.

All these nines— all the way up to seventy nine, I still cannot honestly say “without a doubt I remember my happiest day.”

One of my favorite spiritual guides, Ekhart Tolle says the past is an illusion because it, that is the memory, is a creation of our mind. It is no longer happening—it is no longer a reality. The only reality is the NOW.

Aha! I think I’ve got it! This exercise in contemplating my happiest day has brought me to one conclusion: my happiest day is NOW, this moment in time. It’s quite clear to me really. Now is the only thing that is real and I am a part of it. I am here, alive, conscious and aware and participating in life. THIS is my happiest day.

© 31 October 2016

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

My Favorite Childhood Hero, by Ray S

The Millennials have their “E” social network. The “Hip” generation had its rebellion and protests and rock and roll. The Baby Boomers had post-war back to the normalcy of the establishment, the Eisenhower years, Big Bond Era, “Leave It to Beaver” and “Ozzie and Harriet.”

So much as I’ve tried, it has been with “tremendous” (a Trumpian term) effort that I have been able to resurrect any memory of my onetime childhood, much less a hero.

I am of a time influenced and resulting from the inventions of Thomas Edison, Alex G. Bell, and Mr. Marconi. By the time I arrived on the scene all of these scientific advances were well established, in the early 20th C. So instead of TV or the internet, I lived in a world of radio and black and white moving pictures, including “talkies” by the 30’s.

“Heroes”, depending on your interpretation of the term, lived in the air waves. Little Orphan Annie and her dog Sandy every weekday at 5:45, just after Jack Armstrong—the All American Boy. Jack didn’t thrill me, but secretly I did wonder about Annie’s beau, John Corntassel.

There were a bunch of potential heroes on serials like Mary Marlin, Mr. Keen, Trurser of Last Persons, John’s Other Wife, and One Man’s Family. Life was so much more exciting in never never radio land with Ovaltine, Wheaties, The Singing Lady, and the Lux Radio Theater.

Then there was Saturday afternoon at the Roxy to catch the continuing serials: Tom Mix, the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Flash Gordon, etc.

Sundays I was sometimes deposited at the little movie house in the next door village when they were going out and just had to get me out from underfoot. Then I danced the afternoon with Fred and Ginger as we all flew “Down to Rio.”

All of this “KULTUR” may have been stultifying for a young child, but it made for some character framing personality that is hard to erase once imprinted on the psyche.

Still no specific childhood hero or heroes—unless you count the moment I discovered how I would like to be Randolph Scott.

© 26 March 2018

About the Author

Springtime, by Gillian

In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours. 

- Mark Twain

And I thank you for that, Mr. Twain. Thanks for telling it like it is - that Springtime is a sneaky, unpredictable little critter full of unpleasant surprises. T. S. Eliot wrote of April being the cruelest month, but most poets wax lyrical over the 'rebirth' that is the Spring, but they tell only half the story. More reliable is the old adage that if March comes in like a lamb it goes out like a lion, or vice versa. The old folks, tied much more closely to the seasons than many of us today, knew just how unreliable Springtime can be. In the England of my childhood those April showers so romantically trilled about in song had a bad habit of coming in one long shower beginning shortly after the New Year and ending temporarily for a few days in late July.

Arriving in sunny Colorado in 1965, I was welcomed by a seemingly endless Fall of clear days under a deep blue sky. Then, suddenly, one day winter arrived and the weather remained pretty cold and snowy for a couple of months, then suddenly one day the temperatures shot well above seventy and stayed there. The birds sang, early daffodils and tulips poked out their heads, buds appeared on the trees. Spring, I believed, had arrived. Wrong! A huge cold front moved in, temperatures plummeted, blossoms froze, flowers struggled to breath under three feet of snow. Of course, I now know that that is standard Springtime procedure around here, but that first year of my Colorado life it sure did take me by surprise. That 'Springtime in the Rockies' that we sang about in grade-school was even more given to shock and trauma than that Springtime in England so beloved of poets.

Contained in the lyrics of the Simon and Garfunkel song, A Hazy Shade of Winter, is a reference to 'the springtime of my life'. I somehow missed mine; at least the first time around. Not surprising; I was stuck in that hazy shade of winter. Not that I was unhappy in the first four decades of my life, before I came out to myself. I just wasn't there, which hardly lends itself to happiness or unhappiness. There was someone playing my part, but I didn't care whether she was happy or not. She was not me and so signified nothing. And so I continued in that hazy shade until suddenly, about midsummer to continue the seasonal metaphor, I burst out into the sunshine - and entered my Springtime. I guess because I flunked the first one by my complete absence, I was forced to do it over. And I did not flunk this one. I blossomed. I bloomed. I unfurled my petals and felt the sun enfold me in it's warm caress. I felt no fear. I was free to discover my own true beauty and to display it to the world. Maybe there would be some cold rain, some damaging winds, maybe I would struggle to survive under a snow drift, but I would survive to thrive in the summertime of the new me.

And so I must apologize to all those poets and songwriters. They have it right. There really is a magic in the Springtime air. Ellis Peters writes that 'every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment.' She describes, perfectly, my life since I came out; one of perpetual, breathtaking, astonishment at my joy in life.

Continuing in A Hazy Shade of Winter -

.... Look around
The grass is high
The fields are ripe
It's the springtime of my life
Seasons change with the scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry ......

And it occurs to me that one of the many blessings of aging is the ability to look back and see so clearly the seasons of our lives, and that time does, indeed, weave a tapestry; a tapestry design which we cannot see as we live it. Only when we look back does the picture become clear. We are finally able to see, and to revel in, our own life's tapestry.

© April 2018

About the Author

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