Anxious Moments, by Betsy

Anxiety: A feeling of unease about an imminent event with an uncertain outcome.

Below is a list of situations which have produced anxious moments for me.

1. The first time Gill and I came to the Storytelling group was one that came to mind. I was very anxious about reading my piece to that room full of men that day when the topic was “porn.”

2. Presentations I have had to give for work or any kind of public speaking can certainly produce an anxious moment.

3. I well remember anxious moments climbing and hiking on a particular narrow trail on the side of a cliff in the Canyon Lands NP wilderness on an Outward Bound challenge. The kind of trail where you are aware that one mis-step means certain death. Just thinking about it makes my palms sweat.

I could come up with a number of other anxious moments. That is just a sample.

I’m sure athletes experience many anxious moments waiting to compete. I imagine almost any tennis, football, or baseball player, or racers— any individual or team sport player who takes his competition seriously might give this description of his/her anxious moment. Let’s say a case of pre tennis tournament nerves might sound something like this:

“I was experiencing the extremely uncomfortable feelings of anxiety early this morning. Around 5 AM I was unable to sleep for the unease and by 7 I was doing specific exercises to relieve the agonizing stress—deep breathing, listening to music, trying to relax, etc.

“Finally relief came at 8 o’clock as I knew it would. My doubles partner and I met our opponents and walked out onto the tennis court and started to warm up for our first match. I don’t know about the others, but my most anxious moment started to dissipate the instant I began swinging my racket. I don’t know why just getting started relieves the tension, but I know it does. I have been there before.

“I may have another anxious moment if we have a close match and we see any chance of winning.”

You might think these are the words of the Brian brothers or the Williams sisters or any other doubles tennis team playing in a world class competition at Roland Garros or Wimbledon or the US Tennis Center. But no, these are my very own thoughts and feelings before this morning’s match in the Denver City Open Tournament in—now get this— in the over 80’s women’s doubles category! Super anxiety in spite of the fact that barely anyone even enters this category. Last year there were just two doubles teams so we got to the finals. Only one other team entered the competition and they beat us. We gave them a run for their money ‘though, but they did beat us.

However this is not a puny tournament. There are over 550 entries from all over the region this year in this 10 day competition held at the Denver Tennis Club. Anyone can simply drop by any time during the event to see some excellent tennis live.

This year in the over 80’s women’s there are three doubles teams. (No women ever compete in singles in the over 80’s category which demonstrates how much smarter women are than men.) So we will at least get to play two matches. We are not guaranteed to make the finals, however.

I do keep asking myself, “Why should this cause anxious moments for me?” Another good question is: “Since it does cause anxiety, why do I do it?” I guess it’s because my partner from last year asked me to. And, well, I’m doing it. So I guess I want to. Also, we just might win.

It occurs to me as well that the reason I set myself up for these anxious moments is the same idea expressed in the old adage: “Why do I keep beating my head against the wall? Because it feels so good when I stop.”

© 9 June 2017

About the Author

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

Assumptions, by Louis

Phase out Football and Boxing 

About thirty-two years ago, I am in a sports bar, and the conversation of several beer-drinkers inevitably turns to football. The four or five other guys at the bar look at me, see a 40-year old man, and assume:

(a) I am obsessed with football games;

(b) I am knowledgeable about the biographies and careers of the top 20 most famous football players.

(c) And I have a fervent belief that these 20 most famous football players are excellent rôle models for American youth.

I said as little as possible during these conversations. What I really believe is:

(a) Excessive interest in football games is gradually turning into a mental illness, something like mass hysteria;

(b) I know next to nothing about the biographies of the 20 most famous football players, and I see no reason in particular to show any interest in their biographies;

(c) If you ask me, “successful” football players are not wholesome rôle models. Why is it admirable for a man to engage in a violent sport in which his bones will be broken and repetitive violent blows to his head will result in his suffering various types of dementia and motor impairment?

Pretty much the same can be said of boxing. Broken bones, dementia from brain concussions, paraplegia, quadriplegia and even death. Two guys punching each other in the face, I do not find admirable. In a word these two violent sports, football and boxing should be discontinued. Make love, not war.

The polls indicate that public interest in football is declining. Thank God. I think fervent promotion of football and boxing and other sports is part of a deliberate campaign or process of dumbing-down the public or, in a word, “a conspiracy.”

We should be led by intelligent people with a good sense of moral and ethical sensitivity. Like the authors of Telling Your Story. As opposed to punch drunk boxers, as likeable as Muhamed Ali was.

Years ago the hippies promoted the idea of non-violent, non-competitive sports. I think that idea should be developed further. The game should promote the idea of cooperation. Team A should not try to defeat Team B but join up with Team B and collectively say cure cancer.

In itself, football is a clever game. Make it into a parlor game like Monopoly or Parcheesi. Nothing wrong with that.

A lot of reasonable people agree with me, I know.

When I was 25 years old, a bosomy woman, looking for a boyfriend, intentionally pushed her bosoms on my back and side, assuming I would get excited or something. She was looking for a boyfriend in a direct sort of way. Nowadays most people have stopped assuming that a guy is necessarily heterosexual, and that one can guess what his deep personal motivations are. That’s progress.

© 3 March 2017

About the Author

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

In the Zone, by Betsy

As one member of this group has mentioned, Mozart may be an exception to the statement “any writing is experimental.” True, Mozart was writing music not words. But there is no reason that the statement which is today’s topic cannot apply to the writing of music as well as the writing of words. Mr. Mozart is said to have been divinely inspired never having to go back over his work to correct or improve it. His writing was perfect the first try. Some might say he was continually “in the zone” at least when he was writing music.

It’s hard for me to relate to always being in the zone when I am writing. Although, I must say, some writings have come a lot easier to me than others. On occasion, depending on the topic and/or depending on my state of consciousness, I have felt myself “in the zone” as I was writing. Mostly, it is the experiences I have had that have given me awareness or knowledge which make it possible to be there. Being in the zone could be equated with being mindful—a state of complete awareness. Also a requirement for being in the zone when writing might be an element of passion for the subject and a clarity of one’s feelings about it.

I best relate to being in the zone when I am immersed in a sports activity. Some days—though they may be rare—it’s as if you can’t make a mistake in a tennis game. Or the body flows particularly easily, gently and rhythmically through the moguls on the ski slope. Those days might be rare, but we remember them—at least I do. Probably the sun is shining as well on that day, and there is little or no wind and the temperature is just right for perfect conditions.

I can recall also being in the zone in a beautiful spot surrounded by nature—feeling part of nature or one with one’s natural surroundings. Being in the zone and being completely immersed in the moment, I believe, are one and the same thing.

As for being an experiment, I’m quite sure writing falls into that category. I often set out to write about something related to the topic of the day and I find I am completely surprised at the outcome of that writing. The piece may take a totally different tack than what I had first intended.

This can apply to other art forms as well. I have attempted to draw or paint an object, a landscape, a tree or what have you. In this case I know when I start out that it is an experiment.

I have no idea how the project will turn out. I suppose that’s because I have very little experience in creating visual arts, and almost no confidence. Yet I find that to draw a tree or paint, even try to copy an object or a landscape is an adventure, and most certainly an experiment. I start out with no idea where the effort will take me, how I will feel about it, or what the outcome will be—other than either boosting my confidence or totally obliterating what little bit I had to start with.

The fact is that most active things we do—that is active vs. passive—most things we do are an experiment. Even everyday activities. That is, if we define an experiment as a course of action taken and followed without knowing the outcome. Cooking certainly can fall into that category—at least MY cooking does. Even the laundry, shopping, etc. What the heck, which outcomes CAN I be sure of. Even when I sit down to watch television who knows, (I certainly don’t)—who knows how long I will be awake.

© 24 July 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.

Sports, by Betsy

As a child I was not involved in any organized sports.  No soccer leagues, no softball for girls, mostly just playtime and as an older child “hanging out.”

We did play sports in school.  I remember kick ball--just like baseball only you kick a soccer-sized rubber ball--then run around the bases. I loved that game.  Also dodge ball was big in elementary grades. 

When I was about ten my father took me out on skis a few times. Not to a ski area, rather cross country.  Being in the lumber business he knew where the old abandoned roads were and I was proud of myself indeed to be out on skis with my Daddy.  For a few years the family would venture up to Old Forge in the Adirondack Mountains, stay in a hotel and ski at the ski area. In those days in NY State a rope tow was the best means of propulsion to the top of the ridge.

I loved skiing, except for getting cold.  Today 70 years later I am still skiing and have no intention of giving it up any time soon.

Also in the winter we had many opportunities for ice skating. We would skate on the nearby lake, in fact, I could skate to school at the other end of the lake.  In New Jersey our lake froze over quite often as I remember. 

On a couple of occasions as a child my Daddy took me to the local horse stables where we could rent a couple of horses and off we would go. Just walking an old nag, I’m sure.  But again, I was on top of the world because I was with my Daddy. That was probably the best sports experience of those early days and we probably only went out on horses a couple of times. I was devastated when I had to quit that because I was allergic to horses.

My mother was not athletic and did not like sports except bowling which she participated in weekly for many years.  I do believe it was more of a social activity for her than a competition. However, she always went along on the ski trips and was a good sport about it.

Around age 15 my Daddy taught me to play golf.  He was a avid golfer and quite skilled at the game. In the ensuing year I came to take it quite seriously, playing for fun and in occasional competitive events in high school and college.

As I am writing this, I keep thinking of more and more sports which were introduced to me by my father. He really had been quite an athlete himself in college. I know that because at home in the attic I happened upon some of the medals and certificates awarded to him.

I am also reminded of sporting events my father took me to watch. What I remember best are the hot dogs at Ebbets Field or maybe it was Yankee Stadium.  The game I thought boring to watch, but I enjoyed the yummy hot dogs slathered in mayo, mustard, and pickles.

Also memorable was the time we went to see Babe Didrikson Zaharias* play golf in an LPGA [Ladies Professional Golf Association] tournament in New Orleans. Babe was the greatest woman athlete of her day.  Having competed in the Olympic games in track, she was now a golf champion. I must have been around 16 or 17 at the time of that event since we lived near New Orleans. I will never forget approaching her when she was practicing on the putting green before a match.  She signed my program for me and my heart went thumpity-thump.

Another sport my father taught me was ping pong. We had an enclosed sun porch at the back of our house in New Jersey which housed our ping pong table. Daddy would challenge me to a game and start out by announcing that he would even the playing field, so to speak, by tying his right arm behind him, or spotting me a number of points. As I grew older and more adept, the number of points he spotted me diminished until finally we were even. He could not have been happier, which was a message to me about what is really important in sports.

When I was in high school we were forced to move from New Jersey, a rather progressive place, to Louisiana, the ultimate in conservatism and tradition. We, of course, had to give up the winter sports. After the move in  school my sports participation came to a rather screeching halt. Girls did not do sports in my Louisiana high school.  It might cause a girl to sweat, which is not lady-like.The best I could do was to be a cheer leader and cheer on the boys.

It was then that my father taught me to play golf. It was my saving grace when it comes to sports participation during those three years in Louisiana.

My choice to leave the deep south and go back north to college was probably driven somewhat by my love of sports and particularly winter sports.

When I married and became the mother of three children, I gave up golf and took up tennis.  I found that I could from time to time manage an hour of tennis, but never could I find a half a day for a round of golf. Also money was tight. Public tennis courts are free, not so with the golf course, even public ones.  Also during my years of mothering I coached my girls’ recreational soccer league teams.  When that was over and I was age 40 something I started playing the game until I turned 60. 

I continued playing tennis for the rest of my life, my Patty Berg signature golf clubs gathering dust in the attic. I have been tempted but have not found time to get back into golf.  I’m spending too much time and having too much fun on the tennis court.

The sports introduced to me by my father have been very important to me throughout my life and continue to be so. They have opened up doors, brought me closer to friends and family simply by being able to play together. Teaching and participating in sports with each of my three children I know has brought us closer together over the years.

Some of my best friendships have grown out of my interest and participation in sports.  I play regularly with good friends at the Denver Tennis Club, tennis and ping pong. I’m happy to say that my lovely Gillian has joined me in ping pong.  She is a formidable player and we have our own table at home.

I still play ping pong, ski cross-country and downhill. I have taught skiing to the disabled for 16 years at the National Sports Center for Disabled, which has been an educational experience, and enlightening.

Did I mention cycling? Like most kids I had a bicycle back in New Jersey as a youngster.  I rode it to school and rode around the area with my friends.  We pedaled our bikes to the movies on Saturdays and to the drug store for sodas.

I took up serious cycling when I retired in 1998.  My ambition upon retirement had been to hike the Colorado Trail.  I had worked as a volunteer building the trail now I wanted to hike the entire length. When the time came, I had to give up the idea because of a chronic back condition. So instead I took up cycling and have had some of the best adventures of my life as a result--the ultimate being the trip from the Pacific to the Atlantic which I pedaled in 2005. 

I am fortunate that I have an aptitude and a proclivity for sports--most sports, and have had the opportunity to learn to play, to practice, and the health to participate in them which is truly the love of my life--well, one of them anyway.

*Babe Didrikson Zaharias

© 13 Nov 2014 

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.

Exercising, by Will Stanton

Exercise - - - hmm. Let me think. I guess I'll start with the many forms of exercise that I did when I was young a few decades ago. Let me count the ways.

Let's see. When I was a kid and for many years, I engaged in summer games of very competitive badminton and croquet in our side yard.

I swam a lot and rode my bike. I canoed on a nearby lake and at some camps. I did a lot of hiking in the woods and through the hills. I played the normal neighborhood sports like driveway-basketball and games of “horse.” Sometimes, we hiked up onto a hillside and played hide-and-seek or combat. In elementary school, we did kickball and softball. On a few occasions, I tried horseback riding. I tried a little bit of tennis, but it didn't take.

Around 17 and 18, I did a little Korean and Japanese judo. I took a couple of lessons in Aikido. I might have stayed with judo, but I soon discovered karate; and that interested me a lot more.

Starting at age 18, I did 43 years of intense Japanese karate. That included a lot of self-training. I would get up at 5:30, go to the golf course and run several miles. Then I would do roundhouse kicks the length of a football field, side-thrust kicks back, then front-snap kicks, lunge punches, the whole shebang of techniques. Plus, I did extra training at the gym with other karate students. Of course, I could have spent my time doing something of greater long-term importance, but I did skip three belt-grades on my first karate examination. Karate probably was the most intense and prolonged form of exercise that I ever did.

I still do a little bit of swimming, whenever the pool is open, that is. I occasionally walk in the park. But generally, my exercise consists mainly of getting up out of the recliner in front of the TV, or the recliner in front of my computer, or getting up from the supper table. Yes, I do a lot of social eating, which may exercise the jaw, but that probably is not the way to lose weight.

© 5 August 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Sports, by Gillian

In my youth, I understood sports to be for fun, fitness, and friendly competition. Now, in my curmudgeonly old age, I know sports to be about money, winning at all costs, and very unfriendly competition.

Even amateur sports have gone completely out of whack. Have you been to a school ball game lately? Even pee-wee baseball is all about winning. At that age, should it not be about having fun, getting some healthy fresh air exercise, and learning the basics of the game? Oh no! Fathers scream abuse not only at other children but at their own. God forbid that poor little Joey should strike out or fail to catch a ball. He'll pay for that when he gets home. The pressure on so many children these days is immense. Everything has become so serious.

Professional sports, of course, have paved the way. Back in the 1970s I had friends with Broncos season tickets. The husband frequently had better things to do, and my husband was rarely interested, so off to the game the girls went! It was fun. Having had the same seats for several seasons, my friend knew all the people around us. We all bought each other beers and chatted and cheered. After my divorce I lost touch with those friends, and I did not go to a live game for a long time. Then one day another friend had a spare ticket and I went to Mile High Stadium again, for the first time in probably twenty years. My, how it had changed. Everyone seemed to be angry rather than enjoying themselves. There was a constant stream of verbal abuse hurled at the players on both teams, and of course the officiating crew. I was so sick of the constant "F" word. By the time I left I felt as if it had been burned into my ears and my brain and my psyche. (Or, as Betsy commented when I read this to her, I felt completely fucked! And not in a good way!) I have not been offered a ticket to a football game since then; if I were, I seriously doubt that I would accept it.

I have to admit I still follow the NFL pretty devotedly on TV. I can't explain why I like it. Many lesbians are ardent football fans, which seems strange as the game consists of what most of us abhor; sanctioned violence, perpetrated by huge sweaty men. I have to close my mind to two things, though. The violence to women committed by an unfortunately large number of players, and the huge salaries now offered to these people, would put me off the entire sport if I thought about them too much, so mostly I don't.  After all, I don't refuse to see a movie because of the shenanigans of those acting in it.

I do abhor the lack of humanity which seems to have taken over. If a player has an injury, the opposing team members will do their best to attack that part of his body. Has it really gotten to the stage where the intent is to do permanent bodily injury?

"Be great for the Broncos if they could take him out for the rest of the season," laughs the commentator happily.

"Well if anybody can eliminate him, Foster can. Man! He plays so angry," rejoins his co-commentator in admiration.

"He's just looking to rip someone's head off every play!"

This isn't war. It's supposed to be a game. Was it always so merciless? Maybe so and I didn't get it. After all I have never played football.

OK. Fair enough. Football is a violent game. If you don't like it don't watch it.

But it's not just football.

I have played tennis, though far from the Pro level. But, at that Pro level, how it has changed. Once considered a sport of Gentlemen and Ladies, it is now as cut-throat as any other professional sport.

"Now Farmer's injured that right ankle, Varenova will keep her going to that side, see if she can't break her down," a happy commentator reports.

"Exactly," replies another, "It's time to take advantage of that injury and finish her off. Go in for the kill right now."

So this verbiage of violence seems to have penetrated even the sport of Ladies and Gentlemen.  It is so pervasive, and I cannot believe it has a positive effect on our society.

All this, and the seriousness with which we take sports, players and spectators alike, of course has come with the advent of huge financial rewards. These in turn came with the universal obsession with sports by so many people. In the days before huge lights dominated the playing fields, games were played in the daylight hours, thus eliminating most of the potential fans who were, of necessity, at work. Even if it were broadcast live on the radio, or later the old black-and-white TV, few were available to enjoy it. Most were played at weekends, to attract more followers, but time off work was limited and people had many things to cram into a weekend.

Then came the huge brightly-lit stadium where people could gather after work and watch, or watch at home on the TV in the evening, relaxing from that hard day at the factory.  The fan base kept growing. Sports were becoming big business. Compensation for players and coaches, support staff and owners, kept rising.

Then came mass media, complete with ever-improved recording devises and exponentially increasing choices of what to watch when. No need to miss anything. Ever. Grandma turns up unexpectedly right at the kickoff or the first serve; no matter. Press the little red button and welcome Granny with open arms. In addition, the fan base for all sports is expanding horizontally, across the globe. Want to watch the Australian Open Tennis here in the U.S.? Can't even figure out what day it is in Australia, never mind what time? No worries. Look it up on the TV Guide, on the TV of course, not that little book we once bought at the grocery store, hit that little red button and go to bed. Watch it tomorrow. Sometime. Whenever.

So, given professional sport's universal, world wide appeal, I suppose the money involved is only to be expected. I'm not sure what Neil Armstrong earned by being the first human ever to walk on the moon, but I doubt it was anything like what many many sports heroes earn. But why not? The moon walk was reportedly watched by 530 million people. The 2011 Cricket World Cup between India and Pakistan was supposedly watched by about one billion.

I miss the days with less hype, less money, less drama, involved in sports. But what I really really miss is the gentler language, before it all became so infused with violence. But it seems to be what most people want. After all, you get what you pay for.

© 3 Nov 2014 

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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Sports by Ricky

While growing up, I loved to play some physically active games that would be called by the general term “sports”. In grade school in Cambridge, Minnesota, I liked to play one version of marbles.

During some past construction on the school grounds a couple of 8-foot tall piles of dirt were left on the edge of the playground right next to the surrounding woods. As a 3rd and 4th grader, I played “King of the Hill” with classmates. It was fun to climb to the top while others tried to do the same all the while trying to keep me from getting to the top. Of course I was also trying to stop them as well. I got to the top many times but it was impossible to stay there with all the pushing and shoving. Sliding or rolling down the side of the dirt hill was also fun. Sadly, the playground teachers finally put a stop to our play and made the hill forbidden territory. Being boys, we naturally disobeyed and played on the hill anyway but more secretively.

In the winter we would build snowmen and snow-forts on the playground from which we would have snowball fights. The teachers did not interfere as long as we were not throwing “ice balls”.

Back in California, in 5th grade we would play organized games for some PE class times, games like kick-ball, jump rope, and tether-ball. Organized PE time did not occur very often so we boys chose to play softball in the spring and autumn and touch or flag football in late autumn and throughout the winter.

The summer I turned 11, I began to try out for Little League baseball. I was not good enough for a “major” team but I did play two years on a “minor league” team.

In high school during PE classes, I learned to play football much better but I could not throw the ball well enough to be a quarterback and I was too light to be of much use blocking. Also, I was not all that fast running so while I enjoyed playing the game, I was not future NFL material. During our basketball scrimmages, I loved to play but could not dribble the ball very well nor could I shoot and sink baskets consistently. My shooting never got better. My best friend and I did do very well in the badminton tournament however and we loved to play it.

During those four years of high school, the New York Yankees were my favorite baseball team because my favorite players were on that team. They were Mickey Mantle (my favorite), Roger Maris, and Yogi Berra. While most of my peers could cite team and player statistics ad nausium, I could not care less about those statistics, the same for professional or college teams. My favorite football team was not formed until the Minnesota Vikings was formed. It might seem strange that a California boy would have a Minnesota team as his favorite, but we were connected by circumstance. I lived for a time in Minnesota and my high school’s mascot was and still is the Vikings.

After high school my interest in sports gradually waned as I grew older. The only exception is for my college’s teams. But even then, I grew tired of watching the football team snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. The last time I got excited for a sport was when my oldest daughter developed a crush on Jose Canseco and his baseball team. So, for three years I became a baseball fan again. She lost interest and one year later so did I. Not until the Colorado Rockies went to the World Series did I catch baseball fever again. Fortunately, I recovered.

It all boils down to this. For me, I would rather play a game for fun rather than sit, watch, or listen to it. Sports like boxing, golf, swimming, track and field, auto racing, horse racing, air races, fencing, bobsledding, mountain climbing, and skiing, hold no interest for me even to participate in them. The only sport I would enjoy would be to lie on a deserted beach with my companion some late evening and watch the submarine races while making out.

© 3 November 2014

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

Horseshoes by Phillip Hoyle

Both my dad Earl and my maternal grandpa Charley had horseshoes. Dad had large ones he threw at an iron rod hoping to make a ringer. He smiled when he played and enjoyed his conversation with the other men. But I liked Grandpa’s horseshoes better for they represented something more essential than a game even with its skill and camaraderie. Grandpa’s horseshoes represented a way of life, one close to the soil, close to history, actually an extension of that history. The imagination of living on a tract of land that had been farmed for hundreds of years by American natives and nearly one hundred years by American immigrants from German and Sweden held more attraction for me. Grandpa’s farm and life invited me into a world in which horseshoes were actually worn by horses. I really liked that.

My father’s life was much more disconnected from the essentials of a farm. Oh he sold groceries, sometimes even local produce, but he sold them, not raised them. He worked hard, dealt with many people, hired quite a few employees, and following the example of his grocer father, sometimes gave groceries to folk who were too broke to afford them. He offered monthly credit to many people who lived on monthly-paid incomes. His life did exemplify a deep dedication to people. But his horseshoes were stored in a box on a shelf in the garage and taken out only when he and some other men were meeting at the park for a game. Grandpa’s horseshoes had holes in them to accommodate real nails to be pounded into horse’s hooves; dad’s horseshoes were only for sport.

Because of its difference from city life, the farm was magical for me. I was amazed by all its elements that didn’t occur in our home on a city lot: its location alongside a gravel road and a ravine, its tall barns and squat hen house, its underground cellar and the large wood stack, its wood-burning stoves and deep wells, its tractor and truck. The farm seemed nearly foreign when compared to the things I knew. We had cats at home, but Grandpa had dogs that brought in the cattle each evening, cows that gave milk. He sometimes had calves that were auctioned off at the local sales barn. In the cellar sat large cans of milk and eggs that Grandpa took to the mill each Saturday. The chopping block next to the wood stack displayed the heavy ax that he used to split logs for cooking meals and heating the house. And the place had stories of an ancient ceremonial ground down by the creek, a place that was used annually by the native folk who had lived there before my great grandfather. There were also stories of the old sod house my forebear built when he homesteaded the place in the 1870s, of Indians stopping by to trade, of the old two-story house that used to stand there but that burned down when two girls were playing and lit a fire in their play oven. I treasured these stories; the farm captured my imagination becoming the site of my dreams. In addition to dreams, I clearly recall the saddle that hung in the central part of the barn, the leather, wood and metal gear to hitch the horses to the wagons, and the lucky horseshoe Grandpa had tacked to the barn wall. I liked Grandpa’s horseshoes.

By contrast, Dad’s horseshoes represented another world of sports and competition. They went to church picnics at the city park. I watched the play, even tried it but was neither strong nor accurate enough in my tosses. Even as I grew my game did not improve for I still threw the shoes wildly, rarely hitting the rod or making points, certainly making no ringers. I did like watching the older guys—my dad and others—toss them. The players had their own techniques: how they held the horseshoe, how they tossed it, how they followed through the throw, how they cheered or rued the results. They relished their sport with Sears and Roebuck fake horseshoes. Although my dad liked sports and mild competition, I never got into it.

Growing up I saw my grandpa work. Farming allows that; at least on family farms where the children help. Actually I helped Grandma mostly in her garden and sometimes collecting eggs. Still, Grandpa was always around—milking cows, making things in his shop, working fields, keeping his equipment in good order. He invited me to ride with him on the tractor or to go with him in the pickup to a nearby mechanic’s shop. By contrast dad’s work took place away from home. For years I rarely saw Dad’s work at the store, only occasionally a bit of bookkeeping on a Sunday night when the store was closed. What work I did see him do was at church where he played the organ for two or three services each Sunday. I thrilled at his playing and singing, his accompanying and service music, his improvisations on hymns and gospel songs, and his tasteful selections of classical pieces. But soon I was sent off to children’s church and didn’t hear him except on Sunday evenings. When I was in junior high choir I did again hear the morning service, and in the 8th grade started conducting the choir calls to worship and amen responses to prayers. In this I got to collaborate with Dad; I liked that—very much.

Grandpa died while I was in 5th or 6th grade. I matured without him. He remained a wonderful element of my imagination inspiring me with his love, humor, and gentle kidding. Soon after his death I entered dad’s world of work at the store and, thankfully, his world of music and artistry at the church.

I keep alive a great memory of hunting with dad and grandpa. They carried shot guns. I walked along and I carried the rabbits they shot using a handle Grandpa fashioned from a branch with just a few cuts with his pocket knife. I loved that afternoon even though the rabbits got very heavy. I cherish my memory of hunting at the farm with these two men who loved me and whom I adored.

Denver, © 2 March 2015

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

Sports by Will Stanton

First, let me define the word “sports” in my own terms. To me, “sports” means physical education and recreation, activities that are healthful and enjoyable. I certainly do not mean anything like professional football, basketball, or baseball. Those are not sports in that word's original intent. Those are multi-billion-dollar mega-businesses. The amount of money acquired and spent is obscene. Also, the fact that millions of people “go crazy” sitting in bleachers or in their recliners at home watching, screaming, and shouting, but not otherwise exercising, seems to be some sort of insanity. There certainly is not much healthful exercise, especially when drinking beer and eating tons of junk-food.

And by extension, I'm not referring to football, basketball, or baseball in high schools or in peewee league. Winning at all costs seems to have become the main concern, not the well-being of the participants. Too often, young players have been coerced into continuing to play with injuries and even concussions. Winnng has become so important that arguments sometimes have broken out between parents, coaches, and officials. Unlike the U.S., Canada is sane enough to have eliminated football from its school programs.

Let me tell you what physical education and recreation activities I have engaged in from my earliest years onward. Of course, not everyone needs to attracted to the same activities as I, but one can see from my list that what I did was for enjoyment and health.

As in most grade schools, we kids played kickball and softball. We had fun, and winning was not so important. We even had some lessons in square-dancing. Around home, we rode bikes a lot. We also played all kinds of games which provided us with lots of fun and exercise.

The high schools in my town were not big enough to have swimming pools, tennis courts, or some other facilities that larger school-systems might have had in bigger cities. Besides, they felt obliged to select footbal, basketball, and baseball as their primary activities, just like most public schools. Instead, my parents had me engaged in all kinds of sports and physical activities for enjoyment and good exercise outside of school.

We had access to the university swimming pool, and we often made use of it. My father set up a good badminton court in our yard; and, for many years, we played badminton so often that we each became quite good. Later on, I even won playing a man from Japan. In the same yard, we often played croquet - - backyard rules, of course, not international rules.

As we became older, we often rode bikes to see friends, which expanded our explorations to outlying neighborhoods. Because the wooded hills were so close by, we often took long hikes, enjoying the beauties of nature as well as getting good exercise. Sometimes during summers, we drove out to two diffferent lakes to go swimming or, once in a while, canoeing.

Starting at age seventeen, I spent a couple of years learning judo. The following year, I also started mainline Japanese karate and continued that for many years. Both disciplined the mind and developed skills often not reached through other activities.

I never did join a team in school. I know that some people claim that there are all kinds of advantages to joining a team, supposedly learning self-discipline, drive, the ability to endure hard-knocks and defeat. Of course, there is the social aspect as well. Apparently in most public schools, the “jocks” often seem to become the most popular.

There appears to be another possible advantage that has nothing to do with actual physical education and recreation, and that is listing those activities on one's school-record. Many universities seem to prefer accepting applicants who appear to have “well rounded school records.” I know that the ambitious mother of a friend of mine went to extremes in this way. She had him join football for a while, then track, then debate, then this and that, adding them all to his school-record even if he did not remain long with any particular activity. He had reasonably good grades but not great ones, yet he managed to be accepted by Harvard. The captain of our high-school football team also was accepted by Harvard. In contrast, my brother had one of the best academic records the school ever saw, along with high recommendations from his teachers; yet, because he had not joined a team, he was not accepted at Harvard. Apparently, they must have thought that he was not “well-rounded.”

There certainly was one downside for me in junior high. The coach noticed that I was quite good in baseball, pitching and batting. He asked me to join the team. My mother said no because she was concerned about possible injury to my hands. The coach never forgave me for not joining. He happened to be the wolrd-history teacher; and even though I made the highest score on all the tests, he never would give me more than a B. I was terribly upset, but I was too naïve to take this up with my parents or the school principle.

It seems to me that, in these days, people most often think of “sports” as ritualized combat involving lots of money and endless rhetoric by sports-casters, pontificating as though it all were so very important. It has become almost like another religion, so passionate are some people. At the same time, many Americans appear to have become fat and lazy. They seem to think that just sitting and watching others running around is exercise for them, too. It amazes me, and somewhat depresses me, that, just in my own city, 44,000 people showed up to sit for hours in the bleachers just to see a pro-football practice session.

But all may not be lost. I must say that I have seen some evidence of improvement among certain socio-economic groups. I recently have taken some walks in the foothills west of Denver, and I was impressed with seeing a large number of young people hiking, jogging, and mountain-biking; but this may be more evident in Colorado than in many other states. There also were some older folks walking. I continue to go five times per week to adult-swim at the nearby city pool, and I see some familiar faces who regularly swim there, too. And, during good weather, the city park nearby is filled with people bicycling, jogging, playing volleyball, tennis, and Frisbee. So, maybe there is some hope left that there are people who engage in, as I see it, true sports for enjoyment, good health, and re-creation.

© 10 October 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

From God to Santa Claus by Gillian

If you grew up when most of us here did, in the nineteen-thirties or 'forties, practically every figure of influence and power, from God to Santa Claus, was male. Oh sure there was Mom, and maybe some other female family members; even possibly a teacher, nurse, or some kind of social worker in the traditionally female nurturing/caring roles. But the police, firemen, ministers, lawyers, doctors, drivers, sports figures, business owners, politicians, bankers, musicians and artists, etc etc, were almost exclusively male, with one or two rare exceptions.

When today's topic of The Women in My Life came up, I expected to bore you all some more with ravings about My Beautiful Betsy - and not that she is not deserving of it - but a couple of weeks ago the topic Sports brought me to a different approach. Many women talked about the bond they had developed with their fathers over sports. Or maybe it was the bond they had developed with sports through their fathers! And not to denigrate father-daughter relationships, but I was struck by the lack of mothers or even grandmothers. They simply did not figure. They were not there. So I am going to talk about the leitmotif which seems to have followed me - Women (not) in My Life.

I have written before about my mother, but in case anyone has been woefully remiss and not memorized every word I've ever written, I'll repeat it briefly as she was the first woman who was not in my life; not in the way I wanted and needed her to be, at least. There was some unidentifiable something that came between us. It left a gap; a space. She wasn't with me. Children intuit things but cannot possibly explain them, even to themselves. Much later in my life, a psychiatrist interpreted this all for me and I think she had got it right. It feels right to me.

In my teens my aunt told me my parents had had two children who died before I was born. At ages I think two and three, they died of meningitis in 1940. My mother, the therapist postulated, could not bare the prospect of a repeat of such pain, so she didn't allow herself to be as close to me as she doubtless would have been otherwise. That explained so much. I loved my mother and she loved me. I was never in doubt of that, but nevertheless she was, in some sense, not in my life.

As far back as I can remember, decades before I came out even to myself, I have always been in love with some female figure in my life. Only one at a time. Even in my fantasy world I was seriously, if serially, monogamous. They were wonderful friends but were never in my life the way I wished they were; needed them to be. Of course I only recognized this at some deeply buried subliminal level, so I didn't even give them the chance to be what I only dreamed of. Those with whom I am still in contact were, when I told them of my long-ago love, flattered rather than horrified. I seem to have chosen wisely, these women who were not in my life!

I don't think I have ever met a lesbian who was not at some stage in love with her gym teacher. I am no exception. But I was a pudgy un-athletic child who did not impress her at all.

I played on the high school field hockey and tennis teams only because it was a very small school requiring all hands to the wheel. I enjoyed both, probably mostly due to my infatuation, lapping up her gentle criticism as I would have praise from my other teachers. When she married the geography teacher I was broken hearted, but then she never was really in my life.

Growing up in England, I had certain female role models absent in the U.S. When I was nine, the king died and Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne. She's been there ever since and seems, as I'm sure it must to Prince Charles, destined to live forever. Previous queens, Elizabeth the First and Victoria, lived long and reigned well. Women in power were nothing new. But they had been born to it. That's the only way you get there! You don't think, as a "commoner" in Britain, maybe I should work towards being queen when I grow up!

Maggie Thatcher, of  course, did spring from common stock. I could admire the position she had; the power she had taken. But her politics were not mine. The family I had still remaining in Britain despised her. She was a role model in some sense, perhaps, but she was not in my life: nor would I want her to be.

Even the musicians and artists of the day were overwhelmingly male. Come on, I know you can rattle off half a dozen world-famous male landscape or portrait painters. How many women can you name?

Ah, but the times they are a-changing!

In 1970 only 10% of doctors in the U.S. were women. Now the number is over 30%, with women making up half of the students in Medical School. The percentage of women in the legal profession these days is much the same. After the recent mid-term election, there will be more women in Congress than ever before. (One of the few good things to come from that election, sadly) There is no longer any shortage of women athletes. When I grew up, we would have considered it a joke if anyone had prophesied that within our lifetimes we would watch women's teams competing in soccer, and all the way up to the Olympics. Coaching is rather a different story. Many women, in teams or in individual sports, employ male rather than female coaches, something I find hard to understand. Many in individual sports are coached by their fathers, but only occasionally by mothers. And as for women coaching men, well....... But there are a few examples even of that, one very notable. Brit. tennis champion Andy Murray, winner of Wimbledon and an Olympic gold medal, was originally coached by his mother and is currently coached by Amelie Mauresmo, an openly lesbian French tennis champion. Some changes are slow in coming. Women currently hold only 5% of Fortune 500 companies' CEO positions. But it will come. Hard as the Republicans might try to push women's rights back into the Dark Ages, I cannot believe they will succeed. We have come too far and fought too long to go back now.

I feel the loss of the many women (not) in my life, but they are in fact still with me, if in some cases only in memory, and the relationship I have with them now is genuine, real, in a way it never could be before. One of the women I was madly in love with for years, remains my closest friend as she has been for almost fifty years. We love each other like sisters and there are no longer all those confused emotions on my part to complicate our love. My mother is still with me. She always will be. I hear her chuckle at some silliness - she had a great sense of humor. And now at least I have a little understanding of the flaw in our relationship, and the reason for it, I accept that it was not about me, so I am free of the many negative, confused, emotions it once visited upon me.

My latest loss of a female is that of Brunhilda! She, as most of you know, was our VW camper van which we drove over 100,000 miles around this country. She, Betsy, and I, had a little menage a trois for 15 years. Sadly the old girl got battered and worn out and way too expensive to maintain so it was time to say goodbye. But the story ends happily. She went to live with a man who restores these beasts. So after a while, with new hips and knees and a heart transplant, she'll be in better shape than any of us. And perhaps, as she remains with us only in memory, we will learn in fact to love her more. Because in real time there were more than a few occasions when I came close to wishing she was one of those women (not) join my life. It was something of a stormy relationship, to say the least! Now we can just gaze fondly at our photographs and see her through those rose-colored glasses we all tend to favor as the years go by. And all those women once (not) in my life slide quietly into their correct, comfortable, and comforting, places, whether in my life or only in my memory.

© 27 November 2014

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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Revelation by Gillian

I do believe that our socially conservative friends, well actually I don’t have any but you get the drift, must be having a bad time lately. There have been a couple of revelations which doubtless crowded right into their worst nightmares.

Jonny Weir

First, we have the Winter Olympics. Much of what was shown on TV was ice skating. Fine and dandy, but,

“Why oh why,” moans my imaginary friend, and I’m sorry, but, yes, he does have a Southern accent, “Did they have to ruin every moment of it by having that dreadful Jonny Weird as a commentator?” 

Yes, I have returned to my childhood ways, or perhaps gone into my second-childhood ways, and created for myself an imaginary friend with whom I can discuss these things, as I lack a real-life socially conservative buddy.

“His name is Weir,” I correct.

Jonny Weir and Friend

“Whatever, he sure as Hell is weird. Dresses like a goddam woman, for Christ’s sake. Lace blouses and all covered in jewels. Jesus! If they must have him do that job they don’t have to show him do they? His hair all primped and curled and piled on top of his head. Shit! It’s indecent. I sure as Hell hope his broadcasts don’t go outside of this country. He’s an embarrassment to this once proud nation of ours. What in Hell would the rest of the world make of us? Is this what we fought for?”

Oh, that’s using we a little loosely, I think. He’s too young to have been in 'Nam; I know because I created him. By the same token, I know he has never defended his country in any war, much as he encourages everyone else to do so. Were he a Vietnam vet., I would have too much sympathy for him, so I took that crutch away.

“Perhaps not a great shocker to much of the world,” I shrug. “Most of Europe for a start would probably not think a whole lot about it.”

“Yurp. Who cares about Yurp? Bunch of socialist lay-about faggots themselves. This was once a God-fearin’ respectable country. I just don’t get why that goddam NBC allows that guy to dress like that, makin’ a laughing stock of hi’self, preening in front of millions of people. Why ain’t he made to dress right like everybody else? All th’other commentators wear suits and ties and look like men. I mean, for the love of God, if NBC won’t do it then they should be be made to. I never did believe that I would live to see days like this. This was once a law-abiding country. Now anybody can do any goddam thing. We need laws and we gotta to enforce them.”

This, I think, but don’t say, from a guy with a bedroom full of repeating rifles and sub-machine guns or whatever the mass destruction weapons of choice are these days. A guy who thinks the ‘gubmit’ should stay out of his life.

“And then,” he’s on a roll now, and yes, sorry again, but my conservative buddy is definitely a man, "they got all that women’s hockey hoopla. Ice hockey yusta be a man’s game for God’s sake. Now they got women. And we’re supposed to be proud of ‘em with their medals. Be the day when I let my daughter do somethin’ like that.” As I have provided for my imaginary friend with a relatively independent, politically middle-of-the-road, daughter, I smile to myself at his illusion of a power over her which he has long ago lost, if indeed he ever had it. Which, of course, is fuel to his general anger and resentment.

“Shit, they all covered up so you can’t even tell what they are. They ain’t women and that Weird guy ain’t a man. Jeeeesus!”

“Soccer,” I offer, unable to resist the temptation, “Used to be just for men. Now women and girls everywhere play it.”

He snorts in disgust. “Another bunch of lesbians! Don’t fool me if they talk about husbands and babies. They nothin’ but lesbians!”

“Some of them,” I shrug again, “but all those husbands and boyfriends supporting many of these women are, what? Hired actors?”

“Maybe they jus’ fools who think they married real women who fake it for them. Thinka that?”

What I think is we’ve exhausted this topic. Usually I listen rather than talk with my imaginary bud, after all his very purpose is to help me get inside the heads of people who think like him, as best I can; to try to comprehend their thought processes, what drives them.

So sometimes I just cannot resist egging him on, for that very purpose. “There was that college football player last week too ..... Michael Sam ...” 

He spits.

“What in all Hell’s wrong with that guy? Apart from being a queer, I mean. Football’s one place left where no sissy-boys allowed. What on God’s green earth he trying to prove? He coulda been drafted pretty high and had a good career ahead and he just shoots hisself in the foot. No NFL team going after him now. Wouldn’t you think being a ni.... bein’ black makes him different enough without he gotta be more different. Not that being black is any problem in the football world. But being gay sure as Hell is. Why didn’ he just keep his mouth shut? Why do they always have to be in my face with that crap? I don’t wanna know. Being gay is nothin’ to do with how he plays football!”

And that, I think to myself, is indeed a revelation. But did he get the irony of what he just said? Sadly, I doubt it.

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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.