A Meal to Remember by Will Stanton

I arrived in Colorado in 1975. I first found an apartment in Arvada, then Englewood, and then finally gravitated to Capitol Hill by '77. I gradually acquired a number of friends and acquaintances. Among them was a very wealthy gentleman named Stan A. and his much younger and particularly attractive partner Michael B.

Stan had made his money by owning a major construction firm that, among other projects, helped to construct I-70 into the foothills west of Denver. By the time I met him, apparently he did not need to work anymore, having made plenty of money. I recall Stan as being immaculately dressed, well groomed, and always very polite. His large apartment was kept perfectly spotless by his house-keeper. His apartment's décor included carefully selected paintings and objects d'art, all perfectly placed and without a spot of dust. In addition to whatever attractive personal attributes Stan might have had, plenty of money probably was a contributing factor in his wooing an especially handsome young man as his sweety.

Apparently, Stan preferred having a partner who also was immaculate in his dress and appearance, which enhanced Michael’s being especially eye-catching. He took plenty of time every morning for his libations and grooming. Not a hair was out of place. Being younger than Stan, Michael was still working at that time as a salesman of some sort. I recall seeing on his bathroom mirror self-motivating quotations that he would recite each morning as he combed his hair. For the short time that I lived in Capital Hill, I was happy to be invited to their apartment for gatherings of friends or to use their swimming pool with Michael.

Unlike some wealthy people whom I have met, Stan was not tight with his money. He was perfectly happy to pick up a check if we all went out to dinner.

I recall when Stan piled six of us into his BMW and drove south to the Tech Center to a Chinese restaurant. We all had a grand ol' time sitting for some time around a large round table with a sizable lazy Susan carrying plenty of Chinese delicacies to choose from.

As excellent as the food was, it soon became apparent that the most obvious attraction at dinner was the bus-boy. He truly was unusually handsome. It was one thing for us younger guys to notice and admire the bus-boy; but now that I'm much older, I understand that Stan, being about a generation older than we, had as much right as we to admire him as well. We guessed that the bus-boy was about seventeen based upon his boyish features, although, physically, he certainly was not puny. He easily could have been a star high-school swimmer or baseball player.

I still am not sure whether we all simply had succumbed to the extraordinary good looks of the bus-boy or whether the wine during dinner had contributed to our increasingly indiscreet glances—and to Stan's comment. Someone at the table asked if anyone would like dessert. Stan immediately announced that he certainly would love to have that bus-boy for dessert. He was standing right behind Stan. I never knew that a person's face could turn so red.

© 31 March 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.

My Favorite Fantasy by Ricky

If I were to follow my financial greediness, my favorite fantasy would involve having lots of money so I could travel when and where I wanted. I am not greedy, but I could become so should I ever have large amounts of personal funds.

A not so favorite but highly enjoyable fantasy involves lots of Baseball Nut ice-cream everyday for treats between meals.

As a pubescent pre-teen and an adolescent teen, to help me fall asleep, I would draft movie plots in my head. One favorite was a series about a group of humanoid, pubescent, hermaphrodite, pre-teen aliens from another planet who land on Earth because their flying-saucer needed some repair. While here they used their advanced technology to secretly fight crime like the comic book heroes of the time.

During my youth, my all-time favorite fantasy, as you might expect from my previous stories, involves a lot of sexual behaviors featuring me. I won’t go into any details but if you could see the geographic setting for my adventures, you would understand without being told that my name in the fantasy is, Peter.

© 14 October 2013

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

Gay Music by Ray S.

If I could sing “My Favorite Valentine” to my GLBT lover would that qualify as Gay Music? Last week my friend inquired as to how I was progressing with the very esoteric subject of this week’s story time. In response I allowed as how I was relying on procrastination, presently.
What I was really thinking to myself was what qualifies as Gay Music? Who might have been the provocateur that thought this subject up? It’s been really interesting to hear what all our muses fabricate.

I am reminded of the repetitious beat of gay porn film background music, if you’re not familiar with this genre, think the beat goes on and on. Then there is the highly syncopated rhythm of the music used by drag queens, attributed commonly to the old burlesque theatre--Let Me Entertain You.” Does lip-syncing qualify as gay music. Guess it depends on the performer’s abilities.

Along those lines, we can’t overlook the music preempted by the Gay World of Judy and Barbara. Some of their works almost amount to gay national anthems.

Then their are the naughty “wink, wink” creations of song writers such as Noel Coward, Cole Porter and let’s see who wrote, “Let’s Do It” and the titles of Tin Pan Ally that lend themselves so aptly to parody, like “I’m Just Wild About Harry.”

When it comes to the classics, the LGBT scene was very much alive but not so much musically as was the lifestyle of some of the composers. And of course most of the creative time on the QT.

Belonging to another generation and not into the bar scene. I understand that the popular idioms that pass for music employ a real extensive list of raunchy lyrics--how many could qualify as gay is questionable, but as the old adage goes “beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder.”

So, strike up the band and start dancing with of without a shirt on and with or without a partner. After all it’s a liberated but crowded dance floor and who knows what the gay music will produce. For instance, “Do you come here often?” “Can I have your number?” “Sure, bring him along.” “What did you say your name is?” “God, you're so hot,” and on into the night of gay music.

Denver, February 10, 2014

About the Author

Four Saturday Scenes by Phillip Hoyle

Days change from dawn to dusk, from cool to warm, from humid to dry. Still we reckon seven days a week but they too are not the same. For instance, the seventh day is sometimes called Shabbat, for the old Hebrew word meaning he rested, an allusion to the Genesis story of God creating the world in six days and resting on the seventh. The day was marked by a tradition of rest that emphasized contemplation and prayer. On my calendar the seventh day reads Saturday, recalling a Roman God, Saturn, to whom I have little relationship. History reminds me that Roman culture and government had a great determining effect on western culture and thus on Christian development. So, the name changed from Sabbath to Saturday, and the time of its beginning and ending changed from sundown to midnight. Even its purpose changed for most Christians although the mythological symbol of a day of rest persisted. For the majority, Sunday gathered the resting and worshipping to itself to create a Sunday Sabbath. Saturday stayed the same work day it had been under Roman law.

In my own life, Saturday’s meaning has shifted. Originally my Saturdays were structured around the needs of my mother: a time to have help with the kids so she could shop and keep her weekly hair appointment. A grandmother would sometimes watch us, but as we children aged, Mom would take us to the library just upstairs from the hair salon. We’d check out our books and then join her towards the end of her appointment. But that one fall Saturday was singular in that I had decided I was tired of trying to keep up with the older kids on my tricycle. My sisters and some neighbors were riding a small boy’s bicycle. “I want to ride it,” I screamed in my high-pitched six-year-old voice as they flew by. They were happy to play teacher. So with their help I got on the big thing, achieved my balance, and took off in a hurry thrilled by the air rushing over my skin and through my hair. But they had forgotten to tell me how to slow down and the corner of the block was fast approaching. I kept my balance as I bumped down the curb into the street and accomplished a turn to avoid the curb across the street, but I was unable to avoid the curb waiting catty-corner across the intersection. I crashed landing on the bar, smashing my genitals. There was a little blood. I must have screamed in pain. Mom came running and took me into the house. She bathed me, explained about circumcision (the only sex-related information she ever proffered, probably to help me understand why I my penis looked so different than dad’s), and told me I was to go with her downtown. She must have wanted me close by in case I really had hurt myself or had decided I needed some extra attention. As we walked the several blocks to the salon, she taught me how to escort a woman in public along with a few other fine points of good manners. Perhaps these items were meant to further my sex education. Turns out I was just fine. Eventually I did learn how to brake and how to avoid accidents. I also continue to this day to heed my mother’s advice about escorting women to the delight of several friends who still find me mannerly.

Eventually Saturdays moved me into my father’s world. At age 12, after I’d failed to make the team in seventh grade basketball, I began to work on Saturdays at the family IGA store sacking groceries and carrying them to customer’s cars. I now worked in a mostly man’s world with its structure of having a goal, earning income related to hours and usefulness, and working around people who didn’t live on our block. I did more than sack and carry. At slow times I helped dust cans, face shelves, assist in the produce market, and help restock the freezer. I’d take returned soda bottles to the back room and sometimes take a short break sitting there drinking a Coke.

Saturday was the busiest day of the week at the grocery store with ten, twelve, three, and five o’clock rushes when the aisles got as crowded as Main Street. We worked hard; at least it seemed that way to me, a skinny boy and not very strong. All day I ran out into the winter cold carrying bags to the yellow Desoto, the green Chevy pickup, or the purple Cadillac and then ran back into the warm building to prepare the next bunch of groceries. I got stronger and more efficient. Customers liked me.

The family arrangement was informal. We kids paid ourselves out of the cash register on Saturday evening leaving a paper slip with the information of hours and payment. That winter Saturday after I had worked a year and a half earning forty cents an hour, I asked my oldest sister, “How can I get a raise?” She said, “Just start paying yourself more.” So I gave myself a ten cent raise, noting the new amount times my hours on the slip of paper. No one ever said a word to me about the change. A year later, when I began working for my uncle at the family’s other store, I got another raise of fifty cents bringing my remuneration to a dollar an hour. Perhaps by then my work was worth the pay.

Saturday changed most when Myrna and I became engaged to be married. We would travel each Saturday to Glen Elder, KS where she played house and I played church. She’d cook a meal. I’d go to the church office to check on the mail, read the worship bulletin, or make some other arrangement for the Sunday service. Sometimes we’d visit the Spooners at their dairy farm, the elderly Foresters in their gracious home, or someone else with a special need. Then in the evening we’d make out on the couch in the front room of the parsonage as we step by step increased our physical intimacy in preparation for the full disclosure we anticipated on our wedding night. Later I’d drive her over to Ella Neifert’s house where my fiancé slept. One spring Saturday evening when the western Kansas wind blew with extra force, we huddled together on the couch to soothe each other’s chill. We warmed up, further than ever before. Realizing we’d soon be parted for several months while she made preparations for our wedding in western Colorado, I thought we needed to touch each other more intimately than before. So we educated one other about some of the finer details of our bodies. We didn’t go all the way, but we did share ourselves in new ways. The cold-sounding wind howled around the old house as we warmed ourselves with our explorations. We loved our intimacy. We both realized we had to end this session, so we bundled up to drive over to the widow’s house. When we left the parsonage, we were both surprised how warm the wind had turned, or we were just so heated up as to believe it was almost summertime! Thus a spring Saturday helped prepare us for a wonderful marriage.

It was a particular summer Saturday a few years ago, several years after I had left my marriage and ministry and had moved to a big city to live as a gay man. It was a late June Saturday that I experienced with complex delight. My son Michael and his family had come to visit. Our schedule that weekend included the Saturday Buskerfest with its unusual street performances and the Sunday Gay Pridefest with its parade and concerts. On Friday evening I discovered a phone message from Rafael, the man I’d hoped to hear from for two months. I had sometimes walked the neighborhood wanting to run into him but kept missing him. I’d already concluded he’d moved back to El Paso when I finally got this contact. In response I left on his voice mail an invitation for him to join us for spaghetti the next evening. He should call me when he got off work. Now it was Saturday evening. The spaghetti tasted good, at least my family said so before Heather and her three younger kids fell asleep exhausted by the day’s activities and their light sunburns. Rafael called and with several more calls found his way the one block to my apartment. I brought plates of spaghetti with meat sauce to the patio table. We were eating when I noticed his gold wedding band had been turned around to reveal a rainbow flag. I pointed at it saying, “Look at that.” Rafael’s warm and amused smile increased my anticipation of what the evening might mean. My son and eldest grandson came downstairs to meet Rafael. We talked. Our guest asked for wine. I told him I didn’t have any but suggested he and I go to a nearby restaurant for wine and dessert. As we were leaving the restaurant, Rafael said, “Let’s go dancing.” We started walking towards a nearby club.

“Do you have your ID?” I asked.

“I don’t need one.”

“Yes, you do,” I insisted.

He led me to his apartment to retrieve his ID, but we didn’t leave the place, ending that Saturday with a passion I won’t try to describe except to suggest it seemed emotionally perfect as we two came together with open arms and hearts, and with humor, concern, and love.

Rafael died several delightful and sad months later. I live on, wondering what new Saturdays I will experience as my life continues to change and mature. I’ve had Mom’s, Dad’s, a wife’s, and a lover’s Saturdays. What next?

Denver, 2010

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

Favorite Literary Character by Pat Gourley

Anna Madrigal (a girl and a man)

My first trip to San Francisco was in 1979 with a friend named Phil. I met Phil I recall through the Gay Community Center on Lafayette Street a few years earlier. His story of coming to the Center was one of the classic coming out stories I remember from those years. He had recently been discharged from the Navy and had wound up in Denver. His home was rural Ohio and his Catholic family very conservative and probably not fond of queers but totally unaware that there own son was one of those people.

Phil related to me some years later that he had first actually seen me at a party and thought I was the butchest thing he had ever seen when I walked in wearing my winter leather jacket – that was, he said empathically, until I opened my mouth and the whole masculine illusion evaporated in a Nellie mist. I loved him despite of this tacky and very snarky story.

Phil had apparently walked around the block at the Center many times before getting up the nerve to come in. There he met several others and quickly became a fast friend and member of our budding community. We remained close until his death in August of 1994 from AIDS. He died at home in the arms of his true love. I had been summoned to get there quickly but walked in just minutes after Phil took his leave.

Our trip to San Francisco was magical in that I totally fell for that City and all its magic. Phil had been there before while in the Navy. I believe several times - Fleet Week perhaps - though that I don’t know that for sure. He showed me all the sights and sounds and we sampled many different tastes.

Marin Headlands (Titled "Oz")  2012

This year of 1979 was momentous for me for many reasons but one little thing that happened was I was introduced to the work of Armistead Maupin. Tales of the City was published in 1978 and was essentially his columns on life in the City syndicated in the San Francisco Chronicle. The stories consisted of an eclectic cast of characters whose lives crisscrossed through that novel and eight more to follow culminating in the most recent release The Days of Anna Madrigal. Good friends of mine owned the local Gay Book store and I suspect that is how I got turned onto the book.

The novel’s stories and many adventures often revolved around a straight female character named Mary Ann Singleton. She, soon on arrival in San Francisco, was living at 28 Barbary Lane in a large multi-story dwelling on Russian Hill managed by one Anna Madrigal. My initial visit to the City and my budding connection with a few Radical Fairies from the Bay area provided a modicum of familiarity with the characters, adventures and environs described in Tales of the City.

So as it turns out Anna was a male to female transsexual, pot-growing/smoking landlady who was mentor to all who came through 28 Barbary Lane. Her early years were spent growing up in a house of ill repute in Winnemucca Nevada, in an establishment run by her mother.

I was certainly very familiar with and predisposed to like her character from the first book on but this was cemented when the first three books of the series were immortalized in a PBS (originating in the U.K.) and Showtime miniseries in which Anna was played by the flawlessly cast Olympia Dukakis. These are available on DVD and highly recommended if you haven’t seen them, but do read the books first.

I think it is safe to say that LGBT literature and literature in general is bereft of positive, powerful and dynamic Transsexual characters. Though I suppose one could argue that Maupin’s books don’t fall into the category of great literature, whatever the fuck that is, they are much loved, iconic tomes in the pantheon of queer literature documenting our generation. I certainly enjoyed reading them and this was magnified and has been enhanced with my growing knowledge over the decades of the City of San Francisco starting back in 1979 thanks to my friend Phil.

What I would have not given to have my shit together enough to have moved to San Francisco in the late seventies and to then have fallen under the spell of a powerful female mentor like Anna Madrigal. I downloaded the last in the series –The Days of Anna Madrigal – to my Kindle this week and ripped through it in a couple days. Lots of loose ends about Anna get tied up and the ending is really wonderful and plays out in the only place it could really, at Burning Man in the Nevada desert.

I think Phil liked and read Maupin’s books and I am sad that he can’t be around to read the final book in the series. Who knows it might have provided the impetus for a group of us to get our act together and attend Burning Man. We would fit right in and I am quite sure that the entire festival owes a significant debt of gratitude to the Radical Fairies whose influence seems stamped all over the event particularly as it is described in vivid detail by Maupin in his latest work.

Let me close by saying that I think the only real radical juice left in the LGBTQI movement is coming from the T’s. The word radical, as Harry Hay pointed out to me about 10,000 times, means, “to the root.” If the “gay agenda” ever had a truly revolutionary component to it, it was our willingness to turn gender on its head and shake it all up real good and see what would come out on top so to speak. These days many of us G’s, L’s and B’s seem quite caught up in imitating the dominant hetero-defined roles of male and female. Perhaps more Anna Madrigals will come along to finally lead us out of the hetero-dominated wilderness and our true agenda will come to pass.

March, 2014

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.

Competition Is No Good Except Sometimes by Nicholas

Competition is something I don’t like. I have no use for it. I think it brings out some of the worst in people, not the best. It turns people against one another instead of turning humans to one another for support. If competition produces accomplishments, cooperation and mutual support can produce much more.

In the just-finished Winter Olympics, we saw what competition leads to—a lot of hoopla for very little. If anything, modern Olympics games have lowered healthy competition to the point of absurdity. Athletes strive relentlessly, work their whole lives, push their bodies and minds to their absolute limits to win by hundredths of a second. But then many people don’t watch the Olympics for the competition; they watch to see the spectacular stumbles by elegant figure skaters and crashes by downhill racers at stunning speeds.

But what do I know? All my life, I’ve had that gay boy syndrome of “I can’t do it anyway, so why bother? There are so many more fabulous things to do.” It’s a form of self-protection. You’re not going to get picked--you really don’t want to get picked--for the team, so look the other way. I spent many a recess on the school playground muttering, “Don’t pick me. Please don’t pick me.”

There are things I will definitely not compete for.

> Love: There’s plenty to go around; why would one compete for love?

> Money: I have plenty, thanks, no need to get greedy.

> Medals: They just become so much dust-collecting stuff.

> Recognition: I’m already recognized in enough places.

> Parking Spaces: Unless I am driving a Humvee or a tank with a ram on it.

> Spots in line at Trader Joe’s.

> Prizes: More stuff to dust every now and then.

On the other hand, some things are worth competing for, such as:

> A seat on the bus: fine, if you must stand at the front of the bus, but just get out of my way, please.

> A spot at yoga class: how else am I to find the peace of Buddha?

> The bathroom in the morning: you’d better get out of my way now.

> A viewing point to at least try to see a great painting at a crowded Denver Art Museum exhibit.

> My favorite table at my favorite coffeehouse (no, I’m not saying where because you’ll probably try to take it.)

> Chocolate: anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

Though I exude gay disdain for competition, I do nonetheless indulge in it from time to time and then with determination fit for a queen. Life is complicated.

March 2014

About the Author

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

The Essence of GLBTQ by Michael King

I was four or maybe five when I asked my grandmother why Aunt Ethel’s son wasn’t at any family gatherings. I knew she had a son but I had never met him and no one ever mentioned him so it all seemed strange to me. My grandmother held her head high and announced, “He is not welcome. He likes boys,”

I didn’t understand but I knew without a doubt that I could never like boys, whatever that meant. Around the same time since I was always sick the doctor suggested that my family find some activity for me to do when I was bedfast. My grandmother taught me to crochet. I liked to dress up, dance and in general I would now consider myself to have been the “sissy” that I was often teased as. I now think that my parents accepted that I was queer. They seemed to be very surprised when I got married.

I have always been naive. I wasn’t influenced by religious fundamentalism, sin, hellfire and damnation. I was instead very concerned with rejection, hatefulness, and not being accepted. I was very curious about male genitalia. I didn’t get to do any athletics because of asthma so I didn’t get to see other guys to satisfy my curiosities. I just knew that it wasn’t OK to like boys.

I did have numerous advances made by older men and a few curiosity jack offs with guys my own age. I chalked it up to satisfying my interests not to liking boys. In the case of older men it would now be classified as having been molested. If ever it had been a satisfying experience perhaps I would have lived a different life. Those experiences were without my consent and uncomfortable, not pleasurable.

Even in college the few times I was having sex with guys I didn’t know how or what to do and neither did they. I did want to get married, raise a family and be like a man was supposed to be. I was also curious about having sex with a woman but had accepted that you waited to get married and then you were supposed to celebrate your 50th wedding anniversary surrounded by children, grandchildren and a large and perfect family.

I was introduced to my first wife by an older friend that I met in a summer class. He thought that we would be a perfect match. We met in August and married in December and my first daughter was born in October. I was 20 years old. We did enjoy sex and were living a pretty good and acceptable life for 13 years. My children were very important to me and she neglected them. I couldn’t deal with that so I divorced her and got custody of the children

I didn’t do much about my curiosities. I didn’t even realize how much fear of being unacceptable controlled my life. I seemed to know the rules and had to appear to follow them. I had the fear that if I explored and got caught that the world would fall apart or worse. I still couldn’t like boys. If there was any sex it could not be accompanied with intimacy or affection. I fell in love with a straight guy who was my best friend. He knew it and wanted the friendship but sex was out of the question. That was the closest I came to thinking that I could like another man and have intimacy and love. It took another 38 years for me to meet someone that I could love. I did have several girlfriends after the divorce and enjoyed the sex but couldn’t let myself fall in love. Then I met my second wife. I guess you could say she seduced me. Of course I let her. That was my MO. She came to my place and never left.

I had my three children and I decided that if we were going to live together we needed to be married. We got married. I was more and more aware that men appealed to me but since I couldn’t be intimate with a man I settled into a pretty good 12 year marriage.

I somehow couldn’t come to grips with being gay if I didn’t have a boyfriend. I also didn’t think I could be gay and keep my job. Women seemed to present themselves and I had girl friends but I didn’t have sex with most of them. I just wasn’t interested but I did like the attention and it helped me to live as the acceptable straight image that I thought I had to have. Finally I attended the Gay Pride activities 4 years ago, got involved in Prime Timers and then the GLBT Center and 6 months later had my first boyfriend. It lasted 2 months but I came out, introduced him to my kids and have been a flaming queen ever since.

So what is the essence of GLBTQ? It’s being who you are even if it takes a lifetime. I am happier now than I have ever been. I have the most wonderful partner and my kids all love him too. Could I have found the essence of being gay earlier? Probably not. Through the “Telling your Story” group I have gotten in touch with all those rules and requirements that made being queer impossible. “He likes boys” is the best part of my life. The journey was a wonderful way to grow and mature spiritually as well as emotionally. That maturation process is the essence of being, finding out who you are and being who you are.

July 13, 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities," Telling your Story"," Men's Coffee" and the "Open Art Studio". I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

Queens, Lesbians, and Gay Pride Committee by Louis

Geographical Note: Jackson Heights is located in Queens County in New York City. The big pride parade takes place in Manhattan. Jackson Heights is the second biggest lesbian and gay neighborhood in NYC outside of Greenwich Village. The population is primarily Hispanic and Hindu. 3 major subway lines converge in Jackson Heights so it is easily accessible from anywhere in Queens and Manhattan.

I was the recording secretary of the Queens Lesbian and Gay Pride Committee from 1986 to 1988, for 3 years. It was hard work. At the monthly meetings I had to record pretty much what all the committees had to report. The march in Jackson Heights, Queens, took place and still takes place on the 4th Sunday of June every year. There were the Treasurer’s report, the advertising-promotion committee report, the lawyer’s report, the President’s report, the mass mailing committee report. The promo-advertising-committee had a sub-committee, the fundraising committee that had its own separate report, the website maintenance committee.

The lawyer usually reported on the status of his application to the IRS of the 501.c status of our not-for-profit corporation, QLGPC. For some reason this was an on-going process as opposed to a one-time settled issue.

Of course, the fundraising sub-committee had to report directly to the treasurer, and the treasurer told the General Meeting where the money was being kept, in what bank account. The treasurer had to report to the (rather expensive) CPA of the corporation. The treasurer also reported on the payment of the expensive liability insurance premiums. The officers of the corporation, including myself, had to sign the certificate of incorporation. The fundraising sub-committee was no joke; they received large donations both from gay bar owners and large corporations such as Citibank. Then of course QLGPC sold advertising to businesses that wanted to purchase ads in QLGPC brochures and other promotional material. Naturally, wherever there is a large accumulation of cash, there are going to be embezzlers. But QLGPC was quite successful in finding out and getting rid of its embezzlers. Some of them were jailed.

Then there were more reports from the liaisons to the elected officials, the liaison to the Mayor’s Office (referring to the Mayor of New York City), the liaison to the department of sanitation, the liaison to the police department. And finally there was the liaison committee to the civic organizations, both gay lib type civic organizations and other groups. Among all of these, the most important was

P-FLAG that became a major sponsor of the Queens March. Another important group was ACQC, or the Aids Center of Queens County. In this case the liaisons were also officers of their own organizations, and they would report back to their organizations what they heard at our monthly general meeting. I should qualify this and state that as June approached, the monthly meetings turned into weekly meetings.

Then there were the reports from the liaisons to the vendors of which there were two categories: regular vendors, food vendors, beer vendors (selling beer required another special permit from the City) and the civic groups, such as HRCF, the NLGTF, the New York Imperial Court and on and on and on. They all had to rent their space. If the civic groups could not afford the fee, if applicable the fee was waived. Then there were the Lesbian and gay ethnic groups, e.g. the gay and Lesbian Bolivians. In other words, these groups set up their tents for the festival and rally following the 15-block march down 35th Avenue.

This whole parade committee had been founded and originally promoted by City Council Member, Danny Dromm. Mr. Dromm was also the founder of the Progressive Caucus in the New York City Council. His biography is quite interesting.

Then there was the Hospitality Committee with a sub-committee liaison to the NYC Dept of Parks. The Hospitality Committee was responsible for setting up what went on at the main tent of the Festival where Danny Dromm presented himself to the public to announce important legal victories or setbacks over the previous years. The Hospitality Committee also had to arrange the catering for the guests of honor at the main stage of the Festival. Yours truly was one of the guests of honor. In general, they did a very good job. The entertainment was really sensational and inclusive. And any VIP, such as a member of Congress or an elected official from New York State General Assembly or the Senate, could depend on getting his or her five minutes or so on the stage, once he or she was approved by the QLGPC steering committee. Special mention should be made of NY State Senator, Tom Duane, a long-time gay lib agitator.

Another issue that required planning was the choosing the Grand Marshall of the Parade, which usually was the Borough President. The BP would usually be expected to hold a Lesbian and gay pride reception in the Boro Hall, to which Danny Dromm was usually invited. The ACQC liaison committee also had an outreach team to local hospitals. The most responsive but certainly not the only local hospital was Elmhurst General Hospital that was interested in promoting its own Health Fairs. One of the officers of Elmhurst General Hospital was a particularly good friend of QLGPC.

After the first 3 or 4 years of holding the Queens Lesbian and Gay Pride parade, certain people wanted to start a Lesbian and gay Pride Committee for the borough of Brooklyn. So it happened, and QLGPC formed another liaison committee. So now Brooklyn has its own Lesbian and gay annual pride march and festival, and, for the sake of variety, holds their festivities at night.

An off-shoot of the Hospitality Committee was a sub-committee charged with the responsibility of setting up the Winterpride Dinner. If you wanted to attend, the ticket cost $60.00, less if you couldn’t afford it. So every year there is an elaborate catered affair at one of the rather lavish catering halls in Queens. The one I remember is Dante’s in Jackson Heights. But there were others, when attendance at the Winterpride Dinner got too large, Dante’s could not handle it. At the dinner, you could expect a Baroque quartet, lots of booze and very gourmet appetizers. Again part of the entertainment of the main stage at Winterpride were the necessarily brief presentations of the local politicians who pointed out what they did and are doing for our community.

After 3 years of being recording secretary, I got burned out. Someone succeeded me, I think it was a Mr. Siciliano. After 3 years of this, I said to myself that what gay liberation means to me is not so much political organizing, as important as this is. Gay liberation means to me the status of Lesbian gay people in the Church community. So I ran around to various churches, etc. I told you that story already. Besides the people I was dealing with all had some real political power, they were middle class. I did not really identify with them. I used to frequent the Lesbian and Gay Center on West 13th Street in NYC. I kept track of the groups that formed there. Two groups that intrigued me were COOL – Committee of Outraged Lesbians and Bronx Lesbians from a Lower Class Background. Whoever the founders of these groups were, I say “bravo.” Middle class gay people are not the only people interested in gay liberation. And there is more than one way of being disenfranchised.

Moral: We should all be thankful to the organizers of our annual Denver Gay and Lesbian Pride March. It involves a crushing amount of legal work to keep everything on track.

April 7, 2014

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.

Birth Experiences by Lewis

Since the title of the topic for today is "Birth Experiences", that is, plural, I must assume that, as I have not been "born again" nor have I any memory of my own birth--the very thought sends cold waves of terror up-and-down my spine--I am confined to writing about those births which I have personally witnessed, of which there are but two.

The more memorable of those I have described here back on August 26th. For the benefit of those who may have been absent that day, I will reprise it, edited for brevity, now:

This is where the magic began. Not only did the fetus go to term but developed into a 9-pound, 5-ounce baby girl, Laura. The delivery was not exactly "normal", however. Yes, we had taken the "natural childbirth" and Lamaze classes but there is no way to plan or prepare for a baby that resists all efforts to force it into the bright light of a delivery room. The obstetrician decided to use forceps. We had chosen a hospital, Hutzel Women's Hospital in Detroit, that allowed the father to be present for the birth. I had planned for it but had not a clue as to the role I was about to play.

The birthing table, upon which Jan lay, was massive. I think it was made of marble or something equally heavy. The doctor was at one end, his forceps clamped on the baby's head, a nurse was lying across Jan's abdomen and I was holding onto the other end of the table. Nevertheless, the doctor was dragging the table with its cargo of three human adults across the delivery room floor by our daughter's neck while Jan pushed as hard as she could. (Incidentally, my wife was about 5'8" and 160 pounds.) I was afraid that our baby was going to be born in installments. But, no, she came out in one piece, her head a little flattened on the sides, slightly jaundiced, hoppin' mad, and gorgeous to both her mother and me.

On my first visit to mother and daughter in the hospital, I donned the required gown. You know the type--they cover the front of you completely and tie in the back. Laura had been in an incubator for her jaundice. The nurse brought her in and handed her to Jan in the bed for feeding. After Laura had nursed for a while, Jan asked if I would like to hold her. I said "yes", even though I had little-to-no experience with holding a live baby, especially one so small. After holding Laura to my shoulder for a few minutes, I handed her back to Jan.

As I was leaving, I removed the gown. There, near the shoulder of the dress shirt I wore to work, was a pea-sized spot of meconium, a baby's first bowel movement. True, it's sterile and has no particular smell, but I knew that I had been branded. My daughter had found an "outlet" for her anger at having to undergo such a rigorous birth and I knew she would have the upper hand for as long as we both lived.

Beyond any real-life experiences concerning birth, I confess that I have always thought there was something sexy about a pregnant woman. The idea of a incipient new and complete human being living, growing and kicking inside my belly gives rise to a state of being that I have carelessly branded as "fetus envy". Many of you will remember the 1994 Arnold Swarzenegger movie, Junior, in which the star portrays a scientist looking for a way to prevent women from rejecting the fetus they are carrying. When their funding is cut, he resorts to offering his own body as the "test tube" and is somehow caused to become the incubator for the "lucky" child. Seeing this movie was the one and only time I've ever looked at The Terminator and wished I could be more like him. Short of that, I guess I'll have to be content with the occasional spells of nausea that hit me from time-to-time. 

© 27 January 2014

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Magic by Gillian

Tossing this topic around in my head, I consistently found myself humming that tune from West Side Story, I like to be in America, OK by me in America.

When it finally pushed into my consciousness, I realized that my subconscious was telling me something (as, of course, it always is!) Coming to, being in, America. That is magic. It has been for so many people for so many years. I am using the word America, here, the same way it was used in the movie, to mean the United States; politically incorrect, I was always taught, as America North and South encompasses many countries, but nevertheless that is how it was used in that particular song.

Now, almost half a century since I first set foot on American soil, I can still feel the magic I felt then. And I wasn’t a refugee escaping political persecution, or poverty, or violence. At worst, I was simply looking for a better life than was then on offer in a struggling, and still, in many ways war torn, Europe.

I stepped onto Pier 41, I think it was, off the ocean liner Queen Elisabeth, on a cold, drizzzly, October morning, and felt the magic. This was where I was supposed to be! Not where I wanted to be, I had no experience to tell me that, I had been here ten seconds, but where I was meant to be. I truly felt it in my inner self, as if my soul had somehow been misplaced in a body born elsewhere, when clearly my soul belonged here. I can’t explain that feeling, and I don’t know if all or most immigrants feel that way or if I am the only one. I only know that it was clear to me, and that I still feel it.
After fifty years, of course I recognize that there is much Black Magic abroad in the country; that all is not well, at least as I see it, with the good old U.S. of A. But I knew it then. President Kennedy had recently been assassinated. Oh yes, I knew there was a Dark Side. And since then, in my opinion, the Dark Side has become darker and more insidious; or perhaps I have just become more aware. But my place, my belonging, has nothing to do with intellectual processes. It is simply my soul, whatever that word may mean, knowing where I belong.

August 2013

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.

A Pulsar of Light by Carlos

We all enact a role upon the stage. In spite of our most polished performances, many of us often look back to the stage on which we have strutted and long for another script. Time and again, my friend Paul and I misconnected. He never asked anything of me. I suspect he felt he had no right to assert himself. Neither did I speak honestly to him for fear of being too forward. Looking back at the roles we played, I suspect that I should never have let him go without offering him the bounty of truth. Yet in spite of my misgivings and ponderings as to what, if anything, we may have been able to create, I am at peace, knowing that in the end, the script was perfect just the way it was.

A few months prior to my graduation from the University of Texas, I found myself leaving the classroom, enjoying the sun on my face and the sweet aroma of the west Texas desert in bloom. Unexpectedly, Peter, destined to become my first beau, approached, gave me a nod, and motioned me to follow. In spite of my trepidation, I followed, anxious to be inducted into a world that I had fantasized, yet feared, for years. I wanted to be held in a man’s embrace, overpowered by his testosterone. Because I was inexperienced, however, rather than becoming a love-under-the-sheets encounter, our rendezvous evolved into polite conversation and gentle hand-holding. Nevertheless, this being my first encounter with a man, my gay card was validated. Of course, I was anxious to learn from him and lie naked in his bed, but being a good Catholic boy, I deluded myself into believing our meeting was a divine act of intercession. Thus, I was determined to win his heart. Therefore, I decided to play my cards in the kitchen. After all, I’d heard the cliché that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. At least that is how I rationalized my actions in my gender-confused world where the game required one partner to be the hunter while the other was the gatherer. A few days later I knocked on his door, having practiced my invitation to cook for him for days. Even now decades later, I can still feel my heart beating like a little boy about to open his first Christmas gift. As the fates would have it, he was delighted, and we agreed to meet a few days later. That week I perused countless cookbooks for direction. I finally decided on a Russian feast to inspire my czar and win his devotion. That Saturday, I arrived at his apartment, ingredients at hand for savory beef stroganoff, buttered noodles, and Cointreau-kissed strawberries Romanoff. Though I was a nervous boy playing at being grown-up, I pulled it off. The dinner was magnificent. Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Russian Easter Festival Overture” provided the auditory punch to an evening filled with sensory delight. After the meal, as we held each other on his sofa, and I felt his heart poetically and impossibly beating to my own, I knew I had bagged my query. I had won him over through my culinary skills and domestic manipulations.

Within a few years, however, what had blossomed in the spring. withered and desiccated. We tried to forge a relationship, but because I had been drafted into the army and was away from home, our meetings were few and far in between. Our May-December flame sputtered, for while he had burned his candle at both ends over the years, my light had just started to flicker. Eventually, he recognized that he wanted what I could never offer, children. Thus, within months after I did return home, he dissolved our relationship, convinced our age differences and irreconcilable goals were impediments to the fairy tale ending on which I had been weaned. And thus, I encountered my first dissolution, my first of many failures. The “Russian Easter Festival Overture” became a dirge, its bells no longer heralding the resurrection of love, but rather the mournful eulogy of forsaken love and childish dreams.

Regardless, in those years with Peter, I learned that being gay is a blessing; I learned to embrace and honor myself. Although the relationship did not take root, that meal became a precursor to my entry into adulthood. Thus, I remain forever grateful to our ephemeral dance. Over those years, Paul, Peter’s best friend, was often a guest at our apartment. Though Paul and I were never alone, in retrospect, I knew even then that the sexual and emotional attraction between us was palpable. I suspect Peter felt it, though he never spoke of it. After my first relationship came to an end and I moved out, Paul visited me often. Our encounters were polite and restrained. Paul stood off in the distance, silent, supportive, and stoic. In retrospect, I realize that though he wanted to reach out to me, his devotion to his best friend and to me precluded him from doing so. And thus, the Russian feast I had years earlier prepared for another was never his. And after months of agony and a realization that my first relationship could not be resurrected and that I needed to move on, I left Texas for Denver, hoping to start a life anew. Yet even before I flew away, Paul and I both knew that so much that needed disclosure would remain forever vaulted. I wanted him to give me reason to remain, yet I could not encourage him; he wanted me to stay, yet he could not betray his honor. We were both stuck in a damned-if-we-do, damned-if-we-don’t’ waltz. And thus, our chosen pathways became the denouement to our Greek tragedy.

And thus, our lives took us in different directions. Because we kept in touch, our friendship blossomed. Though our letters to each other were always warm, it was becoming clear to me that by my running away, I had thwarted a possible bond when he started to close his letters with…Love, Paul. Eventually, he even asked me if I could tolerate him for a brief visit should he find himself in Denver. I let him know that if he took a step toward me, I just might take two steps toward him. But because of his career, he never made it to Denver, and as time progressed, our letters became more infrequent. I concluded we had only forged footprints on a beach. A few years later, I awoke from a dream. Paul hovered protectively next to me, reaching down with his hand to touch my face. I decided enough time had passed between us. Unspoken words needed to be fleshed out. Thus, I called him. To my surprise, a kind stranger answered, and after I asked for Paul, he informed me that he had just passed away. And thus, the last dance came to an end. On my next visit to Texas, I went to his grave, knelt before it, and bide adieu to my friend for whom I should have prepared a feast. I recognized that time had flitted away like a ghost seen only in the periphery of one’s vision. I will always some regret that I did not marry savory to sweet, let the dough rest and rise, or grind the spices between my fingers for Paul. I suspect that my life might have been different had I recognized I am not exempt from the adagio’s last note. I regret my indecision; I regret his indecision. My naivete, my silence, his devotion, his honor, had collided like two star systems pulled apart by each other’s gravitational pull. I will always ponder whether a meal to remember might have scripted a sublime poetic couplet. But regret is a bowl of warm, curdled milk.

My experiences with Paul have taught me that to live life constrained by polite etiquette and fear of risks is like eating strawberries without the Cointreau. The little boy is no more. I have discovered that truth must be honored and life must be lived as though the big bang did not need God. When I look back at what might have been, I honor it, but remain firmly entrenched in what is today, in this Mobius strip of time. Thus, when I first met and recognized the man who a decade later still remains my soulmate, Ron, I turned around l80 degrees and gave him a smile that left nothing to the imagination. And the rest is history. No more retrospective regrets, no more cautious approaches. Life must be lived with a devil-may-care attitude. After all, the last supper is only the precursor to the first breakfast. Thus, I’ve learned to let the dead rest in peace and to keep alive the neutron star that is my lighthouse.

© Denver, 4/11/2014

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

Housecleaning by Betsy

There are two major reasons I don’t spend large amounts of time on housecleaning. One reason is that in my adult life I have never stayed in one place, one house, for years and years and years. Well, fifteen is about the most. Every time I’ve moved even within the area I have been forced to evaluate all my stuff--not just my stuff--but a good bit of the stuff of my three children and other family members. Then comes decision time. Either keep it and move it or throw it away. By stuff I mean memorabilia. Hundreds of photos, 8mm movies, 16mm movies that were my grandparents’, Lynne’s 1st book of drawings entitled “drawn flowers.” Or there’s her labor of love she produced in 2nd grade in the Netherlands when we lived there for two years--a drawing of a face with the words “voor Moeder Dag” glued onto a perfectly crafted wooden frame and given to me for Mother’s Day.

Or there’s Beth’s second grade handwriting exercise with the ever-so carefully drawn words:
“I wish teachers would not give us so much work
Because it makes my fingers hurt.”


Or her hand-bound booklet of birthday greetings for mom and the words “I love you” written on every page.


Or how about John’s ninth grade Mothers’ Day creation:
“One fair day, ‘Twas the month of May, A maiden received a card fair and gay." The poetry goes on and then finally, "Fair maiden cannot you see. The labor invested in this card for thee? Upon a high mountain I meditated, and to this point my thoughts did sway. I want to wish you a Happy Mothers’ Day."


All of these are precious bits of my life which I will never throw away. I have said so often: someone else will have to throw these things away for me after I am gone. Then THEY can do the housecleaning. THEY can decide what to keep and what to throw out.


I have much memorabilia passed down to me from parents and grandparents as well. These items will never be the victims of a housecleaning frenzy either. The few times I have considered going through memorabilia and doing some housecleaning, I have ended up spending the better part of the day reading, studying the items, and learning new things about my forebears.


Just to name a few treasures: The story of the Drib Yoj written by my grandmother Edith Rand. (The Drib Yoj, you know, is the Joy Bird.) Newspaper articles and photos describing the lives of my grandparents, great grand parents and in some cases their grandparents.


An article clipped from the New York Herald Tribune draws my attention. It is about the family gathering to celebrate my great grandmother’s 100th birthday. The words on the fragile, yellowed newsprint describe the life of no ordinary woman. Cecelia McConnell, my great grandmother, grew up in Illinois, knew Abraham Lincoln and heard the Lincoln-Douglas debates. At the age of five years she traveled from the East to the mid west in a covered wagon. Then ninety-five years later at the age of 100 she returned to her home on one of the first passenger planes to fly the skies. I was two years old at her one hundredth birthday party and I doubt anyone I know will ever throw out the photo of Cecelia 100 years old with her great grandchildren.


Not all treasures I come across in my housecleaning are ancient. One piece of family history I have acquired very recently. Cecelia’s son, my grandfather Ira McConnell, died before I was born so I have no memory of him. In spite of that I have recently gotten to know him a little bit. Last summer while visiting the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park I came across a bit of information previously unknown to me. Gill and I were camping in the park campground. We had been to the visitor center and brought back to the campsite with us a couple of brochures about the history of the area. I was reading the brochure about East Portal, the town at the bottom of the canyon on the Gunnison River. The town had a tiny community that had sprung up in 1904 when the site for the Gunnison Tunnel was chosen. The brochure describes the conceiving of the tunnel which would carry the waters of the Gunnison River five long miles through the 2000 foot solid rock cliff wall to the arid Uncompahgre Valley to the West. Surveying the tunnel and actually digging it would be a daunting engineering challenge.


Reading on I see a picture of the man I never knew but I have seen enough pictures of my Grandfather to recognize him even as a young man. Quoting from the brochure my recognition is confirmed.


“The jovial Ira McConnell explored the depths of the canyon. He completed surveys that pinpointed the tunnel headings and towns of East Portal in the canyon, and Lujane on the valley side of the tunnel. He guided tunnel construction through the most difficult of problems.”


“Look, Gill,” I yelled. “It’s my grandfather. He is here in this brochure.” This discovery took me completely by surprise, although I knew my grandfather had engineered tunnels in Colorado in the early 1900’s. But the Gunnison Tunnel--I had no idea! This was very exciting, indeed! I returned to the visitor center where I helped myself to a good supply of the brochures knowing I would want to give some away and have some to add to my memorabilia.


I’m quite sure I accumulate material at a faster rate than I get rid of it. This makes housecleaning all the more difficult--downright impossible.


Remember, I said there were two reasons for avoiding serious housecleaning. The second reason is that I have found that housecleaning is hazardous to your health.
It can result in confusion and memory loss and sometimes stress. Let me explain.


Housecleaning can be physically hazardous.


Mop the kitchen floor and lately I find I’m wiped out for the day. These housecleaning chores have become exhausting. I think I would almost rather go to the gym and do a two hour strenuous workout, or climb Lookout Mountain on my bicycle. Nowhere near as exhausting. I wonder why that is?
Another hazard. The minute I settle into a new home I find the perfect place to house my precious memorabilia. Items that cannot be filed in a filing cabinet; such as some of the treasures mentioned above. Then a couple of years later for whatever reason a surge of energy comes upon me and I am inspired to do some housecleaning and find an even more perfect place to store my things that I treasure.


So I move them to their new, improved resting place. Next time I go to look up one of these items it’s not where it should be. Where, then is it? Of course, I have forgotten where the new, improved resting place is. I remember clearly where it used to be. Why did I change it? Or sometimes I remember very clearly where I stored my treasures in my previous home. But I no longer live there. I live HERE. 

Where IS the stuff, anyway


Someday I will learn to spend my energy doing something more useful than moving things around. Let them be. As a result of what I think is a housecleaning endeavor, I’m just confused, stressed, searching, and the house is no cleaner--all because I was inspired to do some clearing out.


Now I have confirmed that housecleaning causes stress. Today I cannot put my hands on that treasured photo of my great, great, great grandparents homestead on the Erie Canal. BEFORE housecleaning at least I didn’t know that I didn’t know where it was.


April1,2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.