Gifts from Afar, by Gillian

All through school it was the four of us. We took classes together, sat together on the bus to and from school and on field trips, ate lunch and played tennis together. Then, in our teens, circumstances began to separate us. Molly's family needed her to go to work, so she left school at sixteen - perfectly legal in Britain then and now, and not looked on as something completely negative as it is here. The other three of us stayed on till eighteen, when Rose started working and Sarah and I went off to different universities. So in one sense there ended our togetherness; in another sense it did not. The four of us always got together for a picnic, or drinks at the pub, whenever Sarah and I were home for Xmas or summer vacation. Then, after we graduated, Sarah married and she and her husband emigrated to Australia. Shortly after that, I came to the U.S.

Now we were well and truly separated.

But we were not. Each of us continued faithfully to write nice long letters. It was always with great delight that I spotted a gift from afar in the form of an envelope with a Brit or Aussie stamp on it, lying in the basket beneath the mail slot, just as it now delights me to see one of their names languishing in my e-mail inbox. We remembered each other's birthdays and faithfully sent Xmas cards, as we still do, although I have to admit they have become somewhat predictable. The two from Britain are almost always of those cute little English robins. The one from Australia is inevitably some summer-Santa scene, perhaps a surfing or sailing Santa, to remind those of us in the Northern Hemisphere that an Australian Xmas comes along at the height of summer. I saw Rose and Molly relatively often over the years as we got together whenever I returned home, but have only managed to see Sarah twice in the fifty years since we both left. Once in the seventies we managed to coordinate our trips home to see our parents, and in the eighties I visited her in Sydney.

The four of us have always been there, albeit long-distance, for each other through triumph and tragedy. I know I can rely on those gifts from afar, the heartfelt congratulations or sympathy, whatever happens, and they feel the same. It began when Rose, at eighteen, became pregnant. She was unmarried and her father threw her out of the house. The other three of us immediately rallied round. Pretty soon her father relented and welcomed her back, and although we liked to think our support for Rose made him relent, I doubt that it really carried any weight with him at all. Very few weeks later, as it was done in those days, Rose and the father of her baby married and have lived happily together, as far as the other three of us know, for over 50 years. They operate their farm in such an environmentally-friendly way that environmentalists from all over the world visit them. Recently they were honored for their efforts at a tea-party at Buckingham Palace. More cards and letters!

Molly married, but found that she could never have children. Cards and caring letters flew across the miles. Two years ago she had a mastectomy, and although she made light of it we sent the sympathy cards and encouraging letters.

I came out to my distant friends and was rewarded with loving, supportive, replies by return of mail. I had debated the importance of telling them, we shared so little, in fact nothing, of each other's daily lives by then, but I felt that our close friendship deserved better; I was right. They have not had the chance to meet Betsy, but always include a cheery love to Betsy as they end their correspondence, and upon receipt of our wedding movie in 2013 the loving congratulations were immediate and sincere.

Poor Sarah and her husband have had the saddest stories to tell. They had two children, both boys. One fell down some steps in his teens and broke his neck. There was apparently a suspicion of substance abuse; he had always been a troubled kid. Then, a year ago, the older son died, in his forties, after a long struggle with leukemia. The cards and letters flew across the miles once more. I was dumbfounded by the strength of my grief. How could I feel so much for someone I had seen twice in the last fifty years? Fortunately for Sarah and Noel, their beloved son left them with two grandchildren and a daughter-in-law with whom they are very close. Life goes on.

I am invariably proud of my friends. Not proud of myself for choosing so wisely. The four of us were friends less from choice than as a result of geography. No, I am proud of them for who they are. In their strength and wisdom and caring, they never disappoint.

We have little in common, the four of us. You don't have to have anything in common with people you've known all your life; you've got your whole life in common. Lionel Blue says,

"Old friends die on you, and they're irreplaceable. You become dependent," and I do so dread the day the first one of the four of us dies.

On being told that Facebook is a great way to keep in touch with old friends, Betty White quipped,

".. At my age, if I wanted to keep in touch with old friends, I'd need a Ouija board”

Both Rose and Sarah have mothers still in good health well into their nineties, so I doubt, thankfully, that I will be the one left holding the board.

© May 2015

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.

Forever, by Ricky

In this life nothing is forever. Possessions rust, tarnish, are lost, stolen, or permanently misplaced. Some things we own just simply wear out or become broken. Pets live their allotted time span, if they are lucky, and then die. People do the same. No one wants to think about or dwell on “death”, but we all will face it during our lifetime.

When I was a child of 2, my beloved pet dog, Bonnie, died from canine distemper. I was too young to comprehend “death” but I knew that she was no longer around.

At 13-years old, I discovered my neighbor from across the street, dead. I had not seen him for almost two weeks but his livingroom light was on all day and night. I went over to investigate. Looking in the cabin livingroom window I could see him locked in the attitude of trying to get out of bed. His door was unlocked and I opened it to be sure he was dead. His medium size pet dog met me at the door. The dog was emaciated. I stepped in and could smell the man was really dead. I noticed that the dog had drank all the water in the toilet bowl so I flushed it so he would have some more. I then ran home and called the sheriff’s office and then took the dog some food. I wanted to keep the dog at least until he was back in good condition, but the deputy insisted that the animal shelter would care for him.

Next to go was my mother’s dad while I was in the Air Force stationed in Florida. I took leave to attend his funeral in Minnesota. I hesitated to go into the viewing room so my 3-year-older-than-me uncle gently pushed me into the room. I had hesitated to decide if I really wanted my last memory of my grandfather to be this one. My uncle unwittingly made the choice for me. A few weeks thereafter, my mother wrote to tell me my pet dog, Peewee, died. I cried a little for her.

While working as a deputy sheriff in Pima County, Arizona, I had the occasion to discover three fatal traffic accidents. One killed a migrant worker when the vehicle he was riding in rolled over. He was thrown out and the car came to a stop on his head. The second accident involved an Air Force enlisted man, his wife, and newborn child. It happened on Christmas day and killed all three of them. No other vehicle was involved. The third accident was also a vehicle rollover. In this case, the two youths in the vehicle had been at a party involving some alcohol. Their high school classmates at the party reported later that the passenger had not been drinking, but the driver had. The driver survived the rollover and walked away uninjured. The passenger was thrown half-way out the passenger door at the time the door shut on his abdomen. These are three memories I wish I did not have, and they do periodically haunt me.

My mother passed a few years later from liver cancer. I arrived from Arizona to speak to her the afternoon prior to her passing that night. I took the early morning phone call from the hospital and woke my step-father to tell him. Then I went in to my sister’s bedroom where I could hear her crying and comforted her. After she calmed down I woke my brother and stayed with him for a while. He didn’t cry in front of me. I didn’t cry at all, but I did feel a loss. No one comforted me.

While in the Air Force for the second time, this time as an officer, my cat, Charlie, caught feline distemper. I made a “bed” for him near the furnace in the laundry room with a supply of water. I awoke during the wee hours of the night and felt that I should go check on him. He was breathing irregularly when I arrived in the laundry room and he looked at me with his beautiful blue eyes. I sat down and picked him up and held him and stroked his head and back. He died in my arms about three minutes later. I shed precious few tears for him.

Soon thereafter, my father’s mother passed away followed by my mother’s mother. More trips to Minnesota to attend funerals followed. Still no tears. Then the day I was dreading came. My father had gall bladder removal surgery which was successful, but his kidneys shut down and never restarted. He died two weeks after the surgery. Yet another trip to Minnesota followed. Still no tears, just holes left in my heart where everyone had been.

Then in September, 2001, my best friend and lover passed away from complications of breast cancer. Although my mental blockage of negative emotions had begun to break down back in 1981, it was mostly still in place, thus, I didn’t cry, but all the joy of life left me and I became an empty shell of the person I used to be, that person is not what I am like today.

Three years ago my brother that I comforted when our mother died, passed away from advanced prostate cancer. I had stayed with him for three months while he lingered. I had been notified of needing to appear for jury duty but was able to reschedule it once for two months into the future. When my time to appear was approaching, he was still alive but I had to return home. He died the day after I arrived home. I had no funds to return for his funeral and I was not needed for a jury. I could have stayed there after all.

As if to rub-my-nose in all this past death experiences, last Friday, July 10th, one patron of the establishment where I work had a heart attack and died. I evaluated his pulse by feeling his neck and listened for his heartbeat by placing my ear on his chest. His eyes were open, dilated, and unresponsive to light. He was also very clammy. Thus, another memory I did not desire but I am stuck with was born.

The emotional blockage in my mind is crumbling fast and I am now flooded with emotion whenever the latest tragic news story is told about death at the hands of evil people and Mother Nature. These stories cause me to actually cry real tears for people I never knew and for those whom I did know.

There really is a 12-year old boy, who never matured mentally or emotionally, who still lives inside my head. We are both tired of all the death we have experienced and the killings that bombard us in the news. We both remember the fear of nuclear attack from the duck-and-cover days of school drills and fear of the bomb was always present in the back recesses of our shared thoughts. I know how alone he feels now that all our “ancestors” have passed because he is me and I am him, but we are not integrated into one complete and whole person. We are tired and we want our mother and father to hold and comfort us and help us navigate the ever increasing chaos of our society. But they are gone. Where are peace and love now? Where can we find them?

© 13 July 2015

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

Extreme Sport, by Phillip Hoyle

This weekend while at a bar I saw an extreme sport on TV. Ice skaters raced at absurdly high speeds on a down-hill ice-covered course with sharp corners and jumps. “Absolutely foolish,” was my thought. I feel the same way about climbing high mountains, scaling rocks, deep sea diving, riding down white-water rivers in kayaks, on and on—all challenges of the hardy-body and hardly-wise from my scaredy-cat point of view.

Still, a realistic review of all sports-like extremes in my life sees me canoeing over a waterfall, but that was accidental, certainly not my intention, and I’ve already told that story. Such a review also sees me riding down a road on a snow mobile towards a big white-face bull, but I was not the driver, just a rider involved in that accident. The bull lowered its head and stopped us cold. I recall lying there in the snow unable to move thinking, “And now the bull is going to come over to trample and gore me.” I felt like a goner. I never expected that sport to become so extreme as to cause a number of trips to a physician and years of pain. But really my list of such extremities is short. I’ve already told these stories. I really don’t do anything extreme except sometimes entertain strange and extreme thoughts.

The things I have consistently done that are closest to extreme sports include some extreme reading and a few encounters with what seemed to me extreme piano pieces. For instance, in undergraduate school and in graduate seminary I read several New Testament books—the Gospels of Mark and John, and the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians. What made the readings extreme was that the text I read was in Greek! Fortunately I benefitted from the tutelage of fine professors of the language. In undergraduate school, on my own and without a teacher, I read in English Tolstoy’s War and Peace with its long Russian names and rather philosophical essays. I read the first volume in a month, took a month off, and then read the second volume. I recall almost none of the story and certainly not even one name except the author’s. You see, I don’t claim to be good at my extreme reading sport. I just engage in it.

Out of personal interest I read Victor Frankel’s classic Man’s Search for Meaning, the most difficult book I had read up to that time. I did not undertake practicing his logotherapy, not even on myself, but I do still recall one story he included and at least one general premise. More recently I read My Queer War by James Lord, a non-fiction account of Lord’s participation in the US Army during the European conquest. The story was not so challenging except in this reader’s ability to have faith in any military operation, but the main challenge was the author’s vocabulary, which led me to reread the book, list and look up all the difficult words I couldn’t readily define, and send the list to a friend who I knew would appreciate my making the list and why. I will mention that I have read books, many of them frankly, that have been a challenge in their stories, the scenes portrayed, and the values proffered, after all, I’ve been an avid reader of novels since I was in eighth grade and have read non-fiction endlessly, especially in anthropology, theology, music history, philosophy, sexology, and any number of specialized topics of my current interests. As a result I’ve stumbled through genetics while understanding only the barest of its meanings, philosophical abstractions that left me clueless, and logical conclusions that ran counter to my grasp of what the author had been saying all along. I’ve sometimes felt as if I were falling off a cliff, crashing into barriers, or caught in an avalanche. Oh well, I suppose I’m just being dramatic. Still, I remind myself of a couple of years in my thirties when I read at least five books a week, a practice that eventuated in my going on a book fast for a year.

During that year I attached myself to a piano teacher who liked my musicality and determined to teach me musicianship. Thus, using all my forsaken reading time to practice, I learned to play and memorized a number of extreme piano pieces, for instance, a Capriccio by Brahms, a prelude by Shostakovich, a short dance by Bartok, and several three-part inventions by Bach, and I played them in juries and music contests. Although I embarrassed myself in performance, I did love the challenges of the music. I also marveled at the real talent and technique of many accomplished pianists who, while they may have found the same pieces challenging, could actually play them in public with confidence and pride.

In short, for me extreme sports seem more based on their potential source of extreme embarrassment rather on my extreme coordination and ability. Thus while I have operated effectively within a limited field, I have risked only in order to participate in rather safe activities which have served to satisfy my almost missing need for adrenaline rushes. So while I accept that some folk may need to risk even their lives or to give everything in the development of a skill or to compete all their lives long, those conditions have had little appeal for me and have no real place in my life. I admire what it takes to do extreme sports, but at some very basic level I fail to relate to it. I don’t need to climb high mountains, don’t need to win in the race, don’t need somehow to be the best or to live on the edge of physical annihilation in order to be happy. Not me.

Denver, © 2013

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

The Facts, by Lewis

The late Senator from New York, Daniel Patrick Moynihan, is famously quoted for saying, “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion but not their own facts”.

Thomas Jefferson has written, ““Shake off all the fears of servile prejudices, under which weak minds are servilely crouched. Fix reason firmly in her seat, and call on her tribunal for every fact, every opinion. Question with boldness even the existence of a God; because, if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason than that of blindfolded fear.”

It seems to me that there are two means by which people at various times arrive at an understanding of their world. One is to reason to a conclusion via the assimilation of all the facts that one can gather and so putting them together as to minimize dissonance. The other is to begin with the conclusion that one wishes to draw, whether in the service of faith or mere prejudice, and sifting and sorting through the facts, picking and choosing so as to not disturb the forgone conclusion.

If I were to paint with a broad enough brush, I could slather one political party with the hue of the former and the other party with the latter. I won’t tell you which is which because that would be to deny me the opportunity to put my theory of how people arrive at their understanding of the world to the test. But allow me, rather, to tell you why I feel that the fact-based means of rationalization is far the better one.

There are two kinds of truth. There is absolute truth and there is revealed truth. If we are to assume that truth matters, then it is important how one arrives at the truth. Our society is almost equally fond of both means. Congressional hearings, legal proceedings, the scientific method, and child-rearing are all based upon finding out what is true and workable and following that path. It requires setting aside preconceived notions of how things work in order to find the truth. If something is revealed which belies what I believed to be true yesterday, then I must reject my old conceptions and accept the new—at least, until it, too, is shown to be erroneous.

On the other hand, if I have been taught to believe that there are certain truths which are forever unchanging, eternal, unequivocal, then what do I do when presented with powerful evidence of their falsehood? I must either claim that the new evidence is a lie from someone who is not to be trusted; admit that I have been fooled for, lo, these many years, at the risk of losing face; or ignore the contrary evidence and hope that it goes away. This is, admittedly, a very uncomfortable position to be in. In part, I blame fundamentalist religion, in all its varied forms, for putting people in this predicament.

When you have been reared to believe that even to question “divine truth” is to risk eternal hellfire, it tends to put a damper on open-mindedness. The problem I have with these folk is when their mindset is brought to bear upon the political realm, which, at least in the United States, is constitutionally designed to be free from such influences.

All this said, I do not wish to give the impression that I am devoid of any tendency to eschew truths revealed through mystical events. Though I am a “non-believer”, in the traditional sense of that term, I have recently been starkly reminded that there are events in our lives that I have a great deal of trouble getting my mind around.

A few weeks after my husband, Laurin, died, the minister at my church, First Unitarian Society of Denver, gave a sermon on mysticism. It was about being open to the idea of things going on in the world around us that simply have no logical explanation and how that sensibility can make life easier to deal with, if not more interesting or joyful. That very night, I awoke around 2 AM, as I often did, needing to take relieve myself. Once back in bed, my mind, as it often did, began mulling over myriad things going on in my life. Still awake at 3:30, I realized that I needed to pee again. I got up, walked to the bathroom, and sat on the commode. From that vantage point, I can see my bed silhouetted against the east window. I noticed nothing peculiar. Upon returning to bed, I saw, lying on the bottom sheet where the covers had been thrown back, two facial tissues lying perfectly folded and flat, one slightly overlapping the other. They looked as if they had been carefully pressed, not as if I had lain on them during the night. I was certain that they were not there the previous morning when I made the bed. I had not been crying during the night nor had any other use for a tissue.

I spent the next two hours agonizing over how those tissues got there. I did not believe in life after death. I did not believe in ghosts or spirits. Yet, there was no “factual” explanation for what I had discovered. My sobs were so loud, I’m almost sure my neighbor must have heard them. It took Shari and Michelle from the SAGE Caregiver Support group to help me realize that what I witnessed might have been a sign from Laurin that, after so many years of my taking care of him, now it was his turn.

Even now, five months to the day after Laurin’s passing, I cannot write these words without breaking down. I now can admit, without flinching, that, yes, there are facts--and facts matter. But there are also phantoms and shadows that invite us to become their friends. Suddenly, the world has become a place of true wonder.

© 23 March 2013

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.

Here and There, by Gillian

Here and There 

(Or, as my mum would have said, hither and thither!)


The American doughboys marched off cheerily to World War One singing, over there, over there, the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming, and we won't come back till it's over, over there.

By the time it was over over there, 120,000 of them could not come back. Before long the Yanks were coming once more, for the second Big One, and by the time that one was over over there, almost half a million Americans could not come back. Over there can be deadly.

There was a saying in Britain at the end of World War Two. The only problem with the Yanks is, they're over sexed, over paid, and over here. That seems almost incredibly unappreciative of men who, almost certainly, saved Britain from being invaded by Hitler and his Nazi thugs. It is understandable, though, that returning British men felt considerable resentment. Many returned to wives raising G.I. babies, or wives wanting a divorce because this poor embattled war weary Brit. could never measure up to that beautiful boy from Biloxi with his easy charm and an apparently endless supply of chocolate, American cigarets, and ready cash. They returned to girlfriends and fiancées who had their bags packed ready for an immediate escape to join that friendly fruit farmer in Florida, or some rugged Wyoming cowboy. There and here is not always an easy mix.

I, born in Britain in 1942, sometimes have to wonder what my life would have been, had the U.S. not joined the Allies in World War Two: different, for sure. Much shorter, perhaps. Having said that, it's difficult for me to take the stand of an isolationist. But let's face it, since World War Two, our military forays in foreign fields have not .... well, let's be kind and simply say, not been all that we'd hoped for. Though exactly what we had hoped for, from Viet Nam to Iraq and Afghanistan, seems pitifully unclear. Over there can be confusing.

The United States, being an immigrant country, is peopled by those who, themselves or their not too distant ancestors, came from there to here - 'there' being just about anywhere in the world.

Some, tragically, came involuntarily, and experienced nothing good here. But for most of us who chose to come from over there to over here, it was a good move and we found the good life here, the life we wanted. People occasionally ask me if I would ever want to move back to England, and I surprise myself by thinking, not unless I can go back to the time of my youth there. I know that's not an honest response, even silently in my own head. That was, after all, the Britain that I chose not to remain in. Nostalgia has been so aptly described as the longing for a place and time that never was. In my heart I know that if some magical time travel were possible, and I could return to the Britain of my youth, I would return happily to the here and now, saying, with that smugness we sometimes feel on returning home from vacation,

"Great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there!"

No, my life is here and now. I'm here to stay.

© May 2015

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.

Preparation, by Will Stanton

The phrase “be prepared” reminds me of the Boy Scouts. Naturally, my having grown up in the 60s, I then can't help but be reminded of song-writer Tom Lehrer's satirical lines,

     Be prepared! That's the Boy Scout’s marching song,
     Be prepared! As through life you march along.
     Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well,
     Don't write naughty words on walls, if you can't spell.

I seem to have been focused on those songs well enough to remember them; but, unfortunately, I apparently did not have the focus to make all the necessary preparations for -- thinking of a few examples -- a truly successful career, financial security, and winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I seemed to have spent my time engaging in activities that, at the time, captured my fancy, usually things that had no practical purpose unless one planned to make a profession out of them. Yet, sometimes even those activities can prepare one for later use in a most unexpected manner.

When I was 17 (was I ever 17?), I found myself in Bozeman, Montana for the summer. I did the usual things, such as hiking, exploring, making friends. I even took a summer class in French, quelle qu'en soit la bonne qui a fait pour moi, whatever good that did for me.

What interested me most, however, was taking classes in judo from the Korean Sang Wu Shin. By the end of the summer, I had the basics well in hand. Of course, I could not identify any useful purpose in it. It just was something I wanted to do. I never had to use it for real self-defense, although it did come into play in an amusing way that following autumn.

Back in high school, I was heading down the hallway when someone ran up behind and trapped me from behind in a tight bear-hug. My response was instinctive and surprisingly effective. I took hold of his arms and quickly dropped my body down several inches to place my attacker's center of gravity higher than mine and so I could spring upward. Then smoothly, I threw him up over my head in a large arc. I didn't really feel threatened, and I didn't wish to hurt anyone, so I set him down gently onto the floor in front of me. He wasn't hurt, but he didn't move for a while. He simply lay there with his eyes as big as saucers.

Once I got a look at who my attacker had been, I recognized him as a student one year behind me. He was pleasant looking, tall, slim, brown hair, and with glasses, hardly a threatening appearance. I didn't really know him well and wondered why he chose to put me into a bear-hug. Of course at that age, I was even more dense than I am now, and it didn't occur to me at the time that he simply wanted to touch me, to hug me. After all, most of us hid such feelings through sublimation – wrestling, teasing, depantsing, and pretend attacks.

After his experiencing such a big surprise being tossed to the floor in a judo-throw, there was no more interaction between us. So, I always have wondered, was his attack just a moment of goofiness? Or, did he really want to hug me? I had the preparation to be able to get out of a bear-hug, but apparently I wasn't prepared to understand human nature.

A post-script: Another guy who witnessed the incident later told me, “I knew you play piano, so I thought you were a wuss. I've changed my mind.”

© 28 July 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.

A Picture to Remember, by Ricky

While researching my mind and previous stories, I found one where I described how I would ponder many unusual concepts, ideas, or things in general and then ask “off the wall” questions about those subjects. Last week or so, I had another episode of that behavior and will share it will you.

Can you picture this?

What would a pipe organ sound like if it were tuned to the Oriental music scale?

Try and picture this.

Why are butterflies not called flutter-byes which would be more descriptive?

Last Wednesday, Donald and I went to the Butterfly Museum as neither of us had been there before. We both found it very interesting. At one point, a butterfly landed on Donald’s head and rested for awhile. 




Not long after, one landed on the front of my right thigh and stayed for a respectful amount time before flying off.

We stayed to see the release of newly hatched butterflies into the habitat. A young boy carefully and slowly walked by into the release area while we waited. What was remarkable about the boy was the large butterfly perched on his shoulder. I was getting my camera ready to take a photo and when the boy noticed, he turned and posed for the picture.  

When it was time for the release, a docent described each butterfly as she released one of each of the different types. When she released a swallow-tail butterfly, it flew in a beeline straight for me and landed on the front of my left thigh. This one was in no hurry to leave and actually overstayed its welcome.

For about 10 minutes, I alternated between standing and walking about the habitat providing free transportation to my getting to be unwelcome guest. Donald and I finally arrived at a small gazebo with two benches. We sat down to rest and the butterfly still clung to my leg showing no intention of leaving. At last I tried to get it to leave my leg by offering my finger and the creature moved to my finger.

After a short passage of time, we transferred it to one of Donald’s fingers






and then to a nearby leaf where it stayed while Donald and I left.

The photos I took will help me remember this event well into the future.

Photos by the author

© 13 April 2015

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

Exercising, by Ray S

What is fun about exercise? For me the word is synonymous with work. There is a sense of accomplishment, if not survival when you might have completed a certain number of circuits around the high school track—but then there is the end result—exhaustion.

Jumping Jacks, etc. were okay when you are all lined up doing the same movements, but then there is the really hard work of push-ups.

As a developing pubescent wimp, if anyone had told had told me how the weight room would have given me that classic Greek Apollo physic when I was old enough to be intrigued with other Greek gods’ bodies, I probably would have been so narcissistic I would beat the gym doors down to get started on that evasive body beautiful. Alas, I never met a barbell that I liked.

Team sports were my 6th grade downfall and ultimate lifetime avoidance of participating or watching. How validating it was to be one of the boys on the team, until my total lack of eye-hand-arms and -legs coordination disqualified me, especially after consistently striking out. Forget football; basketball—dribbling impossible. Wrestling and boxing meant you could get hurt and besides they were not only competitive, they were too aggressive for the timid soul.

It seemed I was destined to be like Ferdinand the Bull, all he could do was lie around and smell the roses. Without rigorous exercising how was I to become a man so that when the time became evident I might lie with a woman or better yet in the Biblical sense “lie with a man”?

Looking back on so many physical education failures I wonder that I have managed, in spite of myself, to live this long, loved so much, slept with wonderful people, and can still get up out of bed each day and put one foot in front of the other. Perhaps that might qualify as heavy duty passive exercising.

© 24 August 2015

About the Author

From Bell to Cell, by Phillip Hoyle

A personal history of the telephone


In 1876, some years before my birth, Alexander Graham Bell changed the world of human communications when he received the patent for the acoustic telegraph now called the telephone. Soon after my father was born, someone improved it with the rotary dialing system. That was in 1919, although rotaries didn’t make it out to our part of Kansas until sometime in the 1950s.

My first memory of the phone was a black rectangle affair with a combined ear and mouth piece on a cloth-covered cord. It hung in the breakfast room and had a very small number printed on it, our number that I no longer recall. The phone seemed magical but not so much as the older model at the farm. Watching Grandma Pink on that phone excited me so much I wanted to join in the fun, waiting for the neighbors on the party line to quit gossiping, then cranking away on the handle on the side of the old wooden box, and finally yelling into the mouth horn, “Central, Central.”

We, too, had a party line in town but one with fewer phones connected. We never had to wait so long as Grandma. Of course, young people today would be scandalized to learn that people, namely your neighbors, could listen in on your calls. Where is the right to privacy?

Then we got a rotary phone and a private line. The new wall phone looked much the same as its predecessor, except the black box now had a dialing apparatus with numbers and letters and in the middle was posted CE (for Cedar) 8-2533. I can remember Mom going to that phone to call Santa Clause when we had misbehaved. My favorite memory though, is of my sister Holly who at mealtimes sat with the phone immediately behind her. She was used to answering it during meals. But that day she was just ready to say grace when the thing rang. Picking up the receiver, she began her prayer: “Our Father in heaven….” When she realized what she had just done, she turned red, nervously laughed, and said, “Who is this?”

We still had to dial “0” for the operator to make a long-distance call, but before too many years automatic dialing of long distance became a possibility and with it the introduction of Area Codes. The prefixes tell the rest of this story for AREA CODES began to indentify the important places and phone events in my life.

913 Junction City where I grew up, Clay Center where I went to high school, and eventually Manhattan, KS where I went to college all had the same Area Code. The college dorm had a pay phone in the hallway downstairs. When Myrna and I married our apartment had no phone. If we needed to contact anyone, we walked one block to a convenience mart where we could use a pay phone if we had a quarter.

316 Three years later, we moved to Wichita, KS where I had my first full-time job. There we owned our first phone and began paying Ma Bell for the convenience. From its 316 number we made such announcements to the family as: “It’s a boy.” “It’s a girl.”

817 Some years later we moved to Ft. Worth, TX where I attended seminary. From that area code I eventually asked: “Ed, could you come to my ordination?” I wanted Ed, the minister who had influenced me to attend seminary, to deliver the ordination prayer.

314 One afternoon I received a call, my first one from Area Code 314. Jack in Jefferson City, MO asked many questions about my work in religious education. The congregation where he was senior minister extended a call, and we moved there to join him in ministry. Some seven years later I received another 314 from Jack’s wife. “Phillip,” she said at 4:00 that summer Sunday morning, “Jack’s had a seizure that knocked him out of the bed. The ambulance is here. I don’t think he is going to make it.”

505 A couple of years later there were many 505 calls to and from Albuquerque, NM. We moved there to a good job in an excellent church. But one day my good friend Ted called with news related to his AIDS illness. He told me, “Dr. Gold says it’s now a matter of months or weeks.”

970 Before too many months passed I began making calls from Area Code 970, Montrose, CO where we lived briefly to help out my aging in-laws. There I talked with editors, friends from many places, and eventually with the minister of another church where I would work.

918 Tulsa, OK. Months later, when we moved to Tulsa, we got an answering machine to go with our push button phone because I needed to know if people were going to miss choir rehearsals.

303 I brought that answering machine with me to Denver, Area Code 303, where it was useful as a tool for fielding massage appointment queries. I’d call my machine from the phone at the spa to see if I needed to get right home or if I could dawdle, shop, or visit the Public Library or Denver Art Museum. Some five years later, when I moved in with Jim, I quit using that answering machine. He and his mother were so private; I didn’t want to have the phone ringing with appointment requests. I bought a cell phone. That was almost ten years ago.

These days I’m beginning to feel somewhat like my partner Jim who long fantasized retiring to his home behind a high fence that would keep out the encroaching world. In my retirement I, too, am cutting off my accessibility related to a group of fine people. It’s not to block them out completely but, rather, to limit what I am available for. At the end of the year, 2013, I’m retiring from my massage practice but not at all from my life. I will be happily social but not available for either instant communications or for massage giving. I won’t have texting but will have a home number and will be on line with Email, Facebook, and Blogs. Surely the loss of the cell phone will spell a quieter, less bothered retirement. I am looking forward to that. Even though I won’t be available for giving massages, I’ll still be up for coffee, tea, or meals with lots of laughs. And I hope never again to change my Area Code unless to 720.

(Note: I never have got rid of my cell phone.)

Denver, © 2013

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

Scarves, by Lewis

It was a night much like any other for the watchman at Glasgow's Dock Number Three, Lewis James MacScarvey, as he made his rounds. The only sounds were that of the water sloshing against the piles and an occasion distant fog horn or well-sotted human being noisily making his way home after closing time.

It was his habit to pace to-and-fro in front of a streetlamp and park bench where said humans were prone to sleep and dispose of their spent bottles in the nearby trash receptacle in hopes of averting a disturbance. When he turned to the north he could see about 100 meters away another bench with trash receptacle and lamplight nearly identical to his. Only there was no one patrolling that space so he liked to occasionally cast his eye in that direction to make sure there was no mischief-making going on.

On this particular night, at about 1:30 in the morning, he thought he saw a figure standing near the water. It appeared to be a woman, perhaps wearing a red full-length coat and something on her head. He had made several turnings on his well-worn loop and each time checked to see if the person was still there.

After about 15 minutes or so, he turned and noticed that the figure had vanished. Curious, he rushed down to see if there was a problem. When he arrived at the spot where the woman had been standing, he saw only a pair of earrings carefully placed on the seat of the bench and, when he looked into the water, a red scarf floating on the surface. Not even a ripple disturbed the water's calm. Using his nightstick, he was able, with some effort, to retrieve the scarf. Embroidered on one corner were initials. He could barely make them out in the dim light--"LJM". They were his initials. He backed away from the edge of the water until his legs collided with the bench, whereupon he sat down hard.

Although he never learned the identity of the mysterious lonely woman he saw that night--no body was ever found--he could not bring himself to reveal to the police even the existence of the scarf. He kept it for himself and every night before he went on-duty, he would tie the scarf around his neck, hoping against hope that the rightful owner would some night come looking for it.

© March 23, 2015

About the Author

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

A Magic Carpet Ride, by Gillian

Humankind does not, for the most part, create in order to promote and honor spirituality. We make killing machines and WMD's. We compete to see who can build the tallest sky-scraper, the biggest and fastest anything and everything, and the securest vault to store our precious gold bars.

So, it was with great surprise that I received a serious spiritual kickstart from a creation weighing an estimated 54 tons; the largest piece of community folk art in the world, honoring almost 100,000 people.

Yes, of course, the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

I first saw it, or part of it, in Denver. I don't recall where exactly it was displayed, Betsy thinks somewhere at DU, or when this would have been. Probably around 1990. What I do remember vividly is the effect it had on me.

Each quilt is 3 feet by 6, roughly the size of a human grave. At the time it was started, in 1987, many people who died of AIDS-related causes did not receive funerals, due to both the social stigma of AIDS felt by surviving family members and the outright refusal by many funeral homes and cemeteries to handle the deceased's remains. Lacking a memorial service or grave site, The Quilt was often the only opportunity survivors had to remember and celebrate their loved ones' lives. Each quilt is completely unique. They vary from no more than a name written in marker pen, to an embroidered name with a photograph, or many photographs. Some are covered in messages to the deceased. Many have belongings carefully attached, sometimes covered with carefully hoarded childhood toys and clothes; baby booties wailing out a mother's heartbreak.

I couldn't stand it. These young men - yes, others died, and are still dying in that terrible epidemic, but it was primarily stalking young gay men - these young men, so frequently reviled and feared by society, dying horrible and very premature deaths; and what do they and those who love them do? They sew a quilt, those terrible, frightening men! The pain of each individual represented there, and my anger at an ignorant bigoted society were too much. I didn't think I could bear it. I couldn't contemplate one more lost life. I was about to tell Betsy I would have to wait for her outside, when something strange, something wonderful, happened.

I felt the overwhelming love that had gone into those quilts flowing back out and engulfing me. It enveloped me in it's warmth, like that of a cozy fire on a cold night, and with it came a sense of great peace, culminating in a flash of what I can only call pure joy, such as I have felt rarely in my life. It was strange, that jolt of joy in a time and place surrounded by death. But there it was. It came and it went so fast I felt almost dizzy. But the strong sense of love and peace remained, to banish the previous pain and sorrow and rage. You understand that I am looking back at it now from a place at least slightly further along the path of spirituality than at the time, so this is how I see it from a current perspective. I doubt I would have described it in quite the same way at the time. But then, with every memory we rewrite history. But it is my history, so I guess I'm allowed.

In any event, it was The Quilt which initially precipitated my journey along the spiritual path.

I wanted that jolt of joy again. And again. And again. It had been like a momentary high, and with one shot I was addicted. I wanted to live cocooned in love; to find that everlasting peace.

Easy to say! Not so easy to do. The spiritual path is a difficult one. You don't simply decide, I'm going this way now, and go. It takes work, and, like so many things, eternal vigilance. I frequently lose my way, stumbling off the spiritual path into those nearby dark places where all the bad things lurk - those negative thoughts and emotions, always waiting to pounce. But at least I have reached a stage where, I cannot claim always, but often, I can stop myself, wherever I am at that moment. I stop. I relax. I do some deep breathing. I rest right there, lost as I may be among the good, bad, and ugly. I gather that spiritual quilt of love and peace, and wrap myself in it's warmth. And usually it works it's miracle and sooner or later I find myself back in the welcoming light of my spiritual being, back once again on the right path. Rescued, again, from the dark scary places, It's a magic carpet ride. As I continue along my path, I am treated, very occasionally, to those starbursts of pure joy. But more importantly, I am, for the most part, completely at peace: with myself, with my world, and with everything in it. So I think it very appropriate that the Quilt, or technically The Names Project which began it, was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989, but disappointing that it did not receive the award. It seems to me the perfect candidate. If others would treat adversity in the same way, the world would be a very different place. Sadly, even trying to imagine the Nazis or those currently flocking to join ISIS, deciding instead to sew a quilt, is so impossible it's just laughable.

Why is that? I ask myself, sadly. I hear no answering reply.

I saw a part of The Quilt once again when Betsy and I took part in the March on Washington in 1993. The last time it was displayed in it's entirety was on the Washington Mall in 1996 - something I would love to have seen but didn't, and I will probably never get another chance. The Quilt is now too large to be viewed all together. It is stored in twelve feet square sections, housed in Atlanta. These section, placed end to end, would run for over eight miles. If you have never seen any part of it, you might want to add it to your Bucket List; things to do before you die. I'm sure it would do just as much for your soul as gazing at the Taj Mahal in the moonlight. And the trip would be a whole lot cheaper!

© June 2015

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.

Didja Hear Denver's Pride Parade was Disrupted?

by Donaciano Martinez


The question in the above headline was posed by me to dozens of people, who were almost unanimous with the reply of a resounding “no.”

The June 2015 parade was indeed disrupted by predominantly Chicano and Chicana GLBTQ youth from Buried SEEDZ of Resistance (BSEEDZ) to honor Jessie Hernandez, the 17-year-old Mexican lesbian who was killed by Denver police when they investigated the stolen car in which Hernandez and her young lesbian friends were socializing in the early-morning hours in January 2015.

Completely stopping the parade from one side of the street to the other as BSEEDZ activists unfurled a huge multi-colored banner in big-sized words “Your Family Values Are a Lie,” the 10-minute disruption took place near Lafayette Street on the Colfax side of the nonprofit GLBT Community Center that has organized the parade and festival since 1976.

In addition to honoring the deceased Hernandez, BSEEDZ activists made the following demands to the GLBT Community Center as the parade organizer:

– End corporate sponsorship of Pride by corporations such as Coors, Walmart and Wells Fargo due to their ties to the prison industrial complex, anti-immigration legislation and predatory lending that targets queer communities of color;

– Every Pride parade should be led to honor LGBTI2S lives lost to violence; and

– End police presence at Pride because LGBTQI2S communities are at higher risk of experiencing police violence.

[The above-listed I initial refers to gender variant people who do not fit the narrow paradigm of being male or female. The above-listed initials 2S refer to Two-Spirit, the American Indian term for people who have both male and female qualities.]

Dozens of spectators were on the rooftop of the GLBT Center looking down and applauding as parade participants passed by when BSEEDZ activists and allies suddenly poured into the street to block the parade. While some

spectators on the sidewalks approvingly cheered the protesters, other spectators seemed annoyed or were curious about the protest action.

“We are grabbing the mic for just a few minutes to reflect on and honor the lives that have been taken and forgotten,” yelled BSEEDZ organizer Cecelia Kluding-Rodriguez into her megaphone once the protest got underway with BSEEDZ activists locking arms and wearing red t-shirts emblazoned with the image of the face of Hernandez.

“The first Pride was a riot, Stonewall was an uprising,” shouted BSEEDZ activist Muki Najeer. “We are here today to bring back the true spirit of Pride.” Each time she spoke, she paused so that fellow protesters could loudly repeat her words. “In the last few decades white LGBTQ people gained many rights, including the right to marriage. But why do queer and trans communities of color still face higher levels of murder, police violence, unemployment, detention and homelessness?”

To reiterate the importance of restoring the origins of Pride, BSEEDZ activist Mimi Madrid elaborated: “We’re not just here to dance and have a good time. No. Pride began as a revolutionary uprising to defend our bodies, to defend our identities and to defend our spirits. We’re tired of the police just taking us out, picking us off. So this is about bringing back that sacredness, the roots of uprising back into Pride.”

After the 10-minute disruption ended and the Pride parade resumed, BSEEDZ activists walked back to the sidelines and chanted the rhyme: “How many queer kids have to die? Your family values are a lie.”

Originally founded in 2009 under the name Branching SEEDZ as a project of the nonprofit Colorado Anti Violence Program (now known as Survivors Organizing for Liberation), the youth-led group modified its name to Buried SEEDZ of Resistance (BSEEDZ) in January 2015 after finding inspiration in an old Mexican proverb that read: “Trataron de enterrarnos, pero no sabian que eramos semillas.” In English, the proverb means, “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds.” With the proverb as their foundation, BSEEDZ envisioned a future where they can continue on the path of resistance that was planted by their ancestors.

“I immediately reflected back to the spirit of resistance that the patrons of the Stonewall Inn of New York City demonstrated in the summer of 1969,” stated longtime Chicano gay activist Lorenzo Ramirez upon learning that the predominantly Chicano/a Mexicano/a LGBTQ youth activists in BSEEDZ took a stand at this year’s Denver Pride Parade. “From my research, and also rare conversations with individuals who were actually there, I have learned that the actions taken by the Stonewall Inn patrons (who were primarily Black and Latino drag queens) were in direct response to a raid conducted by the NYPD [New York Police Department] on June 28, 1969.”

“This historical act of resistance triggered three nights of civil unrest by the gay community of New York City’s Greenwich Village and was the birth of the modern LGBTQ civil rights movement,” declared Ramirez in his praise of the bravery of the individuals who took a stand after enduring enough of the constant verbal and physical harassment by NYPD.

“As an out and proud Chicano gay man who grew up in the Chican@ Movement of the early 1970s, and as an HIV/AIDS activist of the late 1980s and 1990s, I must support this new diverse generation of young grass-roots activists in their efforts to remind the LGBTQ community about our history of struggle and sacrifice that has paved the way so that we can live our lives openly and honestly with pride and dignity,” stated Ramirez.

“May I first note that we have yet to have any direct communication from Buried SEEDZ of Resistance,” said Rex Fuller, Communications Director for the nonprofit GLBT Community Center, which has organized the Pride parade and festival since 1976. “We have only heard about the group’s demands through third parties. We welcome dialog with the group.”

“We also want to state that we are dedicated to supporting all members of our community and we are always working to listen to and address issues facing our community,” added Fuller while noting that youth from the GLBT Center’s program, Rainbow Alley, are participating in the Queer Youth Summit sponsored by BSEEDZ.

Although Fuller is firm that the GLBT Center works to listen to and address issues facing the community, not everyone agrees that Chicano/a LGBTQ youth are being listened to or that their issues are being addressed.

“I recently had the opportunity to meet with members of BSEEDZ, and I have been very impressed with their energy, commitment and organizational skills,” stated Ramirez. “I could also sense the frustration of their voices not being heard and not being recognized by organizations and many LGBTQ community leaders who are entrusted to address the issues that affect us all.”

“PrideFest has an estimated $25 million annual impact on Denver’s economy, including benefiting LGBT businesses,” stated Fuller in response to the BSEEDZ demand that the GLBT Center end corporate sponsorship of the Pride event and refuse to take funds from corporations such as Coors, Wells Fargo and Walmart. “Denver PrideFest is also The Center’s largest annual fundraiser and money raised at Denver PrideFest goes directly back to our community in the form of direct services to LGBT youth, elders, the transgender community and providing help with legal issues. This would not be possible without corporate sponsorship.”

In his expression of gratefulness to the companies and their GLBT employees who support the GLBT Center through sponsorship of PrideFest, Fuller pointed out that the Center requires corporate sponsors of the Pride event to have non-discrimination policies in place.

“This year Denver PrideFest attracted 370,000 people over the two-day festival,” proclaimed Fuller in response to the BSEEDZ demand that the GLBT Center end police presence at the Pride event. “It would not be possible to host a public event of this size without working with Denver Police Department to ensure safety of everyone attending.”

Denver City Government’s agency, the Office of Special Events, handles the permit-application process for all events (such as PrideFest) held on public property (streets, parks, etc.) and coordinates the process that all permit applicants are required to go through with various agencies (including Denver police). Because of the strict process that all permit holders must go through to ensure public safety, it is highly unlikely that there will ever be an end to police presence at the Pride event.

Regardless of police presence or no-police presence, there are some people who no longer attend the Pride event.

“I have not attended Denver’s Pride Parade for quite some time for many of the same reasons that BSEEDZ decided to take action and voice their concerns and demands mentioned in the La Gente Unida newsletter,” noted Ramirez, a recipient of the "Year 2000 Donaciano Martinez Human Rights Award" and the 2004 founder of Denver’s first Latino gay/bi men’s community center that lasted five years before it transitioned to a program called UNO (later called LISTOS) under a different fiscal sponsor.

The recent Denver Pride Parade was not the first time for BSEEDZ involvement in a disruption of an LGBTQ event. BSEEDZ activists joined with Latino trans activists in disrupting the LGBTQ Creating Change national conference held in Denver in February 2015, at which time Denver Mayor Michael Hancock was prevented from delivering his speech to the conference. The action at the conference was to honor the Mexican lesbian teenager Jessie Hernandez who was killed by police in January 2015.

People from all sectors of the community probably will no doubt express pro and con views of BSEEDZ tactics for months to come. As freedom-loving activists ponder the issue, consider the following quote from the 1800s African American activist Frederick Douglass: “Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation, are people who want crops without ploughing the ground.”

Denver, 2015 

[The piece was previously published by La Gente Unida Newsletter and is used here with permission.]

About the author

Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has been an activist in peace and social justice movements in Colorado. His activism began in 1964 by knocking on doors to urge people to vote for peace and justice, but in 1965 he and other activists began marching in the streets to protest against war and injustice. His family was part of a big migration of Mexican Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in the 1940s. He lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver, where he still resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado Springs during a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that was co-founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of activism, Martinez received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000 Paul Hunter Award, 2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award, 2006 Champion of Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime Achievement Award, and the 2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida, a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the 2002 Civil Rights Award. The year 2014 marked the 50-year anniversary of his volunteer work in numerous nonprofit situations.

Grief, by Will Stanton

The emotion of grief, to varying degrees, is natural for humans but potentially very toxic. The causes of grief are both external, that is, events that happen to us, and internal, one's own nature and how prone we may be to suffering grief.

Throughout history and continuing on through today, some people have suffered extreme traumas that can affect them the whole remainder if their lives. Victims of horrendous crime, violence, war, natural cataclysms, or massive plagues, all such victims are severely tested. As a consequence, shock, loss, grief, anger and bitterness are very hard to cope with.

Just imagine, if you can, Russia's Empress-Dowager Maria Fednorova, barely escaping with her life to Denmark after her son Nicholas II and his young family all were brutally shot to death by the Bolsheviks and their bodies dumped into pits in the forest. She struggled with her grief for ten years. Her coping mechanism was to hold out irrational hope that one or more of them somehow had survived. Of course, we now know that all their remains have been found and none survived. For most of us, the common loss of a loved one or friend, loss of job, home, or financial security, is hard enough. That certainly has been true with me.

Then, each of us is wired somewhat differently from others. Some people are quite sensitive and vulnerable to prolonged grief. There are several potential causes. Brain physiology and chemistry differ among people. This may be caused by genetics, PTSD, emotional or psychiatric anomalies, drugs or alcohol. Too often, people lack good support systems of family, regular friends or mentors. They feel more alone, vulnerable, and less resilient.

Turning grief into an energizer, a motivator for constructive thinking and behavior, is an important coping skill that people should learn and practice. In contrast, dwelling endlessly upon grief can cause devastating effects upon one's mental and physical health. A dramatic example of this is the character of Miss Havisham in Dickens' “Great Expectations.” Once defrauded of all her money by the beau who promised to marry her and then abandons her, she remains for years in her yellowed wedding dress, sitting in a dark, decaying mansion where all the clocks are stopped at the time she learned of her betrayal, and with the desiccated remains of the wedding breakfast and cake lying on the table. Such a mind-set and behavior are obviously destructive to health and happiness.

Like everyone, I have had my share of grief, and for various reasons. Sometimes a sense of grief comes and goes, triggered by remembrances of past times, good or bad. This is true with the loss of my partner more than eighteen years ago. I still have moments. I also still miss my wire-hair fox terrier, who had to be put to sleep two weeks after my partner died.

I'm afraid that I also am prone to a more generalized grief that some others may not suffer. There is much about human beings and the world that is unnecessarily evil and toxic, and I morn humankind's apparent lack of the ability to feel empathy, to change and improve.

My means of coping apparently is for me to focus upon the positive, associating with loving people, appreciating beauty in all forms. My writing about this topic “Grief” provides me with the opportunity to remind myself to remain focused upon the good.

© 10 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.