Bricks, by Gillian

My mother, not someone I would identify as a religious person, used to read me stories from the Bible. She favored the New Testament, particularly the Parables. I think she believed, quite rightly in my opinion, that they would have a more positive influence on me than Fairy Tales, many of which seem to be about little girls coming to bad ends through little or no fault of their own.

Occasionally she chose readings from the Old Testament, and one of these was the tale of Making Bricks Without Straw. (This is how it is generally thought of, anyway, though to be accurate that is incorrect. Pharaoh did not tell the Israelites they had to make bricks without straw but rather that straw would no longer be provided for them; they would have to get it themselves.) I suspect that she liked the tale because, in this post-war time of severe rationing, she felt that she spent her life trying to create the necessities of life without the basic ingredients.

Be all of that as it may, it was my introduction to bricks.

The house I grew up in, like most homes in rural Britain, was made of local stone, not brick nor wood. Various ambitious British monarchs building various ambitious fleets of wooden ships had depleted British woodlands almost to the point of oblivion. Brick was expensive. Stone was frequently there for the taking. The problem is, rough-hewn stone such as that of my childhood home, is rather like a badly-cut jigsaw puzzle. The pieces don't fit together well, and require great amounts of mortar to keep things stable. The mortar requires constant repair, and even with that the incessant rain finds it's way into and through the walls. The house was always cold and damp.

When I rode the local bus to to the local town, with it's burgeoning suburbia, I looked upon the brick homes with envy. Perhaps they did, as my mother said with sniffing disdain, all look alike. But that look was warm, and snug, and cozy; none of which adjectives could be applied to our home. They were, perhaps, 150 years younger, but that failed to register. In the event, I moved from English fieldstone to American wood siding and never did live in a brick house until Betsy and I got together. Over the twenty-eight years we have been together we have had three houses, all brick, and all living up to my dreams of warm and cozy.

In the Britain of my childhood, I'm not sure about nowadays, we would call a certain type of person a brick. Ooh, you really are a brick! you'd say to the kind neighbor who, unasked, took your children to her house for a few days so that you could go to bed with that awful flu. He's such a brick, you'd say, about the friend who was always there to lend a practical hand in times of trouble. A brick is someone thoughtful, kind, reliable, generous. Betsy is a brick. It's a large part of why I love her so much.

Several years ago I signed up for a tour of Lakewood Brick Company. It was scheduled to start quite early in the morning, and we lived in Park Hill at that time, so I left home about 7.00 a.m.  There was surprisingly little traffic about. Was it some holiday I'd forgotten? Rather than wondering about it I gave thanks for quiet streets which gave me time to pop into the grocery store to get a snack for lunch. The store somehow had an odd feeling to it, rather the way the roads had. The few customers all seemed to be standing in little groups engaged in serious conversations rather than actually shopping. I was getting a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

'What's going on?' I asked two employees who stood muttering together.

'Oh! Haven't you heard?' They stumbled over each other to give me the news.

'A plane crashed into one of the New York sky-scrapers,' said one.  'Only, then there was another crash so they don't know what's happening,' added the other.

I forgot lunch and went back to the car to listen to the radio. Clearly what they had told me was what was being reported, but all in total confusion. The newscasters obviously had no clear picture of what exactly had happened and what continued to happen. The only certainty was; it was not good. It was serious. It was some kind of national emergency.

What to do? Should I go back home? To do what? Would they cancel the Brick Company tour?

Uncertainly I turned through the high fence gates and parked, to be joined in the next few minutes by a few other cars. The tour began as scheduled but with about a quarter of the number expected. Those of us who had turned up gave it our best but it was hopeless. The man leading the tour tried, but was clearly distracted. He wasn't concentrating on what he was saying and no-one was really listening. Cell Phones kept chiming and chirping. The recipient would listen, disconnect, and pass on the latest to the rest of us. Pretty soon, by some kind of unspoken but unanimous decision, we gave up and went home through streets that were, if anything, even more silent than before, to sit at home and stare in horrified disbelief at our televisions along with everyone else.

Where we live now is not very far from Lakewood Brick Company. We drive past it quite often.  But no matter how many times I pass it, it never fails to take me back to that terrible day which so changed this country, and indeed the world, forever.

Until I started to write this piece, I don't think I had ever realized that bricks actually loom quite large in my psyche, one way and another. Amazing what you discover about yourself writing these little Monday afternoon vignettes.

© 12 Oct 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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.

Vibrations of Time, by Carlos

A ghost abides in my house, although the word ghost is hardly the appropriate word to use, for I think both he and I prefer to use the word spirit. He is an inconspicuous energy that lingers around me like the aroma of mint tea on a frosty day or the taste of orange blossom honey on a warm croissant. I have only seen him once, a snippet of a shadow that appeared in my periphery vision and was gone like a summer beam of light. I was working in the garden and happened to look up at small window above the staircase, catching him as he spied down on me. He is a fine-featured, tall gentleman dressed in what looks like an Edwardian morning coat and silk ascot. And although I dismissed him as an overactive imagination borne perhaps from too many hours under the summer sun or from the expectation that a spirit should after all reside in a Victorian home, I have never, until now, spoken of him. I’ve given him the name John, and he seems most content that I should name him so.

This is not to say that John has always been a quiet energy, satisfied to waft through the air like the first sublime notes of Karl Jenkins’ Benedictus. When I first moved into our 1888 Queen Anne, she looked like a dollhouse that had been touched inappropriately by too many who had taken from her, but never loved her unconditionally. The windows were broken, and the rooms frigid. Her fine details were gone, ripped out and sold or simply discarded and replaced by the more modern contrivances of evolving tastes. As for her garden, only two century-old maples and two weathered apple trees remained, no doubt, an attempt by early homesteaders to tame the wild grasslands of a former time. Nevertheless, our attraction to each other was instantaneous, like two would-be lovers who meet on a quiet dance floor and see each other’s souls through the haze and shadowy darkness. Putting an offer, and finalizing the closing, within weeks our destinies were linked. On my first day in my proud, but sad, house, I sat on the floor and envisioned hopes and promises yet to be birthed. I sat in terror, pondering whether I would be worthy enough to respect her and restore her faded self-esteem. Upon moving in, I immediately hanged my treasured cuckoo clock upon a wall, taking great joy in calibrating the weights every week to enjoy the automaton’s hourly call. It became a symbol of my own nesting.

Often the vibrations between house and me were at odds and tenuous, much like a newly wedded couple in an arranged marriage. She was suspicious of my intentions; I remained dubious as to whether I could do right by her, whether I could be faithful to just one. The energy within the house was impudent, challenging me as though to undermine me and determine my reaction.  After the water pipes froze and water fountained throughout the first floor one frigid winter night, I repaired the damage and remained, proving to both us that I was not about to retreat in spite of our apprehensions. As I cleaned from the deluge and pulled up nasty, old carpeting, I connected with the past, discovering sheaves of 1920’s vintage newspapers, now soaked, that had been laid down by a former tenant to insulate the floors. Later, she tested my vows as when during a small dinner party, I shame-faced discovered I had served gritty sand in our soup bowls. Thinking I had been guilty of not washing the vegetables, I, to my dismay, ladled out a chunk of horsehair plaster from the ceiling that had unexpectedly fallen into the kettle. It was not long after that that John’s presences made itself known. One night something touched my toe as I lay in bed. I spent a few sleepless hours in a frigid room, not sure whether I was more frustrated with the blustery winds that tumbled and shrieked through the dark hallways or the unwarranted caress from the unknown. When I demolished the upstairs walls, since they were but cheap cardboard sheathing unceremoniously nailed down between rows of wood furring strips, giving the rooms a prison-like aura, John was angry, perhaps because he thought that like others before me, my intentions were to dismantle his world even further. I heard him stomping angrily upstairs with fury, convincing me I was about to be pummeled by a would-be intruder. However, when I ran upstairs to investigate, the sound ceased; he had retreated. Over the ensuing years, the energy in the house gradually changed to a live-and-let-live ambiance as I jacked up foundations, replaced floors and windows, brought the plumbing and electricity up to code, and strengthened the bones of the house. Eventually, chandeliers and fretwork, stained glass and tile, roses and violets and sweet woodruff gardens graced my home, mirroring her former self and solidifying my intentions to honor a promise made when I was young and naive. Years earlier, I had concluded that John did not care for the raucous sounds of my cuckoo clock since as long as the clock chimed, his presence lingered nearby; thus, I decided to put the clock in storage.  I suspect that in doing so, I finally banished him, for the energy in the house became peaceful and sedate, a true nest of repose. Yet, in truth, I missed his child-like antics, his protective aura that pushed away suitors who were not good enough for me, but welcomed those bathed in an evanescent light. Today, although he never reveals his presence and rarely leaves a calling card of his ethereal essence, I know he is still as close as my heart. Ever vigilant and circumspect, I know he watches protectively over the house, over my now husband and me. We felt his presence reaching out the night our Jonathan died as though reminding us that death is a return back home, with a promise of reuniting. I feel his presence as he keeps guard over me in the garden, trying to coax another poppy or hollyhock to reveal the scarlet garment encased within her burgeoning bud. I feel his presence when I am afraid of death and tired of living. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I walk downstairs and meditate, and although always unobtrusive, he waits nearby, shielding me from evil. Because I’ve come to understand his intentions as being altruistic and benign, I’ve decided to unpack the cuckoo clock and restore its warbling mechanic bird.  It is time to let him know he is not banished; it is time to restore him to his rightful place in our home.

Our home remains a work- in-progress, as well as a financial behemoth. More important, however, it is a haven, a reminder that past sunbeams continue to blaze and undulating rhythms continue to resonate, reminding me that I am but a traveler temporarily away from home. I rejoice that time’s vibrations echo in my life; I acknowledge energy’s immortality. I suspect that when I finally awaken from my slumber, John, whether he is real or simply an abstract, metaphysical self-deception, will serve as a reminder of the bewildering ripples of time. Thus, I conclude that oscillations of time and space ultimately act like concentric circles radiating from their source, the effect expanding outward until equilibrium is again restored.

© 23 May 2016 (Denver) 

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.

How Being Lesbian Has Directed My Spiritual Journey - A Journey to Serenity, by Betsy

I was recently reminded of the huge respect I have for the 12 Step Program when I attended an Al-anon meeting as a guest.  I had some knowledge of the 12 steps from some previous experiences, but have never actually worked the program. 

I was amazed to hear a member share that he was thankful for the alcoholism in his family as it is because of that that the man had been introduced to the 12 steps program.

For the next couple of days, I attempted to draw parallels in my life to what I had heard in the meeting and to apply my experiences to some of the steps.  It finally occurred to me that I could make an analogy with my experience of growing up gay and coming out.

Consider the first step, for example.  “We admitted that we were powerless over alcohol and our lives had become unmanageable.”  Apply this to coming out, I mused.  I acknowledged, accepted that I was homosexual and powerless to change that fact.”

Growing up pretending to be straight, living the life-style of a heterosexual person can be seen as resistance to nature itself. A self-imposed resistance put in place by societal norms and the culture around sexual behavior of the time.  Admitting, that is, giving in to the reality that I am homosexual, not heterosexual, accepting this fact and being totally aware of it could be seen as the first step to take in managing a large problem in one’s life. Clearly I prefer using the word “acknowledge” or accept” to the word “admit” in this context. Making others aware of our true self reinforces one’s resolve and strength to manage that life and to live honestly.

Being gay, of course, is not a direct parallel to abuse of alcohol. Although there are those who may see homosexuality as an addiction and something of which one should diligently work to deny him/herself and to be rid of.  Fortunately, it appears that most people today know better.  Today we are anxiously waiting to see whether our Supreme Court wants to be included in that majority group.

Step 2: “We came to see that a power greater than ourselves restored us to sanity.”  I see my sexuality as part of my Being and my being represents, according to my belief, the power of God within me.  This is not something I control any more than I can control the color of my eyes, the shape of my face, or any other aspect of my tangible or intangible form.

Steps 3, 4, and 5 further reflect the healing effect of acknowledging who I truly am both in word and life style.

I’m going to skip step 6—“We’re entirely ready to have God remove these defects of character.”

However, I can see interpreting this as a supplication to God to forgive me for not honoring my true self at an earlier time in my life.

The rest of the steps are more directly applicable to issues other than coming out/being out. However, I see them as very powerful concepts to put into practice for any one any time.

I also was reminded of the Serenity Prayer which is used to open and close the Al-anon meetings.  I have a miniature of the Serenity Prayer on my bedside table.  It’s been there a long time and I usually forget it is there. I am very happy to be reminded of its powerful words—very appropriate for GLBT’s—and I hope to remember to utter them or at least think of them every day.

“God, give me the strength to accept what I cannot change,

The courage to change that which I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.”

© 10 Jun 2015 

About the Author 

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

A Defining Word, by Will Stanton

OK, so I know that two words are a term, not a word; but that is what I have chosen to write about, a term: “sexual preference.” I have chosen those two words because, over the years, they have been used so much, yet they certainly are not defining words.

Yes, I know what people usually mean when they employ that term when asking, “What is your sexual preference?” Most likely, they mean “straight or gay.” I usually answer, “I'm not sure. It's hard for me to choose between blond or brunette. One day, I lean toward blond; yet, on other days, I'm drawn to dark-brown hair, maybe even black.”

A person's preference may have little to do with sexual identity. For one example, I can conceive of a person born homosexual whose preference would be to be heterosexual. And of course, someone's preference might be to a person of the opposite gender.

In addition, a person's preference may be a partner who is young, or old, same race or different race, very good-looking or, instead, a very good person, looks being of less importance. Many gay guys seem to be preoccupied with the size of male genitalia. Other people could not care less, placing far more importance on someone's other attributes.

In order to avoid confusion or misinterpretation, I prefer communication to be as precise as possible. Therefore, because genetics and brain structure are major determinants of each person's drives and attractions, I suggest that the more logical term should be “sexual orientation;” and this is what I use if the subject comes up in conversation. Even then, that term is not completely defining, for people are complex and of varied natures.

And, as long as we are talking about commonly used terms, a little bell goes off each time I hear the frequently used term “bisexual.” My having involved myself for several decades in human behavioral treatment, the term “bisexual” always connotes for me a possible biological influence in someone's nature or physical structure. After all, human sexuality is not binary, that is, either heterosexual or homosexual. Someone's nature or orientation lies somewhere on a linear graph. For those individuals who may engage in sexual relations with people of both heterosexual and homosexual orientation, perhaps a more accurate term would be “ambisexual,” rather like in baseball, a “switch-hitter.” Or, if you would enjoy something more humorous, you might use the term “heteroflexible.”

Finally, generally I avoid popular, overused labels when describing people. People are far too varied and complex. Labeling people hinders the process of getting to know and truly understand someone. Besides, for those persons fortunate enough to have become self-actualized and broad in their interests, sexual orientation is only one part of a human, complex personality.

© 02 February 2016

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.

True Colors, by Ricky

Oh say, what is truth? Can you describe for me what color is? Is it true that we all see the same color when looking at an object? Can colors lie? In normal daylight my car looks to be colored either burgundy or brown depending upon what angle one is looking at the vehicle. In twilight, it looks black. So what is the color of my car? Is it burgundy, brown, or black? Officially the manufacturer states the color is burgundy. Thus under different lighting conditions and angles the color shifts, in essence, lying about itself.

Electromagnetic radiation has many frequencies. Visible light is but a small range of those frequencies. The cone structures in our eyes perceive those frequencies and pass the information on to one’s brain where we “see” images containing what we call color. If you and I both could see just one specific Ångström of light, would our brains interpret it as the same shade of whatever color the frequency represents? Or, because of differences in our brains, do we each “see” slightly different colors?

What is true about colors? In my youth, the color red was for firetrucks, stop signs, and anger. Now firetrucks are safety-green or yellow. Back then, yellow was for cowardice, warning, and jaundice. Nonetheless, I Am Curious Yellow made it into the movies. Green is for: go, money, cheese on the moon, grass on the other side of the fence, and envy. Blue has always been for: eyes, the sky, depression, music, and calm. Violet is used to name little girls, a flower, and as a young female character in Ronald Dahl’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Brown is used for dirt, a comic character named Charlie, and of course—yummy chocolate.

One place where colors are “true” is when they are lined up in a rainbow. The colors are always lined up the same each time. They are dependable and bring me a feeling of happiness whenever I see one. 

Colors are very useful. English has many “colorful” words, if they are used correctly. Two such words are Crayola Crayons. When used as nouns, they bring children and adults some joy when making colorful pictures on paper or walls or floors or white shirts.

Before you think up some other colorful words for this lame piece of fluff. I’ll quit writing about it. See ya’ll later.

© 29 February 2016

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

What I Did for Love, by Ray S

As far back as memory reaches the euphemism “passed away” was a familiar phrase in polite society. As a little child I was expected to attend the services, another euphemism, of family and those who had passed on. At that age I just accepted the story my parents told me, and just understood I was included among the mourners as an act of respect and/or love. That kind of death and funerals were to say the least, remote in the perception of a six year old. It was a time of observation and learning, not a sense of loss.

Of course, with the passage of time the reality of what all of this meant to the adults and me as well, became evident. In retrospect I see it as preparation emotionally and intellectually for dealing with custom and the loss of a loved one. The loss of parents you loved and family members, too, have been peaceful or tragic, but the inevitable had to be accepted and one could only rely on the everlasting love that memories held.

Nothing seems to compare in what I did for love as the experience of having to decide that it was time to take our dying family cat to the vet for his final rites. I had never sat by anyone’s deathbed, but this was as close to it as I had been. I could guess you might feel this is quite trivial in light of the beginning of this story, but it is a different kind of personal tragedy; only to be followed by a second trip to the vet’s a couple of years later for the euthanasia of our good buddy and constant buddy and would-be guardian, Harvey the cat. This time my wife chose to remain in our car after saying goodbye to Harvey; she just couldn’t make the trip into the doctor’s office. As the saying goes, “You have to do what you have to do.” And that is what we did for love.

Denver, © 16 November 2015

About the Author

Still Learning after All These Years, by Phillip Hoyle

My artist and poet friend Sue keeps learning. She has studied art with teachers and has produced art in several mediums for years. She has managed co-op art galleries, displayed her works in solo and group shows, and taught art to youngsters. But now Sue has extremely limited money resources. For awhile she kept up her learning about art processes by watching arts and crafts shows on TV. When she got a PC, she switched to following art blogs and watching tutorials. Still she is learning. Still she keeps experimenting. Still.

I likewise keep learning bolstered in my resolve to do so by watching Sue’s creative efforts and by recalling the concept of lifelong learning I promoted during my long career as a minister. I try to practice what I preached. For instance, I have long participated in a writers group that, although it does not critique pieces, affords me a constant source of response and learning. When I read something to that group of writers, I hear my words differently and pick up problems I’ve missed in my own reading and editing. I also get positive feedback.

When possible I have attended art workshops. One of the most helpful processes I learned in a week-long event with Houston artist Polly Hammett in 1998 was a process of self-criticism. She recommended the process that continues to teach me about my work and its direction. Her SELF-CRITIQUE is this:

Select from your current work several of the pieces. Set them up as a gallery. Decide three things you like about each piece.

1. See them. As you look at each piece see what you like.

2. Say them. Aloud say what it is that you like. Say aloud all three things.

3. Write them. Write down those things you have decided. If you are working on paper, write them on the back of the piece itself. If not, write them in a notebook. Write them.

Then choose your favorite piece. Decide, say, and write why it is your favorite, how it is related to the other pieces, and how it is different. “Do this,” she said, “so you keep affirming what you like. You will do again such things if you repeat them verbally.” She also stressed not to spend any time on the things you don’t like or you’ll end up doing them again and again! I have applied her advice to my work over the past fifteen years.

When I worked at a spa clients would sometimes ask, “How long have you been doing massage?”

I told them, “I’ve given massages professionally for eight years.”

“What did you do before that?” they almost always responded.

“I was a minister,” I said. That stopped the conversation almost as effectively as being introduced as a minister to a group of people drinking heavily in a bar.

“That’s really different,” many of them would eventually respond.

“No,” I answered with a chuckle. “My clients still tell me their problems.”

We’d laugh together. Then I’d clarify. “Actually it is different. In the massage context they edit their stories much less.”

Even in this last year of massage I have been learning new processes, new applications of things I learned in school, and sometimes a realization of what my teachers were trying to communicate about the work all those years ago.

In 2013 I am still learning not only about my art and massage, but also about personal relationships, things I never before could have imagined. The things people have told me about their lives probably were just details I couldn’t imagine about folk in churches when they told me their troubles. I have learned about life and about people, including many things about the varieties of GLBT folk!

Enough of these stories. Here’s my elder advice:

* In learning and work, both go it alone and collaborate with others.

* Adopt a rookie attitude about your life, skills, and learning even if you are ancient.

* Like Sue, find novel ways to learn.

* Keep your eyes open, your ideas transportable, and your attitudes creatively engaged.

And let me tell you; I hope to keep learning right up to my last breath.

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.com

The Men in My Life, by Lewis

Preamble 

I have lain awake at night more than once this past week thinking about what I might write on this subject, trying to find some common theme amidst the tenuous and sparse connections I have had with two of the three men with whom I have lived. Perhaps it was the place, perchance the time. Whatever the reason, I can honestly say that when it comes to the masculine persona, “Yay, verily, I have barely known ye.”

What are men afraid of? Is it a part of being “macho”? It seems to me that it is not related to sexual orientation. I see it even in this Storytellers group—men are reluctant to share their vulnerability, their pain. Perhaps it is because we are all Baby-Boomers or older. Perhaps it was growing up in the decades of seemingly endless wars, whether hot or cold. It could have been our heroes on TV and movie screens—Charlton Heston, Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne. Perhaps it was ubiquitous homophobia, insinuating into our lives the scandalousness of showing tenderness or warm affection toward any man. Whatever the source, it is a theme that has run throughout my associations with men from my earliest days. And that has left a hole in my soul that remains unfilled to this day.

In recalling the men in my life and writing about them, wounds have been opened that never healed but were only glazed over by time and circumstance. They are the neglected infrastructure of my life and I have run into a deep pothole. Perhaps in writing this, I can throw some “cold patch” into it and smooth out some of the pain.

Homer

Homer E. Wright was my maternal grandfather, the only grandparent I ever knew. My mother was the oldest of six children growing up on the outskirts of Pratt, Kansas, in the nineteen-teens and –twenties. A couple of cows and a few chickens shared the yard. Granddad worked his entire life for the Rock Island RR. His wife, Alma, died in 1943 of colon cancer. He continued living in Pratt until he retired in 1952. It was then that he moved to Hutchinson to live with my parents and six-year-old “Lewis the Third” in a newer, larger house on which he made the down payment on the $12,500 mortgage. The house had three small bedrooms, one bath, a single-car attached garage, a large yard, and no basement. Because Dad used one of the bedrooms as an office, Granddad and I shared a bedroom. He got the bed and I slept on a wire-frame divan with removable cushions. (I can remember that I liked to sleep on my stomach and let one leg drop down into the cradle formed by the tucked in sheets.)

Granddad was very generous with his money. He bought us our first TV that same year—even before there was a broadcast station within range. He also paid for my first bicycle and only pet dog.

In 1955, we all piled into Granddad’s ‘52 Packard and headed for Washington, D.C., New York City, Boston, and Newport, Connecticut, to see the sights and visit aunts and uncles on my mother’s side. While climbing the Statue of Liberty, I left Granddad’s Kodak box camera on a bench at a rest stop halfway up the long, long staircase. It was gone by the time we came back down. I feared his wrath but, as with other emotions, it was missing in action.

When he died in November of 1955, he left each of his six children $15,000. My parents used the money to pay off the mortgage. We burned it in the fireplace.

As generous as Granddad was with his money, he was every bit as parsimonious with his personal attention. I have no memory of having a conversation with him or any physical touching. Even when he gave me a gift, it was not because he handed it to me. It just “appeared”. With a tip of the bowler to Winston Churchill, he was “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma”.

Perhaps it is not a coincidence that his offspring scattered to the four winds, Harold to a farm in the far southeast corner of Kansas; Carl to Alaska and Mossy Rock, WA; Merle to Stone Mountain, GA; Ruth to New London, CT; and Verna to somewhere in Texas. Perhaps it wasn’t Granddad. Maybe it was only escaping Kansas that was important.

Dad

Dad was the oldest of four boys born on a farm near Cheney, Kansas. I never knew either of his parents but he told the story of their losing their farm during the Depression. It was the only time he ever saw either of them cry. It moved him so deeply that he resolved to spend his working life helping farmers get the loans they needed to prosper.

My dad was much more approachable than Granddad. Before I was old enough for kindergarten, on Sunday mornings I would sit on his lap while he read the comics to me. I would ask him to “point” so I could follow along. It gave me a great “leg up” on learning to read myself.

His relationship with my mother was almost like a business partnership. If it weren’t for the Sunday evening every month that their bridge club met, there would have been hardly any socializing at all. My ex-wife remembers my mother criticizing my dad’s driving while vacationing. (My dad drove as part of his business. He put 30,000 miles per year on his company car without ever causing an accident.) They slept in twin beds--like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz but without the bickering—and even dressed in separate rooms. Dad was a “soft touch”. Everybody liked him. I think Mom resented him for being that way but her latent lesbianism meant she couldn’t stand intimacy, either.

Dad had no idea how to parent. Mother handled all the disciplining, including spanking. He didn’t know how to be truly tender, either. When he found the dog Homer had given me dead in the street—I’m not sure it wasn’t his car that did it—he was annoyed at having to find a spot in the backyard to bury him. The only “heart-to-heart” talk I can ever remember having with him was when I was entering middle school and he felt obligated to tell me what a jock strap was for. I think he was more uncomfortable that I was.

Still, I felt I understood Dad more than I ever did Mom. I think I adopted many of his ways, especially the way he took care of business in his office at home, sort of like being there but not being there. That was true of me much of the time while my kids were growing up. It is the biggest regret of my life.

Laurin

There’s a neat kind of symmetry to having been in love with one woman and one man. It would have been even more remarkable were I able to say that I was single for the first 26 years of my life (true), married to a woman for the second 26 years (also true) and then married to a man for the final 26-year installment of my life. I only got to live with Laurin for half that long. Had he not been twenty years older than I, we might have made it to that milestone.

Laurin and I filed for divorce from our wives when it became apparent that we had something truly special going on between us. He had been married for nearly fifty years and he and his wife had five children, all grown. Laurin had the “hots” for me from the moment we first met. He was not shy about expressing it. The way he looked me in the eyes without saying a word embarrassed me in the extreme. His directness was something I had never encountered before in a man.

I was at that time in the process of getting in touch with my innate sexuality. I was seeing a gay therapist in Ann Arbor. He was urging me to go slow. The fact that Laurin lived 55 miles away in Flint, where he taught high school social studies, gave me the space I needed to sort things out. It took a lot of sorting—seven years in fact. We stayed in touch through letters—the snail-mail kind. By 1998, I was openly investigating the gay culture.

That May, I attended a weekend financial seminar for gay men and women over 50. The keynote speaker was Quentin Crisp, author of The Naked Civil Servant. Laurin was there also. We picked up where we had left off. Laurin’s wife had been living for many years in Hylton Head, South Carolina, where they owned a condominium. Although we still lived 55 miles apart, we met on a few occasions for dinner or to attend the monthly meetings of Body Electric in Detroit.

I wrote Laurin a letter to inform him that I thought I was ready to take our friendship to a deeper level. I had been reading books by men who were gay but living a closeted existence within a heterosexual marriage. In the car one day that May, I told my wife, Janet, about a case I had read about involving a Mormon couple who took annual vacations to New York City with their children. She would spend the week taking the children to museums, concerts, and the theater while Dad would check out the gay bars. At the end of the week, they would resume their “normal” existence back in Utah.

Janet’s response was to ask me, “Is that what you want?” I said, “No”. She asked what it was I did want. I told her that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with a man. That night, I slept in our son’s former bedroom and we began the process of getting a divorce.

Three weeks later, I participated in a workshop for gay men seeking deeper same-sex relationships. I waited for a response to my letter from Laurin. Nothing came. A couple of months went by; still no response. Finally, one of us called the other. I don’t remember who was which. I asked Laurin about the letter. He said, “What letter?” Turns out, I had typed the letter but never mailed it. Freud lives!

The die had been cast, nevertheless, and the two of us began to plan a vacation tryst in a place with sand, palm trees, and privacy. But first, we needed a trial run. We arranged to rendezvous at the very cabin in Lakelands Trail State Park, MI, where we first met. I was there to greet Laurin as he drove up. He got out of his second-hand Cadillac and immediately removed his toupee and flung it across the trunk. For both of us, the moment marked the end of pretending to be who we were not.

Laurin was unlike any man I had ever met. He delighted in his body and in mine. He was spontaneous, direct, and completely devoted to my happiness. His favorite movie was The Unsinkable Molly Brown (he was a Colorado native). Early in the movie there is a scene where Harve Presnell and Debby Reynolds are laying in the grass under a tree. He sings to his love, Molly, “I’ll Never Say ‘No’”. Laurin vowed that he would never say “No” to me—and he kept that promise for the fourteen years we were together. (This is not to say that he never did things I would not have approved, if given a chance.)

That’s what made Laurin so precious to me. He went wherever I went and vice versa. We couldn’t get enough of each other. I had finally found a man who truly enjoyed my company, who wanted nothing more than to wake up next to me in the morning. For the first time in my life, I felt that I truly mattered to another man. It was like heaven.

© 28 March 2016

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.

Sad but True, by Gillian

It is undeniably true, and equally undeniably sad, that selfish, inconsiderate, people keep insisting upon dying; often at very inconvenient times and in equally inconvenient places. Often they don't even bother giving me any warning; which actually is of no consequence because, when I do have some presentiment of bad behavior on their part and sternly insist that they mend their ways, do they pay attention? No! They just pop their clogs, topple off their perches, in total disregard of my needs and wants.

Now, most of these people are old enough to know better. They must know that I, at a similar age, am too old to deal with emotional upheavals. Bad things just keep getting harder to deal with. So, do they cease and desist from such things? Far from it. In fact old friends insist on dying with ever-increasing frequency.

Take just last week. Nancy, the chef from Betsy's cross-country bike trip, died unexpectedly. She was not only cook and bottle-washer, but she also rode her bike, along with the others. So her death was almost a double whammy: the loss of Nan the cook, and Nancy, the co-rider. She was also the first of the group to die, so that hit everyone very hard. I mean, just how inconsiderate is that? She was a perfectionist, and very competitive, so I guess she just had to be #1. (Actually, that whole group was made up of some very competitive people, so in a way it would not have been surprising if they'd chased each other right into the arms of that old Grim Reaper, like lemmings going over the cliffs.) But no, in the event, Nancy had to be first.

On top of that she was only 68, abandoning ship early, leaving old souls like Betsy to pedal on.

In a final act of selfishness, she had to go and die in some remote half-a-horse Wyoming town in the middle of winter. Whoa! How's that for heaping it on? Just because she fell in love with this Wyoming rancher, just because she wanted to live on his remote ranch, just because she adored the midst of nowhere, we had to traverse the sleet and snow of Windy Wyoming on bitterly cold February days. Huh!

-----------------

With that, I guess my attempt at some kind of dark humor has fizzled out. I suppose I had to try it as the only way, at this particular moment, to deal with the sad but true fact that as we age we lose so many friends; faster and faster they fall. All the tired old platitudes, such as death is just a part of life, offer me nothing, though I do try to remind myself constantly that in fact I am very fortunate: in order to lose so many friends you first have to have so many friends. Still, I hate that feeling of always waiting for another shoe to drop, dreading who will be next. Then, one day, I shall be the one who is next. Sad but true.

© February 2016

About the Author

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

Belief, by Will Stanton

So many people, far too many people, are convinced that belief is truth; belief is the same thing as fact. Nothing could be further from the truth. For centuries, most people believed that the earth was flat; the sun circled the earth. I am saddened by the fact that many people's hard-held beliefs defy fact and reality, and too often with dire consequences.

To the horrific discredit of humankind, many Nazis believed that all Jews should be eliminated. Pastor Anderson in Tempe, Arizona, believes that all homosexuals should be executed, supposedly because the Bible says so. Some beliefs can be shocking and deadly.

Very often, people thoughtlessly quote the hackneyed expression, “Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs.” In addition to that quotation being bad grammar, I logically disagree with the statement. If a belief is false and can cause harm to others, I feel then that one is not entitled to harbor that belief.

Yet, we daily hear evidence that so many people hold false beliefs; and, in doing so, they cause among the populace suspicion, fear, distrust, disdain, hate. For example, “President Obama is not American; his birth certificate is forged; he hates America; all the generals and admirals are quitting because they are refusing Obama's orders to bomb our own cities.” I view such beliefs as nothing less than insanity. For the life of me, I can not understand the depth and pervasiveness of such insanity. Yet, exist is does, and in abundance.

The idea of belief in religion also raises questions in my own mind, albeit anyone questioning religion at all is an anathema to many people. I have heard Christians say that the world is a better place with religion and point to, what they refer to as, “good works” as an immediate benefit of religion, let alone supposedly having an “afterlife.” A rational person, of course, will point out that good works can be performed without the adjunct of religion, regardless of the fact that many people, such a Bill O'Reilly, claim that such humanitarian works “do not count” unless the good Samaritan is a “person of faith.” Far worse, we all are aware that, throughout history, some religious beliefs have resulted in millions of deaths from war, Inquisitions, and terror.

My whole life, I have pondered the human mind. On one hand, I am amazed by the great, creative works some notable people have contributed to the world. Yet at the same time, I remain puzzled and saddened by the pervasiveness of distorted thinking and beliefs that are so common among the populace. Without being too technical, I am aware that researches have found that some people's brains are more prone to clutching onto beliefs for a sense of certainty and safety, rather than rationally exploring all the facts available to them. Then of course, much depends upon what one has learned and how it was learned. I frequently have witnessed religiosity-minded people becoming defensive and hostile when confronted with facts that call into question their hard-held beliefs.

All of us, to one degree or another, have beliefs that we wish to maintain. I, for one, believe that the world would be a far better place if every person cherished life, always treated each other with empathy and respect, learned to love each other. Yet, I actually have been confronted with people who have stated to me that they do not share such beliefs.

I also believe in the benefit of moral behavior. For example, I believe that American politics would be far more constructive and tolerable if all concerned acted in a moral fashion without misrepresentation, lying, denigration, character-assassination, and even theft of elections or actual assassination. Yet, I have had conversations with several religiosity-minded people who literally do not comprehend the concept that I am proposing. They believe that only winning is important and that whatever machinations are required to do so are perfectly OK. My belief in morality is not shared by them.

On a lighter note, I can think of a belief that I have held that turned out to be true even without my initially having all the facts. For some time, I held a belief, based upon experience and some research, that not all music is of equal quality, that some music is healthful and, what I call, “pro-human,” whereas some aural experiences, called “music,” are toxic to humans and animals. Some people, aware of my belief, dismissed it with disdain, claiming that my belief had no factual basis. They claimed that all music is of equal quality and that what one listens to simply is a matter of taste and preference. Then to my surprise and, I admit, my satisfaction, recent scientific research with both humans and animals has supported my early belief, and definitively so.

So, sometimes beliefs can be accurate, even without all the supporting evidence that we would prefer to have. I should hasten to say, however, this may be true, but within reason. I still feel that I reasonably can dismiss the belief that President Obama ordered our generals to bomb our cities. So, when we talk about believing something, we really should be rational and accurately know what we are talking about. Do I believe that all humans eventually will think and behave in this manner? Not really. But as for myself, I make an effort.

© 7 January 2016

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.

Bumper Stickers, by Ricky

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”*

Hiking along the chosen road, I am thinking about how can I incorporate into my life a bumper sticker admonition, “Practice random acts of kindness and commit senseless acts of beauty.” Traveling on, I soon perceive why this road is less traveled.

Not far from the fork in the road, (which I pick up and place in my knapsack) ancient and majestic oaks grow o’er the way, eventually shutting out the noon-day sun and providing only a dim twilight to illuminate the way forward. Thick and thorny underbrush steadily crowd in from both sides, forcing travelers towards the center and ever onward. Retreat finally becomes nearly impossible as thorns grab and tear if one attempts to go back.

The road, now a trail turned path, twists, writhes, and bends to and fro so often all sense of location and direction become scrambled. The very air grows thick and ever more oppressive with the deepening gloom and each forward step. One can almost feel malice emanating from the surrounding forest, feeding rising fear and urging speed to hurry forward to path’s end, leaving this cursed wood behind.

A state of depressed desperation occupies my mind as the trail seems to end at the mouth of a small abandoned mine. Tracks in the dirt ahead clearly indicate the path continues into what ultimately becomes a large cave. Passing through the entrance, I travel not far, when blocking my progress forward and any egress to the rear, are four large and starving trolls.

While I fight the urge to panic, which can result only in mental paralysis, the trolls force me deeper into the cave. Once near their cooking pots, just like in all the stories I’ve heard, they begin to argue on how to cook me for their dinner. Before their discussion can lead to some rash action towards me, I decide to turn on all my charm and personality in a ploy for them to release me unharmed. I do not use my good looks because I believe trolls are not influenced by human beauty.

I manage to convince them that I can supply unlimited food almost immediately, if I can but leave intact. At first they are against my plan, then skeptical, and finally in agreement. I leave the cave and fight my way back through the thorns to the divergent point of the two roads. I search all around until I find some appropriate old wooden planks and make a sign along the road less traveled but near to the divergent point.

My plan works perfectly. The next year, I replace the sign with a beautiful but fake U.S. Forest Service information sign, thus fulfilling the bumper sticker’s admonition. The sign is the senseless act of beauty and feeding the starving trolls is the random act of kindness.

The sign reads: “WARNING! Troll Cave Ahead. Enter at your own risk!”

The sign tells the truth, but the foolish don’t believe the warning and eagerly travel to the cave anyway. Thus, I provide our society with an act of kindness by slowly and steadily removing fools from the gene pool and proving once and for all that old cliché, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

Yes. I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference to the trolls, me, and many fools.

© 5 January 2015

*From The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, 1916

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 was sent to live 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 9-11-2001 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.

Depressed, by Ray S

Now, class, in order to understand better the many words that begin with the 4th and 5th letters of the alphabet please open your Depressed dictionaries to page number—oh no, you figure the page number with all of the clues I’ve already given you.

We need to start a list of the words that either begin with the 4th and 5th alphabet letters or sound almost like them and your interpretation:

Depressed—getting down low, or is it low down?
Digressed—not concentrating on your homework
Disappointed—oh well, better luck next time
Diverted—keep your mind on the ultimate climax
Demented—what happens when you have too much fun
Devoted—when you’re fortunate enough to find a loving partner
Demanding—watch out for those dominatrixes
Dormant—sorry, the wrong letters and a sign of my depressing condition
Distraught—at least I got the letter ‘D’ in there, and this word is more than enough to describe my depression
Depraved—well that is a matter of which way the pendulum swings when it comes to opinions and teachings of a lot of people about the Gay Way when in reality it is simply (though not always simple) another version of the Gods’ and Demigods’ way of varying the mix of the earth’s beautiful creatures. Also there is the constant reality of the depressing state of world and national affairs.

And then you could touch upon the despicable: like Donald Trump or guns in hands and who and what they kill, and of course, the Democrats and those elephant worshippers.

My, my, Class, you’ve done quite well with this exercise in DE words. For your next week’s lesson, I want each of you to choose one of the DE word subjects and prepare an essay to be read in class—no more than 965 words each.

Class is dismissed and perhaps Depressed.

© 7 December 2015

About the Author

Shopping, by Phillip Hoyle

We’d been out dancing together earlier in the week—Ronnie, my wife, and I–and were planning another outing. I liked Ronnie, thought he was really funny and cute in his own peculiar way. He was clever with language and image, always laughing, a serious two-stepper in his western boots twirling my wife this way and that with an ease I could never quite master. We’d go dancing, and she’d keep us both busy so teetotaler she would never have to stop and consider that she was dancing in a country western bar. That afternoon, while sitting in a booth with several employees at the Marie Calendar’s restaurant where Ronnie and my wife worked, I heard him say he liked to shop.

I phoned him to ask, “Were you kidding about liking to shop?”

“No.”

“Do you like to shop for clothes?”

“My favorite.”

“I need you this Wednesday or the next because I have several hundred dollars a friend sent me to buy clothes to wear at my daughter’s high school graduation. He doesn’t want me to embarrass her. I need to spend the money in one afternoon because shopping depresses me.” Ronnie agreed to take me shopping. We met at the apartment and went to a variety of stores.

He asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Grey.”

“No, no. We can’t have you in grey. Grey will just wash out on you,” he declared as he whipped down rack after rack of shirts. “Go to the dressing room and start trying on these,” he instructed as he handed me several shirts. So away I went, and down more aisles of TJMax he flew. Several more shirts in bright colors: turquoise, purple, and red were shoved through the door. I tried them on one after another. They all fit and to me looked really good. Then in came pants for me to try. Only one pair didn’t fit. It must have been mis-sized.

Usually I would go shopping alone and get discouraged after two or three tries, feel depressed, and take home clothes that didn’t really fit. This time Ronnie dressed me; everything fit. We went to Burlington Coat Factory where we decided on a silk sports jacket to go with the shirts and pants. I told him I wanted a belt I had seen at the Pendleton store in Old Town. We drove down there only to discover they didn’t have it in my size.

While there Ronnie tried on some western hats at my encouragement. He looked lovely; well I mean handsome; well actually sexy. I told him I’d buy him one that fit perfectly. He refused. I told him it wasn’t my money anyway, but he said, “No.” Around that time I wondered just what I was shopping for. We went back to the northeast heights to Ross’ and found a satisfactory belt. Then we looked at swim wear for the coming summer, and he let me buy him trunks and a t-shirt.

I went to the Missouri graduation outfitted in colors. I still enjoy looking at photos of me in my turquoise shirt playing with my grandson Kenneth. We had such fun. I was happy to get back to Albuquerque to see Ronnie and tell him stories of the success of my clothes. That’s when I clarified another level of my shopping, one that never made me depressed. So Ronnie and I started going out alone at times when my wife was working. We went to play pool even though neither one of us was any good at it. We’d go to those over-lighted straight places and share a pitcher of beer and play with lots of noise making: groans, cheers, and laughter. I suspect people thought we were a couple of irritating queers who insisted on being seen together in public. Finally one night when we were driving north on Wyoming Boulevard I rested my hand on Ronnie’s belly. Soon after that night we started playing sex games together.

I still don’t like shopping and every time I think about having to go buy some piece of clothing I think of Ronnie and our Wednesday shopping spree. I learned about color. I learned not to care about the money I was spending since it was marked for that purpose. I was happy to share the experience with a gay guy who loved to shop. I still don’t like to shop except for art supplies, but I do so when necessary. I miss my fashion consultant and all the things we did together back in those days.

We had fun, Ronnie, Myrna, and I. I had fun with Myrna. I had fun with Ronnie. I loved having a male lover, one close to home whom I could see more than two or three times a year, maybe even two or three times a week. I loved having a male lover who wanted to have sex with me often, and who liked the ways we played off each other. I liked being desired. I liked desiring this very funny man.

Such memories of shopping!

© Denver, 2014

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com