Any Writing Is Experimental (Attack of the Giant Cootie), by Ricky

As one of our group members stated in his writing to this topic, “all writing is experimental.”  The Muse finally struck me upside my head and so, what follows is her experimental writing.  She hopes you will find this, amuseing as this story is based on an actual event I witnessed while my family was visiting a close friend in Tucson a few years back.

Attack of the Giant Cootie

“Daaaad! Someone just drove into our driveway.”[I wonder who that could be.]

“That’s my friend Rick and his family.  They’re from South Dakota.”    [He doesn’t like to meet strangers so I didn’t tell him to forestall any whining.]  “Didn’t I tell you they were coming for dinner?”

“No you didn’t.”  [I don’t like to meet strangers.  That’s probably why he didn’t tell me.]

“Don’t worry son.  This fact is interesting.  We have two boys, a girl, and another boy in our family.  They have two girls, a boy, and another girl in their family.  The oldest girl is your age—10.”  [Hmmmmm.  Wouldn’t it be interesting if their girls married our boys and their boy married our girl?]

“Yuck!  Girls!  I’ll get cooties and they only play with dolls and dress up.  I hate that stuff.”[I am going to be sooooo bored.  I need to find a hiding place until they’re gone — even if I miss dinner!”]

“You’ll be fine.  Don’t make a fuss, and make them feel welcome.”  [Just don’t embarrass me in front of Rick.]

“Will they be staying the night?  [I’m not sleeping on the couch or floor so THEY can use MY bed.]

[Silly question.  We don’t have room for 8 kids and 4 adults.] “No.  Just for a visit and for dinner.”

“Ok Dad.  I’ll be good.  Wait!  Is that their oldest daughter?  She’s huge!”  [A giant cootie.]

“Yes.  That’s her.  She is rather tall for a 10-year old.  Her mother told me that she is as far above the normal growth curve for girls as a girl’s normal growth curve is above a boy’s normal growth curve.  Since you’re short for your age she will appear quite large next to you.  But, she is also a tomboy, so she’ll probably like the same things you do.”  [I hope they get along.  I can’t stand it when he whines about anything.]

“Yeah, but her size bothers me and she still has cooties.”  [What’s a tomboy?]

“Now listen!  These are my friends and I expect you to be nice.”  [I hope he obeys me this once.]

“Okay, I’ll do my best.”  [Dad can’t see that I have my fingers crossed behind my back].

“Uncross your fingers and let’s go meet our guests.”

…..

“Glad to meet you too, Mr. Dawson.”  [What happened?  He shook my hand then my tummy feels funny and it’s harder to breath.  Why do I feel this way?]

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dawson.”  [I like her smile.  She seems friendly enough.]

“Hi.”  [Ugh!  I’m shaking hands with a giant cootie.  If she were any taller my neck would break from looking up at her.  I gotta get away from her and wash my hands.  I think I might pass out.]

“Are you okay?”  [He looks pale like he’s going to faint.]

“Excuse me; I need to use the bathroom.”  [She sounds sincere, but…]

“Are you okay, son?”  [I hope he’s not getting sick.  He looks pale like he might pass out.]

“Yeah Dad.  I’m okay.”  [Just a few more feet to safety. Okay. I’m locked in the bathroom.  I’m safe.  Just splash a little cold water on my face.  Ahhhh that feels good.  I’m breathing easier.  A bit more water should do it.  Oh yeah.  Now I can breathe okay.  Even my tummy is feeling better but is a bit tingly.  I wonder what happened.  It started when I shook hands with Mr. Dawson.  Why did that make me feel funny and not be able to breathe easy?  Did the giant cootie have anything to do with it?  Did she make it worse?  Uh oh.  It’s all starting again.  Maybe more water in my face…Yeah.  That’s better.  Mr. Dawson is a good looking man.  Oh no.  Here it comes again.  I need more water.  Ahhhhh.  That did it.  I’m alright again.  I guess I should not think about Mr. Dawson.  Oops.  More water.  Who’s that knocking on the door?]

“Are you okay in there, son?”  [I wonder what’s taking so long.  Maybe I should have THAT talk with him after our guests have gone.]

‘Yeah, Dad.  I’ll be out in a minute.”  [Out, but hiding somewhere else in the house.]

…..

[Ahhhh.  They’re all in the livingroom.  I promised dad to be good and make them feel welcome so I can’t hide in my bedroom they’ll find me and dad will be angry.  Where can I hide?  Hmmmmm.  The kitchen? No, it’s too open.  The hallway?  No, that’s even more open dummy.  The closet?  No, I’m already in there.  The attic?  That’s dumb.  We’ve been told to stay out of there because of the spiders.  I hate spiders worse than cooties.  I know!  I’ll hide under the dining room table.  That way I can hear the conversation in the livingroom but not be seen so if I’m questioned later I will know what was said.  Yeah, that’s a great plan.  I’ll just crawl under the end nearest the window and they won’t be able to see me from the livingroom or the kitchen.  Owww!  Gotta remember not to raise my head too much or I’ll hit the table again.  Now, I’ll just relax and wait.]

“Hi whatcha doing under there?”  [Is he playing at being a spy?]

“Owww!  Just looking for a nickel I dropped.”  [How did she find me?]

“Oh.  Sorry I startled you.  Do you want me to help look for it?”

“No.  I just found it.”  [Lucky for me there really is a nickel under here.]  “Owww!” [Dang it!]

“Did you bump your head again?”  [What a klutz]  “Your name is Jason, right?”

[Why is she standing so close to me?  I’ll get big cooties.]  “Yes.  And your name is Suzie.”  [’ll just backup a step to get more space between us.]

 “No, my name is Susan.  No one calls me ‘Suzie’ except my grandmother.”  [Why is he backing up?  Is he going somewhere?  I’ll just follow him.] 

  “Oh, sorry.  Are you really only 10 years old?”  [She’s coming closer.  Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!    I’m being attacked by a giant cootie.  I’m going to backup two steps this time.]

“Yes just turned ten last November.  I’m very tall for my age.”  [There he goes again.  I’ll just follow his lead.  My dad said not to make fun of his size but I want him to say it before I believe it.]  “Are you really 10, because you look younger?”

[She’s closing in for the kill.]  “Yes I’m 10 and I can’t help that I’m short for my age right now.  Dad says that I’ll grow like a weed in a year or two.  I can’t wait for it to happen.”  [Okay this time back up THREE steps.]

[Wow.  He sounded irritated by my question.]  “Do you get picked on by bigger boys?”

 “Yes I do.”  [I move back THREE steps and she follows keeping one foot between us.  She is scaring me.  I’ll back around the table this time.]

[He’s backing away again like he’s afraid of me.]  “Well, in my class, I don’t let any of the bigger boys pick on anyone.  When they tried, I made them back down.  If you were in my class, I would protect you from them.”  [I like this little guy.]

[I like her attitude but…] “If you did that, it would be worse for me after school.  The bullies would pick on me even more whenever you were not around.”  [Ooops.  The wall is at my back.  I can’t back up any further.  What can I do?  Wait.  There’s a chair.  I’ll drag it over here and stand on it.]

[Now what’s he up too?  Standing on a chair so he becomes taller than me?  Because I’m so tall does he think I am going to pick on him?]  “At recess at my school, I play baseball, football, and basketball.  Do you play any of those?”

[She likes sports?  Weird.]  “I’m too small to be much good at any of them but I do like to play them.  Do you want to go into the backyard and play catch?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll go get my glove and ball and another glove for you too.”

…..

“Well son they’re all gone now.  What did you think of them?”

“I liked the family.”

“The whole family or just Susan?”

“All of them.  You were right, Dad.  Susan was okay and does like the things I like.  We played catch and other games.”

“And what about the cooties?”

“Well.  Susan is okay, but all other girls have cooties.”

“Even your sister?”

“No.  She is okay too.  But all the others DO have cooties.”

“Hold that thought, son; at least until you are 18.”

© 7 September 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 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.

True Colors, by Ray S.

Long ago in the days of Tin Pan Alley—that was when popular music lovers were still buying sheet music and the latest 78 RPM records. Our subject “True Colors” reminded me of a song titled “The Night that You Told Me Those Little White Lies.”

Here, today we have been able to hear your thoughts (and/or maybe confessions) about True Colors.

Certainly there may be a liberal (no pun intended) number of patriotic red, white, and blue references as well as our tribe’s Rainbow flag palette.

Shame and guilt-ridden as I am, my dominant thoughts promptly unearthed a lifetime of lots of little white lies and a few under the heading shady black. So many that it is very difficult to recall when and if any true colors of virtue stand out. I can’t recall when I had occasion to show those True Colors. I don’t believe I am alone in this category.

Think which were the true colors when you were confirmed in a faith and didn’t really know what all of that stuff was about, but maybe you were cleansed of everyone else’s sins, or swore secret allegiance to some quasi lodge, fraternity, sorority, high school clique. Mind you, I do not disrespect the various Orders’ goals; it is just the way we obey. True Colors where are you when needed?

Of course true colors are always subject to slight adjustments or reinterpretations as the times and circumstances demand.

Did you have your fingers crossed way down deep at your wedding? True colors prevailed with pride (depending if it was unintended) and love upon the arrival of the baby girl or boy. Color me pink or color me blue—lavender came later.

Final reason for the showing of true colors, one of celebration and liberation, after a long struggle finding our way out of the blackness of many closets, the Coming Out we all rejoice in, with the True Colors of the beautiful rainbow.

© 29 February 2016 

About the Author 

Patriotism, by Phillip Hoyle

Last weekend while travelling south along I-25, we approached the Broadway exit. A large American flag held aloft on a sturdy pole sunk in concrete and sitting at the top of a rampart flapped in the breeze. “I’ve never noticed that before,” my friend commented.

“Nor I. Must be new,” I responded.

Her next comment was about how good it is to live in America. I agreed with my rather minimal statement that I, too, was happy to live here. I believe for her the sentiment is rather standard fare formed from listening to too much conservative talk radio. We don’t talk about that. For me the issue of being “proud to be an American” is something quite different. She seems some kind of absolutist while I am surely a relativist. So are we philosophers? Since we spotted the flag on I-25 I’ve been thinking about patriotism—perhaps that does make me a philosopher of sorts.

I believe patriotism most dramatically relates to an image of heroes who put their very lives on the line for their identity as part of a particular people. The history of any Fatherland or Motherland obviously has its origins in the LAND. For me the land is always the Flint Hills of Kansas. I grew up in wide open spaces with a broad river valley and low bluffs nearby. The landscape was further defined by creeks: so grassy highlands and wooded valleys with stretches of plowed fields in the bottomlands of waterways are all a part of my fatherland. Agriculture abounded there.

In my particular patria a military presence with a long history lent gravity and opened me to a larger society and world. I grew up around the U.S. Army’s Seventh Cavalry; Custer was once stationed at Fort Riley just across the river from our town. The presence of historic stone buildings that housed both the officers and the fine horse stock of the cavalry, of wooden barracks for the enlisted men, of parade grounds, of rifle ranges, of helicopters coming and going in the air around the base’s heliport, of convoys made up of personnel carriers and artillery, jeeps and guns, trucks and heavy machinery often impeding traffic on highways, and of our lively community that entertained GIs provided endless variety for a Kansas town me. Then there were the children of Army families in our school population, and for me, the family-owned IGA store providing groceries for families of GIs, Civil Service employees, as well as the townies like me.

Thus my patria was racially mixed, with multiple languages, mixed-race families, and people who had lived all over the world—especially Germany and Japan as I recall it. Soldiers marched in local parades and cannons and other Army equipment impressed the youngsters and brought tears to the eyes of elders.

My fatherland was rather new by world standards yet as a youngster I felt connected to the antiquity of the place by the presence of an old log cabin church and by stories of my ancestors who had long lived in the area. Still the Hoyle and Schmedemann families arrived only three generations before my advent. My great grandparents came to Kansas to homestead. Some may have come to help assure that Kansas would be a free state in the political heat up that eventuated in the US Civil War. Yet in my family there were no ultimate patriots—those who made the ‘ultimate sacrifice’ for their country—in any of the stories I heard.

Growing up I heard lots of talk of such sacrifices of life, but most of them were in sermons not about the country but quoting a “no greater love” value as applied to the ultimate vicarious death of Jesus as the Christ. Religion figured heavily in my fatherland.

I became aware of the country as something much larger than my state when I heard my parents talk about the differences between Ike Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson, then when I met men who had served in the Korean conflict, when I further realized just what the US Army did besides entertain us with wild stories and exotic tattoos, when I became aware of missile crises, the Cold War, the building of the interstate road system, the anti-communist diatribe, the deaths of national leaders, the threat of the draft, the Vietnam non-war, the peace movement, and the growing realization that our USA motivations idealized in myth and PR announcements didn’t well match my own vision of reality or basic values.

Welcome to thoughtful adulthood, Hoyle.

AND EVEN MORE THAN THAT, THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT NAGGING REALIZATION THAT IF ANYONE REALLY KNEW ME, THEY CERTAINLY WOULDN’T LET ME BE A PATRIOT IN ANY SENSE OF THE WORD.

But I am a patriot who feels a deep sense of meaning in being American. I love it but not in an exclusivist, better-than-any-other identity or country.

© 25 Sep 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

True Colors, by Pat Gourley

“You with the sad eyes

Don’t be discouraged

Oh I realize

Its hard to take courage

In a world full of people

You can lose sight of it all

And the darkness inside of you

Can make you feel so small

But I see your true colors

Shining through

I see your true colors

And that’s why I love you

So don’t be afraid to let them show

Your true colors

True colors are beautiful,

Like a rainbow.”

Lyrics from True Colors by Billy Steinberg and Tom Kelly.

Once you read the lyrics to the song True Colors made a famous hit by Cyndi Lauper back in 1986 you can see why it has been adapted as a Queer anthem and especially by certain LGBT youth groups. A great coming out song if there ever was one.

Steinberg originally wrote the song about his mother. Later modified by Tom Kelly and picked up, when offered, by Cyndi Lauper. At the time she apparently felt drawn to it because of the recent death of a friend from AIDS.

All the gains made by Queer people in the past 50+ years or so can be laid squarely at the feet of our being willing to let our true colors shine through. As has been mentioned many times in this group and then powerfully validated by our personal stories it is the individual coming out process that is such a very powerful change-creating phenomenon.

It is this act of true self-expression that sets us apart from all other minorities and gives us such power. Also the fact that we are part of and transcend all economic, class and racial groups gives us a leg up. We are everywhere.

The AIDS connection to the song brought to it by Lauper has made me wonder about the reason and implications for recent data on new HIV infections just released last week. In a story from the Boston Globe published on February 23^rd, 2016 they broke down recent CDC data on projected lifetime risk of HIV among gay men by race.

The data was sobering to say the least. Overall risk for HIV infection among Americans as a whole has decreased. The risk of infection was 1 in 78. It has now decreased to 1 in 99 for the U.S. population. However, per the CDC report the lifetime risk for queer men is 1 in 6, overwhelmingly greater than for the population as a whole. That is amazing enough but where it gets truly shocking is in the racial disparity for gay men. The lifetime risk for black gay men is 1 in 2, for Latinos it is 1 in 4 and for white gay men 1 in 11.

https://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2016/02/23/sobering-findings-hiv-half-black-gay-men-will-infected-during-their-lifetimes-cdc-finds/hT0lGsMsJqqn8OMsXRMZMJ/story.html

WTF! I guess not surprising the greatest risk for black gay men is in southern states but the highest risk is in the District of Columbia. As depressing as this news is it actually reflects an improvement over the past but still unacceptably bad.

In the actual CDC report certain prevention challenges for the gay African American community were identified. These were: socioeconomic factors, smaller and more exclusive sexual networks, sexual relations with older men, lack of awareness of HIV status and stigma, homophobia and discrimination.  I would hope that these “prevention challenges” are ones that have been identified by community-based black gay men themselves and not pronouncements that have come down from on high by CDC AIDS specialists.

http://www.cdc.gov/hiv/group/msm/bmsm.html

So I’d ask what we as the broader queer community can do to help reverse these dismal statistics? A first step might be taking a hard look at how significant racism is still a reality within the queer community particularly and what am I doing personally to address any latent racism I may harbor.

Does the safe space exist in a non-threatening manner for the queer black community to develop and thrive and what is needed from the broader queer community to facilitate this happening? Perhaps this just involves our ongoing participation in the struggle for peace and social justice.

We must guard against a cop-out response to these stats by saying well it is the homophobia within the broader African American community that is responsible for this. Most of us have come out of families and communities less that welcoming of our queerness if not out right hostile. Something else has to be going on here. At the very least these extremely sobering AIDS statistics need to be a reason for pause and sincere soul searching certainly by gay white men looking sincerely at how we might be part of the problem too.

The best HIV prevention strategy is the creation of a society where everyone’s true colors can shine through from cradle to grave.

© 25 Feb 2016 

About the Author 

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

The First Person I Came Out to, by Louis

A couple of years ago, I did a story on my unsuccessful transgender friend. He/She had his male organ removed in a premature sex change operation; he missed his organ so much that he committed suicide. This was in the 1960’s. His name was “Romain”; well his given name was Richard. I met him in the 7^th grade. Romain was the first person I was truly honest with. But it was more like he read me – what they call nowadays “gaydar”.

Romain had an IQ of 160, he was technically a genius. Geniuses see things, relationships that ordinary people cannot. He was a year younger than I, but he had developed a significant number of friends in West Greenwich Village, in poetry clubs and art studios, that sort of thing. Sometimes I would tag along to meet them. So even in the 7^th grade I had a sort of reasonably gay-positive social life.

For a while I even lived in an apartment on West 14 Street. In those days, gay men were so “unspeakable” in the early 1960’s that we sort of did not exist. It was a kind of repression I guess. But the positive side of not existing is that we had a certain kind of freedom. We could cruise in Washington Square Park, and no one would notice. Mostly if cops saw us, they would not put two and two together if two guys winked at each other. If two men held hands, which happened occasionally, the public would assume they were cousins from a Hispanic country.

In a word, at an early age, I learned about the dangers transsexuals face when it comes to the question of deciding yes or no to the surgery; I appreciated the nascent gay culture coming alive in Greenwich Village, New York.

© 27 Apr 2016 

About the Author 

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

Moving, by Gillian

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines the adjective as "having a strong emotional effect: causing feelings of sadness or sympathy." So what is it within us, we humans, that draws us to stories or places or events which we find moving? I know that is true for myself. I also know the memories of such places or events, whether I have purposely involved myself or simply stumbled into them, way outlive many other memories.

In high school I went to France with three other girls. It was the first time any of us had been out of Britain and I'm sure we saw it as some wild adventure. We stayed in the picturesque town of Annecy, and from the warm glow which accompanies thoughts of it, I'm sure we had a good time there, though any details escape me. This is supported by a few faded old photos of happy, giggling, girls. But I remember only one thing. Our train, heading south-east from Calais through rich farmland, suddenly entered fields growing nothing but crosses; small white crosses which in my memory numbered in the thousands, stretching to the horizon and continuing for endless miles. They reside so solidly in my mind that I can feel the swaying of the train and hear the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails as I write. Even as a silly giggly schoolgirl I recognized the crosses as commemorating the dead of the First World War, while France still reeled from the Second. They moved me to tears. They are as clear in my mind as if it were yesterday.

Years ago, I have little idea when it would have been, I was for some reason in Washington D.C. with time on my hands and went to see the Vietnam Memorial Wall. With almost 60,000 names, the gold lettering seemed to go on forever, like those white crosses. The weather was windy and wet and there were few people there. I became mesmerized by one old woman who stood, the rain mixing with her tears, silently caressing each letter of one name. Her wrinkled old fingers gently traced the name from beginning to end and back from end to beginning, over and over and over. I couldn't stop watching. I wanted badly to put my arms around her but could not intrude on her obvious grief. Whose name was it? She seemed pretty old for it to be her son. Grandson? Granddaughter? Why was she here all alone? My heart felt that it would break for her.

I remember nothing else of that visit to D.C. I don't even know why I was there though I suspect a business trip. But I have never forgotten those worn old fingers slowly moving over the cold wet stone.

Shortly after I retired, I found myself in a volunteer job in Hungary for a few weeks. I resolved not to leave without visiting Auschwitz in neighboring Poland, and so one weekend took the overnight train from Budapest to Krakau, to spend a day which was well beyond moving; harrowing, heartbreaking, horrifying. After some time at Auschwitz, having reached my saturation point of the evil of that dreadful place, I returned to Krakau in a cab shared with four others. The five of us stood silently on the cobbled street, watching the cab rattle away. It was almost as if we huddled together searching for comfort from what we so recently had seen and felt. There seemed nothing to say. Eventually we began to introduce ourselves - and a motley crew we were. There was a Jewish woman, about my age, from Wisconsin, two young Japanese men who, as far as I ever discovered, spoke not one word of any other language, and an even younger man who literally spoke not one word at all, so I never knew what country he was from or what language he would have spoken, had he spoken. Still we seemed to have some compelling need to stick together. One of the Japanese men gestured across the street. There was a cinema, showing, rather shockingly I somehow felt, Schindler's List. He turned questioningly to the rest of us and we all nodded yes in silent agreement. What strange impulse led us to do that? It was as if our current state of numb misery was not enough; we needed more. After the movie we performed a strange, hesitant, kind of loosely formed group hug, and I returned to Budapest on the overnight train after one of the strangest days of my life. But I can still recall every detail of that day, while most of my time in Hungary recedes into misty muddled memory. 

Betsy and I spent the whole month of September 2015 on a 5,000-mile road trip to and from the east coast. We stayed in so many different places and did so many completely different things that it seems, looking back, like several mini-vacations all rolled into one. Some things were scheduled and planned, some were simply spontaneous. Driving back home through Pennsylvania, Betsy spotted a tiny red square on the map. Beside it, in miniscule red letters, were the words, Flight 93 Crash Site Memorial. Although we were in Pennsylvania, we hadn't given it a thought. I'm not sure we even knew there was such a thing. Without hesitation we agreed the small detour was worth it, and took off across back roads through rolling farmland.

The Memorial is beautifully, very tastefully, done. 

There’s a long black granite walkway following the flight path, which comes to an end overlooking another pathway (but you cannot walk on this one) mown through the long grass and bushes of that infamous field. This ends at a boulder placed there to mark the impact spot. All very simple but oh so effective.

It moves you to tears and also to shades of the terror those passengers must have felt. There is something magic about it that almost moves you right into that plane with them. At least that's what it did for me.

And after all that is why we visit places like that isn't it? To feel. If we don't feel moved, then why go?

But, back to the original question I asked myself, why? Why do I need to be moved to sorrow and sadness by monuments to death and destruction? Since I decided to write on the topic, I've been thinking a lot about it and I decided that for me it accomplishes several things.

Gratitude. I simply feel enormous, completely selfish, gratitude. It was not me. I was not there. Nor were my loved ones: not on that, or any other, doomed flight, not in the Twin Towers, nor the jungles of Vietnam dodging snipers' bullets, nor any school or shopping mall mass shootings, nor in the Asian tsunami. It revives and strengthens that everyday gratitude I should feel for the blessed life I have lived, and continue to live.

Balance. We need the yin and the yang, that balance of negative and positive, in our lives; the ups and downs. Without bad, we are less able to appreciate good. I have been so fortunate, that I think I have to indulge in collective sorrows to keep my balance; to really feel just how good my life is.

Connection. In feeling the pain of others, I am connected to them. Your pain is my pain. We are members of the same tribe. At bottom we are all tribal beings, and in sharing, no matter how remotely, minimally, the pain and terror of Auschwitz, I keep myself connected; in the tribe.

So it’s not that I get some sick twisted voyeuristic pleasure from being moved to tears by others’ pain.  It’s simply that I need it.

Nicolas Sparks in, At First Site, says, “The emotion that can break your heart is sometimes the very one that heals it…”

I think that describes perfectly my need for being moved to tears. It keeps my heart healthy and strong when otherwise it might be weakened by a life too lucky.

© 2 Nov 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.

Acceptance, by Betsy

These words represent thoughts that have occurred to me over the past couple of weeks—mostly while on our recent trip to Nicaragua.

Acceptance is growing old and embracing it (being literally led by the hand so to speak through airports, hotels, car rentals, etc. by children and grand child, I realized that this is okay. I can embrace this)

Acceptance is greeting every new day with gratitude, enthusiasm, and joy

Acceptance is knowing when to keep your mouth shut

Acceptance is understanding your shortcomings and imperfections and still loving yourself

Acceptance is acknowledging when you are wrong

Acceptance is accepting things you don’t want to accept

Acceptance is putting words from the heart to paper

This is not to say I don’t have a long list of things that I do not  care to accept but that will have to wait for another day.

© 21 Dec 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.

Jealousy, by Will Stanton

I'm not sure that I ever have experienced real jealousy in my whole life.  Based upon the correct definition of the concept, jealousy requires a degree of bitterness and covetousness to the point that the jealous person would be content to take away from someone else whatever he desires to take.  Apparently, I wasn't born nasty enough to harbor such feelings.

 

Envy is a different matter, a feeling that is not healthful, yet, at the same time, is not so potentially harmful as jealousy.  One can envy the positive attributes that someone is born with or acquires, but without wishing to deprive the fortunate person from his attributes.

I, like most people, have fallen prey to envy.  This is especially true when I encounter someone who is quite healthy, young, attractive, athletic, and who has accomplished feats not granted to me.  I certainly have envied the superlative concert pianists their hands and skills, lamenting that I was given “feet for hands.”  Yet, I would rather address a much lighter topic, one that is rather more unusual; and that is being able to travel the world and learn from it.

I benefited greatly from my two trips to Europe, one when I was a child, and one when I was a young adult.  Unfortunately, I have not been back, yet those two experiences broadened my mind and provided me with the insight to view people and events more realistically than many people do who stay mired in their limited experiences.  Mark Twain is famous for saying (and I agree with him), “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness; and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”

So, how advantageous it would be for a person to not only have the opportunity to travel extensively throughout the world, but, also, to begin doing so very young.  Well, I know of two such little boys, Nathan and Seamus. 

Nathan

Seamus

Some time ago watching Public Television, I stumbled upon an informative and charming program called “Travel with Kids.”  It features a young couple, Jeremy and Carrie, who have traveled the world together for twenty years, not staying in fancy hotels, but, instead, sometimes backpacking and exploring areas off the beaten path and away from most touristy locales.  Having their first baby, Nathan, did not prevent their continuing their travels, nor did the birth of their second son Seamus.  Instead, they have turned their love of travel into a profitable travel program and an opportunity to provide their little boys with wondrous sights of diverse peoples and cultures.

Those bright little kids have, for eight years, been adsorbing experiences and knowledge like sponges.  Their parents take them to fascinating museums, many of them interactive, where they can explore for themselves local flora and fauna.  They interact with local guides and townspeople, learning about history, arts and crafts, language, and traditions.  They taste regional cuisine, learn to try and enjoy dishes new and different to them.  Continually excited by their adventures, they often reveal a surprising degree of acquired knowledge by speaking to the camera, explaining quite well what they have learned.

And, the extent of their travels and experiences is amazing.  Apparently, they have traveled through South Korea, Venice, the Caribbean, Victoria Falls, Naples, Thailand, South Africa, Latin America, South Pacific, Ireland, France, Vietnam, England, Scotland, Bahamas, Belize, Greece, Kenya, China, Jamaica, Egypt, Yucatan, Spain, Mexico, Fiji, French Polynesia, Curacao, Tahiti, and Bora Bora.  I might have missed some. 

I never have quite figured out how this family crams so much travel into annual schedules that must, somehow, include schooling for the two boys.  Yet, I must say that what they have learned in their travels is an astonishing supplement to their formal schooling.  Yes, I also must say that I rather envy their wonderful opportunities provided by their parents.

You recall the Mark Twain's quotation I mentioned before.  These two kids must be the most broadminded kids in the world.  And, what a dramatic contrast to the school-teacher I met who said something like, “I'm not interested in traveling.  Everything in America is bigger and better than anywhere else.”  I just can imagine how this woman thinks about anything outside her own tiny experience.  I also can imagine how she votes, which is typical of the terrible social and political problems plaguing our poor nation.

So, Nathan and Seamus, I hope your rare and wonderful opportunity to travel so extensively contributes to your becoming wise and empathetic adults.  May your insight and wisdom help you both to make positive contributions to our world.

© 16 Dec 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.

Body Parts, by Ricky

        Here I sit in a room full of senior gay citizens who perhaps metaphorically are drooling over the potential erotic stories that today’s topic “body parts” could inspire me and others to write.  Well as much as I hate to fall into the obvious nature of this topic I will share at least one body-part story not previously related.

One day when I was about 5 ½ years old, my Aunt and Uncle Phillips along with my 5-year old cousin, Timmy, visited my family.  It was decided that they would be spending the night with us, so Timmy and I ended up sharing my bed.  This was the first time I recall anyone sharing my bed with me so there was some adjustment to be made to the falling asleep routine.  He and I began talking quietly about whatever came to our minds.  By this age I had been traumatically fixated on my small body part and very curious about other’s equivalent parts.  As a result, I eventually suggested that we play a game where we would take turns naming body parts.  Timmy agreed to play.  So we began with all the standard parts: head, shoulders, knees, and toes; each taking turns naming one part at a time.  It soon became rather funny so we would laugh together after naming each part.

Upon exhausting all the possibilities except one small part; it was Timmy’s turn to name the last small part.  He didn’t want to name it so he would say there aren’t any more parts; and we’d laughed.  I told him yes there was; and we’d laugh.  We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep and never did name that part.

The next morning at the breakfast table, my Aunt Marion told everyone that we had been doing a lot of laughing in my room last night.  She then asked what we were laughing about.  I hadn’t learned about lying my way out of difficult situations yet so I told her that we had just been naming body parts and it was funny.  Nothing further was said about it by anyone.

The largest body part I ever wrestled with was tubular, weighed about 15 pounds, and was at least 7-feet long from beginning to the rear orifice.  Of course I’m speaking of the exhaust pipe and muffler I had to attach to the body of my 1952 jeep wagon.

When the hood latch broke off, I went out and obtained the spring loaded hood clamps that were used on the jeeps of WW2.  Installing them was easy.  The purchase and installation of the muffler, tail pipe, and hood clamps I did all myself; and without adult supervision.  At one point I even had to change the universal joint on the drive shaft.

Another body part I was involved with was rather personal and fun.  A few high school girls and boys also liked it, but most preferred their own.  This body part was about 5’ 10-½“ and weighed about 150 pounds.  In reality there were two body parts.  The first was the body part of “Grandpa Kwimper” in the high school play of “Pioneer Go Home”.  (The movie “Follow that Dream” starring Elvis Presley is the same story.)  The second body part was the body of “Tom Jones” of the high school play of the same name based on Henry Fielding’s famous novel with the same title.  Other than the occasional Boy Scout skit, these two plays represent my only venture into the world of entertainment.

During my life I have used my body parts in several endeavors:  deputy sheriff; baby sitter; Air Force NCO and Officer; Sunday School teacher; substitute teacher; dutiful son; mischievous son; husband; father; emergency funds supplier; friend to many; and at the moment—storyteller.  While my life continues from here, this story does not.

© 27 March 2011 

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.

A Defining Word, by Ray S

Words are wondrous. They can say very much or they will tell nothing. For instance:

Perhaps

Maybe

No or yes

Why, when and where

Radical and conservative

Gay and straight

Bi- and trans

Black and white

Under the heading of often used four-letter words:

Love

Lust

The “F word,” short for fornication, sin or fun

The “S word,” short for natural fertilizer

Did you ever wonder about the people locked up in windowless padded cells that invent the pretentious words to the different brands of automobiles? What is a lexus, elantra, exterra, ultima, infinity, passat, tourage, cayenne, cayman, etc., etc.

What about all of those wonder drugs?

Cealis or Viagra

All the antacid remedies

Sleeping pills with names that are unpronounceable along with all their side effects

Call your doctor if it lasts longer than four hours or doesn’t solve your distress in four hours.

I have fallen in love with that good looking everyone's, man or woman, hotel bedroom partner especially when the sponsor’s name flashes on the TV screen.  No, it isn’t Viagra, but something else like Chivgro??? Never mind, the sponsor’s name; just see if we can get the number of that vitally mature handsome senior citizen.

This list could go on forever, but I’m afraid there is far too much for me to define for you, so when you’re completely out of anything better to do, you can take my place and define whatever you may choose to, and “Happy trails” oops that has eleven letters. Better try “ciao,” (definition, good bye.)

© 22 February 2016 

About the Author 

House Cleaning, by Phillip Hoyle

I’m not against it, house cleaning; I just am not very good at it, never thinking of the need until I can barely breathe or company’s coming! I’d rather live in a clean place than a pig sty, but I’ve been around a bit and know that standards of house cleaning vary greatly from culture to culture, country to country, family to family, and for me day to day. Sometimes I feel the need, other times I don’t even see the dust or grime. I think of Quentin Crisp’s book The Naked Civil Servant and take consolation that, as he claims, after three months the dust doesn’t get deeper. It may be true, but then company is coming and something has to be done.

House cleaning is not a favorite task. Oh, I was trained to do it as a kid: to run the Electrolux and the Johnson polisher, to do the dishes and take out the trash. I had to keep my room neat, put away toys, return books to their proper places, and occasionally run a dust cloth. Daily I made my bed although it was always an awkward task. When I went to work at the family grocery store, I learned how most effectively to use various kinds of brooms, how to dust and face shelves, how to mop and wax floors, how to strip tile, and how to wash windows. Still, such tasks are not my favorites.

During the past two weeks I’ve been reading a book of Pawnee village life in the year 1876 (Gene Weltfish. The Lost Universe: Pawnee Life and Culture (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965). I was intrigued with the housekeeping work their semi-nomadic life required. They’d leave their earthen lodges for a month for the summer hunt. In their absence fleas would take over, so an advance party would return and start cleaning. They’d smoke the places out several times to chase away the vermin and deodorize. In one scene the women who were preparing their house complained that the fleas that summer bit worse than the bedbugs. I thought of Denver’s current plight with bedbugs and my fear we might get them since I check out books from the public library. Fears aside, my house cleaning seems quite simple compared with what these folks endured.

Mom was a housekeeper who must have marveled at the modern home she and dad built just before their wedding, a house with a gas furnace, gas stove, and hot running water. There were no trees to cut and logs to carry in, no cows to feed and milk, no chickens to feed, to get eggs from, and to dress for dinner, no garden to tend and reap, no necessary canning chores. I recall seeing her canning set, probably a wedding gift in those days, packed away in a box in the basement. I often wondered how one used such tools. Smart woman, she married a grocer! Harvesting was a simple call to the store. And I’ve mentioned the Electrolux, the electric polisher, all that modern stuff. But life was not especially a picnic once the children came along. Besides house cleaning and feeding the flock, she modeled clothing at a department store, taught Sunday school, eventually led PTA and Girl Scouts meetings, organized an evening youth group at church, and reared five children. She served as a committee person with the Kansas Prohibitionist Party, attended meetings of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, supported the Kansas Children’s Service League, and after my sister Christy got polio, worked hard for the Kansas March of Dimes. She trained her kids to do any number of cleaning tasks and like a sergeant held us to our work with expectations softened with humor. Housekeeping was easy for her, a woman who worked efficiently in everything she did.

I married a young woman whose mom very self-consciously had trained her to become a housewife as well as a good citizen and good church volunteer. Myrna buzzed around the house with ease keeping things clean, cooking, and preparing for company. I made it my task to support her work by not leaving messes, picking up after myself, and assisting in house cleaning anytime I was asked. I’m sure I was completely spoiled.

Many years later I had my own place, alone. I was fifty years old. I immediately smashed together living and dining spaces in order to gain an art studio, a place I wouldn’t have to clean up daily. I rarely entertained but rather read, wrote, studied, did art pieces and occasionally had sex with a guest. Later, in Denver, I had even less space to mind. I got a sweeper, set up my art studio in one room and my massage studio in the other. The regular presence of clients for massage served as my impetus to do house cleaning. I’m sure I wanted Mom and Myrna to be somehow proud of me.

I so tend to get into the moment of house cleaning, a moment that takes me deep into a corner, for instance, a stain or some other single task I’ve been putting off and attend to it with such intensity I lose track of time and the rest of the things I had originally thought I’d accomplish in the next hour. It’s a hazard of my personality I guess. Oh well, I’m really not a house cleaner although I do a number of things in the large house where I now reside. But I miss my two-room apartment that I could really keep up with. Ten rooms seems excessive to me these days. Oh for the good old days, but that’s really just a jest. I’d hate to get with it farm chores, fleas, and bedbugs. So I do what I need to do and let the rest of it go, oh until company’s on its way.

© 12 Mar 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