Periodically, I like to post a piece that tells my readers who I am and what I write about. As my subscription list continues to grow, I want to make sure I introduce myself to new followers and reintroduce myself to previous ones. We just tipped over 200 subscribers, and that feels good!

I am an older, white, cis, gay, male who is widowed, retired, financially comfortable, Jewish, Buddhist, and privileged.

I write essays, memoirs, short stories, and poetry about what I know. My stories explore my personal experiences, growth, understandings, maturation, as well as the lessons I’ve learned, my insights, and philosophies about life, religion, sexuality, aging, death, Alzheimer’s Disease, QUEER Communty, and more. I find that as time passes, I continue to grow, change, and become more accepting of most things.

I write a lot about my experiences growing up gay. I was raised Jewish, but I consider myself Buddhist. I share my growth in this area. I taught elementary age children for thirty years, was a college professor, and a public speaker addressing Alzheimer’s issues and discussing that as well. I am a collector of small things, I consider myself a photographer, and I write about my collections and share photographs on my Substack.

I write about and have become an ally and advocate for those “Not My” president trump and his minions have been attacking: the QUEER Community, especially the Transgender Community. Also, while I acknowledge the differences in groups and in my personal experiences with them and my situation in life, I am an ally and advocate for Black Americans, Hispanic Americans, Indigenous Americans, Pacific Islander Americans, Asian Americans, immigrants, the elderly, the poor, the homeless, and the disabled!

I hope to share, through my writing, some of the lessons and experiences of my 81 years. I grew up during the 50s and came out during the 70s. It was not an easy time for Lesbians, Gay Men, BiSexual, and Transgender People. Those were the sum of labels used at that time. There were not many positive role models, gay characters on TV and in the theater, acceptance by family and friends, places in which to socialize, let alone “hook up.”

While we still have a long way to go, and while our hard-earned rights are currently under fire ... being part of the QUEER Community today is much easier than when I first identified as part of that community long ago.

I have been through a lot, especially as a gay man and having lived through eight decades. I have experienced times during which:

• it was an abomination and a sin for one person to love another of the same sex,

• a time when it became more (notice I say more, not completely) acceptable,

• a time when the fight for equal rights blossomed

• a time when lesbians wanted their own label because men had been “running the show long enough”,

• to a time when, in addition to homosexuality, transgenderism became more visible, even though it has always existed since the beginning of time,

• to a time when acceptance seemed more available

• to a time when it is all, once again, being called an abomination and a sin by so many, as goaded by the current administration and his cronies in the United States.

Truly ... love is love ... and my husband of 41 years lived the last 12 years of his life walking the Dementia/Alzheimer’s Disease Path. He was not a VICTIM of Alzheimer’s, he was a HERO! Through this ordeal, I learned many valuable lessons about love and about caring for another, which I share in the stories I post.

I was able to provide for his needs at home. Eventually, the needs became too great for me to deal with, short of turning the condo into a 24/7 hospital ward. He lived the last 18 months of his life at a memory care facility not far from the condo. I was able to spend time there with him every day.

My main job became making sure Gregory knew WHO he was, and WHERE he was. That he was in the RIGHT PLACE, doing the RIGHT THING, at the RIGHT TIME, and if lost, physically or emotionally, that I/we would always find each other. The concept of RIGHT would change, sometimes on a moment’s notice. He always knew who I was and was able to call me by name!

If others can relate to my writing, I have accomplished much.

If other LGBTQ+ community members can relate to any of my stories and feel better about themselves, I have accomplished a lot! You are not alone!

If you are an ally to the LGBTQIA+ Community, and I have helped you get to know us better, I have accomplished a great deal.

If you are someone who does not follow any labels or the usual ones, my stories still might interest, inform, or tickle you.

A Brief Biography: Michael A. Horvich

I hold my Bachelors of Arts Degree in Liberal Arts and Sciences from the University of Illinois at Urbana, additional degree work at Hunter College in New York, my Master’s Degree as Education Generalist with a concentration in Talented and Gifted Education from National Lewis University in Evanston, and an Advanced Certificate in Education Administration and Supervision, also from the University of Illinois in Urbana.

After a 30 year elementary school and university teaching career, I retired in 2000 but have been more than active as an educator, speaker, story teller, writer, poet, photographer, blogger, artist, jeweler, book binder, lecturer, actor, supernumerary, museum curator, flea circus ringmaster, Tarot card reader, spiritual advisor, and dementia/Alzheimer’s caregiver partner for my life husband Gregory Maire (RIP.)

Another quote speaks to me as well:

If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.

RECAP: number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little sceptical at first, but after the experience I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next several Wednesdays, chapter at a time, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.

Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before: Introduction
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900s
7. The After Life - Before: Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945

Here then is

CHAPTER 7

Michael: The Renaissance Man
Midwest
Since 1945

BY: Michael A. Horvich

36... 35... 34... 33... 32... 31... 30... 29... 28... 27... 26… 25... 24... 23… 22... 21... 20... 19... 18... 17... 16… 15... 14... 13... 12... 11… 10… 9... 8... 7... 6… 5... 4... 3... 2... 1…

My Current and Continuing Life

This section seemed appropriate to include here because it is about me today. Me, in my current incarnation, with bits and pieces of my past lives still flying around me and influencing my thoughts, the choices I make, and how I live my day-to-day life.

Again, without much planning or thought, I began this section in the third person, then moved to the first person. I start telling you about myself as though I am a witness to my own self, and then I grow into the self!

Born on March 27, 1945, your author began yet another life. He was born in Chicago, Illinois, to Adeline and Louis Horvich. My family always called me Mickey, and my friends called me Mike. Sometime during my college days, he became “Michael.”

He does not remember much about his days in grades K-8 except that he did not like school or his teachers. He hated being assigned, every quarter, to sit next to someone new in class, with whom he would usually not get along.

He did not have many friends, was bullied, and wasn’t a particularly bright student. He always felt like an outcast. When he studied, which wasn’t often, he had to work hard to earn a decent grade.

Michael was no good in gym and dreaded team games, knowing that he would always get picked last. Often, an excuse to the teacher, forged with his mother’s name, allowed him to be excused from gym. Once, the excuse was for an entire softball season.

Sometimes on the way to the gym, he ditched the line and hid out on the balcony of the auditorium (the gym was on the third floor) until gym was over, then quietly joined the back of the line as the gym teacher took us back to class.

I was number one in my graduating class ... procession order being based on height ... shortest to tallest, not intelligence!

I do remember that the desks were bolted to the floor, the hole for the ink well long abandoned, with the advent of cartridge ink pens followed by the newfangled ballpoint pen. We practiced “cursive” in earnest every morning for 30 minutes.

I used to bully the girls, maybe because the boys would bully me, and being a victim of the boys, I needed a victim on whom to pick as well.

I would pull the girl’s ponytail who sat in front of me. I would push the girls on the playground. I said nasty things to them. I used to push one girl a lot, and after I did so on the stairs, her father came to school and threatened me about what he would do if I ever touched his daughter again.

I remember that her name was Joyce, and I actually liked her. We had exchanged rings of affection. My pushing her and teasing her was the only way I knew to express my caring for her.

I would always embarrass myself when we took turns reading aloud the subtitles of the filmstrips we watched, until one of my teachers finally recommended that my parents have my eyes checked. Subsequently, I was fitted with glasses, and now I could see clearly!

Every morning, the milk monitors would load the chalk ledge by the door with the glass bottles of milk we could buy for 3¢.

When it rained, we had indoor recess in the school's basement. Long benches were attached to the wall around the perimeter of the room. In one corner, there was a hole in the plaster, which the older kids told us was where the School Monster lived. It would bite off your finger if you stuck your finger in the hole. I was never brave enough to try.

On the wall of my classroom was a large Regulator Clock. It had a round face with large numbers and a second hand that moved around the face, keeping time with a “little hand” and the “big hand.”

The bottom of the clock was like an inverted peak-roofed house, with the peak housing a swinging pendulum with its loud “tick” “tock” “tick” “tock.” When the class got too rowdy, the teacher would say, “I want it so quiet in here that I can hear the clock tick.” And she did.

In sixth grade, I was so unfocused that Mr. Rosengarden threatened to “flunk me.” He had a conference with my crying mother, he said that I was too immature for the grade, and I promised to do better. He showed my mother the top-left drawer in his desk, which was entirely devoted to storing the toys, gum, and candy he had taken from me over the year.

I remember putting a lot of effort into a research report on the differences in cigarettes. I contacted many cigarette companies, used the information they sent me, and created little plastic envelopes of the various types of tobacco used by the various companies. After all, it was the 50’s you know!

Even though improved, Mr. Rosengarten flunked me anyway. I hated him with all the strength the word implies, not disliked, but yes, hated! On the last day of the winter semester, everyone lined up except me. He took the other students to the 7th-grade teacher for next semester.

Then he took me to Mrs. McDaniel’s class to redo 6B. Can you imagine how devastated I was to walk alone into my demoted class? Mrs. McDaniel was kind enough, but that is all I remember of her. No, I also remember that she had such large breasts that often she would stand there with her arms folded and resting on them.

I was determined to do better in general, so I enrolled in summer school to make up the semester I had lost. By the next fall, I was back in the correct grade with my schoolmates. Looking back, I am not sure what my motivation was, as I didn’t have many friends in my original grade!

My high school days were a little better, if only because the school’s population was over 1,500 students. I found a group of like-minded kids with whom to hang out. We were a group of unsophisticated, unpopular, freaks and misfits. A group of ten of us formed a social club.

I made friends with several teachers and administrators. Miss Erickson was the only teacher I kept in contact with for my entire adult life. She started as my Spanish teacher and used to let me grade papers for the Spanish Class. I changed my own test paper answers only a few times. When she became a counselor, I helped out in her office.

Miss Erickson and I kept up a correspondence for the rest of her life until she died of Dementia/Alzheimer’s disease. I know this because she was living in the same retirement home in which my aunt lived. One time while visiting my aunt, I recognized Miss Erickson, those many years later, but she did not recognize me. She behaved appropriately and smiled her greeting, pretending to remember me.

In high school, I fell in love with the art teacher, Miss Ames, and spent as much time in the art room as I could. I would drop by towards the end of the day to see if she needed any help. I loved hanging out in her classroom.

An added perk was that when I left, she would sign a blank pass for me to fill out on my way to the last-period study hall. I would check the “early dismissal” box and go home. The next day, I would turn the pass in and never once got into trouble. I might mention I never actually “cut” class until my senior year.

Many years later, when I was teaching fourth grade in Northbrook, Illinois, Miss Ames, now a much older art teacher, began teaching in the same school. We had great times reminiscing about our earlier relationship.

I was part of the after-school drama club. Our drama teacher, Mrs. Lincoln, usually smelled like alcohol, and the club never put on a play in all the years I was involved.

Mr. Gabriel was our business education teacher (also taught typing). He was gorgeous, and all the girls were in love with him. I was, too.

Mr. Tasto was the science teacher who would make a point after each concept he taught by saying, “Do you follow, do you know?”

Our Geometry teacher, Mr. Busch, taught us theorems by singing them to popular tunes. To this day, I remember them!

Next came my studies at the University of Illinois: Champaign/Urbana campus. I joined AEPi and loved being in a fraternity. College was wonderful, and I enjoyed my studies, although I became a playboy probably to make up for my somewhat dull, introspective youth.

I dated, often got drunk, played cards with guys, and went on road trips. I spent more time socializing than studying for my courses.

One Christmas break, I had to return to school early because a fire broke out in the closet of the room I shared with two other brothers. All of our clothing, books, and personal possessions were gone. One perk is that we lived in an upstairs side living room for the rest of the year, which was a nice improvement over the basement quarters.

I was a pre-med student, but was getting failing grades. In those days, you had two semesters to prove yourself before being thrown out of the university. I was put on primary probation and didn’t improve my grade point average, so I was put on terminal probation. The main reason for my failure was too much socialization, too much drinking, and too little studying.

I changed my major from Pre-Med to Spanish. Having successfully taken Spanish, I wanted to try French. I signed up but only went to class a few times, eventually convincing myself I could just take the tests. But I never did that either. I was able to convince myself right up to the final exam, which I was going to take and try to get through based on my knowledge of Spanish, but I showed up at the testing site a day late.

I earned a failing grade in that class and obviously never took the second-semester French course. Eventually, the school sent me a letter saying they had dropped the (failing) French grade because I never took the second-semester French, and you couldn’t get credit for a semester unless you took the full year of French. Fooled them, I guess.

I caught mono and dropped out of school at the end of my junior year. I don’t think I told my parents about this until a few months later. I was just living at the fraternity house and having a good time, but not going to school. My parents were angry but supportive.

Earlier, I ran for and was elected to the position of running the dining room for the house. Once, when our cook quit and walked out, I cooked for the rest of the week (at the risk of missing class) until we could hire a new one. That was lunch and dinner for 50 men. I did a pretty good job. Later, I ran for and was elected president of the fraternity.

When I was 18, during my third year of college, I admitted to myself that I was gay. I probably had been homosexual my entire life, but didn’t understand what it meant or act on it until my junior year at the University of Illinois. As the playboy, I was now hanging out at the gay bar, going to drag shows, and pursuing as many “one-night stands” as I could.

Looking back, my “study habits” in elementary and high school were the same. The level of “playing around” was more sophisticated.

Eventually, I received my BA in Liberal Arts and Sciences from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, in conjunction with additional studies at Hunter College in New York City, where I lived for two years.

In Champaign/Urbana, Illinois, I worked in a residential treatment research center with children in trouble with the law, helped found a school for children diagnosed with Autism, directed a day camp, and taught pre-school children and teenagers with developmental disabilities.

I met a man named Robert. We spent 13 years together in a committed love relationship during a time when it was not yet socially acceptable to be “out”, let alone talk about being gay.

Eventually, Robert and I grew apart as our lives and interests grew in different directions. For a while, we remained friends, but eventually, we lost contact. To this day, I wonder if he is alive or dead.

After substituting for a few years, my teaching career began teaching fourth and fifth graders in Northbrook, Illinois.

Burned out on teaching, I quit, waited tables, and tended bar for a while, then spent two months in Mexico. I call that my “running away from home late” or my “mid-life crisis early” period.

I took a number of courses in book art creations and book restoration. My talents were featured in a show at the Jane Adams Hull House.

My photographs and jewelry have been part of silent auctions at several charitable foundations and have sold to private collectors.

During that time, I won a grant from the Chicago Council on Fine Arts for my “Maybe the Clown and His Back Pocket Review,” which was performed all around Chicago.

I returned to teaching in the capacity of Coordinator of Gifted Education for the seven schools of Glenview Public School District 34.

Keeping busy and growing my professional career, in addition to coordinating the Glenview Gifted Education Program (TAG,) I was an adjunct faculty member of National Lewis University, presented workshops for the State of Illinois Department of Education, had several articles published in educational journals, twice was awarded a State of Illinois Fellowship in the area of Gifted Education and was published in “Brilliant Star” a children’s magazine for The National Bahá’í Center as well as in the Phi Delta Kappa Educational Journal.

My miniature book collection was displayed at the Glenview and Evanston Public Libraries, and my collection of North American Indian Arts and Crafts miniatures was on display at both libraries and at the Mitchell Indian Museum in Evanston.

At the end of my teaching career, I choose to return to the classroom to teach Junior High Spanish in Northbrook, Illinois.

I received my MA as an Educational Generalist in the area of Gifted Education from the National Lewis University in Evanston. I did Advanced Certificate work in the area of Educational Supervision and Administration at the Chicago Extension Program of the University of Illinois.

While still teaching in Northbrook, I met Gregory at The Chicago Men’s Gathering, a men’s awareness group. It was love (lust) at first sight. At the time, he had been married to Barbara for seven years, and I was still with Robert (for thirteen years).

Hoping to learn from our previous relationships, we courted for a year before consummating our relationship. This was unheard of since in those days, in both the straight and gay communities, monogamy was waning and promiscuity was on the rise. No value judgment here, that is just how the times were. It was the time of ERA, the Women’s Movement, Gay Liberation, Stonewall, and pre-AIDS.

By the next year, we had made a lasting commitment to each other of love and fidelity, not necessarily monogamy. On Valentine’s Day, I showed up at Gregory’s door with a toothbrush in hand, and our life together began.

Our relationship was to last for 41 years until he died due to complications of Dementia/Alzheimer’s Disease. I walked along with Gregory on the Alzheimer’s Path for twelve years.

For Gregory and me, being part of the 1979 Gay March on Washington was a once-in-a-lifetime event. I had never participated in a significant demonstration of any type before, and being in Washington with hundreds of thousands of gay men and women was amazing. Being able to present myself for who I was, and fighting for the right to be who I was, felt so freeing.

I retired from teaching in 2001 when the State of Illinois offered a “buy out.” By then, I was burned out again and was happy to take the offer.

I had been working on my doctorate in Education and Supervision, but now I no longer needed to worry about a career path or becoming a principal, so I never completed the studies. ABD they call it, “All But Dissertation.” Probably, in looking back, this is one of only a few regrets I have in my life: never having become … Dr. Horvich.

Gregory and I were able to go on our first Autumn Adventure in New England since when September arrived, I did not have to go back to school.

We were married in a Civil Union ceremony in Vermont, the first state to legalize same-sex unions. At first, we decided to do this because we were going to be in Vermont anyway, and it seemed the political thing to do. It ended up being one of the more romantic experiences yet in our twenty-three years of being in our committed relationship.

In 1991, we purchased our first home together in Evanston, Illinois. It was a romantic “Railroad Cottage.” In those early days, more than 100 years ago, the cottage would have been designed and built by carpenters at the Sears and Roebuck factory, shipped along existing railroad lines, offloaded in the future neighborhood where the house would live, and finally assembled by carpenters on-site.

Eight years later, we moved to a larger property, just a few doors away on the same street. The front of the fifty-foot by two-hundred-foot property (four times the size of the average Chicago lot) was the neighborhood’s original 1896 farmhouse. It was now remodeled into two two-bedroom rental apartments.

At the back of the property was a 1915 Chicago-style brick loft building, three stories tall, with large windows and high ceilings. The ground floor housed Gregory’s Architecture and Design firm. We lived on the top two floors.

Now retired, I became a supernumerary with The Lyric Opera of Chicago and served as an acting extra for 15 years, appearing in over 20 operas.

After being retired for a year, Gregory moved his high-end Architecture and Design firm to our home. I, now retired from teaching, became the business manager. We made a good team, and the business flourished.

In 2003, I spent a year dealing with cancer. A tumor had grown around the Parotid gland in my neck. Surgery was done, removing part of the tumor, and much of the associated pain I was in disappeared as I began a year of Chemotherapy.

That, as you can imagine, was a challenging year. Knowing that cancer was in my body was an insult, but for the most part, I felt healthy. The rounds of chemotherapy over time, however, left me feeling weaker and weaker. Eventually, a year after the Chemo, I was able to function as if the cancer had never visited.

Luckily, I was retired from teaching, so I could recuperate at home in my own time without other obligations. Gregory, of course, was very supportive. I was grateful.

Life was good until 2004 when Gregory received a diagnosis of Dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s Disease. I will not go into much detail about that now, other than Gregory’s living with the disease for twelve years, and my walking the path with him was quite an ordeal. We did an excellent job. Gregory was never a VICTIM of Alzheimer’s; he was a HERO!

I kept a BLOG of our Alzheimer’s Adventures and am currently working on a memoir of that time.

Trying to live my life to its fullest, while loving and caring for Gregory, I won a competitive application artist residency at The Ragdale Foundation in Lake Forest, Illinois, in January 2010, in the area of non-fiction writing.

My photographs, assemblages, and jewelry were part of a group show at Sherman Plaza in Evanston, Illinois.

“Michael’s Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures,” which began in the third-floor guest room of our home, became part of the Chicago Children’s Museum on Navy Pier in Spring 2011.

It is a collection of 105 collections, each containing hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of pieces: miniatures, curiosities, trinkets, oddities, artifacts, antiquities, and collectibles. The permanent exhibit at Chicago Children’s Museum continues to amuse and amaze millions of visitors.

Gregory and I continued to fall in love each day and to be best friends. As the world around us changed, our commitment continued to grow stronger even as we struggled with living as well as possible with his Dementia/Alzheimer’s. Our roles changed as I became head of our Care Giving Team, and Gregory’s cognitive skills slowly diminished and eventually disappeared.

During this time, another freedom was gained for the LGBTQ Community: The ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ provision of the armed forces was eliminated, and Gays were now accepted in the military.

There are still many obstacles to overcome. Total acceptance of gay life will most likely never be for a very long time to come. For every step forward, it seems there is a step or two backward, but slowly, slowly, more people are beginning to accept the idea that “Love is Love!”

First in a number of countries around the world, then finally in the United States, Gay Marriage became the law of the land in 2015 . We never thought we would see this happen in our lifetime.

Gregory and I chose not to take advantage of getting legally married because of the complications it would cause for Medicaid and his Dementia care. However, in some ways, our “marriage” could not have been any better based on a document or government recognition. Just the fact that we could be married was enough.

In 2007 we purchased a condo in downtown Evanston and loved spending our time there as well as providing as good a life as possible for Gregory as the Dementia/Alzheimer’s continued to take its toll. We traveled and often spent a month at a time in Italy, Spain, Paris, and Mexico.

An important part of Gregory’s history with Dementia/Alzheimer’s was his meeting Nancy. This amazingly prolific artist took Gregory under her wing and mentored him in the use of oil sticks. He had always been artistic, but this was a new art form, abstract and bubbling up from deep inside him. He created over 100 works in two years. Most of them were larger pieces measuring 18”x 24”.

I was able to orchestrate several shows of his work, and he sold many pieces. He often said that this new hobby gave him his life back.

Eighteen months before he died, Gregory moved into a memory care facility ten minutes from the condo. Short of turning the condo into a 24/7 medical ward, I was unable to meet his increasing needs. He seemed to welcome his diminished responsibilities and narrow life at the facility. I was able to visit him every day.

I hired a daycare person who provided additional social/emotional support and was with him from 11:00 am until bedtime. The relationship they developed was beautiful to watch. Manny was Gregory’s care angel!

Gregory died peacefully in 2015. To describe how he seemed, I would say that towards the end, he was living his life as a very young, developmentally disabled boy. He had lost the ability to communicate, feed himself, get out of his wheelchair, toilet himself, or have much quality of life. Somehow, however, he was able to live until the last with dignity and compassion for himself and others.

My grief at his passing was numbing for the first year, overwhelming for the second year, and since it has become more tolerable. I continue to love him more than ever and chat with him every night before bedtime. I will always grieve for him, but it does become easier over time as I continue to grow and move forward.

Shortly before Gregory passed, he and I were the subjects of a documentary about our living with Dementia, “ALZHEIMER’S: A Love Story,” which was accepted by over 90 film festivals locally, nationally, and worldwide. It won over 35 awards, the most prestigious of which were two from the American Pavilion at the Cannes Film Festival.

I published two slim volumes of poetry, many of the poems informed by the Alzheimer’s experience.

Based on my experiences on the path of Dementia/ Alzheimer’s with Gregory, I began a public speaking career where I share my stories of “Living Well With Alzheimer’s” and that it doesn’t have to be a “Death Sentence.”

The pinnacle of my public speaking career was serving as the opening keynote speaker for the “Changing Ideas” conference, organized by the Minnesota and North Dakota Alzheimer’s Association in conjunction with the Mayo Clinic. In addition to the keynote, I ran a breakout session on “The Dimensions of Love and Grief.”

As part of the conference, I participated in an interview on Public Radio with the head Alzheimer’s Specialist Doctor from the Mayo Clinic.

Since then, my interests have shifted to writing my memoirs, creating a musical about living with Alzheimer’s, and writing an opera that sets some of my poetry to music. These are works in progress.

If you want to see more information about presentations, projects, and future work-in-progress, go to my website: http://www.horvich.com

Currently, I have been writing at home in self-quarantine since March 2020 due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

The Farmer’s Wife
Rural Ohio Farm
Early 1900’s

If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.

RECAP: number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little skeptical at first, but after the experience, I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next several Wednesdays, chapter by chapter, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.

Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’s
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8 The After Life - Before

Here then is
CHAPTER 6

The Farmer’s Wife’s Story
Small Rural Town
Late 1800’s

BY: Michael A. Horvich

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The Farmer’s Wife’s Story

Her life was as simple and plain as they come. She had no ambitions, no hopes, no desires, no aspirations. She was content with everything that made up her life and never thought to question any part of it.

She met Bill when she was 16, he asked her to marry him, and she did. She didn’t necessarily love him or even know what love was, but since he asked and since she wanted to be a wife, she accepted.

Quickly, two children, one boy and one girl, were born. By the time she was 20, she had two children, several pets, a lovely house in the middle of Bill’s farmland, and a life that wasn’t one way or another.

She never thought about any other way it could have been, so you cannot necessarily say she was content, as she never really experienced contentment or discontent.

Bill left her well enough alone, only bothered her with the occasional need for his nighttime release, and she guessed that was what love was all about. She received him without much passion or, for that matter, without much noise. She just received him, and then he rolled over and was snoring almost before she knew what happened. She never orgasmed. She met her husband’s needs, never her own, not even realizing she had any.

Her life consisted of keeping the house clean, keeping the children clean, grocery shopping, cooking meals, canning during the growing season, repairing and sometimes making clothes for everyone, and cleaning up after the dogs. She nursed her children back to health when they were ill, rarely disciplined them, helped them with their homework, and tucked them in at bedtime. She never told them bedtime stories because she had none to tell and had never been told them in turn by her parents.

She didn’t read for pleasure, or for that matter at all, really. They didn’t have a TV, but the radio suited her fine. They didn’t go out to eat, they didn’t travel, and, for sure, they didn’t go on vacations. Bill was often gone for several days at a time, tending to his other farm properties or making deals to sell his corn.

She didn’t know much about the farm or his business; he didn’t share much, and she didn’t think to ask about the details.

She was content in her small world, but then again, she didn’t really realize that her small world was small or how small, or that there could have been other options.

Day in and day out, she rose at dawn, cooked Bill’s breakfast, got the kids ready for school, fed them their breakfast, and packed their lunch boxes. She walked Bill Jr. and Mary out to the school bus, then went back into the house for a quick cup of coffee. Sometimes she made a piece of toast, but rarely sat down at the table to enjoy it.

She cleaned a different part of the house each day, whether it needed cleaning or not. That was her routine, and there was comfort in keeping to it: vacuuming, dusting, washing windows, organizing her few trinkets on the living room fireplace mantel, and making minor repairs around the house when needed. She did the laundry, carefully folded it, and ironed Bill’s white shirts.

She grocery shopped, tended the garden during growing time, canned vegetables when the garden gave up its harvest, began making dinner, washed up afterward, and mended or made clothing for the family.

When the kids came home from school, she gave them a snack, finished dinner, and had it on the table by 5:00 promptly when Bill arrived home from the fields.

Bill’s parents had died when he was very young. She never knew them, and he didn’t talk much about them. For that matter, Bill didn’t talk much about anything. When he was not at work or traveling, there was not much conversation around the house, and that was OK, as she was not much of a conversationalist either.

Once a year, her parents visited. They ended up staying in the extra bedroom with them. Her life and her routine didn’t change during these visits; the workload just increased, but honestly, she didn’t notice. She did what she had to do without question, and that was it.

Sometimes the parents would sit around the kitchen table while she worked. They rarely asked about anything since there wasn’t anything to ask about. Sometimes she would tell them about the kids and their school or church activities, but the conversation would run out quickly. The parents didn’t seem to mind or to expect much more.

To be honest, she didn’t seem to notice much difference in her life when her parents visited or when they didn’t. Apparently, they were content that she was keeping a good house, caring well for their grandchildren, and that was enough for them. They were all about as quiet and low-key as she was, so this lack of interaction made sense to everyone involved.

In many ways, she was who she was because of how her parents raised her, and she, in turn, was creating children like her.

As a child, she had never been forthcoming about anything about herself, her thoughts, or her opinions. She wasn’t really sure that she had any thoughts or opinions about anything: herself, her life, her family, her community, her religion, her world!

Her teachers took note, and when shared with her parents at the yearly PTA conferences, the parents' response was usually a low-key, “Yes, Uhhuh.” So the teachers were content that they had done their part at the meeting, and the parents didn’t realize there was anything more to do. She just disappeared a little more each year, and a little more as time passed since she married.

She had no close girlfriends growing up and certainly no boyfriends, Bill was the first. She stayed pretty much to herself. She had no interests, didn’t enjoy reading, found nothing at school with which to get involved, and somehow passed the days without much involvement in anything!

All of this probably added up to her easy acceptance of Bill’s proposal. He asked, and she accepted; that was all there was to it. Several “on and offs” for Bill’s nighttime needs, with no protection, and she was now a mother to two. After that, Bill began wearing protection. Her days were full, but she wouldn’t think to call them meaningful or not. They just were.

On the last day of her life, at age 21, she had completed most of her day’s routine and had dinner in the oven. Bill was on a fly-about in his prop-jet. He did this quarterly to check on his other farm properties, meet with their managers, and conduct any business he needed to.

Just as she was taking the roast out of the oven, five o’clock on the dot, she heard the motor of his plane approaching, so she took off her apron and went out the back door to greet him.

The plane’s hangar was just a little away from the house in the cornfield. The driveway doubled as a runway for their cars, it turned left to the garage attached to the house and turned to the right for the airplane to head towards the hangar.

She headed out and waved as the plane set down. As it touched ground and slowed, Bill waved back, and this was the disastrous action.

Instead of turning the plane to the right, towards the hangar, at the last minute, it continued straight, and although he frantically worked at the brakes to stop it, the rain from earlier in the day made the landing a slippery one. You could see the panic in his face.

In her face, you could see nothing; no fear, no panic, no anticipation of the end of her life. The propeller reached where she was standing and spun her body, her life, her emptiness, into a mass of bloody pieces flying in all directions.

The last thing she felt in this life, if only for a second or two, was as if her life opened out to embrace everything in the world that had been and that was. Added to the awareness was everything that could have been but that never was for her. Suddenly, as small as her life had been, that is how large it became.

As empty and uninvolved as her life had been, those few seconds saw her life filled with everything the world had to offer, and could now offer with her stay on this earth over.

I Have Always Loved Small Towns and Farm Life

In my early adult years, when I first began to live independently of my parents, I moved often. I lived in a big city, a small university town, a tiny rural town, and in the country.

Living on a farm, doing minimal chores like some vegetable and flower gardening, and maybe husbanding a few smaller animals was always a fantasy, so strong that I really thought I would end up living on a farm.

For one reason or another, I never did, and at this stage of my life, having not been a “farm-boy” adult is one of my few regrets. Perhaps these feelings for farm life remain from one of my past lives.

Certainly, my involvement with life is nothing like the farmer’s wife. I am actively involved in so many things, my thoughts and wondering continue non-stop. I cannot imagine a life like the farmer’s wife being anything other than boring.

The Toe Headed Boy
Small Rural Town
Late 1800’s

If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.

RECAP: number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little sceptical at first, but after the experience I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next several Wednesdays, chapter at a time, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.

Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8, The After Life - Before

Here then is

CHAPTER 5

The Toe Headed Boy
Small Rural Town
Late 1800’s

BY: Michael A. Horvich

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My name is Tommy, and I am, or was, seven years old. My town was small, and I think I knew almost every person who lived there, and I think they all knew me.

When I visited the general store in town on an errand for my mother, the owner always gave me sugar-covered lemon sucking drops in a little bag. I used to think that the drops were covered in flavorful sand, but Johnny, my older brother, told me I was wrong.

This time, I buried the bag deep in my pocket so I wouldn’t have to share any with him, like last time when he ended up eating most of the drops himself.

I liked Johnny well enough, but as an older brother, he sometimes tortured me with his teasing. I would always laugh to show him I didn’t care. But I did care!

Sometimes he would hit me, and I would hit him back, but never in front of dad, or dad would yell at us, “Stop fighting, or I will show you what fighting can be!”

Mom’s response was always, “Now boys …”

Often Johnny didn’t have any time for me at all because he liked to be with his friends, so I was alone a lot. Sometimes we would play in the house, and now and then we would go on walks. We liked going on long walks and would bring a bag lunch with us: a cheese or bologna sandwich, a bag of chips, and something to drink.

Our house was on the edge of town. On our walks, in not too much time, we would find ourselves out of town and in the middle of nowhere. We would walk down the dirt road surrounded by row after row of corn growing on both sides.

On hot days, we would take off our T-shirts and wrap them around our waist. The sun on my back felt warm and loving. Once in a while, when we were out too long, we got sunburned, and Mom painted us with vinegar mixed with water to ease the sting.

The sun beating on my blond hair made my head glow like it was a lightbulb. The heat felt good and gave my hair a certain smell that said, “Summer!”

By the end of summer, the corn was so high we could not see over it and would play “hide and seek” among the stalks. The person who was “it” would stand at the two-lane road intersection of Route M and #1, hand on the wooden power line utility pole, and shout “STOP” after slowly counting to 25 while the other person jumped the fence and ran to hide in the field. Johnny would always find me, but I could never find him!

On one of our walks, we usually walked the same way every time, when we reached the intersection, we noticed that someone had dumped an old refrigerator next to the pole. The white enamel was rusted in places, but everything else seemed like it would work. The plug and wire were carefully wrapped up and hung on the back, the legs were all in place and sturdy, and the door worked.

For a while, we enjoyed throwing rocks at the closed door, seeing who could score without missing. Then we tried to see how hard we could swing the door shut and have it still lock. Sometimes it would lock, and other times it would bounce open with a bang or swing wide open, hitting the fence.

Johnny suggested, it a prank on me, that I get in the refrigerator to see what made the door swing open so strongly. I climbed in, fitting inside snugly but comfortably.

Before I knew it, everything went black as Johnny carefully closed the door, making sure it locked. This didn’t scare me because he had done worse things to me in the past. It was all part of the games we played, or at least the ones he played with me.

I am not sure how long he left me there. I do remember, as I slowly began to feel woozy and tired, that I was frightened about what mom would say when I was late home for dinner. She would be angry at me.

They say death is a lot like sleep. One dreams, and the night seems to go on forever. They are right.

Can I forgive Johnny for my death?

Of course, I can. I love him, and I know he didn’t do it on purpose. He was at least as surprised at my death as I was.

Interestingly, somehow I knew during the past life regression that in my current life, that Johnny turned out to be my life partner, my husband of 41 years!

To this day, I am always in touch with the “Little Boy” who lives within me. For the longest time, even as an adult, when asked what age I felt, I would say nine years old.

That is where my little boy remained until I reached my 40’s, when he turned into a teenager. At that point, I think I decided that “my little boy inside” would always be with me, would remain ageless, and never grow older.

I never let anyone, anything, anytime, or anyplace make me feel like an adult or older person unless I choose to. I still wonder at circuses, literally get lost at flea market sales, and love to eat penny candy: Red Twizzlers, Tootsie Rolls, Peeps, Smarties, Mary Janes, and Root Beer Barrels.

I love to laugh and to get silly. I love telling jokes and laughing when I hear a good one. “Knock Knocks” are my favorites. Riddles are fun to solve.

And I love toys. Nowadays, I do not play with them as much as arrange and curate them in a vessel (box or bowl) or on a shelf.

There is something so magical about small things. When I say “small things,” I do not necessarily mean miniatures. For example, small chairs are miniature chairs, but a collection of over two hundred game piece movers of different materials, textures, colors, and shapes, are all small but are not miniatures.

When I collect, if I can get an item in each color, for example, a rainbow assortment of marbles, I am happy.

Also, I like to collect in 3s. And if I can get a small, medium, and large one of an item, I am ecstatic. I have a celadon Asian female figurine, whose facial features, as cast, are mostly worn off, in three different sizes. Same identical figurine but three different sizes. And I love that the facial features are mainly worn off.

A lifelong ambition took place when I donated over 105 collections of small things to the Chicago Children’s Museum on Navy Pier and in 2011 for a permanent exhibit called “Michael’s Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures.”

When one is a collector, does one ever stop? I don’t think so. While tens of thousands, maybe millions of little things went to the museum, my condo continues to fill itself (seemingly with little effort on my own.) I call it “Michael’s Museum: Evanston Campus Condo Collections”.

Maybe since my childhood in this Tow Headed life was so short, it has caused me to want to hold onto those child-like feelings.

Perhaps his death added to my claustrophobia, my fear of being trapped in small places.

The fear extends to the possibility of being trapped in any closed space, like an airplane or elevator. I will get on an elevator anyway, but if I am not familiar with the elevator, my heartbeat increases. I have learned to classify elevators as “Friendly” or “Unfriendly.”

Friendly ones are the ones I use a lot, like in my condo building. I know the elevators are well-maintained, and I am used to the subtle movements and noises they make. When I go on vacation, I take a Xanax to help me fly. That quiets down my anxiety.

I feel that one of the reasons I am so well adjusted in my current life is because I have been able to keep a balance between childhood and adulthood. So, the little boy lives on. Long Live the Little Boy!

What impressed me most about the little boy was how his main fear while dying was that his mom would be angry with him. Also, he had no fear or claustrophobic reaction being shut in the refrigerator as compared to how I would react today!

If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.

RECAP: number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little sceptical at first, but after the experience I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next several Wednesdays, chapter at a time.

Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Ride - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8, The After Life - Before

Here then is

CHAPTER 4

The Carnie Worker
Traveling Midway Ride
Early 1800’s

BY: Michael A. Horvich

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Chapter 4

As before, David had me count down the yardstick again, and I was ready for past life visit number four.

If you smell axle oil, you know you are at the Midway Carnival. Some of the rides still use grease made from tallow, a rendered fat from beef or mutton. The grease is used by the old guys who’ve been around the midway for a long time.

Some of us use newer synthetic stuff, like the wheel on which I work. Either way, you know you gotta keep those gears and wheels lubed, or your ride’ll go down in no time. When travelin’ on the road and when you make as little money as we do, you can’t afford to have your ride go down.

I like to grow my hair long. Sometimes I let it grow long enough to tie it up in a ponytail with a piece of leather. Turns the gals on, it does. Long hair. That ain’t all I got that’s long, that the girls like, but I won’t brag.

I keep my hair slicked back, and the easiest way is to dip my hand into the grease bucket while lubin’ the gears of my attraction. Like I say, it drives the gals wild. And a wild gal is good to have.

Sometimes they’ll run their hands through my hair to pick up some oil with which to rub me off. I like it nice and slow. Some of ‘em like to do it quick just to get it up and over, but I try to slow ‘em down cause that’s how I like it. Nice and slow. The slower, the better. If I’m in the poking mood, I’ll use the grease off my head to lube them up, just like I lube my wheel. I like that to go long and hard and slow too.

My Ferris wheel is about 25 feet tall and will hold eight to sixteen people, dependin’ on one or two to a seat. The seats are open, with a safety bar to hold on to. The wheel is outlined with little twinklin’ lights. Makes the wheel real pretty at night and I’ll keep ‘em on durin’ the day to attract more riders, ‘cept when it rains cause then you get so few people anyway and wastin’ the electric ain’t worth it.

You can hold on with one hand in the seat while keeping your arm around your gal and not being too afeared. I’ll run the wheel for two to three minutes before I start to load and unload the next riders.

If we ain’t busy or if I get me a real pretty one on board, I’ll run it longer. Sometimes I’ll score with a rub or a poke if a girl is by herself.

We make the circuit from north to south every year and end up in the same towns ‘round the same time each year. That’s good for them to be expecting us and to save up their pennies. Sometimes I even recognize the same faces, only a year older. Sometimes I’ll get a rub-off from one that I noticed a year or two earlier, but they was too young.

You’ll also see a mom or two toting new-uns. I often wonder if those babes might be mine from last year’s poke or two ago. When I take a close look, I’d swear that I’ve seen my look-a-likes.

I didn’t mention the occasional rub-off from a guy, did I? Well, sex is sex, isn’t it? An’ it don’t matter where you get off from, do it? The guy needs to be good lookin’ and masculine, though. I don’t want any of them girly boys who think they want to be my bitch. Just a fast rub-off between men. Ain’t nothing’ wrong with that, is there? And I don’t do any sausage stuffin’ with men, that ain’t for me.

When we get to a new town and are all set up, many of us will go off to the local diner. My favorite is breaded chicken-fried steak, heavy on the breaded and fried. A burger is always good, but I usually need two of them to feel satisfied, and often I can’t afford the cost of two.

Most often, for the rest of the run, I’ll just load up on junk food at the truck stop and keep it in back of the truck. Had to get a metal box, finally, because the critters kept stealing from me. During the night, while I was asleep in the truck’s back seat, the rats and possums would come into the flatbed and eat. I’d just lay low and pretend sleepin’ cause I didn’t want to get tore up with their claws if I went back there to attend to them. Now I doze off to the sound of claws against metal with no worries about my soda, chips, or candy bars.

The back of the truck also has a mattress for use when I pick up a live one. Sometimes, if’n the weather is OK, I sleep back there. The chicks think it’s romantic that I am a Carney, livin’ on the road, travelin’ from town to town with my own attraction.

Some of them would like to marry me cause they figure this is a predictable job and life. But it ain’t! And I ain’t the marryin’ type. I just like a good fuck now and then, and the back of the truck on the mattress suits me fine and seems to suit them too.

Once had me a girl for real. She came to the midway every day for the week and hung out. Real pretty and sexy and dressed up with her cha-cha shoes, she was available and inviting.

When it came time for the carnival to pull out, she was there early morning. I told her to back off so she wouldn’t get hurt while taking apart the wheel, seat by seat, and beam by beam. Dangerous business takin’ down a wheel. Very dangerous, especially when doin’ it all by yourself with no help. I was used to it, though, and liked showin’ off for her bare-chested, glistening with sweat.

I was kind of glad she was there because there’s nothing like coming off after pulling down the wheel. Usually, I’d do it by myself. If I worked this one right, she would do it for me. I’d pull down the wheel, and she’d pull one off for me.

After we finished, she told me that she wanted to hop in the truck and stay with me for a while. I said, “Hey, a while ain’t bad.” So I let her. The “while” lasted three months before I had to kick her out. She showed no signs of leavin’ on her own.

I started getting bored with her crying and complaining. To be honest, I was also bored with our sex. Same old, same old. I had the wheel to attend to and didn’t want to waste extra energy attending to her as well. She was too needy, and if the bitch couldn’t take care of herself, I didn’t need her.

With the few pennies I was earning, I didn’t want to be buyin’ her clothes and nail polish and stuff. And I hated the stink of that Jungle Red polish in the front of the truck while I was trying to drive, and she’d be paintin’ her nails and then would bitch at me if I hit a bump.

So, before we pulled out one day, I sent her off to the store to pick up some food for the trip. I even gave her a whole buck. When she was out of sight, I just drove off and left her behind.

Served her right, too. About a mile outside of town, I tossed her Jungle Red and a few other belongings out the window. Goodbye. Good riddance. Fuck you, girl.

I quickly got back to the day-to-day, what I was used to, just runnin’ the wheel, eatin’ bad, and fuckin’. On a perfect day, I’d take in fifty cents. That would please me real good. Half of that would go to the carnival owner, repairs and gas would take more, but the few cents left over are enough to keep me happy in food and one-night girls.

Sometimes at night, when I can’t sleep, I wander the carney grounds. It’s quiet an’ peaceful. Now and then I walk past another Carney sittin’ on their running board or at their pull trailer, and we’d nod, “Evenin’”.

You can get away from the axle oil smell if you walk a little way out, and in the right season, the smell of sweet flowers will be waiting for you.

On nights when the moon shows bright, you can walk without trippin’ on anything. Other times, lookin’ out the side of your eye a little away from the path, for some reason, you can see stuff, and you can avoid trippin’ Now and again, I go down with a “Fuck, Shit, Piss, and Fuck Again!” So what, bruises and ripped knees heal, don’t they anyway?

Depending on where the carnival was put up, one can often see the town’s lights in the near or the distance. I would always wonder what it would be like to have a little house with a bit of garden and a little wife to care for me. But I always kept it to wonder about because I never really wanted to find out. Maybe I was afeared that I couldn’t never, so why play imagination games?

There was a strict code of behavior among the Carneys who traveled together. Don’t take anyone else’s money, belongings, or wife or boy. No exceptions … unless the wife was willin’, and you were really careful not to get caught. I know a few who did get caught, and their bodies were left behind in a bush when the carnival pulled out.

For the most part, a Carney’s life is boring, same, same, and more same. Not romantic like the town girls dream of. Most of the time is spent unloading, puttin’ the ride together, keepin’ it in order, then runnin’ it hour after hour. Then you spend time flirting with the riders while usually not scorin’, cleaning’ up the grounds around your ride, takin’ the wheel apart, packing it carefully back into the truck, driving for hours, sleeping when you can, and beginning over again.

Usually, nothing to look forward to from one town to the next. The most excitement would be if a fight broke out or one of the rides went down. Of course, better if it was not your ride, or your fight.

There are the days holin’ up inside the truck while rain buckets down and not a soul can be seen on the midway. And on the days when it is so hot that you sweat the pounds away and have to grease the ride two or three times to keep it runnin’, you wished it was raining.

But me, I like the work because it meets my needs. I need not much. Not from anyone. I need to eat. I need to shit. I need to fuck. I got all that, and I get a few cents to keep myself goin’.

I like the physical labor because that keeps me from thinkin’ of what else I might want that I can’t get, although sometimes at night while drifting off, I think about that little house, that little garden, and that little woman.

The physical labor keeps me happy. It keeps my body beautiful and in shape. Even the sweat makes me glow in a way that seems to attract women's and men’s eyes.

There is nothing I like to do more after puttin’ up the Ferris wheel than to study my body in the broken piece of the full-length mirror hung up in back of the truck. I look at my long body, long legs and arms, and long dick, and I like what I see. And then I’ll run my hand, my right hand, through my hair to pick up some rubbin’ off grease and step into the truck’s cabin.

My ma was like the girls I screw. There were lotta men in her life. Most of them paid me no mind. I’d just hang out or carve a twig in the out of the way corner of our shack while the fucking squeaks and slushing sounds came from under the bedroom door. She was a screamer, too. I used to think she was bein’ killed, but she’d come out of the bedroom, wrapped tightly in her pink bathrobe, smilin’. So I knew it must be OK.

I was the result of one of those screws, and while I knew many men who tried to be my father, I’ve no idea who my father was. Probably some asshole with a long, thick, needy dick like mine. Anyway, fuck him, and for that much, fuck her. She is long dead now.

I felt no sorrow in picking up and leaving when I was, what, 15 or 16 years old. My mom hadn’t done much for me, and I wasn’t about to hang around to do stuff for her with her sufferin’ and her cancer. Fuck her, let her die on her own, like I had to grow up on my own. Fuck her.

Many an older woman at the Carney tried to be a mom to me, and at times I appreciated it, especially when she was a mom with privileges, if you know what I mean. Cook for me. Clean for me. Wash my clothes. Lay back with her legs spread for me. Rock me to sleep when I was sick.

But I soon learned that all women want something from you, and when you don’t feel up to givin’ it, or if it isn’t yours to give, they turn on you, real quick. I began to keep to myself. I never did have any what you would call friends. Guys to drink with or play cards with, yes. But not to be close to, or about who talk to or to care for. Fuck them too.

I don’t need anyone but myself to rely on. I won’t let me down. I’ll take care of me, and I’ll always be there for me. I’ll make myself feel good with my right hand, and for a change now and then, I’ll use the left.

Once when my wheel was down while I was waitin’ for a part, I helped out in the balloon and dart booth. My friend Silvie ran it, and wouldn’t you know it, a stupid local landed one of his three darts in Silvie’s ass instead of on the board with the balloons. You should have heard her scream. And such language she used made the local run for his life for fear of havin’ his balls cut off and stuck in his mouth.

Poor Silvie was in pain for about a week more, couldn’t sit down, and certainly couldn’t get plugged by her boyfriend for a while longer. I think her butt cheek must have got infected or something. Now and then, before her boyfriend arrived, I had plugged her, so just to be nice this time, while she was in pain, I satisfied her with my tongue after hours behind the balloons. Did I say she had a nice pair of balloons herself? I don’t think her boyfriend understood the tongue stuff.

Another time when my wheel was down, I helped out in the food wagon. Cotton Candy, Funnel Cakes, and Roasted Nuts were my favorites. One time while frying the funnel cakes, I burned the shit out of my hand. It was so painful that I threw myself around the wagon almost destroyin’ everything they had in there. They haven’t invited me back since to help.

One of the things I liked to do while tendin’ runnin’ the wheel, and a way to keep me interested, was to get a glimpse of a girl’s snatch while she is riding towards the top.

Over the years, I saw many things like when a girl was unprepared for her bleeding time, when she was overstimulated by her boyfriend (or girlfriend,) and of course, those who wore no panties. If I didn’t wear underwear, I call it “Free Ballin’” I wonder what girls call it when they go without?

If the girl is real pretty, I could slowly begin the wheel’s upward beginning, reach out and rock the car, and that would give her a thrill and would give me a perfect look at what she was hiding (or not.)

One time, one look too many, one peek too many, proved my end. She was in her twenties, I would guess, and pretty. Dark black hair down around her shoulders. She had no makeup, which surprised me at how beautiful she was without having to paint her face.

She flirted with me a bit while waiting in line, and when she and her girlfriend got into the car, she brushed up against me. I figured if I gave her a really good ride on the wheel, she might give me a really good ride later in the evening after hours.

I winked at her, lowered the bar, doing a well-rehearsed boob graze, slowly began the wheel, and gave her car a good rock. Sure enough, she was bare assed and I was really enjoying what I saw, so I didn’t realize that I was leaning in a little too far for a little too long.

The wheel had picked up speed, and before I knew it, I felt a sharp pain and a crack to my head. Before I passed out, I knew that due to my not paying attention, I was dead. The next car in line knocked the shit out of me and knocked the shit out of my life as well.

I fell forward and was pummeled any number of times by the following cars as the wheel picked up speed, before the guy who runs the “Tilt-A-World” next to the wheel was able to get over and grab the brake.

But too late! I only remember that part because by then I was on my way to wherever it is you go when you die. I was bloody, broken, and very dead. But as I was traveling away, I also remembered how beautiful that pussy was and felt like my ending was worthwhile!

Today’s Love of Carnivals and Circuses

As a child and as an adult, carnivals and circuses have always been an important part of my life. One summer recently, around the Chicago area, I went to five circuses and three carnivals. I never get bored with the adrenaline-driven adventures I experience there.

At the circus, the smell which hits you first is of animals and hay and excrement as you approach the circus grounds waiting in line to purchase your ticket. The odors feed the sense of what you are about to experience: seedy, risky, dirty, mysterious adventures yet adventurous, daring, and exciting. Especially at night at the carnival, the lights add to the excitement, exhilaration, thrill, and just downright fun.

When you first enter the midway, you pass the rides, food, and games of chance. You experience the Ferris Wheel’s circle of blinking bulbs revolving to screams of delight as a car stops at the top, swaying as people exit and enter the cars below.

Flashing neon signs advertise what your nose is smelling, and your belly is craving: popcorn, corndogs, cotton candy, syrupy cones topped with cherry shaved ice.

Fellows are barking out and inviting you in to take a chance on winning your sweetheart an oversized teddy bear, three chances at a dollar, so easy … yet you never seem to be able to knock down those wooden milk bottles.

Crowds lined up at the Freak Show tent are waiting to see, for fifty cents, freaks of nature: The Fat Woman, The Thin Man, The Hairy Boy, The Strong Man, The Snake Charmer, JoJo the Dog-Faced Boy, and The Sword Swallower.

Next, you come to the menagerie, which, for just a few cents more, allows you to visit with the circus animals: the elephants, the lions and tigers, the performing dogs, and cats.

Once through the menagerie, just ahead of the Big Top, you find the ticket booth, more food concessions, smelly port-a-potties, a pony ride, and an elephant ride area, souvenir and novelty stands.

Out behind the Big Top, you can get a glimpse of the trucks that transport the circus, the animals’ living areas, the cookhouse/eating area for the crew, clown alley, and smaller trailers where the performers live. If you are observant, you get a glimpse into the fantasy of what it might be like to be part of the circus.

The Big Top invites you in with color and lights and banners flying in the wind. You enter the tent. It is dark and smells rank.

There might be three rings in the center or only one. The rest of the tent is filled with bleachers or folding chairs surrounding the performance area. Obviously the chairs, close up, cost more.

The poles supporting the tent top seem to soar to the heavens, and the guide wires are magical as they glitter in the spotlights.

Once the performance begins, people in tight, glittery, and bright costumes will entertain you, thrill you, and astound you with their feats of acrobatic wonder.

The clowns prance and dance and tease and make you laugh at their antics. Sometimes they are so silly that you can’t help but laugh out loud.

Some of the things the performers can do, you know in your heart, are not humanly possible, but nonetheless, they accomplish these feats with grace and artistic talent and skill. No wonder the circus is always a hit of the season when it comes to town.

Point me towards a circus or carnival midway, and I am one happy man! To this day, however, I do not like to go on carnival rides, especially high ones like the Ferris Wheel or ones that spin you in circles until you get dizzy!

I enjoy the seedy, dangerous part of imagining what it must be like to be a Carney while I am walking around a carnival, popcorn in one hand, cotton candy in the other.

The colors, lights, banners, posters, and canvases intrigue me, being an art form of their own. At home, I have a few Freak Show posters that I treasure.

What impressed me most about the Carney is that he is so different from who I am, so the thrill of possibility draws me in.

If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.

RECAP: number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little sceptical at first, but after the experience I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next several Wednesdays, chapter at a time, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.

Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8, The After Life - Before

Here then is

CHAPTER THREE

The Carmelite Nun
French Reign of Terror
1793/94

BY: Michael A. Horvich

36... 35... 34... 33... 32... 31... 30... 29... 28... 27... 26… 25... 24... 23… 22... 21... 20... 19... 18... 17... 16… 15... 14... 13... 12... 11… 10… 9... 8... 7... 6… 5... 4... 3... 2... 1…

The Carmelite Nun’s Story

After briefly discussing the “Baker’s Life” with David, he told me to count down again. Picturing a yardstick on my chest, extending upward, I began counting backward. again 36… 35… 34… I do not remember how far I had to count back before my second experience began.

She was not an intelligent woman but rather a deep woman. She was uneducated, but her life experiences more than made up for her lack of schooling. She had always believed in God and did not try to convince others of his existence. She was just there for those who wanted to know, for those in need, and, of course, for Him.

Even as a little girl growing up in the south of France, in a small town called Lyon, she had a need and a talent for nurturing others. She would fix birds’ broken wings, spoon-feed small furry animals nursing them back to health, and sit with the ailing neighborhood children when their mothers were at work.

Anne was loved by her parents, her relatives, her friends, her neighbors. There was something special about this little girl that everyone felt, even if they couldn’t describe why.

People liked to be with her and do things for her, like giving her little toys they carved or the ends of cakes they baked for their own family.

Her life was mostly uneventful except that she lived each day to the fullest, enjoying each day as it unwrapped itself like a most precious gift.

Her mom and dad were both involved in making silks, Lyon’s primary industry. Anne loved playing with the colorful bits and pieces of silk her parents gave her on birthdays and other holidays.

The silk bits were too small to be useful or to wear for warmth, but she loved them for their colors. She would wrap one around a doll and pretend that the doll was rich and going to a party with other rich people.

She would wrap one around a twig from the garden and pretend it was a poor little child she was helping recover from the croup, or yellow fever, or cholera.

As she grew older, she would be called on to nurture people who had those very diseases. She was known to all as patient, loving, and caring. She would go for days on end without sleep, gently patting the sweat off ill foreheads or carefully holding a tin cup and offering tiny sips of water.

Anne nursed her dying father through his last breath and sat by his body for the requisite three days until the burial took place. Her mom had to keep working for fear of losing her job and putting the family at even greater risk.

When her mother succumbed to yellow fever, Anne was on her own. Her life had no real future. She certainly could not imagine herself as a whore selling her love on the streets of Lyon.

She decided to see if the Lyon Convent would take her on as a novice. Sure enough, the nuns had heard of her talent for helping people recover from grave illness and her ability to help people die more comfortably and respectfully. They offered to take her into their community. If she proved herself worthy, they would accept her into the sisterhood, which they quickly did.

She loved her life with her sisters. Her seventy years went quickly. But the times she lived in grew complicated and tough by 1793.

The Reign of Terror, or “The Terror,” saw multiple massacres and public executions of clergy in response to revolutionary fervor, anti-clerical sentiment, and frivolous accusations of treason by Maximilian Robespierre and his Committee of Public Safety.

Between June 1793 and the end of July, there were 16,594 official death sentences in France, of which 2,639 were in Paris. The revolutionary process would topple the absolute monarchy of Louis XVI, divest the nobility of their hereditary power, and ultimately undermine the Catholic Church’s political influence.

Anne was lucky in that she survived while many of her sister nuns were executed by guillotine. Many others were forced by the officials to stop practicing their religious beliefs, but Anne was so strong in her beliefs that she blatantly refused to stop her holy prayers. She continued to nurture others, which, for the most part, defined who she was.

She was arrested in March of 1794 and thrown into a dungeon cell. The cell was cold and damp and dark. She was grateful that there were no rats to keep her company, and most of the time she sat on her narrow cot in the mostly dark cell mumbling remembered prayers.

The small, open window was high above her and let in only a little light even on the sunniest of days. It also let in the cold, but she didn’t mind as she wore her dense woolen habit and wrapped herself in the woolen blanket they allowed her.

Sometimes she could hear the people above, outside the window, murmuring as they passed by, and she would imagine them rushing about, focused on those things they felt were important as they lived during these chaotic times of change.

In the beginning, she found herself missing the grass and trees, the sun and fresh air, the coming and going of life around her. Slowly, she settled into her new, narrow life.

She spent almost all of her time in that dungeon in prayer for others and her God. She realized that she carried the beauty of the world within her and didn’t need to see the flowers or smell the fresh air.

She would wake up early out of habit and go to bed early when the little light the cell window allowed disappeared at sundown. She was secretly happy that she had no other options than to meditate and to pray.

It was a comfortable way to live with no other obligations or responsibilities. She certainly did not miss the housekeeping chores at the convent, the gardening, or the meal preparation. For sure, she did not miss scrubbing the pots and pans or the convent stairs.

She missed a piece of meat or a bite of fresh fruit now and then, but the prison’s bread was recently baked, and the water was cold, that was enough for her.

She would pray, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” even though there was nothing she could remember that she had done that could be classified as a sin. But it felt good to cover herself for sinning in case there was something that went unnoticed.

She also found herself praying for God. At first, she thought this was strange, but her reasoning went like this: “If God created us in His image, we are like God, and God is like us”.

So that must mean that God, even though most likely on a much higher level, is capable of making mistakes, like us. So, if God is like man and man is like God, then God is not perfect; he needs our prayers and our forgiveness, as he forgives us.

On July 4, 1794, before the night’s darkness arrived, she was sitting in her usual place on the cot, wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders, fervently praying for whoever might need her prayers … when she passed over.

There was no pain, no shock; it was as though time did not skip a beat. One minute she was alive, the next she was dead. The transition was so smooth that she almost didn’t realize what had happened.

She did feel a lightness and some kind of relief, but it lingered in her mind and disappeared so quickly that it instantly became a memory, and then her life on this plane became an emptiness.

The jailer found her sitting upright on the edge of her cot with a peaceful look on her face and possibly the beginning of a smile.

Today’s Memories of Wanting to Be a Nun

I have always wanted to be a nun. Not a priest. Not a monk. But a nun. A Catholic nun. An old-fashioned nun at that. I imagined myself with the flowing black habit, the cross around my neck, and most of my face covered in the highly starched white headpiece with its black veil. My hands are held together in what I interpret to be a holy, pure, loving way. But boys cannot be nuns! Especially Jewish boys.

I remember having had this desire since I was a young boy of eight or nine. I would go shopping with my mother at the grocery store in our neighborhood. I can see it to this day. The store must have been near a convent, as there would often be a nun or two pushing a shopping cart through the aisles.

I watched them, thinking how special they were, how loving and kind and giving and helpful. How close to God. Maybe I was right, perhaps I was wrong. The stories I hear from friends who are Catholic tell me a different story.

I wanted to say, “Good morning, Sister,” but held back from embarrassment. I thought that by greeting her, I would be able to tap into that beauty, that purity, that love. I watched from a distance and, in my child’s mind, fantasized about being a nun. This frightened me, so I just passed them without any greeting.

I didn’t understand what being a nun was about, the ideal and the mundane, but I had a “feeling” of what it meant to be a nun. I wanted to live that feeling.

In my fantasy, a nun is trusting in God. She goes where she is told and does what she is told. Obedient. Doing good works. The order of her life is intriguing. The simplicity of her life is appealing. Being provided for is comforting. But most of all, it is her being a good person, not having “bad thoughts” or doing “bad things,” whatever bad may mean. Not questioning her superiors.

As I grew older, I displaced my desire to be a nun with the behavior of “being nun-like.” There is beauty in accepting life as it comes and being joyful for it. There is contentment in carrying love with you and passing it out to others wherever you go, whenever needed, and under whatever circumstances might present themselves. This was my understanding of “nun-ish-ness.”

I realize that part of my desire to be a nun stemmed from an unhealthy need to be “the best little boy.” Good at everything I did. Loved by everyone. Respected and admired. Able to make all bad into good, all sad into happy, all difficult into easy, all pain (emotional or physical) go away. Perfect!

I also realized that part of my desire to be a nun is my ability to be nurturing towards others.

Now, as an adult, I can be all those things I wanted to be when I wanted to be that nun-boy. I don’t need the habit, just the habit.

If I had to describe who I am today, as a 75-year-old man, I would say I am nurturing, trusting of others, accepting of life as it arrives, hold good thoughts. I can be kind, compassionate, generous of spirit and charity, loving, and giving. I am pleased with the person I am. Perhaps thanks to that French Carmelite Nun, I am who I am.

What impressed me most about the Nun’s passing was how painless and peaceful her death was. In my mind, I had always pictured death as a horrible, painful thing. I now know that even after a difficult illness or a messy accident, the actual passing can be easy as well.

If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.

RECAP: A number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little sceptical at first, but after the experience I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next seven Wednesdays, chapter at a time, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.

Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8, The After Life - Before

Here then is

CHAPTER TWO

The Baker:
Renaissance Italian Hill Town
1600‘s

I began counting backward. 36… 35… 34… I do not remember how far I had to count back before my first “movie” started.

I saw the bakery. I was there at the brick, wood-fired oven watching the heated air rise upward past the grill. Using a wooden shovel, I placed the unbaked loaves of bread into the oven.

I began telling myself and David the first story.

My shop was not unlike most shops in the area: small, dirty, a few steps down from the street, letting in muddy water on rainy days. Sometimes I used this muddy water in my bread recipe because it was easier than going to the tap in the center of the city. For the most part, my life was boring. Again and again and again, I baked loaf after loaf after loaf.

That was my life. The process of making bread is, at its least, a repetitive activity. Now and then, I would have to make it enjoyable by baking something gross into an unsuspecting client’s purchase.

It couldn’t be noticeable, because I would lose customers, and lord knows I couldn’t afford to do that, since they paid me little enough for the loafs. I barely survived supporting myself and my bitch of a wife. Sometimes, I added in a piece of pig meat for the Jews. For my Muslim customers, some tainted blood from an improperly slaughtered animal.

Speaking of the wife, she was close to useless and talked nonstop. She refused to do any of the dirty work of baking, like cleaning out the forms or scraping the wooden shovels, so I ended up with those tasks. She was good for a fuck now and then, but gave me no children who could have made this shop a little easier for me to run, or at least have extra hands to keep it a little cleaner than it was.

It would have entertained me a bit to slap kids around like I did the wife. At least they wouldn’t have threatened me as she did or thrown things at me! But, no.

The good thing about my trade, which I learned from my father in between beatings I received from him, was that everyone needed bread, the rich and the poor. The rich bread was a little fancier, and the poor bread was more unadorned, but either way, everyone needed bread.

Bread baking was highly regulated by the Assize of Bread, which controlled price, weight, and quality. This body was first formed in 1266 and continued through my times and further.

Similar bodies existed elsewhere in Europe, showing how important bread was in the diet of most people.

To be honest, even though they checked my bread now and then, I cheated. I had to bring approval loaves to their offices once a year to rejoin the bread guild. I was extra careful with those loaves, which allowed me to keep my permission to bake, but most of the time, I didn’t pay much mind to the rules and regulations. My loaves of bread were often underweight and just undersized, which saved me a lot of money having used fewer ingredients..

The ingredients I used weren’t always the best, they were often old, sometimes I even mixed in dry dirt or sawdust, but the baking seemed to cover the bad taste, and I never got complaints. When I did, I cursed out the complainer for accusing me of being dishonest and threw their money back at them as I kicked them out of my shop.

They usually returned, apologizing up and down, because I was one of the few bakers in town who sold the only loaves of bread they could afford. Most families who shopped at my store could barely afford to feed their families, let alone buy bread.

The prices for my loaves of bread were keeping with what people could afford to pay, and then I charged just a little more. More just to be ornery. If I had to work hard to earn a living, they would have to pay.

I would haggle with the people who sold me my flour and yeast, and they usually didn’t argue, just gave me lower prices. Maybe it was my mean, threatening way of taking no shit from anyone. “This is what I pay, take it or leave it, and fuck you while we are at it!”

The rich people would eat lighter white bread. The poor would get the coarser dark brown loaves, which were cheaper to make.

My earnings, while meager, I kept under lock and key in a box under my bed. I was stingy with the money, not using it to feed my wife or me. We ate the same shit everyone in the neighborhood ate.

I was not stingy when it came to my ale, beer, and whiskey. Drink was my only solace, and some might call it my vice. It was an expensive one! This is where I spent most of my coin.

After a hard day of work, my ugly wife barely helping, even though she claimed she did, drinking was my way to relax, come down, and drift off into sleep.

Drinking made me meaner than usual. I took it out on my customers only now and then, since I couldn’t afford to lose too many. Mainly, my wife received the gift of my hostilities. Beating her and using foul language towards her showed my. love and that I cared.

My few kind words to her were less than kind, and more often, I would knock her across the room, or I would slap her across the face, which would send her flying.

A few times, I shoved her up against the hot oven! She never moved so fast. It was a pleasure to see and gave me a good laugh. Even though my wife would help only a little and only now and then, she helped even less when limping or injured, so I was careful not to hurt her too badly.

My loaves of bread, as I said, were of two types. The lighter white ones I baked for the wealthy. Sometimes, their house bakers would bring the already formed loaves to my shop. I would bake them for a fee. I held back a few loaves for myself. They never seemed to notice or at least didn’t say anything.

The more unfortunate people were happy with the darker, denser, brown loaves, and I think that must have been because the nature of that type of bread was to make a person feel fuller from all the chewing!

I would buy my flour from suppliers who had the kilns to harden the grains. They threshed and removed the grain from the stalks, winnowed and removed the bran, and then milled the grains.

I bake my bread in an indirect heat oven. Each morning, I would cart in the pine-scented wood to make a fire in the tall, broad brick-and-clay oven. The heat carried its own smell. When ready, I would rake out the ashes and unburned wood and put the bread dough in. I would swing the sturdy oven door closed and lock it into place.

With the oven's high heat and the work I had to do to get the baking done, I would usually end up sweating like a pig and smelling like one.

My recipe (for both breads, with the only difference being the type of flour used) is to take the flour, grind it, sift it through a fine cloth, and then put it into a kneading tub.

I would make a hollow in the flour into which I put fermented ale barm, three pints to a bushel of meal, and salt.

I then add warm water and knead the dough with a brake—a type of dough hook. I let the dough rise for an hour, then form it into small loaves, rounded on top and flat on the bottom. Then I score the loaves about the bread’s waist and prick them on top.

Finally, I bake them for about an hour in the brick oven (after the immense beginning heat settles down so the bread can cook at a gentler temperature).

While they are baking, I begin again on the second round of bread, alternating between wealthy white and poor coarse brown. In between, I also start the day’s drinking: ale, beer, whiskey, whatever might be around from the day before.

I do have to be careful not to doze off or the bread will overcook and burn, which it often seems to do. Then I am forced to lower the price a penny, and amazingly it still sells!

By dark, my wife provides me with a poorly cooked excuse for dinner. I drink some more until I pass out around dusk in preparation for the next day’s work.

On a day that proved to be an unusual one, I was up early, hungover as usual, heating the oven, preparing the loaves, getting ready to have a drink while the oven cooled down after the beginning of the immense start-up heat. Those who can afford measuring tools say that an oven’s initial heat can get hot enough to melt metal.

I hear my wife come into the bakery, which was unusual since she never gets up early. But, as usual, whatever time of day she arrived, I paid her no mind and went about finishing up the second oven to firing.

Then I felt a searing pain in my back. It almost didn’t register, except for my falling forward into the door of the oven. I now know that she had taken one slap, one insult, one push too many the night before and was bound to earn her freedom from me with the ax I used to cut the firewood each morning and sharpened to extra sharp each night before she used it on me.

With one strong hit, who knew she had such strength, she severed my spine with the ax’s blade and did it so deeply and so quickly that the blood didn’t even begin to spurt until she pulled out the ax.

But she was not done here, with her continued anger-driven strength, if only from her hatred for me, she pushed me into the oven and with a clang shut the door tight.

I can relate to all of this because, in the oven, while I was no longer who I had been, I was still somewhat alive and thinking.

I was already crossing over but still alert enough to have thoughts about what I was experiencing, but not with any pain.

In some way, I had the understanding that I was dead. I was no longer feeling the intense heat of the oven. But somehow, I well knew that I was at an ending and a new beginning.

In thinking back, I couldn’t be angry with my wife because I had earned this. I realized how hard and how long I had made her life a miserable hell (not to mention so many customers in the bakery I had alienated).

Then my thoughts turned to nothing.

TODAY

Today, I Love to Bake

To this day, I consider myself a baker. I make delicious pies, cakes, and cookies. My fruit pies are famous. For Christmas, I make some five gross or close to 1,000 cookies: Mom’s Vanilla and also Chocolate Walnut Ball Cookies, Great Grandma Barbara’s 200-year-old recipe Spice Cookies, as well as the traditional Chocolate Chip, Oatmeal Raisin, Peanut Butter, Date Nut Bars, and Sugar Sprinkled Butter Cookies.

I make a mean cobbler using fruits of the season and a delicious vanilla sheet cake dolloped with canned cherries, peaches, and or prunes.

Not long ago, I mastered my first bread, a Challah. I make an excellent Irish Soda Bread for St. Patrick’s Day.

All my baking is of essential, somewhat primitive items, nothing layered or fancy. My baking is much like that of a baker living in the 1600s.

Why was I so mean during my life at the bakery? Perhaps my childhood was filled with examples of a mean set of parents? Maybe I was just born a bully. Certainly, I caused my own difficult life, but it would seem that in those days, most people’s lives were difficult unless you were part of a wealthy family.

Lessons learned? You get back what you give out. Be kind to your wife, or she might kill you (A bad joke.) I love scalding hot bath soaks, and often the pain of the hot water is comforting. Perhaps this harkens back to my 1600s existence with my death in the oven.

To this day, while controllable, I find myself claustrophobic in closed spaces. Haven’t been in an oven recently, but is this the reason for my discomfort and dislike of elevators and airplanes and the fear of being “trapped” in closed spaces?

What impressed me most about the Baker’s life is that his lack of care for his trade, his poor treatment of his wife, his bad attitude towards almost everything, and his propensity towards drink. Are all so unlike who I am today! Thank goodness!

A number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little sceptical at first, but after the experience I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next seven Wednesdays, chapter at a time, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.

Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8, The After Life - Before

Chapter 1
The After Life - Before

Introduction

Many people will not believe my story. Some will say that people only believe in this because it makes them feel less afraid to die. Some will not believe even that much. But I will try to tell my story as well as I can remember it, and please be assured that, as I tell my story … I believe. It is about reincarnation and past lives.

I believe that because I could not have made up these stories on my own. Many of the stories deal with things beyond my understanding, beyond my knowledge of history and life. Why would I have made up the story in the first place, and I couldn’t have made them up if I tried, so you have to believe me. This is not a story I could have made up without help from others living in some other place, at some other time.

Some parts, like wanting to be a nun or my love of circus midways, have always been important ideas to me, but never in the way the stories unfolded themselves when they did and as I am telling them to you now. As a blond tow-headed boy, so different from who I am today, the surprising twist at the end of my visit to that life amazed me more than you can imagine.

I have to admit that my time as a farm wife and as a baker felt strange and unrelated to who I am today, except that during my young adulthood, I had fantasized about living on a farm, and I love to bake. Maybe that is the connection between today’s interests and past lives.

So go get a cup of coffee (and a few cookies) and get ready as I retell you the story of my experience with a Past Life Regression session many years ago.

Reincarnation

Reincarnation, as I understand it, is the belief that the soul or spirit after death begins a new life in a new body. I am not an expert in the field, but I can share my understanding of Reincarnation with you.

Depending on how well a person’s previous life was lived, or based on before birth decisions about what the next life will be like, a person chooses to “come back” to “learn lessons” in a particular family, culture, race, religion, body type or handicap, poor or rich, or somewhere in between. Sometimes the choice is for a particularly good life, and sometimes for a difficult one, in which more life lessons can be lived and quickly learned.

Also, if there are any issues not resolved in a past life, they can be worked on again. In this instance, a couple or a group of people may return together to work on their mutual choices. Amazingly enough, it is said you do not have to choose the same sex, or the same role, or the same age relationship.

Reincarnation: Part of Many Religious Belief Systems and Many Cultures

Reincarnation is a central tenet of the Indian religions Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism, and Sikhism. Other lesser known religions or religions of the past such as Druidism (200BC,) Spiritism (1800’s,) Theosophy (2 AD,) and Eckankar (1965) believed in reincarnation.

Belief in reincarnation is part of many tribal societies around the world. Although the majority of sects within religions like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam do not officially believe that individuals reincarnate, people within these religions do refer to reincarnation, and many believe in and find comfort in the concept.

Many Europeans and North Americans of today have developed an interest in reincarnation. Researchers have begun to explore reincarnation, and published reports of people’s memories of earlier lives have been documented and studied.

The word “reincarnation” comes from the Latin, which means “entering the flesh again.” It also refers to the passing of the soul to another body (a newborn one) and refers to a new life after death. The concept concerns the continuation of the soul or spirit, not the physical body.

Philosophical and religious beliefs about the existence or nonexistence of an unchanging “self” directly shape how reincarnation is viewed within a given tradition.

The Buddha lived at a time of great philosophical creativity in India when many conceptions of the nature of life and death were proposed. Some held that after life there was nothing more. Others believed that a being is born, lives, dies, and then is reborn, not to fix old wrongs or develop to higher levels, but just for the sake of being reborn.

The dominant idea in modern Hinduism is that the soul continues after the death of the physical body and returns as another living being, based on what it carries over from the previous life, good or bad.

While the Buddha lived in a time with many and varied ideas about what happens when a person dies, the Buddhist concept of reincarnation speaks more to a steady stream of consciousness in which every person is linked to every other person in the world, alive or dead.

Reincarnation is the rebirth or “re-becoming” of part of this “energy” which continues where the old left off. Buddhism and some parts of Hinduism believe that there are many levels of existence, with human beings at one level, animals at another, supernatural beings at another, helping spirits and guides at yet another, etc.

In Judaism, the concept of reincarnation is referenced in the Kabbala, in Yiddish literature, and among Ashkenazi Jews.

It might not be too large a stretch to look at Christianity having reincarnation-type thoughts in the idea of the “messiah will return,” Jesus was taken bodily into heaven, and angels and saints exist to watch over and protect us from their place on high until the return.

Many people talk about the existence after death of the spirit, or soul, on different planes. Some planes exist to provide time and space for the departed to reflect on their lives before being “reunited with God” or reincarnated.

Others exist for higher level learning. Some people believe that “spirit guides,” those who have gone before us, exist on yet another plane and have as their purpose to advise and protect those of us still alive on earth.

Another common belief is that we were all part of an immense, all-knowing, powerful Energy; we were fractured off into our individual existence; after death are reunited with that energy; and our life and death add to the sum total of that energy, with our individuality disappearing as it is absorbed into the energy’s universality. Simply, some call this Energy ‘God’.

Meditation

So, if we accept that reincarnation exists in some form, how does one become aware of past lives? How does one go about quieting the cacophony of voices which confuse and fill us most of our waking hours, how can we allow the quiet to enable us take a closer look at our past lives?

One way to get in touch with your past lives is through personal meditation, becoming “mindful.” Much has been written on this, and I do not profess to be an expert. In fact, I began to learn about meditation myself five or ten years ago, and while it has been of great benefit to me, I’ll let you find out more if so inclined and figure that one out for yourself.

Meditation is something one has to be “ready for” and learn through experiencing it oneself, not something you can be “told” about or that can be “explained.” Books and classes will help with the process, and being guided by a trained teacher or mentor is great, but it is the experience that counts, and the awareness you gain through meditation itself that makes the real difference.

For many years, somewhere deep inside me, I knew I needed to spend part of my day in quiet meditation. I had read a lot about mindful meditation and blamed my not pursuing it on a lack of discipline. I felt that I just needed to commit to “locking myself in my dark, quiet closet” for a period of time every day, and voila, I would be meditating.

One day after a sixty minute session from Sarah, my massage therapist for over five years now who knows how to help my body shed the stress of a week with its pains of personal life and work, introduced me to her friend and colleague, Corrine, as we passed in the hall of The Heartwood Center in Evanston, Illinois, a cooperative space housing many “life growth” practitioners. Corinne, Sarah explained, besides being a massage therapist and yoga master, teaches meditation and would be a good match for me.

The light went on when I realized I could learn to meditate by attending a class and having a teacher guide me. So much for blaming my lack of discipline and so much for the “dark closet theory.” Studies in meditation actually suggest that an important part of the process is having a “teacher” or “guru” to guide you.

Corine was beginning a new Yoga Nidra class. Yoga Nidra is not quite the same thing as self-meditation. In the practice of Yoga Nidra, or guided meditation, the teacher and exercises help one move into a semi-hypnotic state, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

Differing, during self-meditation, one usually sits with the spine as vertical as possible and remains alert and aware. In Yoga Nidra, one lies down, and if you end up falling asleep, no problem, you still benefit! I was ready for whatever and eagerly looked forward to the next week when my classes would begin!

Needless to say, by now I have taken a number of classes from Corinne and know how to practice Yoga Nidra and Mindful Meditation as important parts of my life. The light went on with the experience in a way that words, written or spoken, could never describe.

Just for clarity, the next section of this story talks about my experience with Ruth, a Psychic and with David, a friend of hers who helped people through “Past Life Regressions.”

It is somewhat of a flashback, as it was before I was introduced to Mindful Meditation, before I began practicing Mindful Meditation, before I met Corinne, and before my experience with Yoga Nidra.

A Visit With Ruth, My Psychic

One way to get in touch with your path of reincarnation is to work with someone who does “Past Life Regressions.” This is what I did many years ago, and it is the background for this story. The session was set up by Ruth, psychic extraordinaire.

She is a Psychic who practiced out of her office in Skokie. I do not remember how I heard about her, but most likely a friend had visited with her, recommended that I visit, and I tried to see her to see what I thought. I saw Ruth three or four times over several years.

I found her to be quite amazing and fairly accurate. Fortune tellers? People make fun of fortune tellers, and their place seems to be at carnivals, socials, parties, and in walk-up apartments in sleazy neighborhoods.

Ruth was not a fortune teller. According to her, she received messages from spirit guides who, being on a higher plane, seemed to understand or know things more clearly than we can on our earthly plane.

I went to my first session with Ruth, embracing many of the misconceptions and rumors about people who did the kind of thing she did. So I was extra careful not to “give away” too much information or say anything that might help her generalize her comments about me and my present or future concerns.

On my first visit, I made a list of things I wanted her to address and kept the list in my pocket. I figured if the session lagged, I could always pull out my list and ask questions.

At the beginning of the session, she would go into what seemed like a trance; close her eyes, straighten her posture, and concentrate on contacting those who would share the information they had for me through Ruth. Slowly, she would begin talking.

Nothing like the stereotypical “You are going to meet a rich man” or “You will die a horrible death.”

But instead, she said things like, “You are stressed about some decisions you are about to make regarding your employment.

“You are not sure if you should take a risk and move on or bite the bullet and continue.

“You are very unhappy going to work every day and do not get the same rewards you used to when you first began your job.

“I see your health suffering on account of this stress, but I see a decision coming in the next week or two, one with which you will be very happy. You will know it is the right decision for you.”

Remember, she did not know that I was a teacher or that I was considering quitting my teaching position because I had become burned out, hated the politics of teaching, and dreaded going to work each morning.

She did not know that I was thinking about quitting, withdrawing my retirement pension money, and running off to Mexico to follow my lifelong desire for adventure.

On one hand, I was afraid of taking such a big risk, but also knew that I was unhappy with things as they were, had the skills and talent to land other meaningful employment when ready, and was confident enough in myself to know I would land on my feet.

To my amazement, Ruth addressed all 10 items on my list. At the end of her addressing what the guides told her, I asked more questions or told her that she was right-on. She wasn’t surprised, but rather confident in her understanding.

She would then tell me more and go into further detail about each item. The session was less “fortune telling” and more about helping me gain awareness and focus on what was concerning me, good and bad.

David and Past Life Regression

As an additional service to her clients, Ruth would periodically bring in her friend David, who was trained in facilitating past-life regressions. When she told me about him and that he would be with her for a short period of time, I signed up immediately.

The session took place at her offices, specifically in her library. Only a morning and an afternoon session were scheduled to accommodate sessions for as long as necessary.

Let me briefly explain that process before I share the five past lives I visited. I remembered each in quite a bit of detail, especially that part of each life leading up to my death, and any lessons I had learned in that life.

David’s spaces filled up quickly, and I was happy to get one. I was looking forward to my session, but I also had some trepidation and doubt. What should I expect? Would this really work? I believed in reincarnation in general, but what would I think about David in particular?

Did I actually believe that I could get in touch with my past lives? At this point in my life, I had never meditated and wondered if I could calm down enough to successfully participate in this experience.

The Process of Past Life Regressions

I arrived a few minutes early for my appointment, and David was waiting for me. We sat together in the library, and he explained the process he would help me through. It consisted of my reaching a deep meditative state while lying on the carpeted floor with a pillow under my head.

He would help me into this state and then would make suggestions that would bring me to the end of life and “death” of any number of important, significant lives I had lived. He was not sure how many reincarnations I would visit.

The intention was for me to describe who I was, describe where I was, note the time I was in if possible, and describe what I was doing.

Also, before moving on to the next life, I would look at any lessons I might have learned or needed yet to learn from having lived these lives.

If at any time I was frightened I could put the experience on hold and then go back to it … if and when I was ready. He would be there with me to make sure the “trip” was safe.

After this brief description of what I could look forward to, David turned off all of the lights but one dim lamp, and I got comfortable on the floor, pillow under my head.

He sat in a chair to the left of my head. In a calming voice, he again told me what was about to happen, the activity, and the purpose of my visiting my past lives.

He said a generic, non-religious prayer about the universe guiding him a facilitator and me as participant. “Only the highest good and enlightenment, in a safe, caring, and loving unfolding.

Next, in a low, almost whispered, calming voice, he told me to picture a yardstick, a 36-inch yardstick, resting on my chest and pointing towards the ceiling, the sky, the heavens, the universe.

He instructed me to visualize the yardstick and its numbers as I counted down, backwards from 36 to 1. When I was ready to describe my first past life, I would know, and I could just begin describing what I saw, what I was experiencing.

Slowly I began counting backwards. 36… 35… 34…

I do not remember how far I had to count back before my first “movie” began.

Again, never having meditated (or been hypnotized, for that matter), I was surprised by how quiet I had become, how peaceful, and how focused on counting down the yardstick. So unlike me.

In looking back and thinking about the experience with David, each of the lives I visited, and deaths I experienced, each presented itself much like a movie, with me not only starring in that life but also watching myself as an audience member while I lived it. This double role was quite interesting to experience.

Each life’s visit was colorful, detailed, vivid, and at times accompanied by background sounds.

The Lives

Now it is time for me to share with you the stories of those lives I have been, of which I revisited five. Several of the stories will be retold in first person, with the person talking. Some of the stories will be told in third person, with the author telling you about the person’s life. And some of the stories will just tell themselves.

Just so you know, the experiences as I witnessed them are true to my “Yardstick” experience. In my opinion, the people as I lived them existed. The only additions I have made for this project are some minor details and backgrounds, which I have researched and slightly embellished to present a fuller, richer picture of the times of the Italian Baker, French Nun, Midwest Carny, Tow-Headed Boy, and Farm Wife. I did this to make the story easier for me to tell and easier for you to follow.

With each story, I have also added how that life reflects or informs my current life, interests, desires, etc

I could not have made up these stories by myself. Again, most of each story deals with things that were beyond my understanding, beyond my knowledge of history and life, before doing a little research on the time addressed.

This is not a story that I could have made up without help from others living in some other place, in some other time, in some other life. So get ready to share my adventures with “Counting Down the Yardstick.”

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEDNESDAY

In a model introduced by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her 1969 book “On Death and Dying,” the stages of grieving have become well-known:

Stage 1: Denial “It can’t be happening.
Stage 2: Anger “Why me? It’s not fair!”
Stage 3: Bargaining “Just let me live to see my son graduate.”
Stage 4: Depression: “I’m so sad, why bother with anything?”
Stage 5: Acceptance “It’s going to be OK.”

In many parts of our society and those around the world, where the LGBTQ+ person continues to be an outcast, a “religious pariah,” a “sin” according to God, unacceptable to talk about with children, a grave disappointment to family and friends, and a continuing campaign for having their right to marry and to love whomever they choose to love removed and or reversed … how can a queer person engage in something as difficult, real, and healthy as grieving for a dead or dying loved one of the same sex?

If society in many cases does not recognize same sex love, commitment, and the realization that “love is love” and a person’s sexual orientation (or gender identity for that matter) does not alter that love … how can one expect society to support one during the grief of losing that love?

When family, friends, and church often do not support queer people in their day-to-day life, loves, occupations, rights, and protections in the eyes of the law; how does one expect them to support a queer person during the difficult process of grieving?

Kübler-Ross originally applied these stages to any form of catastrophic personal loss or illness (job, income, freedom). This also includes the death of a loved one and/or a divorce. Kübler-Ross also claimed these steps do not necessarily come in the order noted above, nor are all steps experienced by all people, though she stated a person will always experience at least two.

Kübler-Ross, in her writing, at least to my knowledge, does not discriminate on the basis of sex or sexual orientation!

During the period of active grieving for my life partner, Gregory, my husband of 41 years, I encountered some very inappropriate, thoughtless, and inadvertent comments from family, friends, and acquaintances. Some of these comments had to do with my being queer, and others just with people’s not really understanding or admitting they do not understand the process of grief.

“Your love was not real.” “Since you weren’t really married, your loss does not count as strongly as if you had a wife and children.” “You need to be over your loss.” “Get over your grief and carry on.” “The whole world is not about you and your grief.” “Do you think you will date again, or want to find a partner? And if you do, might that partner be of the opposite sex this time?”

One way to live with grief or through grief is to know that your grief is respected and that you, as a person, are respected. If you do not get that respect from the important others in your life, you must create it for yourself!

As far as grieving for the rest of your life, my thinking is that Grief remains the same; you grow and expand. So the grief is smaller and further away. The person who passed is now finite, no more struggle, but also no more growth or change. His life is now predictable vs yours continuing to be unpredictable.

You are infinite, continuing to grow each day anew, trying to get on with your life, as you become a bigger, hopefully better, different person. When an important reminder, like a holiday or birthday, occurs, you regress and contract, so the grief feels the same as it did at the beginning.

But then you are able to regrow and expand again, only more quickly and more easily, having done it so often. So in some ways the grief does not get better … YOU do!

I have modified Kübler-Ross’s stages of grieving for living with and/or loving someone living with Alzheimer’s to read as follows.

While it is not often written about, Alzheimer’s, like grief, does not discriminate against LGBTQ+? people either.

I find that it is important for me to share my story, as an older (77 years old 😊)gay man, so other community members can see, realize, and know that they are NOT alone. Their grief is as important as all those naysayers around them.

Dementia, most commonly Alzheimer’s Disease, does not differentiate between male and female, old and younger (early onset), black, white, or brown, Christian, Muslim, or Jewish, rich or poor. It is an “equal opportunity employer”, giving difficult times and sorrow along with peace and joy (if you look closely enough).

These are a few of the lessons I learned during my twelve years of walking the Dementia/ Alzheimer’s Path with Gregory:

Stage 1: Denial: Try to live your life a day at a time without dwelling on the worst. Live in denial by being optimistic and living your life with joy and love, regardless of the disease. Is denial so bad? I relish those days when our relationship feels “normal,” or what I like to call “even.” Not thinking about Dementia/Alzheimer’s 24/7 is a good thing.

Stage 2: Anger: Anger in this situation is most about losing what you have with the person, while they’re still physically standing there in front of you … losing them little by little each day. I work at not being angry with Gregory. Usually, anger is directed towards a person; how do you deal with anger at a situation? On days that I am sad, angry, depressed, and fearful all at once, I fear that I will never come to acceptance of the hand that we as a couple have been dealt.

Stage 3: Bargaining is a constant. “If only it would stop here, I would be happy.” or “Maybe they will find a cure before it gets worse.” “Help me know how to deal with this.” Some people pray, some meditate, some chant. All efforts seem to be aimed at communicating with some supreme being who has power over such things. I think that what it boils down to is trusting self, not others or an entity outside of yourself.

Stage 4: Depression. Not a fun or helpful place to be. But a fact of life when living with someone living with Alzheimer’s. They say that depression is anger turned inward. In this case not true. I am not angry with myself. I am angry with the disease. When I was dealing with cancer a number of years ago, my oncologist told me, “It’s ok to cry. It’s ok to be depressed. But not for more than fifteen minutes at a time.” So if I have to wallow in depression, and believe me, sometimes it helps, I do it for fifteen minutes at a time, and then move on with my day.

Finally, Stage 5: Acceptance. We will get through this, but I don’t think that I will ever reach acceptance of Dementia/ Alzheimer’s, but I strive to accept the changes as they come. Acceptance here refers to getting through to the other side of a situation. Eventually, the other side of Dementia/ Alzheimer’s is death. And that may not be such a bad thing.

Gregory’s grandma used to say, “There is no future in getting old.”

I often feel that there is even less of a future in getting old with Dementia/ Alzheimer’s. I work at emptying my fears through writing, and I feel much better. Writing does that for me. Once I’ve aired all the bad, I work on positive affirmations. I list them, in no particular order, free form, just as I listed my fears when I began writing about my sad day. With positive affirmations, the most important part is to state them in the present tense in a way that accepts that they already exist.

I am loved. Life is good. I can do this. I am strong. We are safe. We are blessed. We will do this.

If you make your own list, try posting it somewhere you can see it throughout the day, on the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror, on a bedside table, someplace unexpected so it surprises you and lifts your spirit. Then speak those affirmations aloud. You will be amazed at how much saying what you need and want out loud can do for your mood.

Every time I fall briefly to sadness, anger, depression and fear I remind myself that this day will pass and tomorrow will be another day … a fresh start.

With Dementia/Alzheimer’s, one does not work one’s way through the stages of grief as Kübler-Ross proposes. With Dementia/ Alzheimer’s, one seems to cycle through them, again and again and again. I have invented a circle of grieving which I have found, as part of Gregory’s caregiving team, helps.

1. I will engage in denial of the situation by trying to not think about Gregory’s Alzheimer’s too often. I will try to live in the “here and now,”

2. I will have anger with the situation but not with myself and not with Gregory.

3. I will allow depression once in a while, but not too often and not for too long,

4. I will not bother with bargaining but live realistically,

5. I will not expect to gain acceptance of Alzheimer’s, just be better at living with it!

And my own Sixth Stage of Grieving:

6. Realize that the grieving process is circular; a spiral. It repeats and repeats in an unpredictable fashion, and for the most part never ends, just changes and hopefully gets better or easier!

My husband Gregory did not SUFFER with Dementia/ Alzheimer’s; he died after living as well as possible for twelve years with the disease. He was NOT a VICTIM of Alzheimer’s, he was a HERO! Recently, I have been able to say that both Gregory and I were not VICTIMS, we were HEROS, and we not only did the best job of living with it we could, but did a pretty good job of it!

SPOILER ALERT: This essay is explicitly about sex, in my case homosexual but also could apply to heterosexual; not in descriptive detail … but rather emotional involvement!

The other night, I was thinking about my deceased husband, Gregory. We had been in our same-sex, committed relationship for 41 years. He died in 2015 due to complications of dementia/Alzheimer’s disease. Together, we walked his path for 12 years, and he was at home with me most of the time. When I could no longer meet his needs, he moved to a memory care center.

I have written a lot about our journey with his dementia. If you are living with and loving someone dealing with a catastrophic illness, you might find some comfort by searching my other essays.

Even though he has been gone now for close to nine years, I still find myself revisiting regrets I had, and apparently still have, about our relationship and also how I handled his illness.

I know I was “only human” in many of our interactions, and I have repeatedly forgiven myself, but a few still refuse to let go. I will probably take them to my grave until we meet again, hug each other tightly again, and he says, “Michael, I forgive you!”

This time, in particular, I was thinking about our sex life during his illness. Out of the twelve years he was living with dementia, while our sex life slowed way down, the last six were sex-free. I understand that this was partly due to the medications that he was taking. It was also partly due to the change in our relationship as I became more his caregiver than his lover, more of an adult to his child, and more overwhelmed with the physical and emotional drain of living with and loving someone living with such an insidious disease!

Only once during those six years did he ask for sex, with tears, saying, “I really want to do it!” It was late at night, after a very difficult day, and it was past our usual bedtime, and instead of jumping to it, I acknowledged his request by assuring him that we would have sex the next day. He was content with my reply, and we rolled over and fell asleep. I never followed through, and the occasion never came up again.

This got me thinking about sex in general, Gregory, and my sexual practices (which I will not discuss here 😜), and being a gay male in my approach to sex.

In the beginning, being gay for most of us (I believe) is about having sex with another man or, minimally, being attracted to other men. One is sexually attracted to other men, one finally understands what the personal implications of this are, one comes out (or doesn’t), one has the occasion of his first sexual experience, and one jumps in (whatever that means)!

Sometimes you meet another man at some kind of non-sexual function, or through a friend, or spontaneously at a coffee shop. After that first encounter, sometimes a person avoids the next for a while, telling himself, “No, I am not gay! I am not that way”! But eventually, the drive gets the best of one, and one begins to think about the next encounter and actively seek it.

This, for most of us, leads to a string of “tricks,” “one-night stands,” and quick fucks. The bars in those years were the best place to pick someone up, go home, and fuck. The bathhouses also provided a safe place for those activities.

The excitement of sex with another man, the trysts in various places like bars, bathhouses, public restrooms, parks, in a car, in an alley, etc, is what being gay was all about in those days. (is?)

If lucky, you met a very special man, first usually through a sexual encounter, and then through future meetings and spending time together under other circumstances, like a walk, coffee shop visits, seeing a movie or musical together, dinner out, meeting each other’s friends. You get to know each other on deeper levels and share hopes, desires, intimacies, histories, etc.

Sometimes the initial meeting is in a non-sexual situation, like at work, at a social event, or at a meeting.

Over time, the sex continues, and you learn more about his preferences in “how to do it”! Perhaps you discuss various scenarios, or just experiment by trying exciting new things and seeing how they turn out.

With further luck and hard work, with trust, respect, and communication, you make a commitment to that man and begin a lifetime relationship as husband and husband! In Gregory’s and my case, that lasted for 41 years! We did a good job.

Our sex life, I will not go into too much detail, was OK, maybe even good, sometimes great; but it could have been better, and I got to thinking about what I mean by that.

I realized that all gay relationships begin with sexual attraction, arousal, excitement, sometimes a bit of danger, and a special tingle that defies description.

The feeling of love itself grows slowly over time. Each partner gets to know, understand, and support the other over time. Through thick and through thin, as the saying goes, he is there to love you. When you are down, he helps to lift you up. When you are sad, he helps you feel happy again. When you despair, he assures you. He loves you no matter what, despite all your shortcomings and faults. He sees you as you are and loves you as you are.

But somehow, because of the passage of time and the lack of arousal that is inherent in the beginning of any relationship, the sex itself suffers, diminishes, and sometimes disappears.

I realized that an essential part of sexual activity was lost in Gregory and my relationship. I will discuss that here. It was not lost all the time, but it could have been more present, and I had never thought about it in quite this way … before last evening during the awarenesses expressed in this essay.

Sexuality needs to give way to sensuality. For the people involved (this would go for heterosexual as well as homosexual couples), sex needs to become more than arousal and orgasm … getting off.

Sexuality needs to become a private, personal, peaceful time together, away from stress, away from daily home and work activities, away from life’s problems, away from the self and toward the us!

No interruptions, no unexpected phone calls, no dogs jumping on the bed. Just you and your other, together, enjoying each other, in whatever way.

The time thus spent together is to attend to each other, listen to each other, and hear each other. It is to make sure that you both feel loved and that any misunderstandings of the last days or weeks are unwrapped and discarded.

It is a time to make each other feel good—not only emotionally but also physically. Take a shower together, soap up and scrub each other, dry each other, and perhaps apply moisturizing lotion. A massage might be in order or just stroking, feeling, and exploring one another’s bodies.

When it arrives at (it doesn’t always have to) a seeking of release, orgasm for one, the other, or both people); it involves pleasuring the partner and making them feel good physically. And as you know, the climax does feel good!

It no longer needs to be about arousal and lust, which is more about the beginnings of love not the continuations of love. It needs to be getting lost in the one you love, so deeply and so dearly, that all else fades away, disappears, and you have a moment not just of physical release but release from everything life, with the exception of the love you have, one for the other.

So love needs to be more than just a fuck, an orgasm. It needs to be an intimate time together to share that love, in whatever way one can,

Ernest Hemingway spoke once of sitting at his desk each morning to face “the horror of a blank sheet of paper”. He found himself (as any writer can confirm) having to produce by the end of the day a series of words arranged in a way that has never before been imagined.

You sit there, alone, hovering on the cusp between nothing and something. This is not a blank, stale nothing; it is a nothing charged with unrealized potential. And the hovering is the kind that can fill you with dread. Rearrangement of the items on your desk assumes an irresistible attraction.

— Stephen Batchelor (2017) Secular Buddhism: Imagining the Dharma in an Uncertain World (pg. 213)

Usually, writing does not scare me, but sometimes I do have a fear of writing.

I sit at my computer almost every day, religiously — although I am more spiritual than religious — and write for anywhere from 1 to 3 hours, depending on how productive I am on any given day.

Sometimes I like to have a second cup of coffee, or break for a late breakfast, or rearrange my desk (adding new item to my collection of small things or deaccessioning some of them). But it is not out of fear of writing. I just live my life randomly, accomplishing several or even many things at the same time. I like variety!

I am fortunate to never have ever encountered writer’s block. Not to brag, but my life is so full, I am so varied in how I like to spend my life, and my writing is mainly about my life (creative non-fiction), so I never seem to have to search for things about which to write.

I was pleased with my involvement in writing for “Prism & Pen”, since it is aimed at the LGBTQ Community.

Since I began in 2022, I published close to 300+ pieces and gained a following of 990+ readers with Prism & Pen! In June of 25, I began publishing for Substack and so far have posted 150+ pieces, gained 440+ followers, and have 150+ subscribers. I post to both sites.

Personally, I have self-published three books of poetry, one self-help for caregivers living with and loving someone living with Dementia, six memoirs, one self-help for people dealing with grief, and two books about “Michael’s Museum”, and more.

I love writing for my gay community for altruistic reasons: perhaps my experiences, lessons, awarenesses, and insights over the last 80 years can be helpful to others, especially in the difficult area of letting them know they are not alone for whatever reason!

There are many experiences in life, joys as well as sorrows, which are unique to being part of the LGBTQ Community. Sometimes our acceptance in society is better at one time or another. Sometimes our geographic location in the world creates a better experience than for others, and sometimes our socio-economic, ethnic, racial, religious, sexual identification, sexual preference, or age provides a better experience than others.

As usual, by way of letting you know a little bit more about who I am and my relationship with writing, I ramble, then circle back to the reason for this piece.

As a gay man, I have not suffered much due to being gay!

I am in my 30th year of having been diagnosed with HIV, and as far as I can tell, the only symptoms I am aware of are my “belly” with its confirmation of the HIV medication I am on. I am still on the first round of the “three-pill cocktail”, which I began a year after the diagnosis (now in one pill). I lost a number of friends and family to HIV/AIDS, but not nearly as many as some. And again, I am going strong at 80. My health is excellent.

I have only once been beaten up in the park, at night, for being gay. But maybe the three assailants were inexperienced, or my string of profanities against them convinced them that I was NOT gay, and they left me with a warning that I should not be in the park at night (and in looking back … they were probably right).

I have never lost a job or been refused a rental lease because of my sexual orientation. I have never been refused service in a shop or restaurant. All of my cakes have been decorated without question.

I easily avoided serving time with the armed forces for one medical reason or another. No Vietnam, no “don’t ask, don’t tell”.

I have never been arrested for “lewd and licentious” behavior, also known as lascivious behavior, in a public place, and I do admit I have had a number of such trysts. Being careful or just lucky?

Even though I’m gay, I found great love which lasted, I am still counting, close to 50 years. Gregory, my husband of 41 years, lived with Dementia, most likely Alzheiemr’s Disease for 12 of those years … but I cannot blame homosexuality or same-sex relationships on that.

Enough about me, this is what causes my fear of writing, do I really represent the LGBTQ Community in my writing?

My biggest FEAR is that my truth excludes and or diminishes the truth of others. I am fortunate to have reached 80 years old with relatively little discrimination for being who I am and for loving whom I do. The negatives I have experienced are nothing compared to what I know so many others have gone through, some of whom did not come out the other side.

My fear of writing for the LGBTQ Community is that I tend to feel that my experiences are “one size fits all”. Every now and then, I realize that my experiences, my views of life, my relationship to other LGBTQ+ people, are so different and so far from what others go through as they live their day-to-day lives.

A big part of my fear, therefore, is that I will offend people with my writing, with my views, which will discount the horrors they have experienced. How can I make pronouncements based on what I have experienced when very possibly they are not as bad for so many others? Am I a fraud to think that I can help others with what I have come to understand and believe?

On the other hand, I would like to think that enough of my writing is about universal experiences that most people go through. So my intention, “know you are not alone!”, works for my writing.

Now and then, just to clarify who I am, I list my mix of experiences and identities, some of which might confer privilege, some disadvantage — and I begin to wonder whether they all intersect to make my experiences unique. I consider myself a white, cis, gay, widowed, senior citizen, financially OK, retired, Democratic, Jewish, Buddhist, man.

With this clarification, people will know where I am coming from with my writing and will know that it represents the lens through which I see the world and, therefore, the lens through which I write.

Let me end with this quotation from Carlos Ruiz Zafón:

Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.

— Carlos Ruiz Zafón (2004) The Shadow Of The Wind

Rights and Responsibilities of a writer

This quote from Carlos Ruiz Zafón grabbed me when I first read it. When a “soul” is assigned to the possibility of what a book is, with it comes not only great power but also great responsibilities. Since books and stories are a reflection of the person who wrote them, they also reflect that person’s truths and lies, misunderstandings and misperceptions, fictions and non-fictions.

I think I may have interpreted this a little further than the author intended. But, nevertheless, because of the power of words and the responsibilities that words give the writer/author, I feel we do not have the right to alter truths as we use our personal perceptions.

We all have our “truths” — we can write about our truths and also acknowledge other people’s truths: “this is my truth, tell me yours”.

The author for sure does not have the right to downright lie in his writing in order to manipulate or mislead the readers!

What I do know for sure, is that I write from my heart, from my mind, from my soul. My intentions are always good, hoping others will benefit from my writing. One selfish intention is that by writing I know what I think. Writing is a way that I can process my life, gain awareness, and make changes if necessary.

To sum up my thoughts, I think it is important not only for writers to be able to clearly express their thoughts and experiences, beliefs, and truths, but to recognize that those are personal to themselves, while being able to learn from the voices of those who have lived other truths.

I think I am doing a good job but as I said beginning this essay, my fear is that I am not! At least I try to be aware of the effect my words will have on others and that should forgive any time my words inadvertently harm others?

The Bird Cage

I am what I am
I am my own special creation
So come take a look
Give me the hook or the ovation

It’s my world that I want to have a little pride in
My world and it’s not a place I have to hide in
Life’s not worth a damn
’Til you can say, I am what I am

Did you find yourself humming along? Opening on Broadway in 1983, La Cage broke barriers for gay representation by becoming the first hit Broadway musical centered on a homosexual relationship. But it began long before then.

Play: La Cage aux Folles — 1973
Movie: La Cage aux Folles — 1978
Musical: La Cage Aux Folles —1983
Movie: The Birdcage — 1996

There must be a reason this show has been so popular!

If you came out during the same time I did, and/or if you are about as old as I am (80), you probably can relate to this essay. If you are younger … may I be rude … Listen and learn!

During my growing up, life was dark.

I was an unhappy child. I did not have many friends. I had little self-confidence. I hated school. I was bullied and called queer even though nothing I did was studied, just inherent. I was more comfortable playing with the girls than I was with the boys. I was terrible at sports. I did not begin to come into my own until college, not because of “the gay” but perhaps because of the wider range and greater number of people with whom to interact.

I did not “come out” until my junior year of college.

Everything seems easier when looking back.

My memories of my young adulthood, the beginning years of my being gay, seemed to be filled with much freedom. The newfound rights, the beginning of a positive visibility as a result of Stonewall, the ability to openly defend and fight for gay rights, sex fairly easily available, and beginning of being gay-socially acceptable to others, added to this feeling of freedom.

Yes, the times were still fraught with difficulties, but for the most part, many of us no longer had to hide, to be invisible, to laugh at colleagues’ inappropriate gay jokes.

I choose to write about those times in this essay because, for me, as we celebrate Pride Month, I realize that those effusive feelings of FREEDOM have disappeared. Maybe it is because the times have made life more complicated, maybe my turning an octogenarian is the culprit, maybe being gay is more commonplace or at least more openly discussed, maybe HIV/AIDS had its effect, and then while only somewhat related, COVID 19 may have caused this change in my outlook.

Pride Month brings more awareness and hopefully more growth, individually and collectively

As we celebrate Pride Month in June 2024, my editor, James Finn, reports that submissions to Pen & Prism are surging, like the number of people who return to the gym after their New Year’s resolutions.

With this June awareness, in the next few pieces, I reflect on my personal experiences during the period of Stonewall through HIV/AIDS, and probably do so through my “rose colored lens.” As difficult as those times were, there was a feeling of excitement at the changes that were taking place and being part, on the ground and running, of those changes.

I have written on HIV/AIDS previously, so I will not spend much time there other than to say FIRST, and most importantly, while the HIV/AIDS epidemic seems to have calmed down, mostly in the developed countries of the world and among the higher socio-economic strata, many people died, and many continue to die due to the disease. HIV/AIDS is still rampant in the poorer neighborhoods of developed countries and even more so in developing countries.

Young people who did not directly experience HIV/AIDS during the early days, when it was called “The Gay Disease,” do not realize the impact and the immensity of it and therefore are not as careful during sexual activities as they should be. Hopefully, for them, I am a role model of having lived through that period. Again, youth of today, LISTEN, LIVE, and LEARN!

Full disclosure, as I write this: I was diagnosed with HIV when I was 49 years old and am one of the fortunate ones who never developed AIDS, being on antiretroviral medication for 29 years now. HIV can almost always be treated effectively if access to medical care is available.

I include the information below as a refresher for my readers on the immensity of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.

1991–94

In 1991, the red ribbon became the international symbol of AIDS awareness. AIDS became the number one cause of death for U.S. men aged 25–44 years old in 1992. By 1994, AIDS became the leading cause of death for all Americans ages 25–44 years old.

1997–99

In 1997, UNAIDS estimated that 30 million adults and children worldwide had HIV, and that, each day, 16,000 people were newly infected with the virus. In 1998, the CDC reported that African-Americans accounted for 49 percent of U.S. AIDS-related deaths.

2022

39 million [33.1 million–45.7 million] people globally were living with HIV in 2022.

1.3 million [1 million–1.7 million] people became newly infected with HIV in 2022.

630 000 [480,000–880,000] people died from AIDS-related illnesses in 2022.

29.8 million people were accessing antiretroviral therapy in 2022.

85.6 million [64.8 million–113.0 million] people have become infected with HIV and 40.4 million [32.9 million–51.3 million] people have died from AIDS-related illnesses since the start of the epidemic.

Reflection: Early Freedoms

After so many years of being “The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name” (Oscar Wilde), hearing the name spoken out loud (in part thanks to the Stonewall Riots) and being out in the sun were welcome experiences.

Compared to “Being in the Closet” for survival, needing physically and emotionally to be invisible … the beginnings of being visible were refreshing, exciting, and exhilarating. Compared to my coming out pre-Stonewall, it was amazing to be able to go to a gay bar, to march in a gay pride parade, to come out to more family and friends … to carry less fear because of who you loved and who you fucked.

This did not happen overnight, but Stonewall seemed to bring it all to a head, a riot which caused the explosion of homosexuality, with homosexuality now being referred to as “gay”.

While earlier, homosexuality was able to express itself in many ways and in many places, it was still relatively undercover: at the risk of being exposed, disowned, fired, arrested, beaten up, or killed.

In those days, there were not as many options

This was before the time of today’s “so many options” to describe the gender one identifies as and which sex one finds attractive. In my day, there were gays and lesbians, bisexuals, transvestites, and transexuals. Transvestites, put simply, enjoyed dressing as women. Transexuals, put simply, wanted to be or felt like they were women.

That was it. All the other current-day nomenclature participants certainly existed but were not discussed or acknowledged, and therefore mostly did not matter. (Unless you were a member of that underrepresented group!)

Lesbians did not play an important role in my life

At least in my early gay life, women and lesbians were not as visible as they are today. I’m sorry to say they did not figure much into my life, my awareness, or my experiences. I regret that now.

I am not saying that lesbians did not exist, but they, at least for me, were just not as visible and did not play a key role in my early gay life. Maybe it was because they had always been more private, more discreet. I remember wishing I had more lesbian friends. I am embarrassed to say this, but again in honor of full disclosure, that is where I was coming from (in the past)!

My point of view is as a gay man.

My point of view, in revisiting my personal past, is man-on-man, homosexual, gay sex! This, obviously, is what I know most.

Once I realized what I was, and once I understood the pleasures of what was available to me sexually, there was no stopping me. With love for self, I will say, I was a whore in my early gay days. Not pejoratively, just descriptively.

When I discovered that in addition to sex, there was gay love, I became a different person. The feelings were different, as was the behavior. This led to my first relationship, which lasted 13 years, and to my second and final one, which lasted 41 years until my husband died due to complications of dementia/Alzheimer’s disease. But that is not what this essay is about, so forgive me if I spend most of these words on the sexual activities of those early adult years.

Gay bars were hopping.

From dark, dirty places, hidden with entrances down the alley and no sign to identify them; gay bars were proliferating (relatively). One could go to a bar that was tastefully decorated, with round tables and chairs as well as the bar area. In many, food was served. There were bar for all types: old man, youth, leather, queen, drag, etc.

One did not worry too much about being arrested just for being in a gay bar, as police raids were minimal compared to when I first discovered I was gay.

Dancing was part of the scene. Drag performances were part of the scene. Alcohol, poppers, marijuana, drugs, some public sex, etc were part of the scene. And while they most likely had been present before my young awareness, they were more out in the open, visible, and available, and therefore seemed more accepted by the community as a whole. (My POV!)

In those days, besides teaching elementary school, I was out partying two or three nights a week, getting home after midnight, and dragging myself out of bed to get to school on time the next morning.

Gay neighborhoods in Chicago were growing

One could walk down the street without fear of being attacked or harassed, have breakfast with friends at the local diner, go shopping for your wardrobe (gay oriented even), meet up with a new acquaintance for a cup of coffee before consummating the friendship.

I won’t even go into the availability of “sex on the street”: in department store bathrooms, in clothing store dressing rooms, in park district toilets. In otherwords, anywhere one could have a bit of privacy to “get off”. And often not wanting privacy but rather group action! Again, no value judgements, just telling it like it was for me in the prime of my day!

There was a street in Chicago, Pine Grove Street, which was known for it crusing, a park across from the Newberry Library, which was the place for drive-by pick-ups, and the toilets at a downtown department store, Marshall Fields, just to name a few placed gays could meet and/or hook up.

Life was good. Being gay was good. Drinking with friends; new, old, and one night friends; was good. It finally felt free to be who one was! It felt good to be gay and to show that off a little with pride.

I need to mention that times were not perfect. One could still be the victim of discrimination, if not bodily, emotional, or legal harm. Luckily I did not experience too much of that.

… to be continued.

In my next essay, I share some of my experiences with gay bathhouses in the 70’s.

During those times, it felt good to be gay. We assumed that the newly gained rights and improvements would last forever. We were naive. For me, now, I notice that the freedom seems to have had its progress, its brightness, diminished and/or it has disappeared. I will look at this “the brightness returns to darkness” in future essays.

The photo above seems to show the best and the worst: party and fight! However, oftentimes, for so many of us in the LGBTQIA+ community, the situation out there is still pretty bad.

Rights may come, and rights may go, and you might ask do we get to still consider them rights?

Are we pro- or anti-trans today? Do trans men and trans women deserve medical care? Are they really men and women, or are they abominations?

If a gay man is less than a man, should we not be able to beat him up black and blue with many broken bones, maybe even kill him? If a lesbian woman is less than a woman, should we not be able to abuse her with violence? (Wait a minute, seems like we can do that anyway with all women, Lesbian or not.)

If a young person comes out in school, can we bully him, pick on her, make fun of them, bloody their nose while at lunch or at recess, while the teachers look the other way?

Can we complicate the hatred, disregard, and/or increase assaultive behavior when there are additional disgusting adjectives added to the LGBTQIA+ initials: black? brown? yellow? red? And even further increase it if the person speaks a different language or is from a different country? Or is the person is disabled? Or poor?

Hopefully, it is obvious that I do not embrace any of the above descriptors,

but so many others do. I often wonder why a person is able to hold such beliefs. Is it through ignorance? Is it through religious training/beliefs? Is it because the thoughts hit too close to home and enables one to not admit that indeed, they themselves carry those “labels”? Is it because they are emotionally ill? Is it because they are angry and need others on which to take out their anger?

I myself, often at the risk of being attacked, consider myself:

a white, cis, senior, financially OK, retired, Democratic, Jewish, Buddhist, widowed, gay male.

I do not know for how much of my long life (at 80 years old),

I have carried the many negatives hurled my way merely because of who I am or who I choose to love, and let them unconsciously affect me. And 'unconsciously' means that you carry the negativity without realizing it or its effects on your emotional and physical health, self-confidence, and/or self-image.

When I was a young school boy, I did not yet realize that I was attracted sexually and sensually to other boys. When I was a high school boy, I did not yet realize that I would like to be intimate other high school boys.

When I went to college, there were not many opportunities to be alone with other young men. When I began my adulthood, I finally knew all three: sex, sensual, and add rock and roll, but at that time it was not easy accepting who I was in relation to what was socially acceptable when thinking “gay.”

From my earliest beginnings, many significant people in my life (or at least those I considered significant at the time) were not pleased with the potential of who I was or who I might become, even though the becoming was happening invisibly somewhere inside me.

This included my parents, sibling, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, neighbors, relatives, teachers, doctors, rabbis, and even people on the street I did not know!

Also as I grew up and became more of who I was and who I was going to become, their spoken and unspoken hostilities increased.

I knew how they felt towards queers. They let me know through their comments what they thought about faggotts. We were the butt of their jokes. I read in the newspapers about what they did to homosexuals. I saw the headlines that condemned those who were “light in the loafers.” I saw movies about the poofters, fudge packers, sodomites, homos, etc., and I realized that in most cases the movies ended with the gay person committing suicide or being murdered!

And I carried all these negative comments, attitudes, actions towards me as TRUTH! As a child and as a young man, I did not yet realize that I had the power or even the ability to agree or disagree with what these significant others thought, including those closest to me.

The more I grew emotionally and intellectually, and my homosexuality became more apparent to and accepted by me, the more I had to deal with those who would condemn me to hell if not to an unhappy, unrealized, sinful, loveless life.

What a heavy burden for anyone; let alone a young child, a developing youth, or a newly arrived to adulthood person, to carry as TRUTH. There were very few role models in those days, no one close with whom to talk or to ask questions, without the internet on which to GOOGLE, “What is gay? What is a homosexual?” Any books that might intellectually discuss it were locked up in a room, unavailable to most readers, especially younger ones.

Also, with no place to be with others like me, let alone realizing that there were others like me, I would say life, school, home, etc., were not nice places to live, let alone thrive as young people should.

And with the personal acceptance of all the negativity as TRUTH, inside myself, in my mind, in my understanding of the world I lived in, without realizing I had a choice to accept or not accept the negativity … Life was not a nice place to be.

This is why so many of us chose to live and still live in the shadows. This was the “invention” of the closet! For so many young gays, this was the reason they chose to take their own life in suicide.

So how does one shake off the effects of the years of negativity?

I maintain that it can be done. Sometimes you can do it yourself; other times, you need a professional to support you on your journey. They are called social workers, therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and doctors. Friends without professional training can help by being there for you, by listening to your stories, and by sharing their stories with you.

Many books are now on the market, and much information is on the Internet, which can be helpful. Each of us can go about ridding ourselves of the negativity heaped on our LGBTQ heads, by getting started. One step at a time, little by little. You can do it!

Read about, hear about, and talk about what others have done on their path to positivity and mental health. I do not want to negate or underestimate the pain for some who have been so repressed, so depressed, so suppressed that the hope for normalcy seems impossible.

But I truly believe that if you want to change, you can and will change. One of the main reasons for my writing for Prism & Pen is to let you know you are not alone and you can become whoever you want to become!

THE IMPORTANCE OF LETTING GO: FOUR PITFALLS TO AVOID

If you let go of wanting to figure out a problem, the answers and cures will come. Wanting to understand or figure out why or where problems arise can be a major obstacle to healing. We can unknowingly exacerbate our problems by holding on to them in the hope of figuring them out.

It’s infinitely alarming and amazing that as we seek a cure for what ails us, we make it harder for ourselves to heal. I do not mean giving no thought to understanding the problems, but rather not becoming so fixated on them that one lives in the past without much thought for the future and what it might bring. Think about the following four pitfalls.

PITFALL ONE:

“I suffer, therefore I am.” We identify with our problems; it is as though we justify our existence by having obstacles to overcome, problems to fix, and suffering as much as we can bear. We become so versed in being the person with a particular problem that we’re often afraid we won’t know who we are without it.

When we take a moment to reflect on our problems, we may even discover that we’ve grown so attached to these patterns of thought and behavior that it’s hard to imagine ourselves without them. Rather than being open to the uncertainty that comes from letting go, we cling to the artificial sense of security that comes from knowing what to expect, even if that expectation is not beneficial.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Think of a problem that you believe belongs to you and ask yourself: Would I rather have the false sense of security that comes from knowing all about this problem, or would I rather be free? If you’d rather be free, you’ll spontaneously let go of your attachment to the problem and you’ll begin discovering natural solutions to it as opposed to justifying having, or being stuck with, the problem.

PITFALL TWO:

“But what will I talk about?” Most of us base a significant amount of our interpersonal communications on seeking sympathy for our problems by commiserating with others about theirs. Often, we become such experts at describing our problems to others that we don’t want to stop.

Sharing our problems is not detrimental; rather, it’s when we constantly recycle them to friends and family that keeps us from letting go of the problem at hand. We get stuck telling the same problem over and over again, with no relief.

Are you telling the same woes time and again to share your grief with friends, or are you seeking approval for your problem? If you find yourself telling the same story more than once, check to see if you are seeking agreement or approval for the problem. If you are, let go of having others agree that you have the problem or giving you approval for having the problem.

PITFALL THREE:

“It’s mine, that’s why.” Pride is a shifty emotion. Just like we feel proud of our accomplishments, we also get hooked into being subtly proud of our problems. We feel so special for having our problems.

This pitfall on the path to freedom may take the form of feeling proud of having prevailed even with the problem, proud of having borne it for so long, or proud of having a problem that is unique to us.

If you feel that your problems make you “special,” if you find any pride in owning them, let go of the pride and find yourself free to let go of the problem, too.

PITFALL FOUR:

“But why, where did it come from?” We want to understand, or figure out, why or from where problems arise, which can also be a major obstacle to letting them go.

We literally must hold on to our problems to figure them out. Furthermore, we only truly need to understand a problem if we are planning to have it occur again or are planning in some way to maintain it.

Would you rather understand your problems or just be free of them?

If you would rather be free, let go of wanting to figure them out. We can only solve our problems right here, right now, in this moment.

If we dwell on the past to analyze a problem or issue, to find out why or from where, we must leave the present moment — the only place where we can truly solve anything.

This does not mean that the past does not and should not play an important role in understanding where you came from and where you hope to go, but I believe that one can get hung up on the past and thereby maintain the harm of the here and now.

Be open to the possibility that you can get the answers you crave in your life by being aware of these four pitfalls and by being free to let go of the need to know and hold on to them. Again, we only truly need to understand a problem if we plan to have it occur again or plan in some way to maintain it.

I, for one, would rather move on and, while generally understanding the effect of what others tell us or say about us, shake loose all that negativity with which we grew up. We have the power, now as adults, to understand that the beliefs of others do not have to govern our own thoughts and beliefs about who we are! Just do it!

I have developed a sound bite which helps me.

Why do I need other people’s acceptance and or tolerance? Isn’t existence enough?

The four pitfalls were inspired and in part excerpted from: “Letting Go of the Need to Know.” Hale Dwoskin. The Monthly Aspectarian. November 2003. V25 N3.

As an exercise, I am writing a fiction piece about a lesbian couple and their love relationship. It is from my point of view and experience, that of an older widowed, gay man.

The two women, Celia and Miss Mozeen live in my imagination and do not represent anyone I know or “real live lesbians”! They lived long ago and in a small town. This was before gays and lesbians were able to be “out.”

I have tried to create two people who you can picture in your mind, want to love as they love each other, and have some empathy for their life as they age.

How did I do?

Celia and Miss Mozeen were best friends. They lived together, enjoyed life together, and loved each other. But they had to keep their love a secret. Women dancing together, being best friends, as lifelong companions … were all OK. But women loving each other, let alone expressing that sexually, was NOT OK! Lesbians and “old maids” they were called with little understanding or compassion for who they were and what they had to do to cover their love for each other.

They were called odd by the neighbors, but the women’s “unique ways” were tolerated. Besides, two older single women living together, helping each other financially, with health issues, and walking down the street arm in arm (for sure on observation of others assuming it was because they were fragile), was perfectly understandable.

It was said that, in their younger days, they both taught at the local elementary school. At the time, they did not live together, and if you watched them go about their daily classroom routines and school building responsibilities, you could not tell that they were close friends or even liked each other. That is how well they hid, and had to hide, the fact that they loved each other very much.

When they retired, they finally moved into the same house. Being older, people took even less notice of them, their day-to-day life, and their interactions. You might say that, like many older people, they became invisible, unimportant, and disappeared into themselves. But in this case, unknown to anyone who cared to look more closely, they were able to disappear into each other, and that was beautiful.

Their house was at the corner of two busy streets on the city's periphery. It was a cute, quaint house, but in need of repair. The grass was not cut during the summer, although flowers were always abundant in the narrow garden in front of the house. The fall leaves were not raked. The sidewalks were not shoveled during the winter. In the spring, the dirt that accumulated on the sidewalk was not swept.

Usually, the windows, including the usually dirty front bay window, sported heavy drapes closed day and night to conceal the house's interior. This was to help keep Celia and Miss Mozeen’s lives private. Come November, the draperies were pulled back and left open, usually until March, to allow the Christmas tree to shine out its joy to the neighborhood and to the world. For all anyone knew, once the drapes were again pulled closed, the tree continued to shine through to the next November without being disassembled.

One could tell during the holiday season that it was an artificial tree, beautifully decorated and abundantly lit, but each year it looked a little more disheveled and older … just like the women who lived there!

During good weather, the two of them could be seen sitting on their porch, sipping their cups of tea. During the bad weather, the house was closed up “tight as a drum,” but how tight is a drum? One could only imagine the house was not too clean and might smell a little musty, considering that the younger woman was old and the older woman was even older! They were maybe five or ten years apart in age, in their 80s or 90s.

During most of the year, they could be seen making their weekly trip to the grocery store, less than a mile away, walking slowly while pulling a wire grocery cart. Sometimes the younger one supported the older one as they climbed up one curb and lowered themselves down the next. They took turns pulling the cart. The adventure was a necessary one, but a slow one, which took up most of the day. One can only imagine, on arriving back home, how they had any energy left to put the groceries away where they belonged.

Their life together was a comfortable, loving, supportive one. What one liked to do, she did. What the other was good at, she took on the responsibility for doing. Often, they reversed roles just for the fun of it, or to let one rest a little more while the other squeezed in a nap. It wasn’t that their life was so full or active, but what they did continue to do, took more time and energy as they continued to grow older together. They were aware of their slowing down and did so gracefully.

They took turns cooking, with each having their specialties. When Celia cooked, Miss Mozeen would clean up and wash the dishes. When Miss Mozeen cooked, Celia cleaned up. They usually had an early dinner, which over the years grew smaller, partly because they found themselves with less appetite and partly because they couldn’t afford to eat more.

This was followed by watching a few favorite TV programs. Sometimes they found themselves engrossed in deep conversations about life and the day’s current events. Before bedtime, they partook of a cup of hot chocolate or a glass of cold milk, and a few cookies from the store-bought package kept in a metal tin on the pantry shelf.

Once in a while, Celia would surprise Miss Mozeen with freshly baked cookies, and on other occasions, Miss Mozeen would surprise Celia with a small vanilla ice cream sundae topped with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry.

The housework was shared. Celia made their beds. Miss Mozeen dusted. Celia kept the bathroom as clean as possible. Miss Mozeen vacuumed the living room carpets. Over the years, their home became a little more disheveled, with things a little more out of place, if not forgotten in the corners.

The dust slowly built up, but they didn’t mind, and as they joked, “The dust doesn’t get any thicker after the first five years!” They laughed together a lot and sometimes fell into fits of giggles at something so silly that you or I would not have noticed the cause.

One could tell, if one had been in the house with them, how much the women loved each other. Loved being with each other. Loved supporting each other. The laughter was just one way one could tell. How they smiled at each other, how they looked into each other’s eyes, how one touched the other’s shoulder as they passed each other, how they held hands … would tell you more of their love story.

The respect they had for each other’s strengths as well as for their weaknesses told stories beyond words. Being able to finish each other’s sentences, let alone each other’s thoughts, also glowed with their love. Being able to ignore their diminishing abilities, health, and strength was another way you could tell that these two women, Celia and Miss Mozeen, loved each other more strongly each day that passed.

The years, as they do for older folks, seemed to pass so quickly. Before the women knew it, the bay window draperies were pulled back yet again to share the joy of the Christmas tree with the world, and then in what seemed like minutes, the house was again shrouded in darkness during the day, or lamplight at night, to keep their love private.

To end this picture of two women so much in love, it is sad to say that they recently passed. Not with any illnesses leading up to their deaths, which makes their passing a little easier to accept. Also, the fact that they passed within hours of each other makes the story more beautiful.

Miss Mozeen who was older by only five or ten years was the first to go, followed by Celia who was younger by only five or ten years, left a few minutes later ... in their beds, which were pulled next to each other with the night tables on each outside, holding hands … as they continue to do to this day in the hereafter … where who one loves doesn’t matter, as long as one does love and loves to one’s fullest.

The premise of this essay may seem strange to you.

I hope to make the point that we queer people need to remember not lose the joy in how far we have come since the early 1900s and how hard and often we have had to fight for our rights. Times are difficult and frightening right now. Who thought we would ever be at this point again? But we must hold on to hope and to stand up and fight again. We must be strong in our support for one another within the LGBTQIA+ community.

We must renew and continue the fight for our rights to equal treatment under the law, by the government, fellow citizens, employers, families, churches, etc. Might I add we need to continue the fight not only for the LGBTQIA+ community but for immigrants, those seeking asylum, black people, brown people, the homeless, the elderly, the infirm, and the poor? Many share several minorities in their descriptions of themselves.

For a brief period of time, the LGBTQIA community was experiencing increased acceptance.

I cannot begin to imagine what it feels like to have to live in the shadows of homophobia once again, as I did in the 1960s-1980s! How must it feel as a transgender person to be told I do not exist, I am not recognized as part of the reality of the human race? How must it feel to not only be denied that recognition of existence but to be denied health care?

So far, I have not been personally or directly impacted by the renewed homophobia we are witnessing, but emotionally and intellectually, I have been. Who will Trump and his minions go after next?

Currently, many of the horrors we are witnessing seem to be part of human nature, which has always been uncomfortable with differences.

If you pray to a different God, if you are an atheist or agnostic, have a different skin color, live in a different country, feel like a woman in a man’s body or vice versa, like to fuck people who are of the same sex … you are a human to be feared, disliked, oppressed, and sometimes even murdered! Did I catch all of the possible differences among us? I am sure there must be more.

Often, the discomfort stems from societal and cultural norms. Over the centuries, cultural attitudes towards gay men and lesbians have been different, more accepting. Ancient Greece is an often-used comparison:

Homosexuality, or same-sex attraction and relationships, has been present in human societies for thousands of years. In ancient Greece, homosexuality was a common and accepted part of society, and was seen as a natural expression of love and desire.

In ancient Rome, Greece, China, and Japan, there was a greater acceptance of homosexuality. A positive attitude towards homosexuality was also present during the Renaissance in wealthy cities in northern Italy, in some occurrences in the early 1700s and late 1800s, and elsewhere in our Western World in the late 1900s. Often in “high society,” people looked the other way or commented privately. Homosexuality has a strong history among Indigenous peoples of the Americas, with specific ceremonial and religious honors attached. Homosexuality is even evident in some animal species!

For sure, homosexuality has had an interesting and varied history of acceptance and rejection. Who thought, in our lifetimes, that we would ever see same-sex marriage become the law of the land? But it happened. That, however, might be in question again. The Michigan Assembly is set to petition the Supreme Court to overturn its same-sex marriage decision.

We are experiencing many reversals that we also thought we would never see again, for example, the reversal of Roe vs Wade, a landmark decision of the U.S. Supreme Court in which the Court ruled that the Constitution of the United States protected the right to have an abortion before the point of fetal viability.

Another unbelievable event was hearing that in the future the U.S. government will only recognize two sexes, men and women, thereby attempting to wipe all discussion and issues of gender identification and, in addition, curtailing supportive services for those identifying as transgender.

Yet another event that signaled the current onslaught of homophobia was the announcement that minorities were no longer protected against discrimination in many businesses, organizations, and government agencies, followed by the removal of most information about the LGBTQIA+ community from governmental websites, and then the cancellation of LGBTQIA+ events at the Kennedy Performing Arts Center in Washington, D.C.

Today’s environment of rejection, in addition to Trump and his minions, stems from the belief that one’s beliefs are the only correct beliefs.

Let me address this idea briefly. People are frightened by differences. Instead of recognizing differences as an excellent addition to the complexity and beauty of life, they fear that they will lose their own identity and beliefs by recognizing others’ identities and beliefs.

So many people struggle to stay alive, raise their families, earn a living, pay the bills, etc., that the fear of losing ground to others has grown. If they succeed, that means I will fail!”

When one’s life is compromised, it is easier to scapegoat and blame others as the cause. The clouding and blurring of the real reasons for the difficulties one encounters easily occur.

Greed and the pursuit of power and control over others also add to these difficult times.

Again, briefly, the bottom line, profits, ego, and greed have become the primary priorities for so many people, businesses, and organizations, with the end result being that everyday people and their families suffer. Grocery bills have increased, service fees are inflated, and inventories have shrunk. Medical care becomes unavailable. Crime increases due to poverty. And more!

One good thing to hold on to is the greater unity within the LGBTQIA+ community today.

In the 1970s, for example, there was a lot of disagreement within the community regarding the use of the word “gay” for everyone vs “gay men” for the males and “lesbians” for the women. Lesbians were among the first to begin the fight for women’s rights. I can see why they did, not wanting to be lumped into the “it’s a man’s world” of that time (and possibly still today).

In reality, the LGBTQIA community is a small minority, so looking at the numbers is essential. But even though we are a relatively small group, we are now a vocal minority, a substantial minority, and a minority that knows how to fight for our rights!

From recent Gallup polling:

More than one in five Gen Z adults identify as LGBTQ+… Bisexual adults make up the largest proportion of the LGBTQ+ population — 4.4% of U.S. adults and 57.3% of LGBTQ+ adults say they are bisexual. Gay and lesbian are the next-most-common identities, each representing slightly over 1% of U.S. adults and roughly one in six LGBTQ+ adults.

The Transgender Community is even smaller: Slightly less than 1% of U.S. adults and about one in eight LGBTQ+ adults are transgender.

Perhaps the low percentage of people identifying as transgender is why Trump felt he could attack this minority, and not much would be said about it. Maybe he felt it would be a grand showing for him without repercussions. But he was wrong, and gratefully, the LGBTQIA+ community has raised its voice and taken offense to his move. It has become a rallying cry. More government officials and other influential people are speaking up.

Today, more than during the late 1900s, we are more visible, viable, responsible, respected, and influential. This is a good thing!

Our creativity, talent, and abilities in most areas of the arts, business, science, and industry are recognized, as is our financial presence and expendable cash flow for the economy.

In the United States, we purchase homes, take out loans, spend our salaries, eat at expensive restaurants, etc. For many of us, although not all, we can walk down the street and not fear verbal or physical abuse. We can order a wedding cake; most bakeries will not bat an eye at creating one for us.

I know this is not true in many places, such as Florida, Texas, or upstate New York. But in many areas, life is much better than in the late 1900s. But now it is becoming worse. Now, it is not true for transgender people, as it begins to seem that they must go back into the closet to survive. How sad for them and how sad for us!

In many ways, and I hate to say this, one good thing President Trump did was to raise our awareness of the need to continue our fight. To never stop dancing!

We cannot predict where all this will go, but it has caused many of us to no longer be complacent or quiet about our beliefs. Even though Trump seems to be winning right now with his barrage of executive orders, he has emboldened many lawmakers, judges, and everyday citizens to speak out against him.

For the most part, we are continuing our fight to no longer have to hide or kiss in the shadows, to love whom we choose, and to identify with a biological existence that most closely represents who we are, not the one with which we were born.

The “State of the Union” did not become what it is today, what it is under Trump, overnight. It has been slowly building on many fronts in many ways for many years, if not decades. And not only in the United States. Perhaps it is good that Trump has so blatantly shown us not to take “the good times” for granted and to recognize that nothing is permanent, forever!

For the LGBTQIA+ youth of today, all the goings-on are new and frightening. For us older folks, while intensely bad, it is just more of the same. We have fought for our rights before, and we will do so again. I am not sure who has it worse, the young or the old.

Above all, DON’T GIVE UP!

Optimistically, I feel that we will come out the other side and be OK. The damage that will be done between here and the other side, meanwhile, is yet to be uncovered.

Above all, DON’T GIVE UP! We must continue to SPEAK UP, SPEAK OUT, and KEEP DANCING! We need to continue fighting in whatever ways we can and to hold on to hope. We must continue to feel the joy and the magic of being part of the LGBTQIA Community!

South Pacific premiered in movie theaters in 1958. I was 13 years old. My memories of seeing that movie with my family are strongly etched into my mind. Read on to find out how the movie reappeared in my life some 50 years later!

Perhaps to celebrate my 13th birthday, or perhaps my Bar-Mitzvah, my mom and dad took my sister and me downtown to see “South Pacific.” In those days, one got dressed up to go downtown. The movie was at a large, fancy downtown theater like the Chicago Theater, the Oriental, or the Woods.

Nowadays, movies open without much fanfare, but in those days, the major studios premiered their releases in downtown theaters. They were significant events, and seats were reserved.

The movie left a lasting impression on my young mind for many reasons. I certainly was homosexual at 13, but not practicing. At that age, I also did not understand what being “gay” meant or what I was really feeling.

Seeing all those naked men singing and dancing on the beaches of the South Pacific must have aroused me not only sexually but also intellectually and emotionally.

At that age, I did not have life ideas, opinions, or beliefs; at least not that I was aware of. I knew what my parents and teachers had taught me to think and believe, and while I probably felt conflicted, the conflict was not yet approachable.

I had not yet seen or experienced any adventures of the world; I had never been on my own. And while, at that age, I was already dealing with issues of independence from my parents, I had very little.

The romance of the South Pacific island affected me: lush jungle plants, beautiful water, sunsets, sandy beaches, island life, half-naked men. Good-looking sailors sang and danced with each other in the identical way boys and girls danced at the parties I attended at school. I was jealous!

Even though the movie takes place on the island because of war, very little of the carnage of war was shown, outside of a few injured men in the hospital ward. The film mostly featured good-looking, half-naked men singing, dancing, and enjoying themselves on the beach.

When Lieutenant Cable arrived on the island, I instantly fell in love. When he fell in love with Liat, the Polynesian girl, it was as if he had fallen in love with me. When he died, I was bereft. I grieved for a time after the movie.

I had fallen in love with love. Until that movie, I did not really understand what love was about. One did not see much “love” in one’s parents at that age, if only because during the 1950s, adults did not overtly demonstrate or discuss the concept of love.

I assume my parents loved each other, but at the age of thirteen, I did not see much evidence of their love, only bickering, fighting, and conflict.

In addition to Cable and Liat’s love affair, that of Emile, the Frenchman, and his relationship with Nellie, the American nurse, was more proof that love existed, even though not easily attained.

So in addition to a lovely afternoon downtown and the rare treat of seeing a movie with my family, I was initiated into the world of fantasy, pleasure, independence, sensuality, sex, and love.

My unrecognized homosexuality was titillated, and the movie most likely provided much masturbatory material. In all, a productive afternoon and one that remains vividly etched in my memory.

Forward to the present time: Gregory (RIP), my husband of 41 years, had been living with dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s Disease, for 10 plus years. Short of turning our condo into a fully staffed, 24/7 memory care facility, I could no longer meet his needs, so we moved him to the Lieberman Center, a memory care facility.

The center was just 15 minutes from the condo so that I could visit Gregory every day. We often watched TV in his room, and, interestingly enough, South Pacific was one of his favorites. We continued to watch the movie almost every night for the next 18 months.

He sang along, cried along, and laughed along with the movie, sometimes incoherently. Being such a sensual, sexual movie, I can see why he loved seeing it so often. I never tired of watching it with Gregory.

So “South Pacific” provided much enjoyment early in my life and much later. I am grateful for the support it gave to my Gregory, and may I add, I am grateful for being gay!

Advice to a Dementia/Alzheimer’s caregiver or for anyone who is a caregiver for a loved one with any catastrophic illness or injury!

This essay has been published on Medium.com, in various caregiver magazines, and for various caregiver organizations. I am republishing it here, and now at this season, because these lessons become even more important at holiday times.

I am often asked, “What would you tell someone who just found out their spouse or parent or sibling or friend was diagnosed with Dementia/ Alzheimer’s or any catastrophic illness or injury. Here is some of what I learned over the twelve years that my husband, Gregory, and I walked the Dementia/Alzheimer’s Path together.

I will not go into the different kinds of thinking necessary for different kinds of advice to give in different kinds of relationships, but rather tailor my comments to anyone who is part of the caregiving team. I will also say that just as there is not one way in which dementia or catastrophic illnesses express themselves, there is not one way to offer care!

Be gentle with yourself. Forgive yourself.

To be a successful caregiver partner, you must know that you will not always be successful. First, you are the one who can, must, and will change and adapt; they cannot. Sometimes you will fall short of being your best possible self! Every morning (or as often as you need to) in front of a mirror, repeat to yourself, “I am not perfect but at least I try!” Or the often-touted mantra, “Each day in each way, I am getting better and better!” If you don’t want to face the mirror, write it down in a place you can see it at the start of each day.

Try, try again.

Next, you are the one who must be “above it all,” knowing it is all about the disease and the person you love, but sometimes you will let frustration, anger, fear, exhaustion, etc., get the best of you. Remind yourself that you are only human.

Know that each day will be a new one.

Each day, you will get a new chance to “make it right.” Try not to feel guilty or carry yesterday’s difficulties into today. Chances are, your loved one will more easily be able to forgive and to start each day anew. Take advantage of beginning fresh each day.

Interpreting behavior can be difficult.

Know that sometimes you will not know how to interpret the behavior you are witnessing, let alone how to deal with it or support the person you love. Try to put yourself in their place and think about how you would feel. Ask them for clarification or at least let them know you care and wish you could help.

Respect the person.

No matter what changes they go through, find a way to help them continue to keep their personhood even as their abilities fail. Help them find alternative abilities to replace those slowly leaving.

Respect the decisions of the person diagnosed.

As much as possible, respect their right to be who they are, to make decisions for themselves, or at least to participate in making those decisions, to live their lives in the ways they choose.

Be aware that decisions cannot always able to be made by the person who is ill. Sometimes and/or eventually, these decisions must be made on their behalf, but always must be done ethically, with love and respect, and only in their interests (not your own) for safety and health reasons.

Validate and Seek Clarity.

For example, if your spouse expresses worries about financial matters, repeat their words to validate their concerns, and then tell them what your plan is. “Oh, so you’re worried about finances? I am pretty sure we are okay, but I’ll check in with our accountant to make sure.” If your mom is upset, but she is unable to use language to explain what is upsetting her, validate her frustration. “Mom, I can see that this is hard for you, and I’m sorry.” This can also be where you need to put on your detective hat and get curious about what is upsetting her. Using visual cues and “Is it this or something else” questions, you may be able to figure out what her unmet need is.

Try to maintain a team approach.

In your relationship with the person, make sure to include them in most decisions that affect them. If their ability to participate in the decision-making process is diminished or does not exist, offer the alternatives in bite-sized pieces, which continue to respect that they are or once were part of the team! If you are purchasing a new item, show them two similar items and ask which they prefer. Load the questions a little by offering, “I really like this one best, what do you think?”

Be patient with them.

Their processing and understanding of the day-to-day activities of life, both mental and physical, are changing. Their cognitive abilities are slowing down and/or the connections are no longer as easily made. Abilities may come and go, may return in reduced form, and eventually no longer exist. When asking a question, give them a chance to process what you said. Asking another question or clarifying too quickly only serves to create more confusion.

Control your anger as best as you can.

Sometimes your frustration can cause anger. Sometimes the person’s behavior can cause anger. Conversations gone awry can cause anger, especially when you have been used to successful conversations for such a long time. Imagine that the person is slowly living life backwards, losing what they have learned. Count to ten, leave the room (don’t just walk out, say “I’ll be right back.,” and breathing deeply all can help.

Remember, they are NOT children.

What complicates the matter is that mentally, it can appear that they are becoming a child again, but the fact is, they are NOT children. They are adults, in an adult’s body, with an adult’s worth of experiences and knowledge that will be at a wide range of various and changing levels of availability to them.

Accept repetition in conversations

Just as you would gently do for a very young child as he grows with wonder at the world around him, often with his asking the same question repeatedly with a string of Why? Why? Why’s? How you deal with your loved one should be similarly loving but with respect for the adult that they are, even though they may slowly be losing their physical abilities and possibly their ability to wonder.

Realize it is the disease, not the person, that you are continuing to love and trying to help. If they get angry with you, it is the illness. If they strike out, it is the illness. If they need you to repeat something for the hundredth time, it is the illness, not the person!

Try to see beyond the behavior.

Perhaps the person can no longer express themselves using language, perhaps they are no longer aware of what is troubling them. Maybe they are in pain but do not recognize it, let alone have the ability to let you know about the discomfort. At times, thirst and hunger are no longer recognized, let alone how to satisfy those basic needs.

Things are not always what they seem.

With Alzheimer’s/dementia, at times, a dark, reflective window can be a vast, empty, frightening place that is home to demons, and a dark area rug in front of a door can be a deep hole in which to fall! If the memory fails, a loved one can erroneously become a stranger, and a trusted friend can become a dangerous enemy. Close the shades at sunset, remove rugs, and arrange furniture so it is not in the way of the route to the bathroom or bedroom.

Put yourself in the person’s place.

Work hard at imagining what might be troubling them. Then see what you can do creatively to correct, distract, and/or remove them from the situation.

Create music and art activities.

They can provide the person with hours of productive fun as well as provide a sense of accomplishment and an opportunity for socialization with loved ones. Use headphones to listen to music from the person’s era or that they used to be able to play. If artistic, but no longer able to practice their art, try to find a replacement. Reintroduce (carefully, if maybe insulting) coloring, crayons, pencil sketching, and finger painting.

Activities must be meaningful and foster success. Try to make the activity one where they can experience success and also one that will be meaningful to them. For example: household chores, help with meal preparation, cleaning up and setting the table, folding laundry, reading, watching TV, playing a DVD or video.

Toys can help entertain. Many toys can provide sophisticated ways of spending time. Others, like dolls or teddy bears, can provide something to do with the hands as well as emotional support and harken back to earlier memories. Crossword puzzles and jigsaw puzzles come with various levels of difficulty.

Tailor the environment.

As a person’s needs change, so must the environment in which they live. Be careful about rugs that may cause a fall or furniture that may not support their weight. Keep sharp and dangerous items out of sight or under lock and key. Make it easier for them to find what they might need and try to keep everything in its place.

Meals can become complicated.

When eating at a restaurant, help guide the person through the choices depending on their cognitive abilities, which can range from “What do you feel like eating today?” to “Do you want chicken or fish?” to “Oh, this chicken dish looks good, shall we try it?” Meals at home, if causing difficulties, can be served one course at a time, be easy to pick up with fingers, and be easy to chew and swallow. Sometimes the color of the table, tablecloth, and/or dishes can soften dinner time difficulties.

Be flexible.

As the diagnosed person’s needs change, so must their activities and environment change. Every day might need a different approach to almost every possible activity: toileting, grooming, eating, dressing, spending time, sleeping, etc.

Be aware of medical changes.

Some of the changes may not be apparent, so if you see a change in behavior that is not explained by anything obvious to you, and that seems to last for an inappropriate period of time, maybe it is time for a visit to the doctor for some tests. Infections, digestive problems, or physical injuries are just a few that might be happening but not be visible to you.

Be selfish.

Most people will be taken aback by this term, but I maintain that if you do not take care of yourself, you will not have the energy or health to give to another. Find ways to relax, to refresh yourself, to get away for a short period of time, to make sure you visit your own doctor as needed, and to enjoy yourself when and as you can. This is not easy, but you can and must do it!

Ask for help.

This is a difficult one. First of all, it does not mean that you are weak or not doing a good job. Second, finding ways to involve other people who love you and love the person diagnosed is not easy. Everyone has a life of their own, and most are oversubscribed. But there are ways that others can help to lighten your day-to-day.

Look to your community for help.

If not family or friends, check out the possibility of getting respite help from local high school or university students, from your church, from a neighbor, from your housekeeper, or from your city’s Senior Citizen Center. Even an hour by yourself can help you keep your sanity.

Medicare offers many services at no charge, including nurse visits and people to help shower and provide other care.

Hospice Care is not only for someone who is facing death soon. As long as the person continues to progress (strange use of the word), they can stay on hospice help at little or no charge.

Some centers offer respite care. They will take care of your loved one for several days, maybe even a week, in a safe, loving environment with caregivers who are trained to give care. Sometimes this can be part of Medicare or Medicaid, or Hospice.

You can do this!

What choice do you have, really? Hopefully, with support from family, friends, your religion if you embrace one, your therapist, your neighbors, a group of people in a support group or online chat room, you can find a support system that works for you. You will be strong and find resources to keep going. Love will help. Kindness will help. Being good to yourself, even though you are devastated, will help.

You are not alone!

In the United States over five and a half million people are living with Dementia/Alzheimer’s and this number is growing. I do not know how many people are recovering or living with a catastrophic illness or as the result of an injury. 16 million+ people are helping to providing unpaid care for them. This includes over 18 billion+ hours of care at a value of over $232+ billion dollars!

Waxing philosophical: It will…get better

… but sometimes better is not on this side of life. We all will die. For some of us, it will be easy, quick, and/or unexpected. For others, dying will be anticipated, slow, and/or very painful. Sometimes, doing our best to help others reach their end as comfortably as possible is the best we can do, and to hope in turn that it will be offered to us! It is a blessing to be able to do this for one another.

Usually, a parent wins the race to death. While one might say “they lived a long, healthy life” or “they had a blessed, wonderful life,” often that does NOT lessen the grief and feelings of loss for the children; even if the parent is “in a better place” or “no longer in pain.” Sometimes these platitudes help; other times they do not!

With a spouse, either you or your partner will “win the race.” Interestingly, the ill or injured spouse does not always win the race! Often the caregiver partner is the first to cross the finish line and to leave this life. Onething you can do is to make sure there are alternative plans in place for your partner.

With a sibling or friend, anyone may win the contest.

Have conversations about death with the person dying, while they are still able to express themselves. It helps them to die with dignity and helps you to serve them in a way that follows their wishes as closely as possible.

In all this advice, always remember, one size does not fit all.

Again, there is no one way for these types of conversations to take place. They may take place easily, or they may be a very difficult topic to broach, for some or everyone involved. You must determine whether to continue these conversations depending on how your loved one reacts or if they let you know they do not wish to have these discussions! You might drop the subject and try to bring it up again at a later date.

Grief always takes its toll when someone we love dies.

Talking about death helps, in the long run, to ease the mystery of life and the mystery of death. Telling our stories to each other and listening to the stories of others gives us a common ground that allows for grief to express itself.

There is no one right way to grieve, no time period in which it should take place, and no right or wrong way to do so. In some ways, one never gets through or gets over grieving; it just becomes a little easier to carry the grief. The problem as well as the joy is that with great love, there is great grief!

The greatest mystery in life is death. We think about it and fear it from the first time, as a child, we begin to have intelligent thoughts. We hold on to it our entire adult life, and it can color how we face living each day. Hopefully, death’s mystery also allows us to live a meaningful, fulfilled life with respect, love, and understanding for others and for ourselves during the time we have available.

You are not alone!

You can do this! Believe in yourself! It will not be easy, but it can be done well! A catastrophic illness or injury does not have to be a death sentence, but rather can be an invitation, not necessarily an anticipated one, to live life to its fullest!

Part I: Christmas Eve at Grandma’s

Despite the carols, shopping, gift wrapping, and cookie baking, the Christmas Season never really began for me until Christmas Eve with Grandma Anna Kleinhoffer. She was my first partner, Bob’s grandmother, and she had been part of my life for 13 years before she died.

The family knew Bob and I were gay and that we were partners. While it was never really discussed, I was accepted as part of the family, and in some ways, my enthusiasm for the holiday helped to rekindle the enthusiasm his entire family had for its celebration.

Bob and I would drive up from Chicago to Joliet, Illinois, through the usual early evening snow falling at that time of the year. We would look forward to arriving at Grandma’s house, which was just down the block from Bob’s parents, Robert and Dorothy.

Our car was filled with red and green wrapped gifts for all of the family. There were a few “old lady type” gifts for Grandma and her sisters, like soaps, kitchen dish towels, and cheap perfume from the drugstore. These gifts went under Grandma’s tree.

The gifts for Robert and Dorothy went under their tree. There were always many more for Dorothy. It was very important to show Dorothy how much she was loved by how large the stack of gayly wrapped gifts was (I had to do that pun) under the tree, waiting for her to open them on Christmas morning.

In those early days, Robert and I, while not poor, were not fully financially stable and struggled to pay our bills. At times, we skipped a payment or two until the next paycheck. Christmas time was always a difficult time financially because of all the added expenses and gift purchasing. But we spent it anyway, because it was an important holiday to share with others.

I remember going through the gifts I received from my students to see which ones we could add to Dorothy’s pile. Jean Naté bath products, chocolate-covered cherries, smelly soaps, etc., were always good candidates for re-gifting.

I might mention that there were also a lot of gifts under the tree for Robert Sr, Bob, and me. Gloves, sox, and underwear were always the favorites for Dorothy to give to us. But treasures also showed up in the gayly (had to pun) wrapped boxes that they gave us.

We never knew if Dorothy would join the festivities on Christmas Eve or raise a big stink, not wanting to go to her mother-in-law’s. From year to year, one never knew what her stance would be. Apparently, the two had a long-running love/hate relationship.

If Dorothy decided not to go, she would mope the rest of that Christmas when Robert Sr., Bob, and I went to his Mother’s Christmas Eve without her. Robert Sr. would always go to his mother’s with or without his wife, so good for him!

When we arrived at Grandma’s at ten o’clock, the 88-year-old matriarch had already assembled and decorated her artificial tree, and the rest of the house was scattered with aging decorations and other holiday memories.

We would place our gifts for Grandma and the sisters under Grandma’s tree and then circle the house, commenting on her wonderful, very old, and very fragile decorations that had been gracing her home for decades and decades. Each had a story to be told.

The desk in the dining room was heaped with candy and cookies. There were popcorn balls she had made. Around the periphery of the desk were framed photographs of all her family members, including a photo of Bob and me, which made me feel good.

The dining room table was set with what was by then an antique holiday tablecloth and holiday dishes. The ham was in the oven, delicious smells filled Grandma’s home, and all the supper side dishes were ready on the sideboard.

Dressed in her finest, wearing her Christmas apron, she would embrace each of us in turn, whisper some love into our ear, and pass out her wet kisses. Next came kisses from her sisters, Frieda and Clara, and Frieda’s lesbian daughter, Marge (although no one ever talked about her being a lesbian, not even Bob and me). Clara lived in town, and Frieda and Marge drove over earlier in the day from the other side of the state.

Shortly after our arrival (Bob, his dad, me, and sometimes Dorothy), we would sit down to eat. There was always more food than you might want to eat so late at night, but it was delicious and tradition-laden. The meal was in advance of attending midnight mass at Grandma’s church, which was directly across the street from her house.

Mass was always fun for this Jewish boy; I loved the decorations, the lights, the ornamented trees, the wreaths, the candles, the red poinsettias around the altar, the pomp and ceremony, and the splendor of the church. If it snowed on Christmas Eve, which it did now and then and for which everyone would wish, the miracle of Christ’s birth was amplified.

After mass, we would return to the house for a glass of wine and a table full of homemade desserts. By two or three in the morning, we would head home to Robert and Dorothy’s house to get some rest before the big Christmas Day meal at noon.

Yes, this family’s tradition involved a lot of religion as well as food. What a wonderful way to start Christmas!

PART II: Christmas Day at Grandma’s

At noon on Christmas Day, we would arrive at Grandma’s house feeling like we had just left a few hours before from celebrating Christmas Eve, which was almost true. The dining room table would be redecorated with a different antique (antique if only because Grandma had owned it for such a long time) tablecloth, a different set of Christmas dishes, fresh flowers, and sprinkled around the tabletop, a collection of aging decorations.

Dorothy, whether she had joined in for Christmas Eve or not, would always “feel better” and join us on Christmas Day. By then, whatever battle she had been having with Grandma, real or imagined, had been solved in her mind, and she even looked forward to the food and family camaraderie.

The turkey would have been in the oven since early morning and would be ready to go shortly after noon. This was no easy feat considering Grandma’s age and the previous night’s festivities, which lasted until two or three in the morning. However, Frieda, Clara, and Frieda’s lesbian daughter, Marge (although no one ever talked about her being a lesbian) were always a great help.

Besides the amazing array of food she presented for her Christmas afternoon dinner, what remains most in my mind are the homemade popcorn balls on the desk, the after-meal nap that all the men took in the living room while slouched on the maroon mohair sofa or in her maroon mohair club chairs, and the sounds from the kitchen of the women laughing while cleaning up from dinner. There are at least two “famous” stories that come out of those memories.

The first story concerns washing the dishes after dinner. One sister brought the dirty dishes from the dining room into the kitchen, one sister did the washing, one sister did the drying, and Marge, the lesbian whom no one callee that, put the clean dishes back on the dining room table, ready to be put away in the breakfront. As I am writing this, I can see Grandma’s kitchen as if it still existed, and a tear or two well up.

This particular story deals with the year that the sisters and Marge were so involved in their stories, punctuated with so much laughter, that the dishes made three rounds of being brought in from the dining room, washed, dried, put back on the dining room table ready to be put away, and unknowingly being brought back into the kitchen to be washed, dried, and put back on the table again.

If you think the women were laughing and having a good time before, you can imagine how much laughter there was when they realized what had happened.

https://foodtasia.com

The second story deals with Grandma’s traditional Christmas Date Nut Pudding, her specialty, served fresh out of the oven with a warm caramel sauce. Imagine the most delicious tastes for the most traditional holiday, made by the most nurturing Grandma and helped by the most loving sisters and Marge (the lesbian daughter). That was Grandma’s Date Nut Pudding—warm, sweet, delicious, and filled with memories and Christmas cheer.

This particular story takes place over several years as Grandma and her sisters got older. One year, they forgot to make the caramel sauce for the Date Nut Pudding. The next year, they forgot to add the nuts to the Date Nut Pudding. Finally, one year later, they forgot to put the dates in the Date Nut Pudding.

The Christmas Miracle, I guess, is that each year they were so careful not to make the previous year’s mistake that each year they came up with a new one. They were always so tickled, not upset at all, that they laughed all the way through cleaning up from dinner.

I think it was the year they forgot the dates, and they laughed so long and so hard that as I mentioned earlier, they ended up washing and drying the same dishes three times.

After dinner was cleared and the dishes cleaned and put away, everyone congregated in the living room to open gifts. Grandma was always so pleased with whatever she was given and chirped as if they were the most amazing, most welcome, most needed, most beautiful gifts she had ever received in her many years.

We, in turn, made sure to show great pleasure in our gifts of gloves, ear muffs, socks, underwear, a box containing more homemade candy and cookies, and every year, a pair of Grandma’s famous, red, hand-crocheted, wool, ankle-height slippers.

A highlight gift was always an envelope with a Christmas card, apparently from Gradma’s long-time collection of cards, which by now were antiques or at least collectibles. In the envelope were two crisp dollar bills; even in those days, $2.00 was not worth a lot, but the gesture was greatly appreciated. Who knows, for Grandma, maybe the $2.00 was a great sacrifice!

The sisters and Marge always worked together and gave each one of us one gift, which was most likely a re-gift, but again greatly appreciated.

Hugs and kisses all around, and then it was time to revisit the dining room once more for leftover ham, turkey, and many delicious sides, and yet another helping of date nut pudding (with or without the carmel sauce, nuts, and/or dates) and a slice of Clara’s, who fancied herself a baker, famous store-bought angel food cake, which she decorated in shocking pink frosting and more shocking pink sprinkles. In fairness to Clara, her cookies were homemade and delicious, especially the butter spritz ones and the rum balls.

Early evening, Robert and I would say our goodbyes and head home, sometimes under roadway blizzard conditions and always with heavy holiday traffic. Grandma always packed us a shopping bag full of leftovers.

I wouldn’t have missed those times no matter the weather, and I miss them and to this day, hold them with fond, fond memories.

How my memories and stories usually appear.

I find it interesting how this happens to me. My memories, dreams, and often general thoughts arrive in a complete picture, a vision. The memory only takes up a few seconds of my thinking. This story, then, is the result of my wanting to turn a recent vision into words that will, as closely as possible, share the experience with you.

My husband Gregory (RIP) lived with dementia/Alzheimer’s Disease for 12 years. The memory that was the catalyst for this story brought back detailed, loving/loved feelings of when I first met him some 41 years ago, and when we first began our courting.

I had a “flash” about Gregory (RIP) and my early relationship.

On the way to visit my older Aunt Dolores for Mother’s Day in Lake Zurich, Illinois, the route took me past Portwine Road in the town of Riverwoods, Illinois. When we first met, my husband Gregory lived just up the road at the Ryerson Conservation Area.

In the few seconds it took to cross the intersection, I flashed a fond remembrance of my early time with Gregory, when we first met in the 1970s. The brief vision, overwhelming, arrived with a lifetime of memories, details, and love.

The times when Gregory and I met were complicated.

The 1970s were a time of renewal of the continued ERA fight to amend the Bill of Rights to explicitly prohibit sex discrimination against women. It was also during the 1969 post-Stonewall Gay Liberation Movement.

At the same time, many men, gay or straight, were looking at their role in relation to women and to male stereotype behavior.

Ironically, we are still dealing with these issues some fifty years later!

This is who we were when we first met.

When we first met, Gregory was a bisexual man, recently moved to Chicago with his wife of seven years, Barbara. He had a male lover in Boston, Peter. Gregory was a “stay-at-home husband” working to become a writer, and he was thirsting for contact with other people, especially men, who shared his interests. He joined The Men’s Gathering in his search. More on this later.

I was a homosexual man, a lifelong resident of Chicago, teaching elementary school, living with my same-sex partner, Robert, having our 13-year relationship break up as we grew apart.

This is how we first met.

Gregory and I met at a men’s awareness group, which was part of The Men’s Gathering. The Monday night meeting group we both attended consisted of gay, straight, and bisexual men — single, married, divorced; of all races and ages.

I can close my eyes and picture exactly what Gregory looked like when he walked into the room. Khaki slacks, a navy blue Lacoste shirt, a wide brown leather belt, Docksiders without socks. It was “lust at first sight.”

Gregory reports that he experienced the same “lust at first sight” when he saw me across the room in my tight blue jeans, flannel shirt, and tennis shoes.

It was a time of sexual freedom, not only for gay men and women but for everyone who was at all sexual. People would go out to the bars for the main purpose of hooking up for a one-night stand.

It was pre-AIDS, and a lot of younger people were very promiscuous. I am not using that term in a pejorative way but rather in a descriptive way. Also, monogamy was not important to many of us.

Gregory’s wife was the director of the Ryerson Conservation Area.

The Conservation Area, now part of the Lake County Forest Preserve District, was quite a special place. In 1833, it was home to the first non-native settler in Lake County, Daniel Wright.

In 1928, Edward Ryerson purchased the acreage and built a cabin for his family and several cabins for their friends. In 1942, he built a summer house. Eventually, they donated the land to the Lake County Forest Preserve District, and their home became the conservation area visitors' center (a new center has since been built).

Part of the estate home had an attached housekeeper’s apartment, which eventually became a home for Gregory and his wife Barbara, as director of the conservation area.

In time, having known Gregory was bisexual, Barbara would begin pulling in the “monogamous reins.” This caused a lot of strife and frustration for them as a couple and for Gregory and me as lovers.

On their divorce, he ended up not choosing either Barbara or me, but, as he said, “I, after giving it a lot of thought, chose myself and what I needed most: The love of a man!”

The following is the flash memory that serves as the basis for this story.

Driving into the estate’s approximately two-block-long driveway, just off Port Wine Road, winding through dense forest, was always romantic for me.

At night, the drive was lit only by headlights. At one point, the drive swerved sharply to the left, then sharply to the right, and sharply to the left again — to avoid a huge tree that was smack dab in the middle of the road.

This arrival, day or night, was always a romantic announcement of the start of my visits with Gregory.

Often, Gregory and I got together for dinner. Sometimes Barbara would join us, but most nights she was off with her girlfriends.

One of the perks of Barbara’s directorship of the area was their apartment, the former housekeeper’s quarters at the back of the Ryerson home.

Arrival at their home was up a short flight of steps to the front porch, into a small reception living room, then upstairs to the kitchen, and two bedrooms; one being Gregory’s library and music room.

Gregory was not only a great cook but was early into healthy cooking with whole grains, farm-raised unprocessed protein, organic vegetables, and bulk Celestial Seasonings teas. I, on the other hand, was a McDonald’s superhero, so the differences in food for me were extreme but delicious!

Our times together were always filled with the electric static of people in a new relationship, slowly learning about each other, tentative so as not to step on toes, and with carrying a chubby or being fully erect with excitement. From the beginning, it felt like I was overwhelmingly in love with this man, and it was definitely sexually charged.

He was so good looking, well educated, intelligent, life experienced, world traveled, and thoughtful, a great “catch.” At the time, I did not consider myself a “catch” on any level.

Unbeknownst to me, he felt the same about me in all the areas he found lacking in himself: spontaneous, expressive, open, a little wild, an educator, involved in public service, and definitely openly gay.

We would take hikes in the Ryerson forest during the day and sometimes in the dark of night. It amazed me that he knew his way around the forest so well that we didn’t even take a flashlight. Also, this added to the romance as we strolled and held hands.

His library, where we spent most of our time after dinner, was well-windowed and sunny during the day. During the evening, the room was only softly lamped. One long wall of what used to be closets was retrofitted with bookcases. He had read all the books in the cases. The new, not-yet-read ones sat in piles in a corner.

I was not musical on any level short of attending Broadway musicals and singing along with my records in the 70s. He played his grand piano at a level comparable to any great pianist of the time. While he played mostly classical music and some jazz, he loved Chopin the most. While he played, I would lie under the piano on the Oriental rug on which his grand piano sat.

Later, on another Oriental rug across the room, we would exchange back rubs and/or lie arm in arm, quietly discussing our earlier life experiences, our current lives’ adventures, and our future lives’ hopes and desires.

In those days, everyone seemed to be hopping in and out of bed, and even though our first sighting of each other was one of lust, we courted for a year before consummating our relationship.

I continue to hold those memories close, even after 41+ years.

Let me repeat that the memories arrived in a complete, right-brain visual picture of Gregory and my relationship as it grew over several years, through a number of visits at various times of day and night. The memory used up a matter of one or two seconds in my thinking, but left me with sensual, sexual, electric, joyful feelings.

This story, then, was the result of my wanting to try to turn the vision into right-brain text, words that will, as closely as possible, share the experience with you. Let me know how I did…

At the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana, Illinois, and in Chicago

Memories of those days, some 50 years old, swim around in my head in the form of feelings and images. I will try to put words to them in a way that will help you see them, feel them, and imagine dancing to them. If you are close to my age, maybe you will remember them as well.

For my younger readers, those were different times! Let’s begin in the late 1960s when I was getting my degree in Liberal Arts and Sciences at the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana. In Campus Town, on Green Street, there was a bar (one of only a couple in C/U) which catered to a mixed crowd. I no longer remember its nam,e and a Google search did not find any definitive information. Gays hung out in the front, sitting and standing along the long bar that filled the front area, and “straights” were in the back, with tables and chairs. In those days, no one was carded for the drinking age. If you were underage, you just ordered a Coke!

Interestingly, there were never confrontations as the straight students passed through the gay students as they made their way to their part of the bar in the back. And the gays were not invisible: some loud, some screamers, some queens, some heavy on cologne, often face makeup and eyeliner, feminine clothing, and of course, some who in those days you might call “normal” gays.

Dancing was not allowed between people of the same sex in those days, but the gays invented “chair dancing” and “in place dancing,” so management didn’t complain. Mixed couples in the back had a tiny dance floor where they gyrated to the current jukebox hits.

The bar closed at 1:00 am on the weekends (earlier during the week). Often, a gay person would announce, “After the bar party at my place and offer their address for those who didn’t know it. These were well attended by the gays, at the parties, with underage drinking and drug use; or maybe during these “different times,” the campus police just didn’t care and ignored the goings on.

A side story: One Saturday, my lover Robert, a friend Rick, and I announced an after-bar party on the next Saturday, which would be at our place, with the additional incentive, “and there will be drag queen performers in attendance”.

We decorated the rough basement with colored Christmas lights, set up several folding tables with chairs, and created a bar area where people could drop off the liquor they usually brought to share. In the center, as a stage area for the performers, we hung an old screen door lit up with a few portable work lights, placed a planted fern next to the door, and hung an inexpensive mirror ball. We brought our stereo tape player down, and the disco-type atmosphere was ready.

What we didn’t tell anyone is that Robert, Rick, and I were to be the drag queen entertainers in attendance. We had purchased our dresses at the local Salvation Army store, found high heels that fit our masculine feet, decided how to make up our faces, and bought wigs that fit our newly created image.

We each did two numbers with a sister number (the Supremes, of course) between each set. People loved the show, loved us, and had great fun. We were the talk of the town for a long time. I might mention that this type of behavior among college students was not common at the time, at least not in Champaign/Urbana!

In Chicago, where the drinking age was more strictly enforced, one could carry forged ID cards or hang out at the Hollywood Restaurant (interestingly, on Broadway Avenue). The place was well lit, unlike the bars, but it did play disco music, although not as loud as in the bars. The added benefit of being underage was that you could order a cheeseburger or milkshake while you hung out and cruised your fellow underage gays or picked up a trick!

Many years later, in the 1970s, in Chicago, gay life was just beginning to open up. There were a number of gay bars on Broadway Avenue, between Belmont and Fullerton, including a number of drag bars. But there were still no dancing bars, and same sex couples could easily get arrested for acts of intimacy, i.e., dancing together.

There was one dancing bar called Bob’s Bistro A-Go-Go. It was located near downtown in the Old Town Area on Wells Street. The entrance was down a dark alley. There was no sign. One knocked on a door, a panel slid open, and if you looked “safe”, you were admitted. The bar was dark and dingy. A roughly made plywood bar ran along one wall, with no stools. In the corner was a jukebox.

The only reason it worked was that the owners, connected with the Mafia, paid off the police. There was an understanding between the two that to keep things looking “honest”, the police would raid the place now and then. During election years, the raids were more frequent, so the police and city officials appeared to be doing their jobs.

The understanding between the bar and the clients was that they would let people know in advance when the raid would take place, and before letting the police enter the establishment, they would announce “RAID” and flash the lights a few times.

The dancers knew to quickly rearrange themselves, gay boys grabbing the nearest lesbian dyke and lesbian dykes grabbing the nearest gay boy; therefore, no illegal, same sex dancing. If, however, you were underage or caught with drugs on your person, it was fair game for the police to take you down to the station.

Some claim that by the 1970s the glory hippie days were over, but the gay places, including the new Bijou Theater and a bar called Glory Hole (self-explanatory) were glorying (literally) in the newly liberated gay sexual revolution (think lines of guys waiting to get in). Old Town, always raw and raunchy and funky, was becoming the gayborhood. Bijou Blog

By the 1980’s things were fairly wide open. Raids only happened because of suspected underage clients and drug use, and not so much just to hassle the gays. The best place to spend Saturday evening (although open 7 days a week) was Dugan’s Bistro. Same-sex dancing was not allowed without hassle.

There was always a long line to get in. If you arrived early or knew the bouncer or one of the bartenders, or if you were a celebrity, you got in fairly quickly. If you waited long enough, eventually everyone got in.

The Bistro was known for its steel-framed, flashing light dance floor, which wore out and had to be replaced within the first year. Tall stacks of black loudspeakers filled the corners of the dance floor area, and a multitude of mirror balls decorated the place. It was rumored that many dancers developed hearing problems in later years due to the extremely loud music.

Around the perimeter of the dance floor was an elevated area with bars to purchase your drinks and places to sit and watch the crowd. There was a corner stage where go-go boys and drag queens performed. When the Disk Jockey would begin a favorite song, loud screams filled the room as people, already gyrating to the rhythm, ran to the dance floor.

As the evening wore on, more and more dancers were shirtless and in the air-conditioned space, yet humid anyway from so many dancers; perspiration sprayed, the odor of marijuana and poppers prevailed, and cigarette smoke filled the room (not prohibited in those days) with a haze, creating a stimulating, sensual, sexual, exciting environment.

Periodically, another stage would lower from the ceiling with a lip-syncing drag queen, well spot-lit and visible in the haze. Two favorite performers were there almost every night: The Bearded Lady and Wanda Lust.

Another popular dance club was on Broadway Avenue and called “Kristal Blinkers.” The favorite time to go there was for the Sunday Tea Dance. One time, Robert and I took my mom and dad out to Sunday brunch, and as a surprise, took them to a Tea Dance. Mom was a little worried about being there, but Dad loved it. He even danced with Robert. I danced with mom; again, she was a little apprehensive. That is who my mom and dad were in those early days in relation to my being gay, apprehensive about everything I did.

I previously wrote about my experience of dancing at New York City’s famous Studio 54.

I have not been in a gay bar or disco for over 30+ years, so I really cannot tell you what “gay life’ is like nowadays. I do not know where the LGBTQIA+ Community goes to dance, to pick up a trick, or just to hang out. I do know “Grinder” but have never used it.

My gay friends, over the years, hung out at each other’s beautifully furnished condos or apartments, went out to restaurants in the neighborhood or occasionally expensive ones downtown, attended the theater together, celebrated birthdays and holidays with each other, and now and then traveled the world together. These occasions together have slowed down over time.

During the twelve years my husband Gregory (RIP) and I together walked the Dementia path, we were not available for most of these joint activities. Now, I have been a widow for the last eight years, and at my age, I do not care to socialize much, let alone to “trick” around. Also, I feel that relationships are too much work. I have had my one great love, Gregory (RIP), and now enjoy my solitude.

My life is still full with my writing, my friends, my love of cooking, and now that COVID is mostly in the past, I will pick up on traveling, which I do not mind doing alone. I miss the days of “seeking and/or being in love”. But that is OK as I have many, many fond memories to keep me company and to fire my fantasies.