A Time You Grew,Your Greatest Teacher

Vol 1, No 7May, 2014

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2 Growing in Ohio – Lois Howarth Davis, UU Akron

3 The Stories of Our Lives – Kai Hannum and Christa Champion

4 Having Fun with Your Fears – Mike Amato

4 Standing Up to a Fear and Winning – Min Hannum

6 How Finding the Right Environment Can Help You Blossom – Mason McCloud

7 Birth, Life and Other Distractions – Patty O’Shea, UU Akron

8 Soaring on Angel Wings – Johanna Smith

9 A New Learning – Anne Osborne

10 Growth? – Katherine Campbell-Gaston

11 You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby – an interview with Jerry Alter, by Wendlyn Alter

16 WSUUC Youth Support the OAR – Nic Binfield and Leah Jacobs

17 A Time I Grew – Sarah Henderson

18 A Paean to Life and the Earth – David Prok

19 Practice Makes Perfect – Robert Hoerner

19 Yesterday’s Tomorrow – Chuck Homer

20 My Mother, My Teacher – Gaylene Sloane

21 Kindness – Katherine Campbell-Gaston

22 A Teacher for the Changing Times – Thomas Caldwell

24 The Sun – Ahmie Yeung

25 My Greatest Teacher – Chuck Homer

27 The Truth Teller – Anne Osborne

28 How Defeats Teach Us Values – Robert L. Tubbesing

29 Chalice V2: Building Engagement, Building Community

Chalice is an Independent Arts Publication of Members and Friends of West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church, published by the Editorial Board. Submissions of fiction, poetry, nonfiction, artwork and photography are accepted from members and friends of the church. Send all submissions, inquiries, comments, subscription or sponsorship requests to Chalice@wsuuc.org or by mail or in-person delivery to Chalice, West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church, 20401 Hilliard Blvd, Rocky River, OH 44116. 440–333–2255. Submission guidelines are available via e-mail at the above address or on the West Shore website. Persons who submit work for publication will be required to sign a release form available via e-mail or in the Story Year mailbox at the church office. If submitted photographs depict living persons, a model release should also be provided.

Subscriptions for Chalice during Story Year, October 2013 through May 2014, are $30. Individual copies are available by donation. A free, on-line expanded version of the publication will be available at the church website, www.wsuuc.org. Sponsorships are $25 per issue with acknowledgement included in each issue.

The Editors of Chalice:

Barbara G. Howell, Wendlyn Alter, Carter Marshall, Barbara Walker, Andrew Watkins, Paul Marshall

Carter Marshall – Covers

Jacquie Davis – i, 20

Wendlyn Alter – 5, magazine layout

Robert L. Tubbesing – 28

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clouds of blooms make sweet the berms edges of woods wild fields any place the wind can reach or birds can fly for no hand of man has intervened to make the trees stand ankle deep in shades from palest violet to deepest purple in the May landscape as wild Phlox burst from the earth perfume the wind dazzle the eye make spirits sing each spring in Ohio where we give thanks for earth’s eternal surprises

—Lois Howarth Davis

UU Akron

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By Kai Hannum and Christa Champion

During Story Year, West Shore’s youth community has been working on telling stories not just about things that have already happened in our lives, but also about things that might happen, and things that we would like to make happen. So some of these stories could be coming to us from a possible future.

We have learned that stories are powerful things, not just as a tool to learn from your past, but as a window into your possible future.

Let us all recognize that we are the authors of our own life stories, and that those stories are being written with every choice we make, whether we pay attention or not.

Let us all remember that with each new day, we have another chance to make a new story happen for us.

Take a few moments now to think about something that you would like to happen in your future. If you could write the story that was guaranteed to come true, what would that story be?

The following stories illustrate times of growth and mastery. More West Shore youth stories will appear in

the next issue of Chalice under the theme, Love Reaches Out. All the stories were presented at the WSUUC Sunday service on April 13, 2014.

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Mike Amato

I stand with my feet separated and my eyes focused on my friends. Our leader signals with his hands for us to start singing.

First of all, I was at a music competition with my friends. Second, it was the first competition for most of us, and everyone

was nervous. In fact, one guy had been throwing up in the car on the way over. It was NOT a fun car to be in!

Third, we were the first all-male group to ever represent Harding Middle School in any singing competition.

With all of that pressure on our backs, we would have to sing full of anxiety and stress, and with a sick tenor!

When we walked into the auditorium a kid from a different school was performing, and of course, he was totally amazing. We thought, “Oh, DANG! How are we ever gonna top that?”

We stood in our half-circle, all exchanging looks between ourselves and our music teacher in the crowd. The judge walked us through what

we were supposed to do, but to be honest I did not understand one word he said, until he said the word, “Begin.”

We all turned our heads towards the piano player and he quickly played the notes. I felt so unprepared, and I could tell everyone else did, too.

It was my first competition, and I was already defeated from the beginning of the song. Then, we split into our harmony parts, with this frightening feeling in all of us. But surprisingly, we hit each note, and suddenly I realized that we sounded great. A minute ago I was terrified, but now, this is actually quite fun! I was singing with my friends, and it was awesome. I was no longer in a state of fear.

Imagine me ten years from now. I am 24, and I love getting up on stage to make music with my best friends.

Min Hannum

I breathe in and out. When I exhale, I can see my breath. I graze my hand over my arm and feel goose bumps. I hear a loud clang, and I turn to see the iron gate has slammed

shut behind me, locking me in. I see a shadow, moving fast. Quickly, I turn and run into the forest,

with the footsteps following me. I stumble and fall to the ground. Wet leaves stick to my clammy hands. I get up and brush the leaves off, and I keep running.

I can hear the footsteps getting closer. As I run, I tell myself that those footsteps are not real. I am trying to escape what I fear the most. What I fear the most is this: me standing up here, in front of all of

you. In the dream, I turn and face the sound of the footsteps. And they disappear.

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From the manuscript collection of Wendlyn Alter

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Mason McCloud

I was terrified…

I was only 14, and my entire future was in jeopardy!

My eighth grade year was quickly coming to a close, and if I couldn’t find this one thing, my whole life would be worth nothing!

I just had to find the right… High School! One night, after finishing my few minutes of

dull homework, I was wondering if I would go to a boring school for my whole life. Could that happen to me? Would I turn out to be just average, or be a “nobody?” I tried not to let it get to me. Hours of doing nothing later, I got a call from my grandparents, Joe and Gaile Schaefer. They’re involved with the Greater Cleveland Congregations group and had recently toured a school at the Great Lakes Science Center. Of course, I was immediately interested. Who wouldn’t be? The Science Center is full of cool stuff! The school was called MC2STEM (STEM stands for Science Technology Engineering and Math). When I first heard about the school it sounded very different. That’s why I knew this school would be perfect for me, so I applied. A few weeks later, a letter came in the mail… and I GOT IN!

Now I’m finishing up my freshman year. MC2STEM has allowed me to identify and develop a number of skills in ways that are fun and exciting.

I represent the school at recruiting events. I give tours to parents who are checking out

the schools as a possibility for their children. I greet international groups like groups from

China, Jordan, Israel and Egypt. I mentor prospective students and have them

shadow me through a school day – the same experience I had that convinced me to enroll.

I have received awards for my engineering and art abilities, for my ability to carry out a plan I have in my head and for my ability to think outside of the box.

I built a speaker with special features that is still on display. Working on the speaker, I learned to solder, what each component of a circuit does, and how to create my own circuit. We included an electrolysis display.

I participated in a group story telling project, and we wrote an original song. I had the opportunity to perform my song in front of the whole school, plus parents and representatives of the Cleveland Municipal School District. (Don’t expect me to do this at church!) Even though I was very nervous, the audience responded enthusiastically to our performance. We even used the speaker I made to amplify our sound!

Finally, was part of the team that won a balsa wood bridge building contest. Our bridge is still on display. In fact it is the only one left from the contest because all the other entrants broke when tested. The other bridges broke at 15 pounds, while our bridge held over 80 pounds! (I have also learned how to be a good winner, and not brag too much.)

As you have heard from my story, my school has taught me to make presentations, to build teams, and to be more creative. I have my grandparents Gaile and Joe and my whole UU community to thank for helping me find the right school. I would like to say thank you for giving me this chance.

I like to think about my future and wonder what the bridges and skyscrapers I build will look like. Whatever they look like, everything I build will reflect the influence that my grandparents and this church have had on me!

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Patty O'Shea, UU Akron

I began a new job this week. I have no desk, no phone, and no computer. I am an aimless gypsy, wandering with a folder and a legal pad, jotting down ideas as they occur to me. I am so lost in the throes of a new agency finding its identity, that nobody would notice if, instead of a legal pad, I brought a sketch pad to work and rendered my ideas in messy soft pastels. Which I think I may do next week. But for now I am jotting down program ideas to help this fledgling department towards finding a healthy identity.

This week I used the swirling snowflakes and cloud-dodging sun as my muses. I was not bored—I rarely am—but I lacked focus, and I lacked myself a little, which, as the Buddhists know, is not an entirely bad thing. But in the workplace, since it is I who am the worker, a sense of who I am and how I will fit into the making of this hospice program might be a good idea.

I have been carrying around my birth certificate all week, documented proof that I came into being on Dec. 4, 1955. I carried it because at the beginning of the week I needed to prove I was a US citizen for my new employer, and of course I could not find my Social Security card. Because I am not organized, my birth certificate did not find its way back home, and travelled with me in the folder all week. I took it out to look at it several times, and as my 54th year on earth drew to a close, I realized that a document that says “I am” came in handy.

You see, I was standing on a threshold, a precipice even, in some ways. In the waning days of my early fifties, a job abruptly ended and another begun, I felt frightened, sad, woeful, vexed, enchanted, loving, and hopeful. I looked at this document typed on an old-fashioned typewriter, telling me that my name is Patricia, that my father was a lab operator, that my mother’s occupation was immaterial, because there was no place for it on the document, but that her six live births (and one still birth) by the age of 36 were important. Looking at my birth certificate with this random information grounded me on this earth, offering evidence of my clay body if not my troubled soul. It told of bits and pieces of my earthly beginnings, someday to be coupled with a similar document

revealing the details of my escape. Friday night by midnight, I returned the birth

certificate to its home, a huge dictionary whose pages house all my important documents. (In my family of origin, such papers were filed between the pages of the Bible, but the dictionary seems more appropriate for someone like me, for whom endless combinations of words point to God, not-God, the void, and all the limitless possibilities of the creative impulse.) So, the document, which for the past week has grounded me and reminded me roughly of who I am, was once again flattened into two-dimensional space. But I will abide in three dimensions, at the very least.

I know that it is okay that I deleted a couple “i”s and “a”s from my name since it was given to me, and that my mother’s occupation was as important as the number of live births, that the lab operator who was my father had a beautiful voice and spirit, and that as I cross the threshold to age 55, I was, I am, and I will be okay. There will always be words to string together, messy soft pastels to render life’s colorful moments, people to love, dogs to companion, and relationships to grieve. I assume that my death certificate will miss many of the high points as the randomly sought details of my death are entered, but at least I did not miss them. At least I have showed up every day, sometimes more alert than others, to participate in this messy, brutal, inscrutable, enchanting life.

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Johänna Smith

I confess I was more than a little excited to be participating in the 2013 Cleveland PRIDE parade as an angel. I was also a little apprehensive. I wasn't certain what to expect, and I wasn't certain how I'd react.

We gathered to put on our wings, and several of us spent more than a little time battling the PVC pipe frames, the sheet draping, and the lack of assembly instructions. Thanks to willing and experienced helpers, duct tape and safety pins, we were all dressed and winged in time.

Even though the sky was a bit overcast, there were reassuring rainbows as far as the eye could see. As if on cue, the sky cleared and the sun shone bright. There we were, a nervous and excited group of inexperienced angels, dressed in bright white with enormous outstretched wings that made movement cumbersome at best. The wing

frames are immense, necessarily so, for it is ultimately our job to protect.

Finally, after seemingly brief instruction, we formed up single file and waited. Amongst the glitter and glitz of the parade participants and street vendors hawking every imaginable combination of rainbow paraphernalia, we stood out.

A young man, dressed in parade attire consisting almost entirely of fishnet, came up and gave me a hug. He was emotional, and declared his need to thank me before he was too emotional to speak. We chatted for a moment, and his genuine appreciation for our support humbled me.

We flowed into the parade formation behind our church banner, and marched along the parade route. The breeze escalated a bit, cooling us, but also catching our wings and creating havoc. It was

a struggle to hold the pipe frames in place, and pay attention to the stop and go traffic pattern of the parade.

We were behind the marching band, near the very front of the parade, and we had angel aides alongside to deal with wing mishaps. So many people lined the route, I half wondered if there were actually many people participating as marchers in the parade!

Spirits were high, parade watchers exuberant, in part responding to the Supreme Court rulings earlier in the week.

I caught our reflection in the side of a building as we marched, and it was powerful. Angel after angel, all shapes and sizes, marching single file. Our bright white in stark contrast to the sea of colors worn by revelers and participants.

The combination of breeze, marching and tremendous wingspan, caused a few mishaps with some of our wings. I ended up holding my wings tightly to their frame as I marched, and it was painful. Yet, as I marched I kept thinking of the pain

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that those I have come to love endure daily, the pain of being cast out in a society that promises inclusion. A bit of wing trauma is so small in comparison; I can endure a bit of discomfort today. I marched on.

And then, as we neared the FREE stamp landmark, the call rang out: "Angels Up!"

There were protestors gathered, as is their right, shouting angry and condemnatory rhetoric at the parade goers. It was our job to stand between the anger and the parade, to stand wing to wing, creating a barrier of protection.

I have been affiliated with Christianity my entire life. It has been, and is, my great privilege to have loved, and been loved by some of the most amazing and affirming people, who were strong Christians. For me, this wasn't a religious battle: Christian vs. non-Christian, or even fundamentalist Christian vs. liberal Christian. I know Jesus Loves.

I belong to a Unitarian Universalist

congregation. We believe in LOVE. I worship and proclaim a God who is all LOVE. For me, this was about acceptance of my neighbor. For me, this was about standing up for what I believe. For me, this was about love.

So, we stood. In a long line, along the curb, wing tip to wing tip; we became a barrier of love and protection. There were many thank yous from participants in the parade. There were hugs and peace signs, and happy faces directed at us, while behind us, the angry words and mean spirited ranting blared on and on.

Still, unwavering, we stood. This was, without doubt, one of the most

profoundly moving experiences of my life. I cried. I smiled. I cheered. I concentrated hard

on radiating love and acceptance. Through it all, until the parade concluded, I

stood. I stood on the side of love.

The woman speaking to us was Bright, articulate and African-American. She told us of her mother’s teachings, Her childhood stories, Her young-adult encounters with their many learnings, And of her now Where much had changed and So much hadn’t. A question asked her at the end was this: ”Does ever a day go by that you don’t think of Race?” A pause, however brief, And then her solemn answer: “No.” I’m sure I’d heard this stated in the past And filed it in my mental folder marked “Injustice” But this time her quiet answer somehow Crept into my heart and echoed there And then I knew that I would never be the same.

—Anne Osborne

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To tell the truth, I’m worn out from growing.

Oh, I know we’re supposed to grow till the day we die. But frankly I feel immense from all the growing I’ve done in my lifetime. I can barely wrap my arms around myself, I must be 10 feet tall!

My sister kept telling me to grow up when we were kids. And now I’m thinking, “Just what kind of growing are we talking about?”

I guess I could have grown angry, resentful, selfish, disillusioned, avoidant. Right? Isn’t that what we say, “She’s grown bitter, he’s grown self-absorbed.”

Well, I’ve had to navigate around those ways of growing. I picture this fancy cruise liner cutting a wide berth as they say, around all the unattractive and dangerous spots on this planet, like Somalia or an iceberg in the Arctic. Those are dangerous places to end up. It’s not easy to steer clear of them. I come so close. It could happen if I don’t pay attention to where I’m going.

So for the most part, I’ve managed to only briefly visit those dark lands. I’ve not inhabited them permanently. And I’m not sure how it’s happened that life’s allowed me kinder options. No aha moment when I realized “Wow, I really grew wiser, stronger, more compassionate because of this challenge, or that grief, or this disappointment.” I just look at my life as sometimes a puzzle, a mystery. And if I protest too loudly about being tired of growing, see it as a half-truth. —Katherine Campbell-Gaston

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An interview with Jerry Alter, by Wendlyn Alter

Jerry loves his current apartment, perched above the Rocky River reservation. “Because it’s such a nice place. Not only that, too, it’s a piece of history. Right where my current apartment stands, once stood an old streetcar barn called the Rocky River barn.” As a train enthusiast, that detail delights him. More practically, the highly convenient access to modern public transportation draws many people with disabilities to this apartment building.

Jerry had a rough start in life. He was born with autism at a time when the public had never heard the word (“Your brother’s artistic? What’s wrong with that?”) and even most mental health professionals knew next to nothing about the condition. Jerry was first institutionalized in 1956 when he was just five years old, and spent his childhood and adolescence in a succession of hospitals and residential programs where no one knew quite what to do for him.

“He helped the doctors more than they helped him,” our father always said. “They learned about autism from Jerry.”

During his three years at the Columbus Children’s Psychiatric Hospital, Jerry finally learned to talk intelligibly. (His first word was “metronome.”) Then he returned home for several years, attending public elementary school on a flexible part-time basis. But his autistic behaviors continued to be extremely disruptive, relentless, and sometimes terribly loud and destructive.

I want to hear the story in his own words about how he made the difficult journey from an out-of-control child with full-blown autism to a man who lives life on his own terms, independently—and did it without all the resources and knowledge about autism available to help children today.

But instead of his own words, Jerry begins to quote almost verbatim from an (unpublished) essay our mother wrote when Jerry was 18.

“After six years without any professional help whatsoever—Mom and Dad and I were completely discharged earlier from the state residential school in Columbus with no follow up work—Mom and Dad sought the advice of two psychiatrists and a

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psychiatric social worker. And all three of these behavior specialists told Mom and Dad to send me away to a state hospital, that I would never be able to function in any capacity in the outside world. They felt that this huge boy still demanding too much attention, in too many ways immensely dominating our family life, would jeopardize the emotional lives of you two sisters in your own early stage of adolescence. See, a lot of my speech sounded rambling and disoriented… and I became even more rigid in my ritualistic behavior.

“The summer I was 14-1/2 years of age, I was admitted to Massillon State Hospital. This was the hardest time, most disappointing and most heartbreaking time that they had endured thus far because they had been told that this was the end of the road. It seemed as if all the effort and money and sacrifices that had been poured into me all those years had been for nothing. They had been advised at various times along the way to abandon the struggle because any chance of a recovery would be too slight to gamble with.”

Jerry switches back to his own voice and tells me about the six deeply miserable months he endured on the adult admitting ward at Massillon. He was assigned to a cavernous dorm room with 30 patient beds. There was no privacy—the bathroom was a popular hangout and the toilets had no stalls. The food “tasted like garbage.” During visits, our parents found him with bruises and black eyes. The attendants put him in arm restraints. He was so heavily medicated with antipsychotic drugs that he slept much of the time and his hands trembled too much to hold a fork. Later it was discovered that he was being administered massive doses of both Thorazine and Valium—a toxic combination.

“They really doped me up with all those tranquilizers. That's why I hate it when psychiatrists prescribe me those hard tranquilizers like Thorazine and Stelazine and Haldol, because they kept me in bed 24 hours a day.”

Looking back, Jerry says, “"I thought that Massillon State Hospital would be open like Happy Acres1 which was open, where I ran out frequently into a big yard there. But when I discovered that the admitting ward was closed tighter than a drum and that I was unable to run out of the building onto the grounds like I did at Happy Acres

1 The nickname our family used for the Columbus Psychiatric Children’s Hospital

I was crushed!" What a brutal shock he received at Massillon. Such experiences would shatter most of us—imagine how it must have felt to a 14-year-old with autism’s excruciatingly heightened senses and need for routine.

In a letter to her sister after the first weekend visit, our mother wrote, ”He kept asking me why we had sent him to jail! I came away from there with about the most broken heart I have ever had in my life and a deep ache I have never felt before… I thought perhaps he would be way, way out if you know what I mean but he actually had had all the silliness jolted out of him like a shock treatment and he was more reasonable and sober than I’ve ever seen him.”

Later, “He doesn’t like it but neither he nor I have ever put it into words… I think he takes it all like a real trouper and I really respect him tremendously that he doesn’t whine about it all.”

Through my parents’ persistent advocacy, in 1966 he was transferred to the newly opened Hawthornden State Hospital adolescent rehabilitation program. The Hawthornden program used a rigorous strategy of punishments—15 laps around the gym, pushups, and cancelling weekend home visits—and rewards such as outings and commissary privileges to elicit good behavior.

“I think of it as adolescent boot camp. They treated us the way they treated Dad in boot camp in World War II… They used to watch me everywhere I went, they used to watch me closely.”

At this point I’m wondering how Jerry managed the precipitous leap from such highly controlled environments to independent living. “Did you ever get to practice making your own decisions about things?” I ask. “Did you at least get to choose your own rewards?” He tells me that even the rewards were allocated by the staff.

Then my brother assures me—quietly but vehemently—that he did have the power to make a decision.

“The decision to get well enough to get out of there.”

Jerry’s resolution only strengthened over the

following two years. He had to be transferred to Hillside Rehabilitation Hospital for seven months for the tuberculosis he’d contracted at Massillon, but at least he was not among the more than half of all students found to be infected with gonorrhea. (One wonders where the eagle-eyed

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staff were while that was happening.) One of the boys in Jerry’s class was strangled to death by another student.

At last, in 1968 Jerry and two other boys in the program were chosen to try apartment living.

“They felt that I was ready to step out into the outside world.”

Marty was on the autism spectrum; he and Jerry had been at the Columbus Children’s Psychiatric Hospital together, but while Jerry had a six year hiatus at home attending public school, Marty had been hospitalized almost continuously since he was seven years old. Alan was (in the terminology of the time) manic depressive and mildly mentally retarded. Jerry and Marty were just 17; Alan was 19.

“I got to see the apartment the first time when Mom and Dad brought me there and picked up the key from Hawthornden. It was a wood frame house that was once a private home that was converted into three apartments. We were in the smallest one in the front. It was really small and cramped. It was a really little place. I remember it

had one living room and one wee little kitchen and bathroom. That’s all it had. We were cramped in there. I slept on a double bed and Marty slept on the couch and Alan slept on a portable rollaway bed. We were squished. When I saw the apartment, I said, ‘Wow, it’s so small!’ And Dad told me that you start out small.

“It was late in September, 1968. Marty was the first to go back. He only stayed there a week. Alan stayed there for a month.”

Marty’s hyperactivity raged out of control, while Alan sank into a deep depression and stayed in bed day and night. Jerry had been given the responsibility of getting Alan up and ready for work, but it was a hopeless task—even Alan’s parents couldn’t budge him.

“They went back to Hawthornden. After they left, I felt relieved because I no longer had to worry about being pressured by my roommates. Having these two boys with their problems and having to contend with them, that was too much pressure on me.” Alan eventually drifted into a permanent coma and died at age 28. Jerry doesn’t know what became of Marty.

With fierce determination, 17-year-old Jerry

Proud Jerry at his first apartment. He began living independently at age 17.

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remained in the apartment by himself. He rose at 5:30 a.m., made his own breakfast, and took two buses and the Rapid across Cleveland to the Vocational Guidance and Rehabilitation Services (VGRS) center for job training. He wrote his weekly rent check for $20 and delivered it to the landlord in the adjoining apartment every Sunday evening. He washed his clothes at a nearby Laundromat.

“Before you made the move, did you get any kind of training at Hawthornden about how to live on your own?” I ask Jerry.

“Actually, I did not get much training. They didn’t teach me to cook because we ate in the cafeteria at Hawthornden. When I first got to the apartment, I ate dinner at Mars restaurant after work. At VGRS, I walked over to the cafeteria at the Cleveland Society for the Blind.” Later Jerry taught himself to cook at home. He ate lots of spaghetti.

It’s incredible to me that Hawthornden did almost nothing to prepare the boys for apartment living. These young teenagers were turned loose to make their own way without essential life skills, and the fact that Jerry made a success of it is remarkable.

“I had to be at VGRS Monday through Friday of each week and I was there for seven or eight months, and then in the spring of 1969 I got a job at Anzac where we assembled CB radio antennas. Anzac made me work a lot of overtime, as I remember.” Jerry worked 9-1/2 hours a day all week and a half day or more on Saturday. “That was a lot of pressure on me and that gave me the impression that Anzac worked the most overtime in Northeast Ohio!”

“Whatever the case was, it turned out that I sure was not ready for it. I got fired from there in late January, 1972. What happened was that I had to have change for the bus because I had to have exact fare. And the stores around there wouldn’t give me any change. They said only a bank gives change. And by then the banks were closed.

“The people who worked in the stores and the gas station there told me I would have to walk home—but it was too far to walk—or hitchhike. That made me mad, when they told me to hitchhike, because it’s dangerous to hitchhike. When I went to the public relations girl called Susie for change for bus fare, she said ‘I don’t have any change, sorry,’ and that made me so mad that I swung my fist at her. I didn’t want to be stranded. Them not helping me at all, there, was

barbarism. I was fired from there for that reason. I took the bus home—I think I went up to a stranger and I asked a stranger to help me out and they did.”

Despite the long hours and bad ending, Jerry had managed to last nearly three years on his first job. He persevered doggedly through a brief stint refurbishing television picture tubes (that job ended when he accidentally cracked the glass on a rare Japanese model), a year studying at Griswold Technical Institute, a few months repairing electronics at Goodwill Industries, and another vocational training program at Marymount Rehabilitation Services before finally giving up his effort to be employed.

“In February of 1976, my vocational rehabilitation counselor took me out of Marymount and I have not worked since then. At that time, in fall of 1976, I tried to get my case with the Bureau of Vocational Rehabilitation reopened but they denied it; they said the case could not be reopened. That made me mad, so I gave up on that one. My mom told me that suing the Vocational Rehabilitation Bureau for not re-opening my case would be like trying to get blood out of a turnip.” Jerry laughs at the colloquialism.

But during the general layoff at Goodwill Industries, his case worker had taken him to the Social Security Administration office and helped him apply for disability, so the inability to work did not mean Jerry had to give up his treasured independence.

Jerry says despite living alone, he wasn’t lonely. He visited our parents’ house (60 miles away) on weekends, and while at his apartment, he loved listening to music. This was quite an evolution for someone who as a little boy broke his father’s classical records because the experience of music was unbearably intense. “I didn’t have a TV; instead I listened to records and I had a radio too. I did buy a new Allied stereo outfit in the summer of 1969. And I still have it.” He had to make installment payments—the stereo cost more than ten weeks of his pay—but for Jerry, it was an excellent investment in quality of life.

After “starting small,” in time he moved up to successively more comfortable living quarters, finally landing in his current Lakewood digs.

Jerry has been living in Cleveland all his adult life and has made the city his own. He’s attended several churches regularly and is a loyal fan of local musicians and dance troupes. He’s proud of

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his personal letter writing campaign that once got the Singing Angels a booking in Milwaukee, for which Founding Director Bill Boehm thanked my brother by name from the stage during a concert. Jerry also enjoys the many and varied free entertainment venues Cleveland offers, such as Parade the Circle and the frequent music programs at the various libraries.

“To get around town, I use the RTA buses and Rapid trains.” He also rides the Amtrak trains—“I love that!” Jerry often travels around the continental U.S. by himself via Amtrak. He is an outspoken advocate for both public transportation and Amtrak, writing letters to legislators and using social media to promote their cause.

“I like to go to the Western Reserve Historical Society, such as the History Center in University Circle in Cleveland, but more often to Hale Farm and Village.” Jerry sews and donates period costumes for the docents there, earning him recog-nition at the Historical Society’s annual banquet.

“I oftentimes go to the Colonial Arcade in downtown Cleveland to eat my lunch, and I’ve also been eating lunch on Saturday afternoons at Shaker Square. There’s a restaurant there where they have hot dogs, called Diner Dogs—that’s a

really neat place on Shaker Square.” John’s Diner in Lakewood is another favorite due to its ambience as a converted lounge car from the old Nickel Plate railroad that ran through Cleveland on its way between Buffalo and Chicago.

“And once a month I attend the meeting of the Autism Society of Greater Cleveland on Tuesday evening.”

Jerry loves his hard-won independent lifestyle. It’s not always a picnic—he still gets uncomfortable reminders sometimes that independence is a right that has to be continually earned. But he remains determined.

“I’ve come a long, long way.” He smiles. Jerry smiles so much these days that his face has grown quite beatific.

“Like they say, ‘I’ve come a long way, baby.’”

Jerry savors independent living. Shown here is his extensive music library, including many vintage 33, 45 and 78 rpm records. He even owns an antique Edison phonograph with a collection of recorded cylinders., which he plans to donate to the Western Reserve Historical Society.

Note: “You’ve come a long way, baby” was a phrase from a 1968 ad campaign that widely entered the popular culture.

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Nic Binfield and Leah Jacobs

You’re a ten year old with autism. You are frustrated because you can’t communicate with people. Everyone, including your own family, doesn’t understand how your mind works. You can’t express yourself because you can’t find the words you need; things like social interaction don’t come easy. Friends are hard to make, because they simply don’t want to be your friend. Your senses are hypersensitive and even the smallest thing can make you have a meltdown. You’re different, but you are yourself. Autism is part of you, but it isn’t “you.”

Now I look out into this congregation and I see Hispanic, black, Asian, white, gay, straight, big, small, short and tall people. All these things are uncontrollable, and are part of you. But are they actually “you”? Many look at people with autism as if they are only autistic. As if there’s nothing else to them. But there is so much more.

This misunderstanding is what the Organization for Autism Research (OAR) tries to prevent. The OAR helps parents, families, individuals with autism, teachers and caregivers answer their day-to-day questions. This is solely what this organization is all about. The OAR entails systematic investigations of variables associated with positive outcomes in such areas as education, communication, self-care, social skills, employment, behavior, adult relationships, and community living.

The more research we discover, the better understanding we’ll have of autism, with this we can help those with autism grow a better social life, grow better self-confidence, and help them discover more about their diagnoses. With more research we can also help our community grow in understanding, tolerance, and acceptance towards those diagnosed. With this research we can help sprout a better community.

This is why the youth have chosen OAR as the charity we will support this year. For more information, visit http://www.researchautism.org/

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Sarah Henderson

Who would believe that one of the worst things to happen in my life, led to a time of profound personal growth.

It was twenty years ago that I had a stroke, at age 42, that took away most of who I was at that time. The stroke caused paralysis of my entire left side, took away much of my cognitive ability, my ability to speak in an articulate manner and the ability to grab the correct word to speak fluently. I was determined to walk again so I could ski, read again, and most importantly to relearn the basics of cooking, managing a household and what it took to raise my daughters, ages 3 and 17.

In the midst of all of my rehabilitation, slowly, ever so slowly my mind began to fall into a deep black hole of depression. I could barely function. It was like trying to walk in molasses. My will to do things simply left and even forcing myself to take care of my little one was an effort. I wanted to sleep all of the time, get away from it all and finally decided there was only one way to find relief, and that was suicide.

Once that thought crept into my mind, it wouldn’t leave. Morning, noon and night, it’s all I thought about. Around and around it went until, one day, I took my daughter to a friend’s house and tried, unsuccessfully to slit my wrists. All that did was to land me in a psych ward. After the allotted week, I asked if there was an aftercare place where I could go so I wouldn’t kill myself. I needed to be supervised. The doctor handed me a brochure entitled, Recovery Inc. and sent me on my way. I needed more than a piece of paper.

Fast forward through two more hospital stays, one more serious suicide attempt and finally a three- week stay at a hospital where I received ECT treatments, and I finally had the will to live, though I didn’t know how, as I was still in a depressed state.

I looked at the Recovery Inc. brochure, “a mental health self-help program,” and decided to give it a try. After attending my first meeting, I knew I had found a place with supportive people and a structured format that might help me to get well.

Way back in 1937, Dr. Abraham Low invented a method* for helping his patients prevent relapses, which were inevitable. In the days of Freudian psychology, Dr. Low discovered a way for patients to cope with their symptoms by changing their thoughts. He created over a hundred tools, which are short phrases, to help his patients get well and stay well.

I went to two meetings a week for a year, and by studying Dr. Low’s books, practicing the method and memorizing the tools, I not only got well, but I began to grow.

I learned that is was okay to be average, that my perfectionism was an unhealthy way to live. I learned to spot my temper, both angry and fearful temper. (Fearful temper is anger turned inward, and I was the queen of fearful temper.) I could “replace insecure thoughts with secure thoughts.” I still have suicidal ideation. I now know that is a thought that often goes with depression, and it is just a thought which can be changed.

As I learned more about the method, I was able to start a Recovery International group and have led the Rocky River meeting for seven years. It is so rewarding to watch individuals learn the method and get back to living productive lives. I have become a better person and have achieved an average level of inner peace. The more I read and study Dr. Low’s material, the stronger I grow.

*Dr. Low’s method was actually cognitive behavioral training, which is popular now. He was way ahead of his time.

Author’s note: There were three components of my recovery from clinical depression: help from a qualified therapist; Recovery Inc. (now called Recovery International); and my own “will to effort and the will to bear discomfort,” the two wills which Dr. Low said will get us well.

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O World how much I loved you and all who dwelt therein The firmament of Heaven the earth whereon I trod The flowers in great profusion dance in colors that amaze And clouds create illusions as they race across the sky How richly you’ve embraced me and nurtured in my soul The gifts of all creation that overwhelmed me so I drank of all its fullness I wanted not to go But lo my life accomplished I ne’re could here remain For life’s not everlasting we’re here but for a while To live the life we’re given to traverse on this plain And then our spirit leaves us this mortal flesh and bone The love that we have nurtured is all that will remain The gifts that we’ve been given were never ours to keep By sharing them with others a legacy we reap And pass on to the ages to be cherished ever more By those whose lives have blessed ours and those who we’ve adored —David Prok

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Robert J. Hoerner

I was practicing casting, throwing a three-and-one-half-inch-long Gray Ghost. While, as its name implies, it was composed mostly of chickadee feathers, copper thread wrapping and miniscule gold wire. It took me 45 minutes to tie, so I was very proud of it.

My practice was taking place at a small lake near my home. I was casting between two large oak trees which required a certain skill in keeping the fly centered. There was, however, enough room, so that the task was not really onerous, until an unexpected burst of wind across the two trees cast my fly into the branches of the oak tree to the east.

It was a west wind. I ratiocinated and gave the line the hardest tug, which, in my opinion, would not break the leader. While it didn’t, it did force the hook on the fly into a fairly stout oak branch—at least that was the way I discerned it. What to do?

Some boys approaching their teen years had been watching me and offered the smallest one of their companions $5 if he could retrieve my fly for me. He counseled with his buddies, and they finally agreed on a technique. The method they agreed on would produce $5 for each, and each would be required to help the others retain my fly. Their method involved one boy standing on the other’s shoulders—the oak was too large in circumference to be shinnied up—and then the smallest boy climbing on the shoulders of the other boys until he reached the branch below the branch where my fly was caught.

The smallest boy carefully shuffled his way out that branch until he was right below my fly.

But then—then, the branch he was standing on broke and he came tumbling down. Fortunately, the pond of water was

between the two tall trees, and, although he got very wet, he was not injured. But I still didn’t have my fly back.

The branch it was stuck on was skinnier than the branch that broke, so it did not appear that any of the boys could crawl out that branch to retrieve my Gray Ghost. So, again, the question presented itself—what to do?

I then remembered that my 76-year-old father had bought me a .22 caliber rifle last Christmas. That gave me an idea. I arranged with the boys, who had made my problem their own, to return the next Sunday afternoon.

I got my rifle and lots of ammunition and met them at the lake the next Sunday. After discussion, we agreed that we would attempt to shoot the branch in two. I went first and each boy got his turn until we were successful.

I missed, however, and then each boy in turn missed. It was again my turn, and I missed again. Each boy took his second shot. The smallest boy nicked the branch but did not bring it down.

The competition continued until the smallest boy got his ninth turn and severed the branch, depositing my fly into the lake where I promptly retrieved it.

I was reluctant to cast again, so what the boys and I agreed on was that one boy would carry the lure to the far end of the little lake, and then I would reel it in, across to the other end of the lake, in the hope of catching a fish.

To our surprise, the stratagem worked well, and we caught five nice fish using it.

My father cleaned the fish. My mother fried them in butter, and we all had outstanding fish for Sunday night supper.

Yesterday’s tomorrow arrived with the sun. Mountains glowed capped in glittering diamonds And gold laid down by genius hand. Oceans sang songs with the shoreline and there too Necklaces of foam and sparkles gurgled in tune And cast themselves before us. And as it ascended, sunbeams cast lace of trees on the wall Defining branches and leaves as they danced in the sun. Dancing and dancing as my heart sang along. As Yesterday’s sky faded away, Tomorrow’s blossomed And a new life was born. Oh, weary traveler, a new life awaits you too. Drink it in.

—Chuck Homer

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Gaylene Sloane

I received many of my UU views from my mother, Virginia Parker, though she was raised in the Church of the Brethren, a close cousin of the Mennonites. My mother and I were close. She was as honest as they come. It was something she endeavored to teach me along with respect for and acceptance of others, cleanliness and thrift. Though she encouraged me to stand up for myself, she would readily come to my defense. When we moved to Cleveland, our neighbor Frank, a tough, retired Cleveland cop, told my mother he didn't like kids and to keep her 'brat' at home. One day she looked out to see me standing next to Frank in his rose garden. She came flying over to rescue me, only to be told, “She's not doing any harm—leave her alone!”

My mother also had a sense of humor. My father's family were, for the most part, self-righteous fanatics. They used to brag that they were descended from Sir Frances Drake and George III. My mother's remark was that it figured they'd

be descended from a pirate and a tyrant. And then there was the time we got to giggling during communion and nearly choked on the wafers.

My mother had been an RN. One of the stories she told me was about when Shirley Temple came to Cincinnati. While she was there her African American dancing partner became ill. Cincinnati General refused to admit him because of his race. My mother was proud that Cincinnati Jewish Hospital, where she worked as a head nurse, admitted him and took care of him.

There were some things that I learned from my mother which were not quite so positive. She, her mother and one of my aunts were into visiting 'readers and advisers'. I learned from those experiences how very much havoc those people can wreak in peoples' lives.

And, finally, there was my mother's death by suicide, which showed me the incredible depth of grief.

Jacquie Davis

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In fourth grade Mrs. Faulk didn’t like me. I could tell by her eyes, her pursed lips when she called my name. I talked too much, day dreamed. She shamed me once for erasing a spelling word, made me stand by her desk, stay in for recess, used me as an example. Prodded by her actions, my classmates mocked and teased me as fourth graders can do, “Kathy is a cheater”. Mrs. Faulk taught us how easy it is to hurt another, to wound. In fifth grade Mrs. Weik loved me. I knew it. Despite my chatter, poor attention. She cared what I thought, encouraged me, channeled my energy. She was kind. She loved each and every one of us: the clown, the disruptive, the bully.

In my thirties I heard Mrs. Weik was dying. I wrote her, told her she was the best teacher I ever had, that she taught me kindness and I knew she loved me. I’ve thought many times about kindness. How easy it is to extend to a child, a stranger, the lost and wounded the person standing alone, the bone weary clerk, the mouse babies whose nest is torn open by a rake; how you gently cover them again, sit and wait for their cries to cease. I don’t want to be kind to the rude, the angry, the thoughtless, the ungrateful. It is hard. Then I remember Mrs. Weik. —Katherine Campbell-Gaston

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Thomas P. Caldwell

In the 1950’s, Apopka , Florida, was a sleepy little town, just north of Orlando. Few folks had money. Agriculture—citrus, pasture, vegetables, and greenhouses—was the means of making a living. Racial segregation and Jim Crow were still alive and well in the South, including central Florida.

Apopka had Apopka Memorial High School for the whites and Phyllis Wheatley HS for the blacks. John Land, a young man at the time, would become mayor of Apopka. Sixty years later, in 2014, he would serve his last term as mayor, making him the longest tenured US mayor. The principal of AMHS for 43 years was Roger A. Williams, an officer in WWII, who “ruled the roost” with his students and teachers, much the same way he had with his men doing battle with the Germans.

Apopka was quiet, sleepy, not a place you would expect “higher learning” or intellectual challenge.

A young woman from Memphis, Tennessee arrived in Apopka in the early 60’s with her husband. Both had graduated from Memphis State University and came to Florida to be teachers in public education. Myrtle Hubbard would become an English teacher at AMHS. Her husband would become a teacher at Ocoee HS in a neighboring community.

Apopka , central Florida, and America began their metamorphosis—the civil rights movement, student sit ins. Outside forces were causing an undercurrent that would not impact Apopka as quickly as other places. Men and boys left Apopka for service in SE Asia—Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos. Some would come home; some would not.

With all of the swirling forces of societal change around her, Myrtle Hubbard recognized her purpose; her gift to her students was to foster her young people to reach beyond the “city limits,” to look beyond the citrus blossoms, for what was “out there.” Through her teaching, her passion for English, reading, classics, she moved her students (I being one of them) to be more, learn more, do more—don’t just sit in your chair at school, exercise the mind, use it! She had a gift for getting our best

from us. A classmate, Linda G. Beane, shared how Myrtle Hubbard could and would coax her to improve her writing skills by the occasional mention of what her older brother, Jack, had done. Nothing like, a little “sibling rivalry.”

Myrtle Hubbard, and a couple of other dedicated teachers approached Roger A. Williams about creating a study curriculum that would enhance those in it by being exposed to the higher levels of math, science, even the humanities. That program came to be known as the Rigid Academic Studies at AMHS. I was one of the lucky ones who got to be a part of that curriculum and learning experience. Oh the moments in Myrtle Hubbard’s senior English class as we laughed and dissected her favorite limericks as she read them to us from her squeaky old wooden chair.

Most of us were afraid that one day, we would see the chair and Mrs. Hubbard collapse into a heap. Late in the school year, during assembly, a new, shiny wooden chair was wheeled out on to stage. In front of the gathered student body, one of our class officers presented Mrs. Hubbard with her new chair. It was one of the few moments she was without words. In a quivering voice, she gave us her thanks. It was a moment all of us in the Class of 1969 at AMHS will forever remember. Many years later, at one of our class reunions, Myrtle Hubbard brought smiles, and yes, a few tears to those gathered, as she remembered with us her chair.

Myrtle Hubbard showed her students the vision of a life beyond a sleepy little agricultural town.

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Myrtle Hubbard, while a being a world-class teacher, also was able to raise two sons. One became a member of one of the leading country music groups of the 80’s and 90’s, ”Sawyer Brown.” Her other son, stirred by his mother’s brilliance, became one of America’s key financial advisors,

serving as the chairman of the George W. Bush Administration’s Economic Council and now serves as dean of the Columbia School of Business.

The gifts of a great teacher still lives with each of us who knew and loved her.

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The morning was fair weather my friend the butterfly lit through the air as I dared risk the venture forth face to the north wind flared my senses swimming in pollen swollen with potential and dotting my shirt with mirth I progressed along my (pot)holy path less traveled by those who could map a less jarring route my companion fluttering at my side as I observed fairy wings against my neck I check my shoulder bears the gift of a seed I wonder what need shall be fulfilled I still continue onward spurred by the light

until, try as I might, I can stray no further today and turn homeward to find a burr stowaway on my pant leg mocked by the bard lumped with hateful Docks this little thistle my friend neither blessed nor holy who joined me on my journey with tenacity I return the favor, giving place of honor contained in cast-away clay my best soil and a sunny window sill what role you will fill remains a mystery the pressure of the other seed on my shoulder, no burden, has earned its place beside the burr in fragile glass cut to cast shadows and rainbows upon my floor with patience I'll learn more from these intimate companions in my home as years of sun shone upon my own little cultivation no showcase or gallery motivation was ever more worthy of my intentionality —Ahmie Yeung

Dedicated to Serena Castells and Melinda Raiford— may we continue to help each other grow for many years to come.

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Chuck Homer

I’ve had some truly great teachers in my three quarter centuries of life; so have you, if you stop and think about it. For the past twelve years as partner to a brilliant and caring man, and before that I was a loving husband, a father, an engineer, student, Air Force Cadet and son. I’ve lived every one of those titles and survived them all; all but one, that is, all but husband. But I made even that one successfully for forty-eight years! The last year was a crash.

In my three quarter century I stayed out of the hospital, out of the legal system (except when I was a juror in a Federal court) and I stayed out of jail! Ahhh! Life has been grand. Even as the son of what I believe to have been a ‘just this side of the line, bipolar mother; an always on the edge, ready to crack, ready to pounce bobcat of a mother.

Mother was the driving force behind my every-day activities when I was young. The most significant responsibility I remember as a son was academics, and academics did not include sports (thank god). My parents expected me to surpass everything they did and then some with the aforementioned exception. That meant get a college degree and start a career, settle down, get married and raise some grandchildren for them.

It did not include ‘be a great wrestler’, boxer, football player, or tennis star. Even they couldn’t care less about sports nor could I—well, except I hated anything to do with athletics, and I was required to take them. I was terrified of the locker room and boys running naked between their locker and the showers. I was terrified of what happened in my shorts when the naked boys trotted by, their masculinity untethered. I was a little too young to fully understand what my reaction meant, but I was terrified that I would be discovered and that I’d be laughed at and called names. Anyway, it wouldn’t be good.

The worst threat to my secret involved a young Danish boy who appeared suddenly in the locker room. He was blond, must have worked out from when he was born, was very, very well endowed and he was assigned the locker next to me. You want to talk about great teachers? My eyes learned to stare at everything, anything, other than this blond Adonis and even though we weren’t allowed

to leave the locker room with a dry towel, I found all sorts of ways to avoid the showers when the boy was in it.

I believe that it was twists of fate like this and the extreme stress that accompanied it that prepared me for success as a “straight” gay man later on in life.

I understood my parents’ demands from day-one. Everyone I knew was being pushed in the same direction. Of course my high school life, like the years preceding, was laced with various competitions; it didn’t matter which competitions, just join in and come out on top. By performing well I avoided, for the most part, my mother’s incessant complaining and comparing me with all the kids she knew who succeeded and showed better than I. And, yes, I did get a college degree but on my terms, not my mother’s. Mother was going to get her ‘doctor’ one way or another, but it wasn’t going to be me; my brother either. After two years he transferred out from Western Reserve pre-med and into Baldwin Wallace College, just a short drive from Lakewood and home of his soon-to-be wife.

School was a lesson of “out of the frying pan, to the flying pan and into the fire.” But first, two years of research chemistry at Ohio State University, the ego trip of my life, compliments of the U.S. Air Force, and if anyone can stroke an 18 year old’s ego, they can. The U.S. Air Force cajoled me with:

“Mmmmm, yes—Congratulations, very high scores on the tests, fantastic opportunity to become an Air Force pilot, love the F102? Love it when they kick in the after-burner? I can have you in one in less than a year.”

The challenge: learning to surpass their standards, and a shot at flying a T34/37 to begin with and an F102 within a year. How could anyone turn down such a fabulous offer? I mean, REALLY?

The Air Force taught me that when you weren’t offered any alternative, the best way to survive was to learn exactly what was required. Figure out how to get it done and focus, FOCUS, FOCUS on executing a plan to produce their requirements and then some. My roommate and I had basement ‘storage room’ duty. So every

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Saturday morning I headed to the basement, grabbed a rag and a mop and went after the floors. Cadets were not allowed to, under any condition, touch their knees to the floor, which makes chasing dust-balls a challenge. I discovered the mop did a pretty good job. Oh, my roommate seldom, if ever, showed up, so I did his part too—a necessary evil to cover my ass and not get demerits brought about by my lazy roommate.

The planes were great to fly but living under the rule of men whose only skill was flying was not. I am (and was) a very creative man and needed a place to fly—not a mechanical plane, but ME! So I left the Air Force Cadet program with an overdose in military discipline and found myself a job where I could exercise my experience in electronics gained by working nights for my dad, reading text books and relying on the creativity that was inborn. I didn’t have to put up with the incompetence and lack of vision of the men of the Armed Forces.

So I left Central Florida and the Air Force flight center, came home and before I could turn around found myself married and with an agreement that we’d establish ourselves financially (which took five years) before finding ourselves happily engaged in our home with our first child, then the second, and within a couple years, we had our family, originally planned to include two but three wasn’t too far off the mark.

Life followed pretty-much this course for the next fifteen to twenty years. At work I was considered, by some, a genius. Yeah, my true secret to success was what I had learned in the Air Force—get the job done and FOCUS!

I finished my twentieth patent and twentieth year as Chief Engineer of my company. There was never a dull moment on the job which wound around from products involving material flow to nuclear engineering and radiation shield design, and process control and back to material flow.

During my 48 years of maintaining a ‘straight’ outward appearance (and I must say I did a stellar job of it), instead of ditching my family in pursuit of a life dedicated to my needs, my gay brothers and other gay activities, I spent a small fortune and three years on therapy attempting to address my responsibility as a father and husband and learn how to remain true to my family.

My solution to living years in isolation was work and focus. By the time I retired I had

accumulated over 20 patents in various fields—electronics, systems, process control, nuclear physics, mechanics. I also wrote technical articles for home use and for my industry, and was published in Powder and Bulk Engineering International, Vol. 2, Number 1 – January 1999 with an article “How to ensure accuracy of weigh-belt feeders.” (Now aren’t you glad you asked?) The amount of technical writing helped keep my company ahead of the competition and my experience with math-modeling learned at Case allowed me to discover flaws in our competitors’ products as well as find improvements in our products.

I had no close male friends in those thirty-five years; it was simply too dangerous. On the job I had to work shoulder to shoulder with many young Adonis and did so by remaining focused on the job-at-hand. It wasn’t easy, but I did what had to be done and yes, it was a lonely life—so what? Well, except it left me an angry gay man; angry that, considering the thanks I got from my family, I didn’t come out thirty years earlier.

Oh yes, I did get a scathing email from my lesbian daughter scolding me for abandoning my responsibilities and that she wouldn’t have anything to do with me until I mended my ways! Go figure! My shrink and I decided that I had enough to deal with and that she should be left to deal with hers. I had supported them long enough. That was then and this is now.

The time came when my children were finished with school and college and my retirement was at hand. With my career no longer at stake, the strain of living a dual life and the difficulty of remaining closeted hiding the me aching to be free, became too much to bear. Within two years of retirement I was out to my friends and my family and the family, I quickly discovered, were through with me. I haven’t heard one word from any of my three kids in 14 years—or from my wife, except when she sent a lawyer to collect her half of the estate that I had provided over the years.

Greatest Teacher? Look around friend; isn’t life the greatest

teacher of them all?

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The Truth Teller may be killed, attacked, belittled, harassed, ignored but that does not change the Truth Nor will it change you. I sit and listen to the Truth Teller and find myself feeling uncomfortable, red-faced, embarrassed, defensive, excuse-making, guilt-struck. I begin to construct a wall between myself and Truth but as I gather bricks to build my wall I find them crumbling in my hand turning to dust. And so I sit and listen, captive in the Truth Teller’s circle hearing Truths about myself, about the world, I do not want to hear. I leave, the circle ended for the night, and wonder will I be transformed by this new Truth as I reflect on my complicity, my heedless words that wound however unintentionally, my thoughtless deeds and daily habits which only serve to feed the disturbing reality? Or will I find new bricks to build my wall and even post trite signs which speak of change while I live out my days in comfortable disgrace? The choice is mine. Which will I choose? —Anne Osborne

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Robert L. Tubbesing

“This figment of my imagination,” explains the artist, “depicts the business class car on the Interurban street car line that ran through Creston on its way to Akron in about 1920. These cars were ornate, posh, almost Rube Goldberg in character.

“Often these lines had such a car used for business purposes, used for meetings and business organizations and to impress the public,” Tubbesing continues. “It was quite the thing, as were the Interurban lines. When my mother was a girl, these lines were everywhere. Everyone thought they would be the thing, the future.

“These cars were representative of the high-blown dreams of the time. Every community had an Interurban and, for ten years, these lines reigned supreme. Everyone thought it was the future. Then the automobile was invented, and everything changed.”

The invention of something new, Tubbesing says, teaches us the fleeting nature of our dreams, our inventions, of what we think we understand as the future.

“These cars were supposed to be THE form of transportation, but they just dwindled away. By the time I was a child, all the trains were gone, and all we could do was trace the cuts in the land where the lines had been. What had been the future had now passed out of existence. The American spirit of inventiveness teaches us that what is the answer now will be replaced and soon, no matter how fabulous the dream.”

Robert L. Tubbesing

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Writers, poets, artists, photographers, use your

talents to explore the 2014 UU General Assembly theme “Love Reaches Out.”

Chalice, the independent arts magazine of members and friends of West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church, will begin its second year of publication reaching out to creative people from across the district for submissions and creative encounters. This, the last Chalice issue for Story Year, begins that outreach with distribution and submissions from members of the UU congregation in Akron.

For its first issue of Volume 2, Chalice is seeking work from UU’s and friends on the GA theme, “Love Reaches Out.” A second, fall, issue will feature work on “equality.” The Spring 2015 issue will be open to creative work on all topics.

In addition to the semi-annual arts magazine publication, the editorial board plans to sponsor meet ups with other district UU’s to build fellowship and foster creative and social action initiatives .

The “Love Reaches Out” issue of Chalice will be available in both print and digital versions for Ohio Meadville District Summer Institute. Deadline for submissions is June 15, 2014, to chalice@wsuuc.org.

Begun in fall 2013 as a part of Story Year at West Shore, Chalice has featured the work of more than 60 creative individuals from age 15 to 90 using poetry, short fiction, non-fiction, original art work and photography to consider themes including Mountaintop Moments and Facing Our Fears. A limited number of print issues are distributed via subscription and by donation, and digital versions are available on the church’s website under Church Community/Story Year.

“The strengths of the project,” according to a statement from the Chalice editorial board, “are three. The independent arts magazine provides UU’s and friends with ways to engage topics of spirituality, with ways to have a creative outlet and ways to find support and community with fellow artists and readers.

“We believe the engagement and interaction of our congregation has changed through this outlet.

People are thinking about the monthly theme and thinking about that theme in a wide variety of ways. In addition, creative members have been given an outlet for their work and a supportive community.”

The second volume of Chalice, as the GA theme suggests, will reach out to members of other UU congregations to solicit contributions which engage in reflection and discussion of relevant topics.

“We hope,” the statement concludes, “this engagement and creative endeavor can provide not just a publication but can create a community with which we can identify and grow through.”

Prose and poetry submissions as well as original artwork and photography on the GA theme of “Love Reaches Out” are due via e-mail to chalice@wsuuc.org by June 15, 2014. Poetry should be limited to 750 words and prose submissions to 2,000 words. Artwork may be submitted in jpeg, png, psd, pdf or ai. Inclusion in the publication will be based on relevance to the theme and should adhere to the UU’s Seven Principles. (http://www.uua.org/beliefs/principles/index.shtml) Creators will be required to sign a release of original authorship and permission for printed and digital publication but all creators retain full rights.

Please send your request for a $20 V2 subscription, your creative work or your questions and suggestions to chalice@wsuuc.org.