My Cat, Sneezer, Part IV

As with Miranda, Sneezer experienced problems visiting the Vet during his sunset years. When he was there to get his teeth cleaned and one removed, the breathing tube damaged his throat while he was knocked out. We didn't discover what had happened until the next morning when he came by the bed to wake me up and ask for food--uncharacteristically, he hadn't jumped up on the bed. I looked down as he followed me into the kitchen, and I noticed that the entire front half of his body was puffed up to about twice its normal size. As he breathed in, air was filling up his body cavity alarmingly. He could easily have died.

Fortunately, the Vet was open and I rushed him there that Saturday morning. She put him in some kind of enclosed device--an incubator perhaps--for 24 hours. But then she advised me over the phone that I should take him to another Vet in the Tech Center of Denver for the next couple of days since her facility would be closed and no one would be there to watch over him. It was at her expense, so I bundled him up in the Vet's office and drove him there. When I began to carry him inside that next evening, he instantly realized that this was not home and he meowed pitifully. Like any reluctant patient, he had obviously expected, and wanted, to go home.

Two or three days later, I was able to pick him up. They'd made a couple of incisions in either side of his body, to let much of the air out. It had worked well enough so I could then bring him home. I know he wasn't sure where he was headed in the car at this point since the two previous drives had not led home. After I parked the car in back and carried him toward the front porch, he realized immediately that he was home and struggled to break from my hold. I carefully set him down, and he deliberately hiked up the front steps and then through the front door under his own power. It was as if he knew he was home and would make his own way inside, thank you.

He also, briefly, developed a tumor, possibly also from the rabies shots. But his was on his side. The Vet removed the small one, though another one soon took its place. That second one was also removed and no others came back, unlike with Miranda. The Vet advised that neither cat ought to be vacinated again, though for Miranda it was too late.

Sneezer was king of the condo, of course. In warm weather, when the front window was left open, if another cat ventured near, even in the middle of the night, I would hear this furocious, almost blood-curdling yowl as he sought to get at the offending tresspasser. There was a neighborhood black cat that used to sit just outside the window and torment Sneeze with its presense. One time, it sat on the front porch and calmly began grooming itself. It did not realize that the front door was open. Sneezer slowly crept toward the unsuspecting adversary and then lept. Instantly, there was black and then gray and then black and then gray as the two tumbled over and over in their tempestuous, swirling struggle. I tried reaching in to separate the two, finally grabbing a mass of gray fur and held fast. The black cat immediately took off, having been thoroughly bested.

Sadly, the inevitable course of old age finally began to take its toll on Sneezer. During one visit to the Vet, I was shocked to learn that he had lost so much weight that he was down to just over six pounds. He wasn't eating any regular cat food, a sure cause for concern. I had to buy canned chicken instead--that was all he would eat. Soon, he would only slurp up the juices of the chicken. Then, he would only drink water, large amounts of only water. Clearly, the Vet told me, his kidneys were failing. I would have to buy rubber bath mats to lay in front of each litter box and then place old towels and rags over the mats because Sneezer would no longer use the boxes but stand in front and pee.

After Miranda died, but before Sneezer's health began to fail, I was told by a sister of a co-worker that she and a friend had rescued an adorable kitten from a grain bin at Coors Brewery where they both worked. She asked if I wanted the new kitten, and I readily accepted. He was adorable. I took him to the Vet and he was given the usual shots. Fortunately, she discovered that he was carrying bacteria that would have killed him had it not been caught in time and cured.

I soon named him Pudge. I kept him in the bathroom until Sneezer became familiar with a new cat in residence. But this was going on for days and he seemed no more likely to accept this latest competition than he had Miranda, whom Pudge resembled in fur pattern (though he lacked the orange splotches). One morning, though, when I was speaking on the phone with a friend, bemoaning the fact that they may never get along, I glanced down and much to my surprise, Pudge and Sneezer were eating side by side off the same plate on the floor. I realized that Pudge had figured out how to open the folding bathroom door and had gotten out. Sneezer simply accepted his presence and that was it.

One evening before Christmas in 2005, Sneezer lay beside me on the couch as I watched my usual string of Christmas shows on TV. I looked at him and wondered if he would make it to the next Christmas and how much I would miss him when he was gone. Sadly, he didn't quite make it.

In early December of 2006, although he had not done so in several months, Sneezer walked from the station he had taken up beside the toilet in the bathroom, laying between the toilet and the cabinet and rarely moving--only drinking from the dish I had set beside him. I was shocked and saddened when I looked down and realized that he was walking on the joint of his right leg rather than on his paw. He had probably experienced a stroke. In his confusion, he had returned to his old ways of hiking to the kitchen for his breakfast even though he hadn't eaten anything solid in weeks.

I knew it was time. I tearfully called the Vet that day and explained that I would bring him in that afternoon when I got off from work. I wrapped him up in a large towel. I carried him to Pudge on the couch to say goodbye. I even stopped beside his favorite bush out front so he could take in one last sniff of these familiar surroundings before placing him in the car. I knew he was ready to go because, during the entire mile drive to the Vet, Sneezer never complained. Not one sound of protest was uttered even though he always did so previously any time he had to ride in the car.

The Vet and the staff were helpful as the assistant carried him to the back room to install the shunt in his left leg. She brought him back and she and I petted him as the Vet inserted the needle into the shunt. In a moment it was all over, and I cried like a baby.

They asked me if I wanted to stay in the room with his body for a few minutes, but all I could tearfully murmer was, "No, he's already gone," as I walked away in sadness, glancing back one last time at his inert form on the counter where we had ended his pain. I cried most of that day when I thought of that gangly cat that emerged from the cardboard box from the Denver Dumb Friends League so many years before. Sneezer was already six when Frank rescued him in 1992. He was nearly 21 when I took him to the Vet in late 2006. He had outlived both Schnozz and Miranda by several years each. The three tins that contain the separate ashes of each cat sit together on a shelf in my condo.

At the end of my own days on this earth, I hope we are all buried together on some high ground somewhere peaceful and serene, along with Pudge and Tabby, my current two cats. Each has given me devoted love and affection in his or her own way over the years since I was exiled from the Air Force over 31 years ago.

Is there a happy place where we can all be together once more? I suspect not but I always hope so.

---

My Cat, Sneezer, Part III

One evening, a friend of mine called and said he was going to take me by my new condo. (His presumption was that I would buy it after I saw it.) I'd not owned anything since I sold my house in Colorado Springs a few years before. It was now 1997, and my job was likely to continue indefinitely (I'm still working on the same project).

I came, I saw, I soon bought. Miranda had no problem with the move. Sneezer, once again, took up station under my bed when he arrived.

He never liked to travel by car anyway. Each trip to the Vet would elicit many long, low and pathetic-sounding, Yeows. Perhaps he thought he was being taken back to the Denver Dumb Friends League. Perhaps he thought he was being farmed out yet again to a new owner. Fortunately, the drive to the new condo was just three and a half blocks. But a new residence was daunting enough, no matter how close.

After a few days, he finally appeared and began to tentatively explore his latest, and last, new surroundings. I like to think these were the happiest times for Big Sneeze. Unlike the Park Humboldt Apartments, he was able to explore the immediate surroundings of the house on Franklin Street. He never ventured too far, and there was a shady bush near the front window where he would lie underneath and sniff the air (see the green bush on the lower right side of the photo above).

He could also lie on the back deck and enjoy the warm sunlight. And there were windows in the bedroom, bathroom, living and dining rooms that he could sit beside and watch the world go by outside. He would always wait by the front window for me to return from work. Once I appeared, he'd let out a glad, clipped "meow" and jump down to the couch and then the floor, to meet me inside the front door to my unit. He would sleep beside me in bed, under the covers if it were a cold night.

In 2000, when I began to hold my annual Pride Parade Parties because the Denver parade in June surged out of Cheeman Park and coursed along Franklin Street right out front, he would mingle with the many guests and enjoy the constant attention.

He would also lie beside me or be cradled in my arms whenever I lay on the couch, watching TV. Miranda was not quite so fortunate in the new house. In late 2000, she began to develop terrible, aggressive tumors on the back of her neck from the semi-annual rabies shots. Her unfortunate reaction was rare; but even after three extensive surgeries, her time was near the end. The Vet could not close up the opening after the third surgery and nothing had stopped their incessant growth. In early October 2001, I called the Vet to come over and ease her pain for good. Miranda waited in the front garden amidst the flowers and undergrowth, her favorite spot, until the Vet arrived.

Sneezer, again, disappeared under the bed.

I had first met Miranda when my friends Dino and Larry lived in an apartment near the Governor's Mansion in Denver and got her as a little kitten. She used to jump on me when I slept on their couch whenever I visited them but was still living in Colorado Springs. When they bought a house in Thornton, CO, she moved there with them. They eventually acquired three more cats before they bought a triplex in Denver on Capitol Hill. But after they bought a dog, the cats were soon farmed out one-by-one to new owners. I inherited Miranda after Schnozz was put to sleep.

I always felt sorry for Miranda since she had been tossed about almost as much as Sneezer because my friends weren't allowed to keep her in their apartment after the landlord discovered she was living there. So she spent a number of months staying with Larry's parents until he and Dino bought the Thornton house. Not only had she endured the intense suffering from the tumors and the three surgeries, one time she was given a shot by the Vet's assistant in a front paw. The next morning I saw that it had puffed up to three or four times normal size. She had to spend time with the Vet until it got back down to normal.

Before she was put to sleep, I had to tape a sock around her open neck wound so she would not keep scratching it. Even with the sock taped around her neck, she would still attempt to scratch. The sound was a distinctive one because of the masking tape. A few nights after she was gone, I awoke to that same distinctive sound, coming from the kitchen where Miranda spent her last couple of weeks, sitting atop the counter by the refridgerator where warm air would make its way around to where she lay, trying to sleep despite the pain.

I would have attributed hearing the sound in a dream if it were not for the fact that Sneezer, laying beside me in bed, already had his head up and his ears turned toward the kitchen. I could see his distinctive silhouette in the light that reflected off the far wall. The light was emitted by a night light I maintained in the kitchen. (Being Calico, and predominently of white fur, I could see Miranda's form even at night; but Sneezer was gray, and I would often walk right into him without at least a nightlight to expose his presence on a dark carpet.)

Perhaps her spirit never left the house when she was put to sleep in the living room. I have no sure idea about such matters. All I know is that I heard the familiar scratching sound, and so did Sneezer.

---

My Cat, Sneezer, Part II

Sad to say, the only solution that I could come up with was to find Sneezer another home. If they were fighting at night, they were likely fighting during the day when I was at work. I soon gave him to a guy who lived upstairs in my apartment building.

He seemed a nice enough sort who would enjoy a large, lovable cat. Unfortunately, the guy discovered he had a terrible allergic reaction to cats, so I took Sneezer back. My friend Ramsey's brother had a dog but thought he could give Sneezer a good home. However, a week later I was to learn that Sneezer simply sat in the basement all day and night, as if profoundly unhappy with his new surroundings, and would not even come upstairs at all. I bowed to the inevitable and soon took Sneezer back. He'd always had those big, sad eyes that looked pathetically into yours and seemed to ask for love and affection unquestioningly.

Fortunately, he and Schnozz seemed to quickly declare a truce and the fighting stopped. I bought a second carpeted cylinder so that each cat would have one to sit atop in the small bedroom and look outside at the alley below and watch whomever or whatever might pass by.

This new apartment wasn't nearly as nice as my first, small, one-bedroom apartment. That one was along the front of the middle building and looked out at a tree and down to the front sidewalk below. But after several months living in this new unit under crowded conditions--I now had more and larger furniture after living in the large one-bedroom apartment with Frank--that when a tenant moved from the two-bedroom unit at the north end of the building, just two doors down, I grabbed at the chance for additional space.

However, I never realized how attached Sneezer had become to the cozy one-bedroom apartment, now that he had had a permanent home, until a friend and a buddy of his helped me move. Schnozz took to the new, much larger apartment instantly, exploring the entire length including each of the two bedrooms and the large living room/dining room. She was immediately content, being far more adverturous.

Since that move was a success, I then carried Sneezer to the new apartment and set him down, hoping for the best. Moments later, though, he sneaked back into the old apartment; and I soon found him, head forlornly down on the carpet in the bedroom, not wanting any part of the move or the new place. I just left him laying there until we finished moving everything else out. He spent the next few days in the new apartment hiding under my bed.

When need of food became pronounced, he finally ventured out and began to explore his new surroundings. Since his carpeted cylinder was against the window in the first bedroom that I mainly used for storing my CDs and laser discs and other less-needed items, he could sit atop it undisturbed and watch people walking their dogs on the sidewalk below, as well as keep an attentive eye on squirrels in the trees along 10Th Street.

But when I would leave the front door open, and Schnozz would climb the stairs to the deck above the third floor to watch birds pass overhead, just out of reach, I would find Sneezer sitting in front of the door to the old apartment, almost quizzically looking up. Perhaps he was wondering why he couldn't go home again. Perhaps it was also because, in that apartment, I had also maintained a dry-food dispenser where Sneezer could eat at will all day and night long. He normally weighed in at a studly 17 and a half pounds whenever I took him to the Vet for his regular checkups and shots. However, being able to graze at the food dispenser at any time, he began to pack on the tonnage, becoming a very robust 23 pounds at one point. He had become one, ginormous lap cat. There was no doubt about it, he had to lose weight. About the time we moved to the larger apartment, the food dispenser was immediately dispensed with and he was given food on a strict schedule.

It was in that apartment where my Rainbow Arc of Fire self-publishing career really took off. Most of the first six books in the series arrived there from the printer in Canada. Sadly, too, it was there that I had to put Schnozz to sleep when the Vet discovered that her colon was riddled with cancer after 13 years on the planet. I wrote about her passing in Worlds Beneath Us. When the Vet arrived, Sneezer, sensing trouble, hid under the bed and remained there until long after the Vet left with Schnozz's body.

It was there, also, where I was given Miranda, a high-strung Calico. Sneezer did not take to her at all in the beginning--yowling and chasing after her relentlessly. He simply did not like other cats. This was a pattern I would discover from that point on. Another cat was competition for food and attention. With me, he was as lovable and friendly as can be; toward other cats, however, he was ruthless and defensive. "Live and let live" was not his motto regarding another feline, even one in residence. But, eventually, he declared a truce with Miranda, as he had with Schnozz before, and we all settled into a routine those final months that we lived in the Park Humboldt Apartments.

---

My Cat, Sneezer

It's almost Spring and, somehow, my thoughts often turn toward the best cat I ever had, Sneezer.


Sneezer was an over-sized, heavy, Silver Tabby who wasn't really my cat to begin with, though I paid for all his fees when my live-in boyfriend at the time brought him home in a box from the Denver Dumb Friends League one afternoon in early Spring.


Frank and I were living in a small, one-bedroom apartment in a three-building complex called the Park Humboldt Apartments on Humboldt Street, one block away from Cheesman Park in Denver, CO. It was 1993, I believe; and since I already had a cat, Schnozz, from my years of living in Colorado Springs, Frank wanted one of his own.



One afternoon, he set a large cardboard box on the small living room floor and opened it up. Out came the largest and most gangly looking feline I had ever seen. At first glance, I wasn't even sure I thought Sneezer was particularly attractive or especially lovable. Schnozz, specifically, wasn't enamoured of him at all. She'd always been an only cat and didn't tolerate competition very easily. But there he was, and we'd all have to make the best of an awkward situation.

Frank didn't have a name for the cat yet, but we noticed very soon that Sneezer, well, sneezed a lot. He seemed to have a runny nose from the very beginning. "Great," I thought, "a cat with allergies." It seemed natural enough, though, to call him Sneezer.

Frank consulted the Vet and was told to try and give him an antihistamine tablet to deal with the runny nose and sneezing. It only made Sneezer act highly irascible. Frank, an abusive sort I would soon discover, attempted to bend Sneezer to his will, which only made the cat even more cantankerous and he then yowled. In short order, Frank was all for taking Sneezer back to the Dumb Friends League instantly. However, I cautioned, "He's never acted like this before, Frank. It's probably the antihistamine that's freaking him out. Those things always caused me to act funny."

Even though Sneezer was not my cat, I suppose I saw something in him even then and wasn't about to let Frank take him back to the shelter. So, he stopped giving him the pills and Sneezer quickly began to return to normal.

With the two of us and the two cats, the small one-bedroom apartment was simply too crowded, so Frank eyed a larger, one-bedroom at the end of our floor when it opened up. Soon he convinced me of the need to move and we all packed up and set up residence there, where Frank had painted the living room wall and had me buy new furniture: a sectional sofa and a dining room table.

Unfortunately, our stay in this larger retreat didn't last long. Not only was Frank hostile toward Schnozz, he didn't have any genuine feelings for me, only having moved in out of necessity when he had no job and no place else to go. One night he came home from a party to which I was not invited, with a woman, no less. He was drunk, and because he offered to have her sleep on the sofa, he returned to our bed, a place where we had not slept together in many weeks.

When Frank was drunk, I discovered that he could be extremely belligerent. He decided to take out his deep hostilities on Schnozz, who was always afraid of him. In terror that night, she scratched him when he tried to grab her from under the bed. He retaliated by trying to hit her with my bike helmet, which he damaged. When that failed, he chased her into the living room, grabbed her and threw her against a wall, twice. (The young woman on the couch soon fled.) I started trying to get him to calm down, but he quickly turned on me. Since I started crying at the sight of this now-drunken monster, his response was to bounce my head against the wall with the palm of his hand.

I quickly grabbed Schnozz and fled out of the front door. (I later learned that the neighbors had thought to call the police but did not. This wouldn't have been the first time Frank would have been arrested for a domestic disturbance--he'd gone to jail overnight after a fight with the first boyfriend he'd had when the two had moved to Colorado several month before.) I had no time to think of Sneezer that night as I took off for safety.

I spent the night on the couch of a friend in the south building of the complex. (We lived in the middle building.) Schnozz just sat on the floor, ignoring Ramsey's cat, clearly traumatized. I would also later discover from the Vet that Frank had caused a hair-line fracture in her back when he'd tossed her against the wall, so she must have been in some pain that night, as well.

Unfortunately, I had to fly to California that next day because my mom was undergoing open heart surgery (something Frank was fully aware of). My sister met me at the airport to tell me that things were not going well. Our mom had had an adverse reaction to one of the medications during the surgery and might not make it.

We stayed at a hotel next to the hospital. My mom's two sisters and their husbands were also staying at the same hotel. The next morning, although it appeared that mom would survive, California was hit with an earthquake which shook us quite a bit in the old hotel. Later, a second earthquake, not an aftershock we would discover from watching the news, also struck.

After that extended weekend in California, I returned to Colorado and promptly moved out, leaving Frank and Sneezer behind in that large one-bedroom apartment. I moved into another small, one-bedroom unit in the north building of the complex, knowing that Frank's time there was limited because he still had no job and no income. I would make certain that Sneezer had enough cat food, but Frank's situation was no longer my concern.

Eventually, when he was on the verge of being evicted, I offered to buy him a one-way plane ticket out of town--to anywhere he wished to go. He decided he would fly to Virginia to stay with a lesbian friend he had there. I took him to the airport and wished him well. I then moved what was left of mine from the old apartment, including the couch. (I sold off the dining room table and chairs, having no space in the small apartment.) Of course, Frank couldn't take Sneezer to Virginia, so I picked him up, as well, and carried him to my new place in the north building, to rejoin Schnozz.

From their very first night together again, they began to fight; and I realized this was not going to work out at all. Something was going to have to be done.

---

Bombs Away, Part III

My father died in 2002, at the age of 81. I suspect that of all of the 142 Student Officers of Bombardier Class 43-11, few, if any, are still with us. Many may have lost their lives during the war. But of those who like my father survived the war to return home and live a full life, many would have been in their later 20's or older when the war ended in 1945.

Had he lived, dad would have been 91 this year. Others in his class probably were older than he. This Greatest Generation, as Tom Brokaw aptly calls them, had endured the Great Depression and WWII. A few may even have fought in the Korean War. So, if any in dad's class is still alive, I would be surprised. The one piece of information that is lacking in the booklet is the age of each individual Student Officer, where and when each was born.

As tough as it is to imagine any of these young, smiling faces killed in action, it's even tougher to imagine any of them as old men on their death beds, as I saw my father toward the end.

His doctor had told my sister Ann and me that there was nothing from the top of his head to the tips of his toes that was not failing or had already failed. Nothing could be done to keep him alive. We also discovered that he had signed a living will that requested no extraordinary means be used to keep him alive. So we then had the staff remove the breathing apparatus.

He continued to breathe on his own for a few more days, though never returning to consciousness. I had to return to Colorado after that weekend, but I had done what was needed. I had agreed, along with the family, to accede to his wishes and let him die honorably rather than be artificially kept alive. I also could not return for his funeral or burial. But those rituals are more for the living than the dead.

All these years later, I have this testament not only to my father but to the many other men who trained, and served, along with him so many decades ago, six years before I was born.

Had he not survived the war, I would not have been born.

I would not have served in, nor been discharged from, the Air Force all those years ago for being gay. Nor would I have written the ten Rainbow Arc of Fire novels.

Now that DADT is going away and we can serve openly, I may very well take up President Obama on his offer to return. Perhaps the President didn't imagine a 61-year-old veteran taking him up on his offer to serve again; but if I can, I will return. The repeal is a vindication of how I felt 31 years ago. I will make the most of any second chance if I am able.

---

Bombs Away, Part II

I can only imagine how hot it must have been in those cramped trainers at the height of summer in the high desert of California, learning to become bombardiers.

The American bomber offensive against Germany had begun a year earlier, in August of 1942. The British had been bombing German targets since 1940, but had soon shifted their attacks to less-accurate night bombing because their initial daylight attacks had produced appalling losses in aircraft and crews. Without fighter cover deep into Germany, the Americans would suffer the same appalling losses in that first year.

Yet throughout the souvenir booklet, the overall tone is upbeat, even jovial and light-hearted. Two cartoons were featured on the "Eleven Arrives..." page, discussing their first sight of the base: one was of the bus that brought them, with an officer gesturing for them to line up outside, with an overheated jackrabbit in the foreground and a lonesome cactus in the background. The text above emphasized that these trainees "were tired and hot". The adjacent cartoon is of a cadet with a small suitcase in one hand and the cord to his duffel bag in the other, asking, "Where's Da' Bombsight?"

Besides the cartoons, the text itself specifically defined their overall mood as the training continued: "They called us eager from the sidelines, and we were. Day after day, we became more and more determined to get through and earn those wings and bars.... We lost a few by the wayside, but to the end they were there trying."

Nineteen Forty-three was the year that Allied losses in the war were slowly beginning to turn into victories all over the map. But American losses were still heavy, especially during daylight aerial bombing. Hundreds of crewmen and dozens of bombers would be shot down during each mission.

One-hundred and forty-two student officers' smiling faces grace many of the later pages of the booklet. They came from all over the nation to this base in California: Garden City, New York; to Columbiana, Alabama; to Seattle, Washington; to Milwaukee, Wisconsin; and many other states, cities, and small towns in between.

Remarkably, beside each smiling photo was not only the name and hometown of the student officer, but there was also a brief, highly personalized description of each man. For instance, E.Z. Tucker, Jr. of Greensboro, North Carolina: "Z for Zodiac, meaning lady-killer. Doesn't care to be room orderly, but likes C. Q. duties, WACs and furloughs."

My dad's description reads: "Good at spinning endless, pointless yarns. He seems to be healthy but always complains of his aching back." My mom used to tell me that dad was like that. Even at parties, he'd go off on some verbal tangent that would soon bore anyone he was chatting up. And even I remember him saying as a generic complaint in the 50's: "Oh, my aching back."

These young men might soon be lying dead in the wreckage of their B-17, B-24, or B-25 bomber in North Africa or Europe, or be rounded up and hauled off to a P.O.W. camp after they'd parachuted out of their damaged plane, as happened to my father after a Ploesti raid. But here, in stark black and white, each man not only had a face, name and home town but also a distinct personality. Each was somebody, a unique individual.

There were, of course, no Asian-American or African-American faces in the class. (The Japanese internment camps were in full operation and segregation was fully prevalent in the Armed Forces of that time.) But there were many English and Italian and German names sprinkled throughout. (My father's was the only Hispanic name that I found.) A few of the men were obviously married, and many more were described in one way or another as skirt chasers -- straight or trying very hard to appear straight in that oblivious-to-homosexuality era. Two students were described as the first and second papas in the 43-11 class, married guys whose wives had given birth while they were in training.

(more later)

---

Bombs Away

For the past couple of months, I have been watching the series VICTORY AT SEA and then THE WORLD AT WAR on Blu-ray disks. Often, I do something for which later a reason or justification becomes clear.

I found out what that was during a visit to my sister Ann's home in Indio, CA, from 30 December 2010 to 2 January 2011. The day I arrived, she handed over a wide, spiral-bound, modestly thick booklet that she'd been given by our sister Lorri.

The cover said BOMBS AWAY, 43-11. Upon further inspection, I realized that this booklet was from my dad's WWII Bombardier training class in 1943, at Victorville Army Air Field in California.

He would eventually become a bombardier on a B-24 that was forced to ditch after a raid on the Romanian oil fields at Ploesti where the Nazis got most of their oil during that horrific war.

At Victorville they trained in much smaller, even antiquated, AT-11 twin-engine light training bombers, and then B-25's, the same planes flown off the aircraft carrier Hornet by Jimmy Doolittle's raiders over Tokyo the previous year.

The booklet was filled with B&W photos of the base, the training and administrative staff, and all of the bombardier trainees of class 43-11, including my father. Born in 1920, he was about to turn 24, while he was learning to drop bombs on an enemy far away.

Tucked inside the booklet was an ID card, as well. This was issued on July 31, 1943, and his birthday was coming up on August 5th. It says he was 5' 8", 150 pounds, with brown eyes and hair. He was a second lieutenant, the same rank I held when I was in training at missile school at Vandenberg AFB, not that many miles from Victorville, CA. That was in 1974, 31 years later. I was 24 years old, and 6' tall and 160 pounds, with brown eyes and hair.

Toward the end of his life, he and I had had a significant falling out over my being gay. In fact, we never spoke in those final years, though I would be there in the emergency room where he lay, unconscious and likely unaware of my presence, though my sister Ann told him I was there.

Neither of us could easily recognized him, so changed was his mortal form. He looked like some concentration camp victim, his skin having become translucent, his weight significantly reduced. He looked very much like a man who was about to die, as he would soon do, only five days later.

(more to come)

---

Merry Christmas

With DADT going away at some point next year, I have much to be thankful for.

Who knows? I may see what the requirements are to rejoin and try to get back in. I would enjoy nothing better than to be back teaching at the Air Force Academy. I only got to teach for one year before I was forced to resign.

I wish everyone a joyous new year.

DADT now significantly closer to ending

The Senate voted 65-31 to repeal DADT. Two more Republicans voted to repeal than voted to end the filibuster. This was pretty definitive and far better than I anticipated.

We should thank the U.S. Senate for doing what was right and long overdue.

There are many of those whom I knew years ago who were forced out but who died in all those many intervening years. I choose to believe they were here in spirit and certainly are here in my thoughts.

There are two more major steps: the President needs to sign the bill and then "the president and his top military advisers must certify that lifting the ban won't hurt troops' fighting ability. After that, there's a 60-day waiting period for the military."

This is going to be a very happy holiday season for me. After waiting for 31-years, this was long anticipated. However, that does not diminish my joy at this significant moment in history.

---

Filibuster now prohibited

The Senate voted 63-33 to end the fillibuster on DADT.

The Senate will likely vote soon to repeal DADT. Several Republicans have joined with the Democrats to reach this stage of the process.

At this moment, there is a Quorum Call - Waiting for Senators to speak before the final vote.

---

DADT could end today

MSNBC reports that Senator Reid believes he has the necessary 60 votes to overturn DADT later today.

This is it. The final showdown to end decades (and generations) of discrimination against gay people. We've always been treated as second class as much because of this as any other measure or issue.

My fingers are crossed.

---

DADT 11th Hour

The House has passed a final, stand-alone measure and repealed DADT. However, the Senate must still confirm the new bill.

Three Republican Senators have said they will support the measure. Unfortunately, for the last vote in which the measure was part of the defense bill, a single Democrat Senator, the new one from West Virginia, sided with the other Republicans against repealing DADT.

For DADT to end and gays and lesbians to be able to serve without fear of being ousted, one more vote apparently is needed to reach 60 votes for the measure to overcome John McCain's filibuster threat. Either the new West Virginia Senator needs to vote with his Democrat colleagues or one more Republican Senator needs to be found to join with the Democrats to ensure passage.

This will likely be the very last chance for some time to come. The more conservative Republican house members and senators are not likely to revive this issue while they are in control of the house and are closer to control in the senate.

It was a shame that the previous West Virginia Senator Robert Byrd died on June 28th of this year. Had he lived six months longer, he would likely have easily supported the repeal of DADT and we would not be in this predicament of needing one more vote in the Senate to end this enduring nightmare. Same with the late Edward Kennedy.

To be this close is agonizing for someone like me who has waited over 31 years for this to end.

---

DADT Repeal could occur tonight

I received an email from the Campaign to repeal DADT that Senator Harry Reid may bring a vote to repeal DADT tonight.

I emailed my two Colorado (Democratic) Senators who voted to repeal the last time and asked that they please vote to repeal DADT.

Consider calling or emailing your own senators and as them to vote to repeal. Because of the study published several days ago, even a couple of Republican senators have expressed their view that they will vote for repeal.

This opportunity may not come again for a long, long time.

-Greg Sanchez

---

DADT Study

The Pentagon is about to release the study regarding what the troops feel about allowing gays and lesbians to serve openly. Apparently, the results are highly favorable.

Now, not only do the troops concur with oveturning DADT, but most of the top military brass agree (not the top Marine Corps officer, but that's understandable--they're sometimes a bit Neanderthal), and the American population as a whole also believes that we can serve openly.

So who still stands in the way? John McCain primarily. He's changed his position on this issue so many times in the past few years. First, he said he would accept change if the top Pentagon brass agreed to alter the policy. When that happened, he pinned his bigotry on the troops and this study. Now that the results have been leaked and he doesn't like what he hears, he's saying the results of this study are invalid and he now wants to conduct lengthy hearings--again--to get the results he wants. He wants to keep this from happening. One man; one bigot, trying to stop the future.

The senator is the consumate flip-flopper and always has been. He's been what's wrong with Washington for decades even though he can be found to say that the system in Washington is broken and needs to be fixed. He's been saying this while he's become more and more the reason Washington is perpetually broken. Now he wants to filibuster even when the American people, the top Pentagon brass, and now the troops have spoken otherwise. While the voters were sacking many incumbants this fall, primarily Democrats, the people of Arizona should have sacked John McCain. And the rest of the nation should have sacked several other Republicans who have contributed to the mess the country is currently in yet got away with retaining their political offices this fall.

So, we are on the cusp of an historic moment, if the Senate acts now to right this wrong. If it is not repealed this time, the nation will see that it was primarily the Republicans who are against progress and for bigotry and prejudice, as they have been for decades. Bashing gays and standing firm against our achieving equality and fairness has been their party's mantra in winning just enough votes from the bigots out there, to keep themselves in power.

Their agenda is that of "No". No to equal rights. No to equality and fairness. No to the middle class and the poor. They can only say Yes to the rich and the corporations, who lavish them with millions of dollars every election year so that they themselves may be rewarded, in turn, with more tax cuts they do not need. They say Yes to the bigots out there who blame their failing marriages and cultural blunders on anyone who doesn't fit the norm they have promoted.

We shall see what results now that the troops and the brass and the American people have spoken. We shall see if John McCain and his right-wing minority of cultural zealots will attempt yet again to stop us with all means, legal and illegal. The Republicans said in the fall that they have learned from their mistakes in the recent past. We shall see if that is true or not.

---

Vote

Vote. And don't vote for Tea Party bigots who variously believe we should not be able to adopt, not be able to teach, not be able to serve openly in the military, and who believe being gay is a choice akin to alcoholism.

---

Recruiters told to accept gay applicants

Wow.

Well, who knows how this will play out in the long run. But in the short run, this is quite a surprise, even a shock.

We shall see what develops.

---

DADT lives, unfortunately

Some flaw in this system wiped out my post on this issue. I haven't the heart to rewrite what I finished writing moments ago.

I suspect that the vote yesterday was the high water mark of our being able to serve openly. With the country veering again to the right, no Republican will ever vote to help us achieve equality. We will have to continue to serve, and die, in silence for the rest of my lifetime.

---

America: The Story of Us

I've been watching this fascinating History Channel special the past couple of days. In the second part, Revolution, we are told about Baron Von Steuben. The narrator boldly mentions that Von Steuben had been forced to work elsewhere because he was homosexual. (Wikipedia more timidly mentions that it is not known for certain that he was homosexual or not--though the rumors did exist.)

So he traveled from Europe to America and eventually came to train American soldiers for General George Washington. He showed the developing army how to employ the bayonet and, most importantly, to practice hygiene in the set up of their camps, to cut down on the impact of disease, which often killed more troops than enemy bullets.

It is important, then, to realize that without Von Steuben's help and tenacity and skills, America might have had a much more difficult time obtaining its independence from Britain.

If he was homosexual, then this is yet another example, at the very creation of our nation, that homosexual soldiers have made invaluable contributions to American freedom. He is yet another reason that DADT must be eliminated.

On Sunday, in a related matter, I volunteered for HeyDenver, a Colorado AIDS project confidential testing site, at a BBQ of Element, a gay men's group. Two of the young men I sat with are Air Force enlisted men. Each expressed his optimism that DADT will be overturned and they will no longer have to fear exposure and expulsion.

Let us hope their optimism is well founded.

---

DD 214

A DD 214 is the form that is a service member's "Certificate of Release or Discharge from Active Duty".

I lost my original because a former friend turned pyscho and destroyed many important legal documents of mine in 1999, including all of my various diplomas from junior high school through my Master's Degree, many tax records, my Air Force discharge certificate, and my DD 214. Since I am attempting to refinance my mortgage and get a VA loan to take advantage of current, lower interest rates, I had to go online and apply for a replacement copy, as well as sign a form and mail, or fax, it to the St. Louis records office.

(While the nation is still debating the wisdom of eliminating "Don't ask; Don't tell" and moving to a situation where no one can be discharged from the military in America simply for being gay, I think it would be valuable to review my two discharge forms.)

My replacement copies arrived the other day, and now my loan application can proceed. But the two-page form from 1979 is a fascinating, if brief, look at my Air Force career that ended almost 31 years ago next month.

The "authority and reason" for my discharge was "AFM 39-10, PARA 3-8A, SEC B, CHAP 3, CONVENIENCE OF THE GOVERNMENT (SDN 21P)". Even though I was discharged for being gay, the deal my attorneys made was for an HONORABLE discharge, which I received.

On the DD 214 form itself, there is a nice collection of revelatory information:

I was separated at HQ USAF ACADEMY CO.

My primary specialties were "1825G, Missile Combat Crew Commander, 4 years and 2 months" and "0940, Instructor, English, 1 year and 4 months".

The "Decorations, Medals, Badges, Citations and Campaign Ribbons Awarded or Authorized" to me were "Small Arms Expert Marksmenship Ribbon, National Defense Service Medal, Combat Readiness Medal, Air Force Commendation Medal, Air Force Longevity Service Award".

My Military Education consisted of "SAC Missile CCR ORT 182100 G-1, 10 weeks, APR 74. Missile Launch Officer Course, 4 weeks, FEB 74. Officer Basic Military Training, 12 weeks, DEC 73."

Because I earned a regular commission, I was entitled to a certain amount of severance pay based upon the length of my service. "Severance Pay - $9,088.20".

Of course, since I was out of work beginning with my separation date of OCT 12, 1979, with no other income, that money began disappearing at a rather rapid rate as I was forced to pay bills: mortgage, electricity, phone, car, food.

The final indignity of the DD 214 was typed near the bottom of the form: "NARRATIVE REASON FOR SEPARATION Voluntary discharge - unfitness, unacceptable conduct".

I was forced to sign the upper four-fifths of the form and initial the "SPECIAL ADDITIONAL INFORMATION" at the bottom, which contained the above declaration. I thought that statement contrasted rather crudely with my several awards and accomplishments in the service.

The primary reason for my discharge was that the Air Force had learned from a screwed up cadet (and from the letters I wrote to him which he provided to them) that I was homosexual.

Of course, this same cadet was forced to resign from the Air Force Academy a week before I left because he had lied repeatedly during the investigation, thereby violating the Cadet Honor Code. The entire situation had become so sordid that the Academy did not allow his case to be tried by a cadet honor board. A board of officers was forced to meet and determine that he had violated the Honor Code and would have to leave the Academy.

Perhaps, at long last, this absurd and discriminatory (and certainly unconstitutional) policy will finally be overturned. DADT was an interim policy, a temporary compromise never meant to continue indefinitely. It was certainly better than the policy I served under which almost always automatically required discharge of the service member.

But any policy that forces gay service members to be discharged needs to end. And it needs to end now.

---

Water Damage

The condo above mine has been undergoing renovations for the past eight months.

It has seemed even longer than that. The noise alone and the constant disruptions in a house built in 1896 have been excruciating enough.

A week and a half ago I noticed stains on the ceiling in my bathroom. Two days later yet another stain appeared. I reported these to the new owner who has had all of these alterations made, to let him know that water is leaking down from above.

How does all of this affect the Rainbow Arc of Fire?

About a week ago, while searching in a storage area just below my bathroom (and further below the kitchen in the condo on the top floor of the house where the leak first occurred), I noticed the tell-tale sign of even more water that had doused some cardboard boxes where I had stored items that I had saved over the years.

As I began to explore further, I discovered that several cardboard boxes, and their contents, were almost entirely soaked.

At least two of the boxes contained full manuscripts and revision copies of sections of RAoF manuscripts. They were all damp and effectively ruined.

Another box contained copies of magazines and newspapers where RAoF was mentioned over the years, including a full interview with me in one OUT FRONT COLORADO publication. Many were fully ruined and could not be salvaged. I was able to recover a few issues with that interview that weren't so water logged and lay them in the warm sunlight to dry them out.

I also lost many stacks of booklets containing my journals that I had kept, and written in, by hand, from the very late 60's until the early 80's. Several were severely soaked and totally ruined.

Fortunately, I was able to salvage the typed manuscript of those journals from the 70's that I had typed in 1990. I also saved a box containing the typed manuscript of Sons of Men, my poetry that was originally written in those same journals, along with my thoughts at the time the journals were composed. There was also a box containing a manuscript of letters I had written and typed about two decades ago.

All of my Air Force missile certificates were damaged to one degree or another by water. I lay them in the hot sun to dry them out. Many were from my years as a Combat Crew deputy and commander in Minot, North Dakota, from 1974 through 1978. I had received seven highly qualified ratings during missile crew member evaluations over that time. The box containing my Air Force commendation medal was also stained and dirty. My two ancient stuffed animals, the first of which I received on my first Christmas in 1949, the second which I had gotten in an early birthday, my seventh, I believe, were also wet.

Several boxes of color slides from the late 60's through the early 80's were also slightly or moderately soaked.

This was the second time that items from my past were damaged in that storage area after being safe there for years. About a year or so ago, most of my military-era memorabilia from Marine OCS and the Air Force was soaked from a different leak. I had to throw away much from my past then. The rest I dried out in time and then put them into a more protective plastic storage container. I should have gotten other containers to protect what had been spared that first time.

That first leak was almost exactly 30 years after my forced resignation from the Air Force. So, while I had had no intention in 2009 of recalling that sorrowful time and those disappointing events, fate forced me otherwise to relive those months and years upon that 30th anniversary. I had to pull apart everything that was wet and hope it dried out. What was ruined, I had to pitch.

Not only do such experiences such as water damage force us to realize our own mortality, they also demand that we understand how fragile the existence of our personal effects can be. When we are gone, who is going to care about manuscript copies of even a writer's books? We become like Charles Foster Kane, whose precious sled is consigned to the fires by unknowing workers, asked to destroy what seems unnecessary or uninteresting among the thousands of items he'd collected over the decades of his significant life.

Those of us who are far from significant cannot expect that those personal effects we once treasured will endure after we are gone. I suppose it is easier to simply pitch them out ourselves at times such as these when the elements such as water, or fire, make their way through these precious objects before we can no longer prevent such losses after we are gone.

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Olive Branch

Even with the title, this one was also filled with fight sequences. The following does, of course, contain much spoiler information, so be forewarned.

Chapter Twenty-nine

A moment earlier, Mercuria spots a vessel ahead, low on the horizon in the early morning darkness, silhouetted against the fading star field background. She rips through extensive ruins, gutted buildings, and burned out vehicles that litter this hotly contested region, sprinting to catch up to the unknown ship before it moves off.

She feels her leg muscles almost burning with the increased effort to push herself beyond her limits, to become even fractionally faster, to reach the target ship before it moves off. Mercuria notes that the vessel seems preoccupied with its mission of disarmament and does not seem to notice her sudden arrival as she streaks across the landscape as barely a blur, toward the still unwary ship.

When she is near enough, she times her leap perfectly. Planting both feet and then pushing off with a powerful double-leg kick like a track athlete attempting a very long, long jump, she mentally activates the flight properties of her shield belt at the split second her feet leave solid ground. This added thrust allows her to soar aloft with increased speed, directly at the ship that looks all too familiar to her now, up close.

Pulling her legs up under her as she begins to sail above the vessel, she waves her arms and feet to slow her momentum until she hovers over the white fuselage. She then begins pummeling the top of the hull with rapid thrusts of her stamping feet, as if she were dancing in place, to force the vessel downward.

The uncooperative ship, however, does a complete flip--to topple her off--then kicks into high gear and is gone, leaving the still airborne woman floundering in its wake. Frustrated, she knows that even if she were able to reach the ground as fast as the flight belt can take her, and if she then rapidly pursued from the ground, she would never be able to catch up since it already has too great a lead. While she may be nearly as fast as any Alliance ship within an atmosphere, she is definitely no faster.

With silent acceptance that her impromptu ploy could not have succeeded, and knowing now what kind of ship she was tangling with, she simply allows the versatile belt to drop her straight down to earth like an elevator whose cables have suddenly snapped. When she reaches the ground, she activates the homing device in her belt, to let the others know where to rendezvous with her. She then patiently stands in place and awaits their arrival.

She hasn’t long to remain in place before the cruisers Asgard and Mount Olympus II, as well as the scout ships Condor, with Harvest and Pulse aboard; Griffin, carrying her partner, Liquide; and Valkyrie, with Firefrost and Enchantra, to silently begin hovering around her like pigeons in a park, or vultures over a corpse. Then, almost in unison, all five ships immediately land nearby.

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Shattered Dawn

This was another volume in the series with a number of different, and complex, fight sequences:

Chapter Eight

Before any of them can react, Liquid Lord raises his hands and strong blasts of water emanate from each like the focused spray of a powerful fire hose, knocking them down or aside and soaking them all thoroughly.

As she is being tossed backward, Cleo, who has selected the name Haunt because she can become either invisible or a phantom, immediately switches to this latter state. She feels her backward momentum quickly slow as she watches the powerful water blasts now pass harmlessly through her ethereal form. But in doing so, she realizes that she has thereby taken herself out of the conflict, at least for the moment.

On the other hand, Jane, who chose the name Redwood, knows that she cannot utilize her ability to grow enormously or shrink since she could easily injure someone nearby, or injure herself, by changing size in all of the confusion. She cannot see where the others are since they are all under assault, and the intensity of the deluge continues to stagger and blind her.

Paul quickly recovers and exerts his awesome power over water. He feels the intensity of the moisture but begins to divert the relentless flow around his body by seizing the very molecules and manipulating them, though he knows this requires that he fully focus his thoughts and attention. Therefore, he is unable to go on the attack for the time being.

Joan tries to channel her thoughts, to divert the water by causing the spray coming at them to become lighter than air; but since Liquid Lord continues to bombard them all, she sees that she is merely holding her own, for now.

William recognizes that he cannot utilize his lighting or electrical powers since he and his teammates are all being doused with water and are also touching the ground. Any number of them might become electrocuted or dangerously shocked if he were to try. He also realizes that his magnetic powers are useless at the moment since neither Liquid Lord nor Mercuria appears to be wearing anything metallic that he might attract or repel, so he merely tries to crawl out of the path of the intense water pressure.

Greg attempts to focus his abilities, to create illusions that will confuse their two foes; but he is having a difficult time concentrating as the blasts severely disorient him.

Joseph and Marina have the best chance to launch a counter assault since they were standing at the periphery of the group; but as Harvest’s thoughts begin to reach out and manipulate the grass around Liquid Lord’s feet, he is suddenly spun around and around by some force that he can barely see because it moves so swiftly. He soon falls to the ground, dazed.

Firefrost raises a hand to blast Liquid Lord with strong light, but she stares in amazement as the bright beams slowly ooze from her fingers as if they were being projected in slow motion. She certainly feels her incredible abilities flowing forth from her hands, but she cannot seem to increase the intensity of those beams of light. Suddenly, she, too, is spun about and made to feel so dizzy that she wants to vomit.

With the others sorely pressed, Elemancer seizes the ground underneath himself with his manipulative thoughts and begins to create a tunnel with his powers over earth, to strike their foe by surprise and from beneath. He rejoices as the soil leaps up and outward as his abilities force the very dirt to do his bidding. Though he has utilized his powers on so many previous occasions, he still feels a sense of exhilaration that what he does is virtually remarkable and that his thoughts can so readily be translated into action by merely concentrating and making it so.

Sensing what his partner is attempting as Elemancer disappears into the ground, Oculus directs his own thoughts to help guide his partner toward Liquid Lord since Mercuria has apparently disappeared from view.

When Elemancer reaches a point beneath their enemy--with his location confirmed by his partner--he suddenly emerges up from out of the ground. However, Liquid Lord blasts aside the dirt and grass and grabs Paul, staring hard into his face while intensifying his own powers. As he struggles to free himself, Paul begins to gasp, wondering what is happening to him because he feels as if he is literally dying of thirst.

During the moment when Liquid Lord focuses his attention upon disabling Paul, Redwood acts quickly to increase her height. As if suddenly liberated, she senses her form expanding upward. She then tries to reach down and grab their fluid adversary, to rescue Elemancer before Liquid Lord notices her; however, she finds that she cannot move at all, cannot force her body to do her bidding.

Paul suddenly passes out, so Liquid Lord tosses his limp body aside, renewing the water barrage directed at the others who are still barely standing.

Fearful for his partner, Greg crawls along the ground to reach Paul, his only concern at the moment because Paul’s thoughts seem almost negligible.

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: A House Divided

This novel, to date, had the most fight sequences of all the novels in the series.

Chapter Twenty-nine

A moment later, Dino reaches for a small vial of scented oil on a shelf and pulls off the stopper to take a whiff. He deliberately holds it up to his nose, pretending to innocently ask, "What's this stuff supposed to do?"

"That's Fire Oil," Joan informs him, returning to his side while peering over his shoulder to read the label. "It can heighten one's courage and strength, as well as arouse a person's passionate nature."

"Ahhhhhh!" Dino suddenly screams, first clutching his nose as if it were burning and then his throat as he falls to the floor in a quivering heap. The glass vial drops from his hand and slowly begins to empty onto an ornate rug.

Cleo, toward the back, and Michael, toward the front of the store, whirl around to watch this bizarre spectacle unfold before them, unsure as to what exactly is going on.

"Dino, what are you doing?" Jane demands, leaning over him and realizing that he's probably begun playing out another of his self-indulgent 'scenes,' only this time he has the ability to make it really dramatic—and destructive.

"I'm changing!" Dino pleads in a helpless voice, almost seeming to shake uncontrollably. "I can't stop myself."

Suddenly, his shifting form begins to writhe and squirm about, knocking over a nearby table and dumping the fragile display items all over the floor. Next, he starts to profoundly alter his shape, shouting at Joan, "You've cast a spell on me, you witch!"

"What?" Joan reacts in shock. She wants to go to his aid but involuntarily steps backward because his metamorphosis is so unexpected and bizarre. Profoundly shocked, she wonders what the heck he is talking about and what is happening to him.

Dino's voice now begins to alter as well, from garbled words to a long, low growl. The growl intensifies until it becomes a piercing roar of defiance as he swiftly changes into a ferocious lion, springing up from the floor, while snarling and jawing viciously, and knocking over another table. He then lunges sideways, as if out of control, and topples over a few shelves left and right, spilling even more merchandise everywhere.

Joan backs up even further, eyes wide in disbelief, but is quite prepared to knock this clumsy lion on its furry ass with her power over gravity—or even shove it out the front door with her telekinesis--should it become a direct threat to her.

"You idiot!" Jane yells, furious that Dino would stage a destructive confrontation in Joan's vulnerable shop, where so many beautiful, delicate objects can get permanently shattered.

Now intensely upset with his behavior, Jane begins to expand, growing upward toward the high ceiling while inserting her now-enlarged, as well as highly enraged, form between Joan and the roaring lion.

Joan is even more startled by Jane's stunning transformation as she ducks behind the two glass counters for protection. However, she cannot take her eyes off of the volatile conflict unfolding before her, like watching two cars rapidly losing traction on an icy road and then spinning completely out of control as they inexorably slide at one another.

Crouching by the door, Michael instantly teleports himself out of the shop because he fears for his safety in such a confining space.

Terrified, Cleo dissolves into a phantom and glides past the grappling duo of Jane and Dino, knowing that she is powerless to confront either one of them at this point.

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Who Has Dominion?

There were a number of fight sequences in this novel. The following was one of the earliest:

Chapter Forty-seven

The look on William's face the moment the spear tears through his vulnerable body is one of sudden incredulity. He knows in that shocking instant he will not survive. His last thoughts seek to reach out to his beloved one last time, but he fails.

"William!" Joseph screams in anguish as his lover staggers toward him but a half step, the spear sticking clear through his thick torso.

His life gone, however, William's mortal form falls to the ground, the corpse thudding onto the gray dust with a sickening sound, bright blood surging out of the two gaping wounds, from his chest and his back simultaneously.

Everyone else except Joseph dives to the ground as the sky turns almost dark with the formations of arrows and spears that now fly up from far below, as a continuous fleet of death seeks us out.

With the terrified kitten still in my arms, I leap into the spiritual sanctuary excavations nearby, seeking protection by ducking behind the high marble altar while cringing in fear and abject terror. For, unlike the others, I am entirely powerless and unarmed.

Ignoring the peril, Joseph falls to his knees and scoops up William's lifeless body in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

"No, no, no...," he futilely wails to the heavens above; but they only mock his cries with the whoosh of deadly projectiles that continue to fly overhead and sting the ground all around the rest of us, greedily searching for more victims.

Marina angrily crawls to the edge of the parapet and peers over the side. What she sees amazes her: a vast, ancient army of tunic-clad warriors surges toward these high walls, screaming for victory as their shields and remaining javelins glisten in the sparkling sunlight. Even now, many of them attempt to struggle up the crumbling walls all around our vulnerable position, having tossed rope or wooden ladders against the fortress inclines, to easily scale the broken battlements unopposed.

Marina shouts a warning to the rest of us, "Close your eyes!" A moment later, a searing white light flashes from her extended right hand. The army below immediately staggers about in physical pain, their eyes temporarily rendered useless by the intensity of the bright beams, as if the sun above had suddenly dropped out of the sky to punish them. They were fortunate, however, that she hadn't summoned a brighter light upon their vulnerable numbers and blinded them all permanently.

The falling missiles having slowed and then stopped, Joan stands up and angrily gestures toward the multitude of soldiers stumbling around below. Ladders quickly topple over, spilling and dropping those few warriors who had not let go when their eyesight initially failed them. Using her telekinesis, she rolls the entire army backward as if kicking several soccer balls across a grassy field.

Paul joins her, raising a stinging dust storm out over the flat landscape and chasing the befuddled army well back from the ruined walls of Troy, now believing that all of the gods have turned against them at once.

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Harmony of Spheres

The fight referred to in this sequence took place elsewhere:

Chapter Thirty-six

In a large, darkened house, on a quiet side street on Capitol Hill in Denver, a tall, lanky, gray-haired man nearing 60 fearfully peers out at the sidewalk through a small crack between carefully drawn drapes.

"Do you see them yet?" his short, portly lover Henry fretfully asks Richard as he hangs back, well out of sight.

"No, love," soothes Richard, releasing his hold on the heavy fabric and allowing it to close tightly once again. "We shouldn't expect James and Geoffrey to be here this soon with our groceries. They only called a little more than an hour ago to ask us what we needed."

"I know, Richey," Henry sighs, wringing his hands in despair and finally sitting down on an overstuffed sofa in their living room. "I was only hoping they'd get here soon. I'm just terrified each night that we're alone."

Richard rejoins Henry on the couch, holding his lover close and comforting him, "Everything will be fine, hon. Joan and Marina and the others should reach the comet soon enough. They'll immediately alter its course, and then everyone will see that the Earth has been saved. We can only hope that people will quickly return to their senses and stop all of this madness."

"I'm so frightened," Henry confesses. "I really believe that this is what it was like to be gay in Nazi Germany in the 1930's. You're afraid that your neighbors are going to turn on you, you're afraid to walk the streets, and you're even afraid to be with your friends and patronize their businesses."

He looks at Richard wide-eyed, "James told me that a mob ransacked Category Six Books on 11th Street and burned every magazine, book, poster, and flag!"

"I know," Richard assures him, shaking his head. "And arsonists also torched The Triangle bar and The Foxhole."

"Even the Metropolitan Community Church has been vandalized repeatedly," Henry reminds him. "Nothing is sacred to these scoundrels."

"True. But they've also spray-painted hateful slogans on the Presbyterian and Lutheran churches near here," Richard adds. "We're not the only ones being single out, it seems. When it appears that the world is about to end, everyone else's beliefs obviously become a target."

The doorbell rings and both men give a start.

"I'll answer it," Richard bravely offers. "You wait right here."

"Be careful," Henry pleads. Then he adds, "I wish we had a gun."

"Guns are not the answer, Henry; they're the problem," Richard grimly assures him. However, he sadly concedes, "I'll be careful."

Quietly, he makes his way to the front door. Holding his breath, he peers out through the peephole. Grateful, he loudly exhales: "Thank goodness. It's James and Geoffrey!"

He reaches for the dead bolt lock, quickly unlatches it, and opens the door, "Come in. Come in, gentlemen."

As their two friends enter carrying several bags of groceries, Richard notices a cut on Geoffrey's cheek, "What happened to you?"

"Some homophobe at 'Queen' Soopers called us faggots after he saw the rainbow flag on our car, so I beat the crap out of him," Geoffrey explains, setting the groceries on the floor.

Giving Richard a hug, James grins and adds, "Actually, the guy got one sucker punch in before Geoffrey decked him. My hero."

Geoffrey just shakes his head and grimly laughs, "I'm not taking guff from anyone these days. I'm sure that guy's not gonna call anyone else a faggot after this."

"I'll get a Band-Aid and some disinfectant to clean that cut," Henry frets as he enters the hallway and looks closely at Geoffrey's wound. "Your attacker was probably rabid."

He then turns to his lover, "Richard, please show our guests into the kitchen."

Pointing the way down a darkened hall, Richard asks, "How is it outside? Henry and I have been too fearful to venture out for the last two days. We don't even watch the news; it's too depressing. And we certainly won't turn on any lights at night."

"Actually," James assures him, "in some ways, it's getting a bit better. The community is starting to organize. I certainly wouldn't recommend that any antigay bigots go anywhere near Charlie's right now. Those Country and Western queens have set up a citizens' patrol around the bar, and they're heavily armed from boot to Stetson. I'm convinced that they will shoot first and ask questions later."

"Violence, violence, violence," Richard laments after offering his friends a seat at the kitchen table and then taking one himself. "I have not been able to comprehend how people can become so crazy, so quickly, especially in Denver."

"It's much worse in Colorado Springs," Geoffrey assures him. "Some friends of ours who live there are temporarily staying with us. They said that when all of the fundamentalist Christians got finished burning down the gay bars and left-wing bookstores and businesses, they soon started attacking one another's churches over denominational differences."

"Yep," James concurs. "When you fundamentally disagree over several passages in the Bible, and the world may be coming to an end, even minor scriptural differences suddenly take on a much greater significance."

Entering the kitchen with the emergency kit, Henry tisks, "If you're convinced that this comet represents God's retribution upon all of humankind, you're bound to go self-righteously mad with guilt and seek your own personal retribution upon everyone else for this threat to the Earth."

"Now don't flinch," Henry then warns Geoffrey, looking intently at the cut on his face while preparing to apply some disinfectant with a cotton ball. "This might sting a little at first, but it will help promote healing."

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Slight of Mind

This is the first time we see the four new super-heroes utilizing their abilities.

Chapter One

To view the interplay of persons behaving badly toward one another when the subjects are oblivious about being observed, about being judged.

To overhear a blunt world, accustomed to stating exactly what it means, while unconcerned that those who are targeted hover well within range.

At the edge of a strained and murky alley near the Village, on a hot summer night in New York, two hunky lovers stand, arms temporarily upraised while confronted by another man pointing a glinting gun.

"Please hand over your wallets, gentlemen," the unexpectedly polite mugger demands of the two, "and nobody will get hurt."

The weapon, unfortunately for this usually accomplished criminal, suddenly flies out of his hand and clangs into a convenient dumpster.

One of the intended victims then confidently remarks, "I don't think we'll be surrendering our wallets to you tonight. Sorry."

The startled gunman, with the odds two against one now that he's disarmed, turns and flees for the safety of numbers walking the sidewalks this evening. Escaping under a scraggly tree at the curb, the man is suddenly lurched from the concrete, however, and quickly lifted upward, collared by a conveniently low hanging branch. Immediately, he finds himself dangling helplessly from the limb, unable to shake loose.

Joseph, having used his power over plants to seize the criminal, then flags down a passing patrol car whose occupants make a quick arrest. The officers obtain the weapon from William who had used his magnetic powers to retrieve the gun from the dumpster.

On the opposite rim of the continent, two women dine with a few female friends at a rooftop restaurant featuring an incredible view of San Diego below. The sun begins to settle down for the evening, as an intense sparkle of city lights is pleasingly evident.

At a nearby table, a man loudly complains to his companion, a woman he hopes to ease into the sack soon after dinner, "I'm sick of faggots destroying the moral fiber of this country."

"Please lower your voice," his exasperated date tells him, furtively glancing about. "You might offend someone."

"Aw," the obnoxious man persists, "I don't give a damn what perverts think!" He gestures with a dismissive wave of a hand that accidentally brushes against a water goblet. Oddly, the glass tips toward him, spilling ice cubes and cold water into his lap and thoroughly soaking him.

"Damn," the angry man utters, standing up so suddenly that he topples a passing waiter's dessert tray against his chest, gooey vanilla ice cream and chocolate fudge sauce oozing down the front of his pricey shirt and tie. At the same moment, a sticky wedge of lemon meringue pie flips off of the falling tray and splats against his face, lodging there for a precious moment before dropping onto an expensive shoe.

His companion vainly tries to suppress the urge to giggle but soon cannot stop laughing, immediately fleeing to the ladies room and abandoning her hopeless date to his own devices.

At the adjacent table of lesbians, the dark-haired woman with flashing black eyes and telekinetic abilities snickers to herself while continuing to enjoy her dinner, as well as converse warmly with her friends.

With a hint of a smile betraying true feelings, her blond lover, who commands light and darkness, as well as heat and cold, looks askance at the culinary disaster unfolding close by and then softly chides, "Joan, you really shouldn't have done that."

"I know, Marina," the dark-haired woman responds with a mischievous wink. "I really hate to see good food go to waste."

In a high-rise condominium overlooking Cheesman Park in the midst of the Capitol Hill region of the Mile High City of Denver, Colorado, two other powerful gay men conclude a meal at their dining room table.

The younger man asks his lover, whose eyes are closed, hinting at telepathic preoccupation, "So, Greg, how are our four pagan friends doing on their respective vacations?"

"Fine," the older man smiles as he opens his eyes, severing his long distance eavesdropping of both coastlines. "They seem to be enjoying themselves immensely."

"Are they trying out their new supernatural abilities?" Paul asks with a curious grin, since he has been able to control air, earth, fire, and water for more than a year, after accompanying his lover and his four friends, members of the Rainbow Arc of Fire, a gay pagan band, into the mountains on an Autumn Equinox retreat.

"Yes," Greg confirms, bemused. "It's certainly comforting to know that we can now count upon a quartet of accomplices in our on-going battle against hardened criminals and stupid homophobes."

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Worlds Beneath Us

This was an fun book to write. I was able to call upon much of what I had read, and taught, about ancient mythologies and classical deities.

Chapter Nineteen

Utilizing the deer's senses, Greg realizes that Joan, or rather Artemis, is moving off in the opposite direction to search for him. He quietly pivots around the base of the tree, his hiding place, to sneak up behind her unawares. He takes a step but does not see the unwary twig beneath his foot. The snap is much louder than he could have imagined, setting off a furious chirping of nesting birds in a nearby tree before he can silence them.

Artemis, recognizing the nearness of her defamer, swiftly turns and approaches him on the run. She reaches for her belt, as Greg rapidly retreats, trying to escape and buy time for an alternative strategy. She unfurls a lasso with her left hand and sends it flying toward the fleeing man.

As if guided by the very gods themselves, the rope snakes its way through the air, the wide loop gently settling over Greg's head, wafting down around his trunk and to his ankles, where the noose becomes suddenly taut, tripping him and snapping his body hard against the ground. Greg momentarily loses consciousness as his head strikes the unforgiving surface.

Several moments later, Greg begins to open his eyes, move his head, and gaze about, the immediate scene in front of him still a blur. He also painfully discovers that not only does his forehead hurt, as a decided lump begins to swell, but also his body is now firmly and uncomfortably tied to a tree. Even with his extraordinary strength, he quickly finds that he cannot free himself.

"You were foolish to think that you could escape my wrath," Artemis coolly informs him as she reaches back into her quiver for another deadly arrow.

"Wait, Joan!" Greg pleads. "Don't do it!"

"Why do you call me 'Joan'?" Artemis responds, deeply annoyed. "Not only do you despoil my sacred temple, but now you do not even recognize me for who I am! Does your blasphemy know no bounds?"

Trying a different tack, Greg counters, "I am not from this region. I was unaware of your rituals and ways. Give me another chance to perform the appropriate offerings."

"Ignorance of our sacred laws is no excuse," she sternly warns him. "The price for your blasphemy is certain death."

Looking about in a panic, Greg feels himself precariously out of options as the Huntress levels her arrow across the bow and begins to draw the taut string firmly, to let the missile fly forth and do her fatal bidding.

Immediately, Greg's eyes catch a subtle motion across the vaulted, sky-blue ceiling above. If only he has time enough.

She fires her efficient weapon with a firm admonition, "May the supreme forces that I command guide my arrow true!"

All that Greg can see is a sharp point, homing like some guided missile and heading directly at his chest.

Two yards from the target, however, sharp claws swiftly catch the glistening shaft, and a satisfied hawk swoops away. Soaring upward with its wings all aflap, it imagines itself in surprising possession of a tender rodent, snatched out of the very air itself.

Before Artemis can reach for another arrow and fire again, Greg telepathically orders the deer grazing a few paces off to charge her mistress.

Startled that one of her own gentle creatures would attack, the goddess is caught off guard, losing her balance and pitching forward suddenly.

Greg then has the deer nudge the flared base of the silver helmet, quickly easing it off of the goddess's head before she can comprehend his simple trick.

Artemis then sits upright, her dark locks falling all around her shoulders with an oblivious sweep. Confused, she rubs her temples as if roundly awakening from a difficult sleep.

"Where am I?" Joan wonders aloud, noting the shiny helmet on the grass beside her but ignorant of its purpose.

Still tied to the tree, Greg finally allows himself a welcome sigh of relief.

---

Fight Sequence Rainbow Arc of Fire: Souls Within Stone

I wrote this one as if it were a contemporary Western, and what does anyone expect in a Western but a bar room brawl? Well, given the heroes and their abilities, the didn't actually have to fight in the bar room and wreck the place:

Chapter Thirty-seven

Several of the patrons rush to the windows, holding curtains aside, intensely curious as to what will happen next. None is willing, however, to become directly involved, especially not with stopping an impending fight. The waitress stands at the front door, hands on her hips, looking out at the parking lot and shaking her head at the stupidity of all men.

"Paul," Greg advises his lover outside, "you stay out of this. I'll handle the three of them myself."

"Whatever you say, Greg," Paul grins, stepping back, knowing that Greg might have been a bit over matched if there were six of them. Three, he knows, should be a breeze.

"Oh, aren't you the tough one?" the first man ridicules, wondering why these two faggots act so confident since he and his buddies never fight fair. "We'll take you on one at a time, then."

"That's acceptable to me," Greg smiles, pretending not to notice that one of the guys has slipped up behind him, intending to pin his arms while the other two take their best shots.

"Gotcha," the one breathes heavily on Greg's neck, smelling strongly of garlic.
"This is gonna be easier than I thought," the first one says, telegraphing his punch by a mile.

Greg tilts his head and the meaty fist sails past his ear, smashing hard against the nose of the guy behind Greg, making a loud, cracking noise.

"Damn it, Bobby," the guy behind Greg yells, releasing his hold and grabbing his face, collapsing to the ground in a bloody heap. "You broke my goddamn nose, you idiot!"

"The bastard moved," Bobby shouts, angry with himself for missing and taking out his buddy.

The third guy, not wanting to waste a chance, swings at Greg's midsection; but Greg deftly moves, causing the guy to fall to the ground.

"Shit!" he shouts in a muffled voice, now face down in the gravel and dirt.

Bobby, the ringleader, is furious that his two partners have been so quickly neutralized. He comes at Greg and swings again. Greg ducks easily, then stabs an uppercut at the guy's jaw, breaking it and sending him flying backward, instantly groggy. Unlike fight scenes in the movies, however, Bobby's pain is excruciating. Flat on his back and holding his jaw, he does not get up, fortunate that he did not lose any teeth. Woozy, he still recognizes that it was a blow the like of which he has never taken before in any previous brawl.

The guy face down on the ground has quickly gotten up, however, and reaches into the open window of their pickup, grabbing an ax handle. Greg knows what the guy is up to but steps toward the truck anyway, keeping his back to the man and acting as if he has not noticed the other's obvious move for a weapon.

Looking through his attacker's eyes as the man swings, Greg ducks, and the ax handle smacks into the windshield of their truck, cracking the glass.

"Hold still, you asshole," the guy yells in frustration, losing all control, a serious blunder in a fight with a telepathic adversary.

He wildly swings the ax handle again, as Greg has slipped to the front of the truck. This time the blow misses wide and smashes a headlight. "Damn it!"

He continues to follow Greg, entirely enraged, raising the ax handle high and bringing it down, as Greg jukes away, crushing the side mirror instead. "Shit!"
As the guy angrily stares at the damage he has caused to their own truck, Greg calmly asks him, "Had enough?"

"No!" the man shouts, pissed and pointing the ax handle at the shattered side mirror. "Look what you made me do!"

"I did nothing," Greg announces, knowing that the guy won't take responsibility for his own stupidity and now tired of wasting time with him. Greg rears back and punches the guy in the left eye, knocking him backward into the side of the pickup.

The guy drops the ax handle and reaches for the side of his face, groaning and sinking to the running board, not knowing how lucky he was that Greg took something off the punch.

Standing over the one named Scotty and shaking his head, Greg then tells him, "I think you've had enough now, and that eye's probably going to swell shut real soon unless we get some ice on it."

He reaches down to help Scotty up, knowing that the fight has left all three of these would-be combatants. He also picks up the ax handle from the ground.

"Thanks," Scotty mumbles, staggering to his feet and finally accepting that he has been badly beaten.

"It isn't like in the movies, fella," Greg explains, as he helps the bruised man toward the restaurant, tossing the ax handle several yards away into the brush.

Paul has already taken the other two inside for some ice for their broken nose and broken jaw, respectively, assuring them that his lover packs quite a wallop, and rubbing it in just a little by adding, "I tried to warn you not to pick a fight with him."

---