The Amazon Trail: What Is Lesbian Literature?
By Lee Lynch

“… when teachers, editors, agents and awards administrators, among others, hold mainstream writing as the standard, and all but ignore books with an exclusively lesbian focus, they lead us away from serious, in depth examination of our lesbian selves.”

It’s nice that some non-gay writers include us in their stories. I’m thinking of Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder detective novels in which he has an amusing lesbian friend who is a dog groomer. Very respectful and matter-of-fact that she’s a dyke. But that doesn’t make the novels lesbian any more than the presence of Robert B. Parker’s gay male bartender and strongman in his Spenser series makes the books gay male.

By Lee Lynch
The Amazon Trail

“Not a Creature Was Stirring, Not Even a Mouse.”

That was true when we brought home our Christmas tree back in 2009 and a poor dead mouse fell onto our living room floor. We’ve made do with a little artificial tree ever since. But this year we’re going all Santa Claus and supporting the local 4H Club which is selling trees at the fairgrounds.

Christmas is such a multi-featured concept. As an atheist, I celebrate for the sake of lighting the darkness. As a feminist, I’m aware of the pre-Christian pagan winter rituals that make sense to me: Yule logs. The tree itself. Gifting one another. Celebrations to liven up the doldrums of winter.

Here in our community, the clubhouse is already decorated, thanks to volunteers who might be teens—not seniors—with their mirthful high energy. Some years a local choral group in red bow ties comes to serenade our holiday potluck. Not everyone is up to decorating, but if they have an extra fifteen dollars they’ll hire a handyperson to string outdoor lights. Every year there’s a light show as we walk our mile of roads, calling out good wishes, and swaddled, like our neighbors, in layers that protect us from the ocean winds.

The Amazon Trail: Going to the Doctor’s
By Lee Lynch

“Visiting the doctor doesn’t have to be all gloom and doom,” said my sweetheart. “We can make it fun.”

Remember the all-powerful, usually white male doctors of childhood? From the waiting room you could hear kids scream. Vaccines were terrifying. You had to undress. Sometimes my mother would take me for a milkshake afterward, yet, to this day, my blood pressure is higher (and I always weigh more) in the examining room.

I was seeing a hand surgeon for a left thumb brace to balance the one I wear on the right. I have Eaton stage III thumb CMC arthritis bilaterally, etc., blah, blah, blah, blah. Which means arthritis with a capital “A.”

As with most things in our rural area, the surgeon is located a bit over an hour from our home, but, oh, the hills and valleys we pass! Someday, we agreed, we would explore them. It’s hard to pry us from our cozy nest on weekends, but until my sweetheart is hired for a so-far elusive new job, she’s free. A lightbulb went on for her: why not explore those hills and valleys on the way to the doctor’s?