Author: jnelson

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The Painting by Will Stanton

Among that modern, minority population who are familiar with great paintings and appreciate their beauty and historical significance, the late-sixteenth-century artist Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio holds an important position.  His revolutionary, true-to-life style amazed and sometimes even shocked his contemporaries.  Today, anyone who might happen to stumble upon one of his portraits or Biblical scenes might be more accepting because, unlike abstract works of art, his realism is readily understood.   Of course, those people with religiosity minds who are horrified by reality and especially nudity may not be very accepting of his paintings.
  
A well known Caravaggio’s painting is “The Musicians.”  In addition to the great technical skill and beauty of the painting, it also represents an art form most often thought to possess even more power to move human minds and emotions, the music created and sung during his time and many decades thereafter by musicians the likes of which we have not seen in over a century. 

Caravaggio was born in Milan in 1571.  As a youth, he trained with a student of the famed painter Titian.  When 21, Caravaggio went to Rome where he worked for painters ironically often less talented than he.  He also took exception to the reigning style of painting religious and aristocratic figures in an idealistic manner.  He felt strongly that the figures should be more natural and frequently took models right off the streets, a habit that continued throughout his career, often to the dismay of church authorities and  patrons.

By the age of twenty-four, Caravaggio began to sell his own paintings through a dealer who, fortunately, thought them sufficiently worthy to bring them to the attention of the influential Cardinal Francesco del Monte, who then provided Caravaggio with lodging, board, pension, and protection.  The cardinal purchased forty works from Caravaggio. Among them was “The Musicians.”  

At first glance, the viewer observes that one figure is quite different from the other three: that one individual has the more normal, darker skin tone and perhaps somewhat less refined facial features.  That is the young Caravaggio himself.  He began a habit of often using his own likeness in paintings even to the point that, in later paintings of David and the defeated giant Goliath, he even portrayed himself, when older, bearded, and even more swarthy, as the severed head.  Perhaps Caravaggio’s self-deprecating habit resulted from his realization of his own fiery temper along with some remorse regarding the fights and serious troubles which later plagued his life.

The Musicians by Caravaggio

The other three figures actually were musicians in the employ of the cardinal, and some of them appear in other paintings by Caravaggio. These three musicians undoubtedly were (in polite terms of the time) musici, part of an entourage that the cardinal kept in his service over his lifetime.  Apparently the cardinal was generous with Caravaggio; for the figure with the lute, Mario Minniti, also apparently became Caravaggio’s companion while the artist was in residence.

The peaceful scene of this painting belies the dramatic and traumatic life that Caravaggio would lead later.  Often having to flee from one city to another because of various public altercations and attacks upon others, one case even resulting in death, he frequently seemed to be able to ingratiate himself with local authorities and receive commissions, that is, until his next troubles forced him to leave.  Finally, severely wounded himself from an encounter and after a long convalescence, he attempted to return to Rome; however, he again was arrested on the way.  By the time he was released, he had missed his boat with all of his belongings.  Attempting to overtake the ship, he arrived at Port’Ercole.  Having contracted pneumonia, he died on July 18, 1610, three days before the arrival of the document he so eagerly had awaited, the document from Rome granting him clemency.

Although Caravaggio did not live to see his fortieth birthday, his fame has withstood the test of time.  Numerous books have been written about him, and his surviving paintings hold places of honor in various museums and churches.  And, should you locate one of his paintings that have disappeared over time, your own fame and fortune surely are assured.

© 26 July 2011

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Bravest Things by Ray S

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is to humiliate yourself in the presence of others by acknowledging your mistreatment of a friend or owning a personal failure. This isn’t the conventional concept of bravery, but it is real, deep down inside.

Then there is the bravery you feel as you proceed to follow a base impulse and move on ahead to who knows–a tragic mistake or absolutely exhilarating, spine tingling successful wild chance that leaves you dancing on clouds celebrating your brave choice. Sound familiar?

Could be acing a final exam, winning an athletic competition, or a coming out on top in a brawl, winning the favor of new mates–even sounds like sex. Dream on bravely.

The bravest thing could be facing your worst enemy–yourself. That is where it all begins and ends. It is up to you, so be brave and forge on.

About the Author




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Mayan Pottery by Betsy

There’s MY an’ YOUR pottery, and MY an’ YOUR china, and MY an’ YOUR cutlery, and MY an’ YOUR household items of every variety.

When my beloved and I decided to live together, we, of course, were forced to merge many of these above mentioned items. So into the common household they went. Over the years most of the pottery, in particular, stayed in cupboards. Occasionally the need would arise to pull something out, dust off the cobwebs, and put it to use, then put it away for another few years after the guests left or after the special occasion was over.

This is how the conversation would go.

“Do you remember where we put the glazed pot–the one that’s about this size?” Indicating with hand gestures what the thing looks like. “It ‘s the one my grandmother gave me when I was married.”

Depending on who came up with the question, the other would reply, “Well, if it’s the one I think you mean, it’s not blue it’s green and it was given me by my mother.”

“Surely, we can’t be talking about the same piece. The one I’m thinking of would be perfect for this occasion because it’s blue. The one I’m thinking of I have had forever and I can remember the day my grandmother gave it to me.”

“Let’s find it and get it out and then decide if it’s the one you are thinking of or the one I’m thinking of–the green one my mother gave me.”

The piece under discussion is pulled out from the very back of a cupboard. It turns out that it is neither blue nor green but very old.

We both scratch our heads and mumble under our respective breaths, Well, I could have sworn…….and I know it’s mine.” Then out loud, “But it doesn’t matter does it.”

And so it went–many such discussions and discoveries–the origin or ownership of the item never resolved.

Then, sometime around the turn of the century, it came to us almost simultaneously. 

My honey and I were about to have another of the above discussions when we realized that we had been together a long time and furthermore planned to stay together. These household items we talk about are OURS–not mine and yours.

The business of separate ownership is a problem that comes with middle-aged marriage. Each has accumulated stuff and that stuff goes with you wherever you go.

The mystery of past ownership is now, we both agree, a moot point. For some reason it was the new millennium when this dawned on us. Perhaps because we were approaching almost 20 years together. Maybe it was that, or perhaps our respective memories were becoming less and less reliable and we were able to admit that of ourselves and of each other.

I don’t know the reason for sure but the discussions are a thing of the past. MY an’ YOURS had become OURS. And so it will continue to be, I expect, until the end of our days.

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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The Party by Merlyn

I could talk about the Republicans or the Democrats but that’s too depressing.
I could talk about the crazy sex, drug and booze parties I liked to go to in the 70’s and 80’s but I won’t. 

In 1979 through 1980 I drove a truck from coast to coast for Curtis Trucking in Denver. Sometimes I would have to lay over waiting for a load back to Denver. Most of the time I was able to hook up with someone and have a good time.

It didn’t matter if I was in LA or New York all I had to do was get on the SB radio, key the mike and say “Breaker 19 I’m a trucker out of Denver and I’m parked at wherever until tomorrow”, then say something like  
A   “Does anyone know a good place to get something to eat around here?”
B   I’d let everyone know that I was a 35 year old trucker out of Denver and I like to Party.”
C   “I’m in a big truck with an oversize sleeper cab.”
D   I’d let everyone know that I was a 35 year old trucker out of Denver and I like to Party.

The people in small towns in Connecticut do know how to have fun.
One Saturday night I had 6 people stuffed in the truck, 2 women and 4 men, two bottles of booze and a little smoke. I did not have to get back to the truck until Monday morning so when the booze was gone I ended up at a party at someone’s house that went on nonstop for the next thirty hours.

One evening I was at a truck stop in Ontario, California. I was with about 4 or 5 other drivers swapping lies and drinking out of brown paper bags when we heard someone yelling, “He’s stealing my truck! He’s stealing my truck!”
The guy doing the yelling was running across the parking lot to the lot exit. (Was he going to try to stop the guy with his body?)

The stolen truck passes right in front of us and turns towards the exit.
The truck is heading for the parking lot exit and the road that goes to the freeway. When he gets there he is going to have to make a sharp turn across a 5 lane highway, somehow missing the cars going by on the highway.

The guy that was stealing the truck was already going too fast to make the turn without turning over.

 I’m about a block away from the exit. Thankfully the whole mess is moving away from me.
The owner of the truck has a gun and starts shooting at his own truck. The truck tries to run over him. We are looking at the flashes coming out of the gun. He is shooting towards us. Everyone hits the ground. 

The stolen truck makes it to the exit and somehow makes a left turn hitting a car; the car goes spinning out of the way, two cars run into the trailer.  
The truck keeps going and disappears up the freeway ramp.

The next morning I went in for breakfast and everyone was talking about what happened the night before.
The owner of the truck had shot a hole in the radiator and the truck stopped running a few miles down the freeway, the cops caught the thief. Four people in the cars were taken away to hospitals and no one knew how they were. No one was hit in the parking lot.

That was one of the most exciting parties I was ever at.

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

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Communication by Gillian

My dad was a quiet, almost silent, man.

I never use the word taciturn in his case because that has a certain negative connotation and my father’s silence seemed one of peace and contentment.

He just felt little need of words.

In fact one of the dictionaries’ synonyms for taciturn is uncommunicative which my father most definitely was not, he simply communicated in other ways.

He never once told me he loved me, but I never once doubted it.

We had an ancient chopping block sawn from the trunk of a fallen oak tree.  My dad split logs on it as his father and grandfather had done. It was very hard wood but it had been slowly worn down to a shadow of its former self by three generations of abuse.

On one of my last trips back home he handed me a circular wooden chain, which, he actually did tell me in words, was carved from the old chopping block.

It is one of my most cherished possessions.

I cannot imagine how long it took him to carve this intricate creation from that tough old wood, and when I cleared up the shed after his death I found many rejects and practice bits and false starts tossed on the woodpile, and some complete chains which were not, apparently, just perfect.
For me it had to be perfect.
Communication comes in many forms.
This beautiful gift expresses Dad’s love for me in a way no words could ever do, and it lasts a whole lot longer.

Me with my dad in 1948

       

                                                              

About the Author

 

I was born and raised in England. After
graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered
Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965,
working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got
divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have
now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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The Fairies by Cecil

    Their home was sited in a burrow beside the South Platte River between 15th and 20th Streets. It was away from the river’s edge and across the sidewalk where so many of the Big People ran, walked, and bicycled. The trees. shrubbery, weeds, and grasses ensured that their door was invisible except to the most diligent searcher. Once in a great while a dog off his leash sniffed it out. Most often on those occasions , the impatient owner would call the dog away while Oberon and Puck would sit quietly and not knowing what the dog would do. If he were a digger, enthusiastic with his freedom from the leash and the confines of the small condo of his master, the animal might do some damage to the passage way. But they weren’t scared for their personal safety having planned their castle with two escape hatches opening at least ten feet away from the main entrance.

     The two had reveled in a golden day of Indian summer with the leaves like so many flambeaux. Early on, they had gathered driftwood, which had washed from who knew where in the high Rockies already covered with their first coating of snow. Crossing the sidewalk to avoid the Big People required careful planning, but years of training and experience had taught them how to avoid if not their enemies at least their adversaries. The sticks of future firewood were now stored away. A few more weeks of harvesting this crop of the river would have the wood room chuck full.

     After lunch, the two had flown over to Sixteenth Street to see the sights and doings of the Big People. Oberon had watched two men playing a good game of chess until Puck, not being a chess aficionado, pulled him away. Oberon at least once a week played chess with Old Casimir. Nobody knew how old he was. Probably didn’t know himself, but everybody knew that he was old. During their last visit the old man had told about the little steamboat that had steamed up and down the river on hot summer nights carrying some of the Big People. Usually somebody would bring a ukulele, a banjo, or a guitar -sometimes even all three. They’d sing songs like LORENA or SHINE ON HARVEST MOON not too well, but it was nice listening to them.

     Oberon and Puck had flitted down Sixteenth window-shopping. Naturally, Puck found a T-shirt he wanted.

     “I’m going to get Esmeralda to make me a shirt like that.”

     “How you going to pay for it?”

     “Oh, I’ll just baby sit Carlos; she’ll be glad to get rid of him for a day.”

     “Let me know ahead so I can escape. I’ll go fishing for minnows so we can have them for supper.”

     “I don’t understand why you don’t like children so. After all, you were once one yourself.”

     ‘’Yes, and I remember what a troll I was”

     “Oh! You were never so bad as Ivan under the Fifteenth Street bridge even before he became civilized. I could never have fallen in love with such a creature.”

     “Don’t try to pull your lovey dovey trick on me. I’m not going to stay around this house all day just to hear you going getchy getchy goo and Carlos shriek every time he wets his diaper which happens far too often.”

     “You’ll leave me to the mercies of Maria.”

     “What’s she got to do with anything?”

     “You know what a racist she is wanting to see that we fairies don’t all die off. Every time I have Carlos over, here she comes telling me that I should have a family of my own.”

     “Just tell her you don’t have the right machinery. With Esmeralda and Abendigo around we don’t have to worry about fairies of any variety dying out, How many kids has she produced?”

     “Lordy, I don’t know. Gave up trying to keep track after number six, the red head. Whenever she brings Carlos over, she let’s me know his name.”

     “What will you do if it’s raining outside?”

     “Haven’t done it in a long time. Go down to the Bale of Hay Saloon and hide up under the eaves. When a drunk comes out, I’ll make myself visible to him.”

     “You know we aren’t supposed to appear to the Big People!”

     “Doesn’t matter. What would you do if you saw a twelve inch fairy while drunk? True, it might scare you away from the bottle, but would you tell anybody about seeing him? Your friends would just say, “He’s finally got the DTs,” and the bar tenders would eighty-six you permanently.”

     “Why, Oberon, you sound like a one man temperance society!”

     “There’s nothing temperate about my trying to escape Carlos.”

     While Puck was cooking supper, Oberon sat in his lounge chair watching the television. Obviously, they couldn’t have a regular set down in their house. It was an Ipod that a Big Person had lost in Confluence Park. The weight was too heavy for them to fly it to their house, so they had lugged it across the South Platte, over Cherry Creek, and then down the sidewalk to their home. Vulcan, who knew most everything about the Big People’s goods, had shown them how to operate the thing. Now it was a part of their lives teaching them much about the Big People. True, the batteries died from time to time. Vulcan had taken Oberon to one of the Big Man’s storehouses and showed him how to get replacements. He had to fly out the door while it was being opened by a customer. Even though they had no money, fairies were not supposed to steal from the Big Men. Oberon paid by washing the upper windows of the storehouse.

     They had already known that the Big People came in different colors. Some dressed differently. Others lived where they couldn’t see the mountains; still others built their houses by really big rivers which had big waves that splashed continually against the bank. Some waves were really big, much taller than any of the Big People.

     After they had started watching the television, they had become almost adept enough to be considered bi-lingual. Every night after cleaning up the kitchen, they sat in their separate lounge chairs and focused upon the flickering figures upon the screen. The two had been following the Gay marriage debate amongst the Big People with a personal interest and an absolute confusion.

     Puck had declared, “I just don’t see what the fuss is all about. When we two joined, the He-She’s didn’t have a tizzie. They just ate, drank, and danced like us, the He-He’s and the She-Shes. Certainly Abendigo and Esmeralda with their ever increasing brood were not affected much less harmed.”

     Oberon joined in with, “I reckon that some Big Men always need something to bitch about. This is even better than most topics because it has nothing to do with them. If any changing has to be done, somebody else will have to do the changing.”

     “Say, I’m out of glitter for my wings and you didn’t remind me while we were downtown. You might think I’m dowdy without a full coat of glitter.”

     “To show you how I feel about your glitter let’s go to bed for a session of He-Heing.”

     They didn’t even put on their night shirts.

About the Author

          Although I have done other things, my
fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we
have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August
18the, 2012.

          Although I was born in Macon, Georgia
in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused
by that era.  No matter we survived.  I am talking about my sister, brother, and I.  There are two things that set me apart from
people.  From about the third grade I was
a voracious reader of books on almost any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority
by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.

          After the University of Alabama and
the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I
met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar. 
Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain
West.  Carl is from Helena, Montana, and
is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from
nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening
experience.  We went so many times that
we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in
Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now those happy travels are only memories.

          I was amongst the first members of the memoir writing class.  While it doesn’t
offer criticism, it does offer feedback. 
Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.

          Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t
drive any more.  We totter on. 

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My Deepest Passion by Ricky

Forward: I wrote this memory in response to the topic “My Deepest Passions” while I was visiting my brother at South Lake Tahoe in the summer of 2011. He was a terminal cancer patient. I emailed it to our story group leader who read it to the group.

          Prior
to these past weeks my deepest passions were reserved for politics and undoing
the damages done to America since the passage of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Amendments.  At this point in my life,
having lived at South Lake Tahoe these past several weeks, my deepest passion
is for my youthful memories of my life at the lake.  Perhaps you can tell from the four postcards
you should be viewing today and over the next two weeks, if Phillip and Stephen
keep bringing them, as I asked them to share the photos with you all.

          This
morning around 8:30AM, I arrived at Emerald Bay and spent the next 2 hours
taking some photos (none as nice as the post card photos) and reliving my
memories from when I was 10-years old living at the bay and serving as the deckhand on my parent’s 38-foot cabin cruiser tour boat; the Skipalong.  I walked the very short trail to the top of
Eagle Falls (photo op) and then down the steep1-mile trail to Vikingsholm
(photo op) and an additional 3/10 mile trail to the bottom of the falls for
another photo op.  After all that, I
walked the same 1-mile trail back to the parking lot.  The uphill trek seemed like 3 miles instead
of the actual one mile.  I had to take
baby steps to make it in reasonable time and to keep my heart from pounding. 
          I
was surprised at how strong the feelings of regret, past happiness, and longing
that filled me.  Regret for not returning
and staying after my first enlistment in the military; past happiness over the
memories of a 10-year old; and longing for the intervening lost years of
residency.  I visited all the homes I
lived at while I did live at Lake Tahoe (all three of them).  The last one is vacant and amazingly the
entire side of the block my home was on is still exactly as it was when I
left.  It is like living in Central Park
in New York City as the house is the only one on the block and is all open in a few places and wooded in the
remaining).
          Memories
of elementary and high school; working at the county campground; my boy scout
troop activities and campouts; my original desire to be buried in the top of
the mountains to the south at Star Lake; and the time a few of us uninvited scouts went to Idaho
and “crashed” the Boy Scouts’ World Jamboree, are just a few of the memories
that resurfaced.
          The
result of all this is that I really don’t want to return to Lakewood, but I will when my business with my
brother is completed.
I wish you all a great life and lots of creativity in writing or telling your stories. – Ricky

My parent’s tour boat.
Vikingsholm, Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA
Eagle Falls, Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

My first home at South Lake Tahoe on Lapham Street.
My second home at South Lake Tahoe on Birch Street.

My last home at South Lake Tahoe on Red Lake Road.

© 29 August 2011

About the Author

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles.  He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA.  Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while his parents obtained a divorce (unknown to him).

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children.  His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.  He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.
 

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Dreams by Ricky

     The first “dream” I can remember occurred several times between birth and the age of one. I’m asleep (how else could I have a dream???). Suddenly, two things happen at once: I see the color green as if it were an old green-screen computer monitor. The green is everywhere I look, but I am not looking anywhere but ahead. I also feel a funny sensation in the pit of my stomach (of course, I had no idea what a stomach is, but that is where I felt the sensation). The feeling was associated with falling. I think, “Falling, falling, falling” with no language to express it. I feel what I later identify as “fear,” but I do not wake up. It will be some time before I even understand the concepts of “me, I, I am me, not me, not me but you, mommy, not the mommy, and daddy”.

     Thirty-four years ago, I finally understood this dream. One night I was placing my sleeping first born into her crib, when she slipped out of my arms and fell the last four inches. She did not awaken and my green dream popped into my mind and I understood. My father had the habit of tossing me (as an infant) into the air and catching me as I came down. The feeling of negative gravity became associated with falling. I never liked him (or anyone) tossing me up because I hated the falling feeling. To this day, I do not like roller-coaster-like rides because the falling-feeling fills me with fear.

     This next dream is gross but perhaps is an early indication of my sexual orientation. It only occurred between five and ten times when I was between three and four years old; and before I received a traumatic spanking for exploring my penis. First, a little set up. In June of 1951, my mother and a friend took me to visit my grandparents’ farm in central Minnesota to attend their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. We were there for some time as I have photographs of me with my third birthday cake taken on the ninth of June. Their anniversary was not until the twenty-fifth. There was no indoor plumbing at that time, so I learned how to use the outhouse, which seems to provide the framework for my subconscious imagination to dream about.

     In my dream, I am inside the outhouse, down in the pit looking up at other people’s butts and penises. The pit was clean. In a companion daydream, I would imagine being swallowed by a giant and pissed out his penis.

    I have no explanation for these dreams. At this age, I had not discovered the pleasures in manipulating my penis or the difference between males and females. I did not even understand the significance of the words “boys” and “girls.” I do know that when potty training was in progress at age two, I really gave my mother “fits.” So, perhaps I was still interested in body functions at that stage, but I really don’t know.

    Around twelve years old, I began to have dreams of flying. This is no mystery to me as I had recently rediscovered my childhood large, illustrated, Disney version book of Peter Pan. When Disneyland first opened, my parents took me there; I was probably seven. Of all the rides and sites to see, the Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland rides were my favorite. So, I rediscovered the book and at the same time, I was telling myself that I never wanted to grow up; I suppose my dreams of flying began there.

     In my flying dream, I could only fly if I held in one hand, a handful of the dreaded #2 pencils. I could escape from anyone trying to catch me. I would also “show off” to my schoolmates. Over the course of several such dreams, (they were serial in nature) I gave in to my friends and schoolmates’ requests to have a pencil so they could fly also. One by one over several dream episodes, I gave away my pencils. Every time I gave a pencil away, it became harder and harder for me to fly, while everyone else could fly perfectly well with only one pencil. When I finally gave away all but one pencil, I was grounded and the dreams stopped. I guess it was no longer enjoyable.

     A similar dream began after I joined the Boy Scouts (at age 13) and could not advance in rank until I could pass my First Class swimming requirement. In this case, I began to dream that I could breathe underwater. This dream also stopped when I finally passed the requirement one-year later.

     I also had at least one scary dream that would repeat somewhat regularly and exactly. In this dream, I was scared because I was being chased by a huge T-Rex. Eventually, I would reach a large three-storied building, which appeared to be around 100 yards long. (It resembled a long corridor of rooms like in a hotel, but that is all it was, just a corridor, no hotel.) I would enter the ground floor at the left end of the building just ahead of the T-Rex. I was afraid he could see and get me, if I stayed on the bottom floor, so I went up the stairs and started running down the corridor towards the other end. Inside, I could see that the corridor is lined with rooms with no doors. As I ran down the corridor I looked to the left out the rooms’ window and the T-Rex’s head would be there and his right eye was watching me as he ran parallel to me on the outside of the building. To gain some distance from him, I decided to go down the stairs located midway between the building’s ends, knowing that the T-Rex would have to go around the building to resume the chase. As I exited the building, I saw my mother and little brother and sister standing there. I made them follow me but they could not run fast enough so I found a “hollowed out” large tree stump and we all crawled in and waited. Shortly, the T-Rex arrived but could not detect us and went away and the dream ended.

    Sometimes, I would wake up early in the dream, breathing hard. At first I would just lie down again and go back to sleep. But, after three episodes where I just went back into the same dream at the same place I left it, I would get up and get a drink, etc. before I went back to sleep to insure that the dream was gone.

     After leaving home for the Air Force in 1967, I began to have home-sick adventure dreams. These dreams revolved around the geographical area of my home at South Lake Tahoe. In these dreams, I was in control of where I went but not all the details of whom, (or what) I would meet or whether or not they were hostile. If I went west, I would end up in a cavern with a secret entrance to an old mansion. If I went east, I would go to the desert area east of Carson City and have a mine adventure. To the south, there was just forest and no real activity so I did not go there too often. Eventually, I got over being homesick and the dreams ended.

     While in high school, I had several dreams with a sexual theme. All were within different school designs, but all the settings were in boys’ locker rooms. In some dreams, a few boys were already engaged in sexual activity. In other dreams, no one was. But in all of those dreams, the object of my desire was available and willing but at the crucial moment just before consummation of desires could begin, my mother would walk in; what a mood killer. That is when the dream abruptly ended. Could I just close my eyes and re-enter the dream as I did with the T-Rex one? Nooooo! I was very frustrated as a teen.

     When I was 63 years old, I finally figured out why my mother was always showing up at the wrong time in that dream. When I was five, I received a spanking (a very traumatic one for me) for examining my penis. My mother was the one who caught me at it and immediately told my father who rushed in and spanked me. Therefore, in the dream my subconscious was stopping me from doing something that I had been punished for doing.

     I did not remember the sexual dreams until forty or more years after they stopped. Clearly, I should have recognized the implications of these dreams, but I was so naïve that it just did not register.

© 1 May
2011




About the Author
Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles, California. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he went to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When united with his mother and new stepfather, he lived at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After two tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.

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Hallowe’en by Ricky

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The symbol of “Candy Day”

My earliest memories of Hallowe’en involve two years of costumes and large shopping bags of goodies. I only remember one of my costumes, Superman. (I even had a cape.) Mother made it for me. During both years, I remember  mother and father walked with me and several neighborhood parents with kids around to a lot of houses.

This is NOT me.
In those days homemade and store bought goodies were about equally distributed. My favorite was the chocolate candies as one might expect. Somehow the overstuffed very large shopping bags (we went out again when the first bag was full) I lugged about were mysteriously emptied long before I could have eaten even a tenth of my haul. Don’t you just love parents who “wisely” protect you from all that candy? Of course, these were the days before apples with inserted razor blades created a Hallowe’en panic among parents.

While living with my grandparents on their farm, there was no Hallowe’en trick or treating. The neighbors were too far away. So, I had to be content with the in school Hallowe’en “parties”. In replacement, we did celebrate “May Day” in the farming communities on May first each year. Basically, we would deliver a basket of goodies to a neighbor’s farm house, knock on the door and yell “May Day”, then run and hide in a large scale game of Hide-and-Seek.

Grandparent’s farm house in Minnesota.

Once back with my mother, I went by myself trick or treating until my little brother and sister were old enough to go, and then I took them. One year (the last I ever went) my friend, Jimmy and I did pull a couple of “tricks” on two houses. We used ski wax to write four letter words on two-car’s windows. Ski wax is hard to get off.

On the path to delinquency.

I was not always a nice kid.

It is said that, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” (referring to not educating a mind), and that is certainly true. However, when a person has a good, sound, healthy, and well educated mind, but doesn’t use the knowledge stored therein, I submit it is a greater tragedy and even a bigger waste. Unfortunately, I once fell into this category (at least I hope it was only once). 

Back-in-the-day, whatever day that was, I was married and living in Marana, AZ. It was in late October when I arrived home for lunch and discovered that my wife had just finished “cooking down” a pumpkin in preparation to making pumpkin pie. I rushed over to taste it and she warned me that it was hot. So, not being stupid (or so I thought then), I obtained a spoon from the silverware drawer and dipped it into the golden elixir, started to blow upon it to cool it down to enjoyable tasting temperature, then she also warned me that there was no “spice” in it yet. So, not being stupid (or so I thought then), I replied, “So what? It’s pumpkin!”. I then proceeded to put the spoon in my mouth to enjoy the near ambrosia delicacy. I removed the spoon, swirled the contents about my mouth, and promptly spit it out into the sink. This wasn’t pumpkin, it was squash!! I have hated squash ever since I was 4.

I did learn several things from this event:  

1. Pumpkins are squashes; 

2. I hate the flavor of squash not the texture; 


3. What good is knowledge if you don’t use it?; 


4. When someone warns you about something, if there is time, ask “What are you warning me about?”; 

5. Unpleasant things can be made pleasurable, if disguised properly; 

6. I’m not stupid, but I don’t know everything; 

7. I should have put more trust in my wife, because she remembered that I didn’t like squash and warned me; and 

8. My wife made an outstanding pumpkin pie.

This one is MINE! Go get your own.

About the Author



Emerald Bay – Lake Tahoe

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles, California. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA.  Just prior to turning 8 years old, he went to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When united with his mother and new stepfather, he lived at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After two tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children.  His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.  “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com.