Tag: Boy Scouts

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Cooking, by Ricky

Speaking generally, Eisenhower, Bradley, Patton, Marshall, DeGaul, Montgomery, Julius, and I don’t cook; I mostly eat things cooked by others.

I do make a wonderful meatloaf. That is, occasionally it is wonderful. My meatloaf really was wonderful, once. I could never duplicate the recipe as there really wasn’t one; only general guidelines with one secret ingredient. I make it just like my mother did. When she added the spices and “fillers,” she added a little of this and some of that, of whichever spices and fillers were actually on hand in the cupboard.

For one year, I was a “house-husband” in Florida while Deborah, my wife, worked. My children and I ate lots of fried ground hamburger mixed with eggs and corn or peas. I was okay, but the kids grew very tired of it rather quickly. I varied the meals with spaghetti to avoid making excessively boring meals. Of course, I also did my meatloaf with vegetables. The meals must have turned out okay because the kids grew and no one got sick or died.

Earlier this year, I made a lemon-meringue pie from scratch, except for the store-bought crust. I followed a recipe from a cookbook and it came out picture-and-taste perfect.

Years ago, while in the Boy Scouts, I learned to cook enough to pass my Tenderfoot badge requirements. After just one campout trying to cook on a fire using the aluminum mess kit, I decided there must a better way!

The annoying problem with cooking with a mess kit is the cleanup afterwards. I followed the recommendation of the Scout Handbook and coated the bottom of my kit with rubbings from a bar of soap to make the removal of soot easier. I don’t believe it helped at all but if it did, I would hate to clean one that had no soap applied in advance.

After that experience, I discovered aluminum foil cooking. So from then on, I wrapped cut carrots, potatoes, and a hamburger patty in foil and placed it on hot coals until done. I made the meals at home and carried them to the campsite for cooking. No fuss. No cleanup mess. I was back to all the fun stuff in minimal time.

Within a year, I was the Senior Patrol Leader and the oldest boy in the troop. At that point, the Scoutmaster, his assistant, and the occasional father would not only cook for themselves but also for me. I was in scout hog-heaven.

The recent movie, Moonrise Kingdom with its reference to Khaki Scouts makes me nostalgic for those halcyon days of Boy Scouting in my youth – full of energy, no significant cares, out in the fresh-air, having fun, learning or honing new skills, challenging activities, minor cuts & scrapes, meals flavored with nature’s “trail-seasonings,” competitions with other troops, campfire sing-a-longs with ghost-stories or perhaps other stories even some you wouldn’t want your mother to hear about, and probably knowing that the younger scouts looked-up to me as if I were their “nice” older brother.

My heart and head long for those days to become real again, so the memories of them are truly precious to me representing, as they do, the happiest times of my youth.

© 19 November 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Gym³, by Ricky

Gym1  
          It was in early
June 1956, when I was banished (due to divorce proceedings) from California and
sent to Minnesota to live with my grandparents on their farm.  I had just turned 8 years old on the 9th.  At the time, I expected to be gone for only
the summer; but it turned into a 2 year “prison sentence” away from home and
“loving” parents.
          I shared a room and bed with my uncle,
Dixon, who was 11 in December of 1955 and 11 ½ by June of ’56; and about to
enter 6th grade, while I was looking at starting 3rd
grade.  Due to that traumatic spanking I
received when only 4 or 5, I was extremely shy and reluctant to let anyone see
me dressing, undressing, in my underwear, or bathing; and would “pitch a fit”
if someone tried.  Of course, I couldn’t
do much when Grandma bathed me the first two times in the summer kitchen’s
galvanized “wash tub” because I hadn’t washed all the dirt off by myself.  I quickly learned to do that however.  I was dirty because farm life is not soil
free and baths were only on Saturday nights to be fresh for church on
Sunday.  I had to use my uncle’s used
bathwater so perhaps I never really got clean.
          When school began, my uncle, who by
then knew from personal experience of my extreme reactions to any attempt to
breach my “modesty”, began to tell me about having to take showers naked with
other boys present after gym classes beginning in 6th grade.  Daily school showers were a necessity back
then as most farms did not have indoor plumbing and once a week bathing on the
farm just wasn’t sufficient in a close social environment.  Pubescent boys smell as they perspire during
gym activities and recess playtime.
          As a result of my uncle’s teasing
about showering naked with other boys, I began to develop a fear of 6th
grade, even though it was 3 school years away and I expected to return to
California soon.  The months of my exile passed,
and a new school year began and I realized that 6th grade was now
closer than desired and my fear level increased but mostly ignored for the time
being.  Fortunately, I was given a
reprieve and my “sentence” was commuted in late May of 1958 and I was taken
back to California to live with my mother and her new husband.
          When I began 5th grade at
So. Lake Tahoe, I discovered that there were no showers after recess or any
P.E. classes in elementary school, those being reserved and mandatory in high
school only.  I was able to put my fear
and stress level on hold for 4 more years, while I got to “enjoy” the
beginnings of puberty.
          In September of 1962 I finally had to
face my fear as I had finally arrived at high school and the dreaded after P.E.
mandatory naked showers with other boys. 
By now, due to my well-established desire to see any boy naked, I no
longer feared being naked among boys (or girls for that matter).  What I was afraid of was having a spontaneous
erection while showering, because at 14, I was still having random ones. 
          At school, they mostly struck when I
was sitting in front of my 9th grade English teacher, Mrs. Joyce
Holmstad.  She wore low cut blouses and
sat on the front edge of her desk (directly in front of me) and would often
lean forward revealing to me (or maybe exposing to me) some bra and more than
sufficient for erection purposes, cleavage. 
I always had to hide my crotch with books when I left at the end of the
class period.  But I digress from the
gym.  In all the four years of mandatory
PE showers, no one ever got an erection that I could tell, and I certainly took
every opportunity to look for one.
          Gym2
          Actually, gym2
is really Jim #1.  I met Jim Robertson
when he was 11 and I was 13.  We became
friends and he asked me to go to church with him one Sunday and we went for
about one month until the pastor and his baby were killed in a car crash.  I invited Jim to join Boy Scouts with me and
he did.  We were two of seven boys who
ended up starting a new troop, #456, at So. Lake Tahoe.  I taught him about sex and we became
sex-playmates on sleep over nights but never did anything together during scout
campouts.  He ended up going to live with
his aunt and, according to him, began to really enjoy sex with his female
cousin.
          Gym3
          As you may have guessed, gym3
is really Jim #2.  Jim Dunn was the son
of a California highway patrolman and joined my scout troop when he was 12 and
I was 14.  He was taller than most boys
his age and matched my height of 5′ 11”. 
His hair was blondish and eyes a very nice shade of blue.  I liked him for his looks and gentle
personality.  Strangely, I was never
sexually attracted to him probably because he did not look “interested”.  I was so naïve about that stuff. 
          As we aged and moved into Explorer
Scouts, we shared a couple of experiences that should have tipped me off that
he was interested in boy sex play, but I never caught on.  As an adult, I learned that he died early
from AIDS.
          That’s all of my “gym” memories. 
© 24 Oct 2011 
About
the Author 
I was born in June of
1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I was
sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for
two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my
mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and
then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in
1966.  After three tours of duty with the
Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four
children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days
after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man
in the summer of 2010.   I find writing
these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
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Self-Acceptance, by Phillip Hoyle

I believe that my self-perception of being religiously more liberal in a conservative environment, an assumption I learned at home as early as my junior high years, trained me to be self-accepting. In that theological context which was salvationistic and somewhat Calvinistic, I knew the ultimate goal of religion was to love God and neighbor. The moral/ethical code was flexible. I knew I was different but didn’t worry over it. I accepted my differences as not being eternally fatal. I didn’t worry over fitting into something I could not do. I believed I had a place in the larger picture of things. I worked from an introvert space although I knew how to participate in extrovert activities and with extraordinarily extrovert personalities.
I was responsible; adults liked that in me. I laughed easily; kids liked that in me. I liked life. I liked myself. I liked others. I was able to fit in easily enough. I did good class work, was polite, enjoyed choir, went to Boy Scouts, worked at the store, and saved money to go to college. Furthermore, no one around me ranted about sin.
What happened in my early teen developmental phase was quite positive and in most ways reflected the norms of developmental theory. I liked myself with my many projects. I was singing in two choirs, taught myself how to lead music (meaning, gestures for choirs and congregations), and practiced them in front of the mirror where sometimes I fantasized being an orchestral conductor. I worked on merit badges, I read books endlessly, and I learned steps for pop and rock and Native American dancing. I made Indian costumes. I collected Native American art prints. I carried out groceries. I made friends.
In the next few years I watched carefully as life changed for me. I realized the sex play with my friends, the boys among them, still attracted me after the others lost interest. I didn’t turn down opportunities for similar liaisons with newcomers, but I didn’t find many. (Actually, I found only one, and too soon his family moved away.) Still I developed friendships with girls and with straight guys. I was busy. Still am. I liked my life. I was entrusted with leadership, even leadership I didn’t especially want. Still am.
Lucky me—I didn’t get kidded much, was rarely taunted, and never beat up. Because I was used to being different, when I did encounter the occasional put down, I didn’t believe it and even might interpret it as a kind of intimacy. I liked myself and knew other people liked me too. Besides, I was too busy to worry over it.
In high school years I undertook interior decoration as a supplement to my Indian fascination, took an interest in fine art and frames, and engaged in more visual artwork. I continued taking music lessons and played piano and sang. I listened to all kinds of music and sang at church, school, and civic functions.
All my adult life I have kept busy, busy, busy! When I worked I did several jobs and in some ways contributed a lot more work than any church paid me for. I composed and arranged music for my choirs. I taught training workshops, led discussion groups, and taught core curricula in bible and theology. I taught a class in congregational education organization for the Missouri School of Religion. And I attended endless meetings, worked on boards and committees in churches, among clergy, within the denomination, in interdenominational settings, and the larger community. I led a denomination-wide professional organization, planned camps, coordinated conferences, on and on. Eventually I wrote religious education resources for a publishing company. I deeply enjoyed my family, deeply loved my wife, and deeply loved a few men.
My eldest sister said it most clearly, “At home we learned that the big sin was to be bored.” I guess I was an over achiever. Still am. Still accept and love myself. Still write and read and entertain. Still do many social things with my diverse pool of friends.
My urologist saw something in me besides my much enlarged prostate gland. He said I was lucky. I attributed it all to my genetic inheritance. He thought it was something else. He and I finally agreed my luck was due to both nature and nurture. Besides my genetically inherited Pollyanna tendencies, there were the open attitude of my family, attendance in integrated schools, and working in a grocery store from age thirteen. Even the church I grew up in and worked in was not sectarian and pursued an ecumenical vision. I am its child and I like life. I like and accept myself with all my differences. And especially, I like my differences.
© 12 Dec 2016 
About the Author 
 Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Raindrops, by Ricky

I have never liked rain or the drops in which it arrives. I know some will chastise me by pointing out, “But farmers need the rain to grow our food.” I’ve even used that phrase to my children as they grew; another case of like parent, like child. Nonetheless, I don’t like rain.

My dislike began at a very early age. When it rained, my mother would not let me go outside to play. When I did manage to sneak outside, I would end up totally soaked before my mother made me come back inside, followed by being placed in the bath tub to get clean. I always felt that I was already clean, just wet. However, the bath did replace the chill with warmth. Perhaps I deliberately got wet, and thus chilled, just so I could take a warm bath. Somehow, that doesn’t seem probable.

In elementary school, my teachers took over for my mother and forbade going outside when it was raining, thus ruining many a recess. Strangely, in the winter months, we could go out and play in the snow and eventual slushy-snow getting very wet and cold. No warm baths in school. We had to sit in our wet clothes and shiver until a combination of room temperature and body heat dried our clothes enough for us to warm up.

High school brought no relief from the “no outside activities when it was raining” rule. However, I was in complete agreement with staying inside. I had joined the Boy Scouts when I was in 7th grade and personally experienced a couple of campouts where it rained. Being wet and dirty with no chance of a bath or shower and sleeping in a damp sleeping bag, permanently changed my outlook about playing in the rain. From the second such campout and beyond, I HATE being outside and wet. Then came Deborah.

I first met Deborah on December 21st 1968 at the home of my current crush and her best friend. We eventually began dating and on our first date, we visited the Florida Caverns State Park near Mariana on the panhandle of NW Florida. On the day we arrived the sky was mostly overcast and threatened to rain at any time with brief moments of sunshine. We had a two-hour wait before the cavern tour group for which we had tickets would begin. As it was lunch time, we decided to have a cookout and eat before the tour.

We had no matches or lighter and Deborah was nonplussed and began to bemoan the loss of a cookout fire. I was upbeat and not bothered at all by the lack of such fire-making tools. When Deborah asked me why I was still gathering various twigs, sticks, and kindling to lay in the grill, I told her I learned in the scouts how to make a fire without a lighter or matches. She did not believe I could do it and because the wood appeared too damp to burn. Naturally, I felt that she doubted my truthfulness and challenged my ability and skill. I had done this many times in the scouts so I was supremely confident I could do it again. Confidence riding on the back of knowledge.

I was only 2 or 3-years out of my scout troop and in the glove compartment of my car was my homemade flint “stick” and a scout pocket knife. The wood was all arranged and ready. I told Deborah to watch and learn. I drew the knife blade across the flint sending two hot sparks into the tinder. After two-seconds the tinder exploded into flame igniting the kindling and the cookout fire was lit and we ate a hot meal. After that event, she thought I could do anything, like walking in the rain with her.

After we finished eating and cleaning up the trash, it began to lightly rain. We were under trees so it did not get to us in quantity but it did begin to run off the leaves and cause drops of water to drip down. As it turned out, I learned that day that Deborah loves to walk in the rain as long as it isn’t too much. She learned that I HATE to get wet outside. The result: I walked with her in the rain and ultimately enjoyed the time and conversation. The rain did stop and the sun came out so, we were dry by the time we entered the caverns with our tour group. We had a great time, but I still HATE getting wet outside. I wish the laws of Camelot prevailed here so, “The rain may never fall ‘till after sundown…”.

© 3 Apr 2016

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Preparation, by Will Stanton

The phrase “be prepared” reminds me of the Boy Scouts. Naturally, my having grown up in the 60s, I then can’t help but be reminded of song-writer Tom Lehrer’s satirical lines,

     Be prepared! That’s the Boy Scout’s marching song,
     Be prepared! As through life you march along.
     Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well,
     Don’t write naughty words on walls, if you can’t spell.

I seem to have been focused on those songs well enough to remember them; but, unfortunately, I apparently did not have the focus to make all the necessary preparations for — thinking of a few examples — a truly successful career, financial security, and winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I seemed to have spent my time engaging in activities that, at the time, captured my fancy, usually things that had no practical purpose unless one planned to make a profession out of them. Yet, sometimes even those activities can prepare one for later use in a most unexpected manner.

When I was 17 (was I ever 17?), I found myself in Bozeman, Montana for the summer. I did the usual things, such as hiking, exploring, making friends. I even took a summer class in French, quelle qu’en soit la bonne qui a fait pour moi, whatever good that did for me.

What interested me most, however, was taking classes in judo from the Korean Sang Wu Shin. By the end of the summer, I had the basics well in hand. Of course, I could not identify any useful purpose in it. It just was something I wanted to do. I never had to use it for real self-defense, although it did come into play in an amusing way that following autumn.


Back in high school, I was heading down the hallway when someone ran up behind and trapped me from behind in a tight bear-hug. My response was instinctive and surprisingly effective. I took hold of his arms and quickly dropped my body down several inches to place my attacker’s center of gravity higher than mine and so I could spring upward. Then smoothly, I threw him up over my head in a large arc. I didn’t really feel threatened, and I didn’t wish to hurt anyone, so I set him down gently onto the floor in front of me. He wasn’t hurt, but he didn’t move for a while. He simply lay there with his eyes as big as saucers.

Once I got a look at who my attacker had been, I recognized him as a student one year behind me. He was pleasant looking, tall, slim, brown hair, and with glasses, hardly a threatening appearance. I didn’t really know him well and wondered why he chose to put me into a bear-hug. Of course at that age, I was even more dense than I am now, and it didn’t occur to me at the time that he simply wanted to touch me, to hug me. After all, most of us hid such feelings through sublimation – wrestling, teasing, depantsing, and pretend attacks.

After his experiencing such a big surprise being tossed to the floor in a judo-throw, there was no more interaction between us. So, I always have wondered, was his attack just a moment of goofiness? Or, did he really want to hug me? I had the preparation to be able to get out of a bear-hug, but apparently I wasn’t prepared to understand human nature.

A post-script: Another guy who witnessed the incident later told me, “I knew you play piano, so I thought you were a wuss. I’ve changed my mind.”

© 28 July 2015

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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All My Exes Live in Texas by Ricky

        After graduating college in May of 1978, I was commissioned a
Second Lieutenant in the US Air Force (Security Police) and stationed at
Malmstrom AFB, in Great Falls, Montana.  During
that summer, I attended Camp Bullis near San Antonio, Texas for training in
security police officer duties, policies, procedures, and combat field
skills.  The first four weeks were
devoted to classroom activities and physical fitness.  The next six weeks were taught under field
conditions to hone the skills we read about in the classroom.
        One of those skills was map reading and orienteering (not to
be confused with sexual orientationeering). 
The highlight of that portion of our training involved day and night
navigation using a map and compass to follow printed directions from one point
to another.  The first set of
instructions was given us at our starting point.  We had to follow that instruction to find the
next leg of our course and so forth for a total of ten legs.  The destination of each leg was a “soup can”
mounted on top of a 3-foot post.  There
were 75 such posts scattered around the 3 square miles of our training area so
it was vital that we used the map and compass accurately or we would not arrive
at the correct final destination.
        I had done this type of compass course in the Boy Scouts so I
was not intimidated by the task and found it to be rather fun.  We had to follow the course in teams of
three.  I don’t know what the others did,
but my team drew our course out on the map and marked the desired destination
with an “X” and then walked the route. 
As we completed each leg, we drew out the next leg and added another
“X”.  No one was shooting at us since
this was training and not combat, so we had an easy time following the course
as drawn on the map except for the oppressive heat.  Due to the rolling hills, gullies, and
scattered light and dense vegetation, we would take a compass sighting and send
two of us ahead a convenient number of yards to establish a straight line.
        The legs were of varying lengths with some as long as a mile
from one point to another.  A one-degree
error over a mile distance could cause one to miss the destination by several
yards.  The target posts with the “soup
cans” containing our next set of co-ordinates were not all easily seen.  Many were placed such that one could not see
it until you passed it and looked back. 
Several were deliberately placed inside thickets of scrub brush that had
grown several feet high.  And there was
the constant watchfulness for Texas sized spiders, scorpions, tarantulas, and
snakes all while counting our steps and detouring around thickets too wide to
push through.  As I said, the day light
course was easy, but the night course was a different matter.
        The night course was the same event obviously without the
benefit of sunlight and in our case, without moonlight either.  With only flashlights, it was difficult to
send two teammates ahead to establish a straight line for walking.  We still had to deal with the local
“critters” and also the smelly night prowling ones too.  After completing the first leg with all its
difficulties, I decided to cheat a little. 
Well, it wasn’t really cheating because we were doing a compass course
and orienteering after all, and in a combat situation, it’s the result that
counts not the method.  And besides, I
really did not want to be walking around Texas all night dodging spiders,
snakes, and skunks looking for some elusive “soup can” on a post.
        Therefore, I had my team switch to nighttime orienteering using
a method not taught in our classroom experience, but taught in my Boy Scout
troop night games—celestial navigation using the stars as a guide.  After we took our compass heading and placed
the “X” on the map, we picked out a star on the horizon that was in-line with
the desired course and just walked towards that star counting our steps.  Once we switched to that method, the course
went very fast indeed.  In fact, my team
was the first one done not only for the night course, but also for the daylight
course.
        I imagine that all my “Xs” on those maps are still somewhere
in Texas, most likely in a landfill somewhere on Camp Bullis or possibly their
ashes from an incinerator are blowing around Texas on the wind.
        My only other “exes” are in Texas for sure.  My ex-president, LBJ, is buried there and the
“ex-decider” is apparently on his ranch attempting to create excellent works of
art and beauty.
© 13 January 2014
About the Author
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack. I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   
I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

Solitude Began Long Ago and Far Away by Ricky

          In my opinion, there are three types of solitude: of the
body, of the mind, and of both the mind and body simultaneously.  There are two sub categories of solitude:
self-imposed and externally imposed.  Each
of these categories and sub categories have degrees of effect and affectation
upon a person.
          The
following are examples:
TYPES
SELF-IMPOSED
EXTERNALLY
IMPOSED
Solitude
of the Body
Shutting oneself away from
contact with others; a hermit like existence.
Imprisoned; trapped by a
natural disaster; shipwrecked on a deserted island.
Solitude
of the Mind
Tuning out distractions while
reading or watching a movie; being in a crowd but feeling alone.
Being alone (not by choice)
with no TV, radio, telephone, or other common objects to occupy one’s
thoughts; being deaf and blind; being in a coma; Alzheimer’s Disease.
Solitude
of Both the Mind & Body
Becoming a hermit and
eschewing all means of communication with the “outside” world.
Being stranded somewhere without
resources or companionship.
          On a personal note, I have experienced self-imposed
solitude several times in my life beginning long ago and far away in 1953 at
the Hawthorne Christian School in Hawthorne, California.  My withdrawal from personal contact with
other peers occurred as the result of being punched in the stomach by someone I
thought was a friend.  I learned that my
peers were not safe.  Since my father was
the disciplinarian in our family, I already knew that I was not safe around
adults either.
          In December 1957, I was living on my grandparent’s farm
when my father informed me of his divorce from my mother.  In spite of two loving grandparents and a
sympathetic uncle, I realized that I was alone in a world where nothing is
safe, secure, or permanent.
          By June of 1958, my self-imposed solitude of the mind and
moderate solitude of the body became complete until I left home for military
service.  From the time my mother and
step-father came to Minnesota and returned me to Lake Tahoe, California, I have
been what most people would classify as a “loner”.  Living for my first summer at the Emerald Bay
Resort, I had no peer interaction except for the occasional young passengers on
my step-father’s tour boat.
          Having unintentionally proved to my mother that at 10-years
old I could properly care for my infant twin brother and sister, I became the
live-in babysitter for the next 9-years, which severely limited my after school
social life.  Still, I was not lonely but
I did learn to entertain myself with books and games with my siblings.  If I was not reading or playing, I
entertained myself in other ways.  If
anyone else had been around, they would have said of me that I was the “poster
child” for the saying, “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop.”  I engaged in many risky behaviors.  The only reason I did not eventually end up
in reform school, was that I joined the Boy Scouts.
          Even in the scouts I was still alone.  As the oldest boy in the troop and the Senior
Patrol Leader, I had to set an example and thus did not have any close scout
friends.  I was closer to the scoutmaster
than any of the boys.  He was my “father
figure” in the absence of my real father and step-father.
          In college and the Air Force I had few to no close friends
and continued to remain aloof from others (still being in the closet didn’t
help).  My philosophy on friendship (due
to all the situations previously mentioned), was “I will be a friend but the
other person had to make the first move”. 
Apparently, nearly everyone I liked was doing the same so friendships
failed to materialize.
Eventually, I met Deborah
and we became good friends before we married. 
I had a good life with her, but I still was not thriving and was playing
a lone hand.  After she passed away, I
lost my joy of life and withdrew from everything I loved to do for 10-years
before I finally came out of depression.
My solitude did begin long
ago and far away, but it has followed me even to this day.  One other thing I’ve learned about solitude —
I don’t like it one little bit.  I crave
companionship for everything I like to do by way of entertainment.  I have only minimal fun doing things alone.  I am beginning to thrive but still have a
long way to go.  Perhaps if I live long
enough, I will be able to state, “I left my solitude long ago and far away.”

© 23 September 2013 

About the Author 

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn’t take a “family vacation” some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called “Camp Wood”. I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, “staying alive in the water”. I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a “Star” rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches–the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys’ beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I’m not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I’m sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I’m sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

“This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty”, I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

17 June 2013

About
the Author  


I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.


Posted on

For a Good Time… by Ricky

For a good time, lobby the Boy Scouts of America to change their discriminatory policy of prohibiting openly gay/lesbian adults from becoming leaders. Once the change is made, (unless you are a pedophile) join a scout troop as an adult leader of some sort. The time you donate helping a scout troop or Cub Scout pack will either add years to your life or wear you out sooner. In either case, you will have a wonderful time being around cub or boy scouts and participating in their activities.

Inasmuch as the Boy Scouts of America have now changed their policy of discrimination of barring openly homosexual adults (who are not pedophiles) from being adult leaders in scout troops, to allowing individual units and sponsoring organizations to choose whatever policy they will follow, it is now appropriate to lend your individual and financial support to whichever unit that chooses to not discriminate.

It is also fitting that religious sponsors can also choose a policy for their membership to follow. 

I will not support any sponsor, district, or troop/pack individually or financially if their choice is to continue discrimination at the “local” level.

© 12 August 2013 / 19 July 2015

About the Author



I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Posted on

Camping: With Apologies to Certain HOMOPHOBIC Boys Organizations by Ray S

The stair treads creaked and groaned when I took another step up to the attic storeroom of my grandma’s old Victorian house.

When I was a kid my folks, my brother, and I lived with Gram for about three or four years. Dad had been transferred from his post at Rocky Mountain National Park, back to the Park Service headquarters in Washington, D.C. It was supposed to be a temporary posting, so Gram’s house in an Annapolis suburb was where we all lived. My brother and I joined the Boy Scouts of America having already completed the prerequisite Cub and Webelos servitude back in Estes Park, Colorado.

Now, some twenty-two years later I return to Londontowne, MD to help with the disposal of the house’s furnishings in preparation for the sale of the house. Gram had decided to check up on our grandpa and see what shenanigans he might have gotten into since he had died some seventeen years earlier.

I reach the room that had always been set aside for storing old steamer trunks and miscellaneous luggage, out-of-style clothes and furniture, baby diapers (just in case one of the grand children produced another leaf on the family tree), old school books, high school and college yearbooks. There even is Gramp’s Army Air Corps uniform.

Digging around in a far corner I find my old camping stuff—the mess kit, canteen, and a number of merit badges that were never sewn onto our uniforms. Gram used to say: “Never know when these things will be needed again” or “Waste not, want not.

There it is—my official BSA pup tent! My search was over. My mission to the attic jungle room was to find the little tent to give to my neophyte Boy Scout nephew just in time for the upcoming Jamboree this summer.

Boy, does this bring back memories. I learned a lot more than knot tying and lanyard weaving in the clandestine shelter of that two-boy tent. Scouting covered a lot more territory than hikes, campfires, and all the pages in the manual. Adolescent boys came to Scouts but left Scouts—for better or for worse—as budding young men. Any vague acknowledgement in the manual, relative to sex education was unheard of and besides what hadn’t you already picked up in the boys’ room at middle school?

There was stuff you knew, you were warned about or outright threatened over and forbidden to do. Of course, that said, the warnings made it all the more tempting, even if some of us were just following the leader. The high point occurred when four or five of our troop hung out in the dark of a vacant garage was what is poetically named a “circle jerk.” Curiosity always spurred you on to pursue the forbidden fruits or in future years of the joys of hetero-, homo-, or bi- or just plain fooling-around sex.

Scouting camping is such fun, character building, healthful, teaches you how to get along with your fellows. Hopefully discouraging bullying and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Scouts Honor! And so many more virtues, and believe it or not, some of these do rub off (or in) to keep the spirit of “Love thy neighbor” alive in you all your life.

Of course there is a hidden disclaimer, just like the TV ads for miracle drugs, for all of the above; Parents, do you know where your little Boy Scout is or was?

Any volunteers for a sleep-over in a two-person pup tent on a camping outing?

© 17 March 2014

About the Author