Tag: Ricky

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Siblings, by Ricky

Before I was born, “It was a very good year. It was a very good year for small town girls [mother] and soft summer nights” [dad got her pregnant in October]. Mom and Dad hid the pregnancy from everyone by getting married in November, 1947, before it became obvious she was with child [a big scandal back then]. Immediately after, they moved from Minnesota to Lawndale, California.
After 8 months of pregnant pauses, I was born on the 9th of June 1948, another very good year for small little boys just entering the world. My mother’s sister told me about 40 years later, that I was supposed to be half of a set of twins, but sometime during the 8 months prior to my birth, the other half was spontaneously aborted. No one knew why, but I do. The first reason was two in the womb is very crowded and there was no privacy. That fact combined with the second reason (“The Other” was a straight homophobic bully) was justification for me to kick him out of my wombicile. Some may call this fratricide but I call it interior remodeling. Thus, I was born an only child. So like Harry Potter, I was the boy who lived.
The next seven years passed quickly. Mother reported all my shenanigans to my dad who was the disciplinarian in their relationship. I got lots of spankings as I was rather headstrong. So, after stresses became too much for them to handle, my parents decided to divorce in 1955 without telling me or me being aware of the impending disaster to be fall me. At the beginning of the summer of 1956 just before my 8th birthday, I was sent to live with my mother’s parents on their farm in central Minnesota. In the summer of 1957 I turned 9 and my mother came to Minnesota to attend the wedding of her sister. I thought she would take me back home to California but she would not/could not. In December at Christmas vacation from school, at age 9 ½ my father came to Minnesota for one week during Christmas and New Year’s Day. The night before he left, without me, he told me of the divorce, that mom had remarried, was pregnant with twins due to be born any day now, and I had a step-brother age 14 ½. In May, 1958, Mom and my step-father brought the twins to Minnesota to show off to my grandparents and to finally bring me back to California in a new home and family situation.
My step-brother, Gene, and I got along really well considering the difference in ages. We could talk and play together well enough. We never argued or fought. We took turns caring for the twin babies as they grew until he had to go into the Navy. He was on the USS Ticonderoga, the aircraft carrier involved in the Gulf of Tonkin incident which propelled President Johnson into escalating the Vietnam (undeclared) War.
Gene survived the Navy experience and led a normal life. He married and fathered a daughter. He worked hard, unlike me, and passed away about 5-years ago.
The twins also grew and we talked, played, and had fun together. I loved them a lot. They both grew and prospered in the normal ways. Dale also went into the Navy and survived and eventually married a woman who had four nearly grown teen and a preteen girls. He never had children of his own. He passed away four years ago. Gale is still alive and living in her home in South Lake Tahoe. She had two children who spawned several kids of their own and she now has about 10 grandchildren. All of my siblings and I went to school at South Lake Tahoe. (Gene for 4-years of high school, me from 5th grade to first year of college, Dale and Gale from K-12th grades.)
Of course my children and grandchildren are all siblings to each other respectively. One daughter is currently working for McDonald’s at their headquarters in central Chicago in the Computer Security Department for a 6-figure salary. The next daughter is working for a law firm in the Denver Tech Center area. My son is married and working somewhere in New York but lives in New Jersey. He has two children, a boy and a girl. My youngest daughter is in the Air Force in Tucson, Arizona. She also is married and has four children, three girls and one boy. All of my children are very close and are frequently communicating with each other. Family life doesn’t get much better than that.
© 10 December 2018 
 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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Springtime, by Ricky

It is written that in the springtime a young man’s heart turns to romance and love. Who are we kidding? It turns to sex. Romance and love may follow, but not always. To be completely honest, once puberty strikes, a male’s mind (not heart) turns to sex all year long. Any season is highly conducive for the event to be accomplished.

Unfortunately, I am no longer young enough or my heart strong enough to enjoy springtime in the Rockies, except for the 1942 movie. So instead, my heart and my mind take flights of fancy. Fancy this or fancy that or just fancysizing that I am young again revisiting the happy times and events of my past. Or, perhaps I should say the way way past.

Nonetheless, it really is spring and if my autumn, if not winter, memory was any better, I would probably be making a fool of myself while walking down the sidewalk. How? By fancying that set of broad shoulders, those tan legs, cute faces, kissable pouty lips, and gorgeous blue eyes (no offence to you brown and hazel eyed people it is just that I like blue) and flirting with a tall, dark, and handsome server at the Irish Snug. Oh. Wait a minute, that last one I actually do. So maybe my memory is still a summer memory, but I am just as foolish.

© 16 April 2018

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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Coping with Loved Ones, by Ricky

          Children do not “cope” with loved ones – they “survive” loved ones.  Babies survive being accidentally dropped when they are covered in soapy bath water or are squirming at the wrong time when a parent’s attention is distracted or any number of similar circumstances.  Most parents love (and would never deliberately hurt) their children, but legitimate mishaps do occur.
          Young children cope by using survival instincts, like staying out of sight of a raging parent, if they can.  Some hide under the bed; some escape to a friend’s house or apartment.  Some assume an adult role and make coffee for their hung-over parent.  Others care for younger siblings to the exclusion of their own social needs.  Some turn to illegal drugs and alcohol, while others just run away from home.  Unfortunately, some must do all of the above to one degree or another.
          Once a child’s brain develops increased capacity for reason, logic, and problem-solving, survival skills can grow into rudimentary coping skills.  Skills like thinking ahead to possible consequences for one’s actions (for example, do not do anything that might make mom or dad angry).  Trying to become the perfect child is another example.  Another skill is to keep secrets by not telling your parents anything that would upset them even if you only think some information might upset them and make them angry.  Closely associated with keeping secrets are the twin skills of avoiding telling the whole truth or outright lying.  These two skills can lead to major consequences when discovered by parents.
          One type of survival-mechanism children use is totally involuntary and effective but can leave permanent damage to a child’s physical or emotional development.  I am referring to the case where the situation a child is in, is so terrible that the child’s subconscious intervenes, and mentally the child “goes” somewhere else in their head.  Other situations may not be so terrible, but still cause a child mental, emotional, and physical pain.
          At the age of 9 ½, when I was told about my parent’s divorce, my mother’s remarriage, pregnancy, and my new stepfather and stepbrother, I developed the classic symptoms of shock along with depression.  Then my father, who was the one who told me about the divorce, left the next morning.  After spending the weekend moping, crying, scared, and confused, my subconscious “turned off” my emotions dealing with loss.  I became emotionally incomplete, which has a major impact on my life even to this day.  Perhaps not feeling negative emotions actually helped me survive the confusion over my orientation, having to babysit my siblings instead of attending after-school activities, and so forth during my high school years.
          Survival and coping skills learned in childhood and adolescence, can serve an adult well, if developed properly.  Are there any straight or GLBT parents who have not experienced challenges when raising children through their various stages of development?  Things like: potty training; the terrible two’s; the 2AM “Daddy. I want a glass of water.”; the midnight through 6AM feedings every two-hours; “All the girls wear makeup.  Why can’t I?”; diaper changing ad nauseum; underachieving at school; overachieving at mischievousness; various childhood illnesses; dental and doctor appointments; conflicting school and family activities; “I hate that food item!”; “Can I have a $20 advance on my allowance?”; “Sir, this is officer Bob.  Could you please come to the police station and pick up your son?  He’s had a bit too much to drink for a 13-year old.”; “Mom, now that I am 12, can I have a 16-year old boyfriend?”; “Mom.  I’m bleeding between my legs.”; “Son, do that in private or at least lock the bathroom door.”; “No you can’t watch a PG-13 movie until you are 13 and no R-rated movies until you are 30.”; “Mom, Dad – I’m gay/lesbian.”; and a host of other such issues too numerous to list.
          How does an adult cope with those challenges?  You do the best that you can with the knowledge and skills you learned as a child in how your parents manipulated you.
          But there are some of life’s challenges that no one can really prepare for.  Divorce is hard enough on the adult but especially devastating for a child or even adolescents.  Some adults and children have friends to be a social support during the stressful times.  Others turn to their religious faith for comfort.  Some just get depressed and withdraw and many children take their own life.
          My most stressful time was when I was temporarily caring for my wife’s mother, an Alzheimer patient.  Her regular caregiver (and partner) needed to take a month-long vacation.  My children and I split up the time with me taking two-weeks and the others taking one-week each.  The first night I stayed with my mother-in-law, she decided that she was in my apartment and spent much of the time between 1AM and 6AM (while I was asleep), packing her things and loading her car so she could drive to her house (the one she sold several years previous).  For the rest of the two-weeks I was there, I was in survival mode and not much good for anything. 
          I left my car there for my children to use while there, and I took the train back to Denver.  The train took 3-days to go from Jacksonville to Denver by way of Washington DC and Chicago.  I needed every one of those days to decompress and relax.
          Even knowing what to expect from an Alzheimer patient, who can really prepare for the reality.  I truly understand how loving children can place their Alzheimer parents into a nursing type facility, as the stress is tremendous.  What I do not understand is how the staff of those facilities can provide the care they do without shutting off their emotions.
          People do not really cope with situations.  They maneuver about mentally and physically until the “crisis” passes and they become survivors.
         
© 14 October 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 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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Epiphanies and Little Things Mean a Lot, by Ricky

Epiphanies are generally associated with religious experiences, but they can occur over nearly any subject, topic, or event. It is not an important distinction whether or not the Divine brings on that flash of insight, or our subconscious mind finally “connects-all-the-dots.” That is to say, the distinction may be important to someone’s world-view and not to someone else’s. The point here is that nearly everyone has experienced an epiphany or flash of insight at some time in their life, from whatever cause.

I once thought that epiphanies were all major events or flashes of insight which would lead a person to change their entire future life, as when Jesus appeared to Saul on the road to Damascus or when the Founding Fathers banded together to form our nation. I have had my share of major epiphanies from life changing to mundane during my time on earth. The most recent I would call a major one, but it only came to me at this point in my life when it is nearly too late to recover from neglecting the whole point, lesson, or message of the epiphany. The major flash of insight, revelation, or brain-connecting-the-dots event was how the little things mean a lot more than we generally believe – until later in life when their influence or impact becomes crystal clear.

In the past couple of weeks, I had my epiphany of the little things in my life that had major impacts over time and affect me until today and beyond. This epiphany was not possible for me to have, understand, and believe until I reached the age where it all makes sense due to hindsight.

The first one I remember is when I received that major spanking when I was 4 or 5 of which I have written about before. That was the time my father spanked me for “playing with my penis” instead of being “disobedient” for not getting dressed. A small mistake on his part, just a little thing, but the result had a tremendous impact on my future. I learned from that experience to keep secrets about anything, but especially penis and nudity related. I don’t fault my parents for this over reaction. They had no idea I was mildly ADD and easily distracted, which was why I wasn’t getting dressed in the first place. At that age, if not before, most kids explore their bodies and that spanking was an over reaction to natural and innocent curiosity and not precocious sexual lust.

The next small thing was being sent to live with my grandparents while my parents went through the divorce process totally unknown to me. Now my feelings at the time were excited when I first went, but at the end of the first summer, I was ready to go home. Somehow, my mother talked me into staying to go to school there. That did not make me happy, but I liked the Cambridge public school better than the Hawthorne Christian School I had been attending in California. The problem occurred when 1½ years later my father arrived during the last week of Christmas vacation. His mistake was to wait until the night before he left before telling me about the divorce. He should have told me immediately when he arrived, so we could grieve together. It was a little thing, but with major consequences. As a result, for the next 53 years I was emotionally incomplete as my brain shut off all negative physical sensations and feelings regarding separations and loss in order to stop my physical and mental pain.

Other little epiphanies I have experienced are not really life changing but more like signposts along the way indicating the right road or providing guidance on current situations. An example of one of these types is when visiting the hospital, the daughter of the man who was ill was talking to me and another couple in the room. Suddenly, I “knew” that she was emotionally charged and needed to vent. So, I held out my arms and she “fell” into them and cried on my shoulder while I hugged her. It was just a small thing, but I remember it as a “it-made-me-happy to comfort-another” thing.

Life is not normally made up of major epiphanies, unless one is a legitimate prophet of the Divine or otherwise visionary. Rather, life is composed of little ordinary events, which can have minor or great impact on our futures. More examples are “Look mommy, I can read this”; “The sunset is beautiful”; “Daddy likes to take me bowling”; “Mommy loves the cards I send her”; “My parents came to watch all my games”; Or “I’m not rich, but I live better than most of the world’s population.”

So, my late in life epiphany is that all the small things in my life taken as a whole from the perspective of senior status, all point to one conclusion, I am loved. Loved by many people and most importantly loved by the Divine. It is still not too late to spread some of that love around to those who really need to feel it. Who knows, maybe my small random acts of kindness will lead to someone else’s epiphany.

© August 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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Gym 3, by Ricky

(A tale of 3 “gyms”)

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 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 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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Writing, by Ricky

Last year I documented how I write my stories for this group under the title of Writing My Story. So this time, I choose to write about someone else’s writing, Tyler Myers’.

Tyler Myers
STHS Class of 2013

“From the US, Tyler Myers!” The head of the Russian Forest Service intones these words as the stage coordinator escorts me to center stage. The Forest Service director speaks with a language unfamiliar to me; however, I understand one phrase: my name. The crowd cheers, for they understand every remark the host exclaims. The noise makes the situation more difficult because—now—I can’t hear a word he says. A man approaches me, handing me a certificate and a medal. The medal has the Roman numeral “III” engraved on the face of it. Now I get it.

Standing on the stage, I remember the comments: “You really think you’ll go?” “Your project isn’t that amazing,” and “Do you even understand the statistics?” The remarks don’t matter now. As I stand in Moscow, I receive confirmation that the summer I spent working on the study deserved recognition, regardless of what others told me. My reminiscing changes to a rant as the rest of the top projects receive recognition. Why isn’t anything good enough for them? Why must they criticize everything I do? My friends are starting to think I’m insane for taking on so many challenges, so why can’t my family see it? My understanding deepens as the spot light widens to display the top three contestants.

My questioning of the past leads me to remember why I try so hard to begin with. Even when I mentioned an opportunity to work with the Forest Service’s Regional Ecologist to develop a project, my mom remained unaffected. She laughed when I told her of the deadline for the project, claiming that I should use my time to work this summer and make some money. Much to her surprise, I landed a job with the Forest Service as a Botanist and Aquatics crew member and, in my free time, completed the project. Ultimately, I wished for any positive reaction from her, any type of motivation or encouragement besides her posting pictures of me on Facebook, boasting to her friends. Regardless of my actions, she remains uninterested. From the AP classes to the varsity letters to the clubs I ran on a weekly basis, she remains distant. As I stand on stage, my disposition changes as I realize I wouldn’t have taken on some of the early challenges and developed my habit to get involved if it wasn’t for my family’s harsh comments. I begin to appreciate the high standard I hold myself to; however, now I can’t resist getting involved. This time—this project—and the accomplishments to come, they start, and end, simply with my impulse to achieve.

Now there’s an idea, my life as an extended metaphor. Ok then, now what should I be? How about a diamond—under pressure, showing perfection—Nah, that’s too cliché. Oh, I got it; a calculator—a useful object with a nerdy connotation—on second thought, I can do more than just math. Well how about something abstract? I am the derivative of x3 and my slope is always positive—except when x=0—only becoming greater as time progresses. Well, lets be honest; if I plan to go that route, I might as well be the calculator. What if I am the Earth and each of my friends and family members feed off of my resources causing me to become drained? Well, I can see that being more creative but I don’t think everyone necessarily feeds on me; they aren’t all parasites.

Ok, so now that I know metaphors aren’t my thing, what else can I do? If I think back to second grade, I do remember stories being quite enjoyable, so maybe an anecdote is my ticket to writing a witty personal statement. I’ll start by introducing my alien nature amongst generally everyone. Now let me introduce my low-income family: with my video gaming brother, assumed to be gangster brother, non-existent father and PTSD mom. Or, I can describe how I struggle to fit in at home, where intelligence is labeled as disrespect, and at school, where people treat me like I’m too far out there; ultimately I’ll describe my situation in which there isn’t a niche for a person with an interest for sports, music, school, and the environment. Ok, so I am alienated. Aren’t I supposed to come out victorious or something?

All right, Tyler—BAM!—Problem solved. I can get over it—all of it. My mom was in abusive relationships and that led to psychotic people sabotaging our house by rerouting the ventilation system.

From that, I don’t trust many people—if any at all. Now I’m independent. My mom drags the past into the future constantly and doesn’t trust my friends or me. She also insists on criticizing anything I do. From her, I can deal with the most paranoid people and rely on myself for motivation. Now I’m compassionate and self-motivated. My father abandoned my mother, brother, and I, forcing us to live without a father figure or another parent for support. His absence led to me working to help my family and working alone to learn due to the lack of education on my mother’s behalf. Now I can shop for a family, budget money, and learn skills like playing the guitar, playing the bass, math, and English independently.

Through the persistence of time, memories such as these, and many others, dissipate leaving only the shape of the character they molded. Their significance doesn’t exist in the fact that the event took place; rather, the importance of my memories—the persistence of my memories—exists in the dents the occurrence left on my character.

Well, I guess I don’t need an extended metaphor after all.

In the inland of South America, a co-worker approaches me to describe the nature of the situation; of course, to my liking, he replies in Spanish. He explains how the deforestation of the local forests has decreased due to our implemented regulations on the removal of trees and we are now in a state of soil and forest restoration. He continues to explain that we can now retreat to my engineering firm’s headquarters to finish our work on the other various environmental issues involving deforestation and energy consumption. As I hear the update, the news causes me to appreciate the reality of the situation…oh wait; I guess I am ten years ahead of myself.

As far as my goals go, I figure I have set myself up for a rigorous path, yet, I know I wouldn’t want my life aspirations to be any different. I see that, when I look as my past, I could have earned higher grades if I cut Cross Country Running, Cross Country Skiing, and Track and Field out of my life, but most of my friends come from my extracurricular activities; I also see how my GPA could have improved if I dropped Orchestra for another AP class. Still, I feel uneasy at the thought of dropping things like Generation Green and Glee Club. It is stressful being the president of both of the clubs, but the involvement with the environment and the students who love to sing is irreplaceable.

Recently, I have reached the point in the high school student’s life where the college financial reality hits—and it isn’t gentle. Even with the help of FAFSA, various colleges cost $40,000 to attend and, honestly, that is an expensive price for to pay. Sincerely, I believe any scholarship can help me complete college.

Tyler Myers

Tyler’s photo and writings included with his permission.

My high school class of 1966 established a modest scholarship fund a few years ago. The past two years I have been one of 18 classmates who review the final list of applicants and vote on who should receive the modest funds. In the past, we have awarded one student a $200 scholarship. This year, due to a “last minute” donation of $25,000, we elected to give a $2,000 scholarship to each of three students.

We evaluated seven finalists that one of my best friends in high school culled from all the applicants. A week ago Saturday afternoon, I received an email listing the three selectees along with a table showing how each of the evaluators gave out the points used for voting. Two of my three picks won. All the applicants have excellent grade point averages so I based my selection primarily, but not exclusively, upon the writing samples on the student’s application. One of my choices, Tyler, actually would have won even if we had awarded only one scholarship.

The week before the release of the winner’s names, I had wanted to email Tyler and comment on his writing sample after I submitted my choices; but I never did. After reading his name as a scholarship winner, I could not contain myself and did email him around midnight Saturday night Sunday morning.

My email said in part, “… Upon reading your “Student Summary” section, I concluded that I have no idea what kind of an Environmental Engineer you would become. However, I do believe you could have a career in writing or journalism. I really enjoyed the creativity and the way you expressed your ideas. I hope you continue to develop your skill in this area. Congratulations and best of luck in your future.”

Surprisingly, within a few minutes, Tyler replied to my email. “Thank you so much for the compliment! I am actually pretty excited to hear that my creative writing skills come off as impressive rather than corny 🙂

So does this email mean I am a recipient of the scholarship?

And thank you again for the delightful email. It was a brightening addition to my night.”

I responded to his question with the following. “I am sure I am not supposed to have emailed you at this point (but no one said not to either and I’ve pretty much been a rule breaker most of my life) and I wanted to do it last week
right after I reviewed your application and before results were sent out to all the reviewers, but did not. I just received the results today. Your counselors know of course, and I just could not wait any longer than now to make my comments.

You are shortly to be an STHS grad and I know you already have figured out what “congratulations” implies. Tell your family of course, but keep the secret from others until the results are officially announced. (If you are like I was at your age, you won’t keep the secret. Just be considerate of those who also applied but are still waiting to hear since you probably don’t know exactly who else applied.)

Another thing, this year we are giving out 3 scholarships instead of just one. Contact me again after the official announcement and I’ll tell you one more thing you might want to know.

Now just one last thing…it’s 1:18 AM in Denver so it is 12:18 AM in South Lake Tahoe…go to bed and get some sleep. I lived on 4 hours of sleep all through high school and nothing good came of it.”

You may have noticed that I did not tell Tyler of the amount of the award. It is likely that when he applied, he knew we only give out $200. He probably does not know of the increase, so I left him and the others to be surprised.

I want to believe that my few words of encouragement may lead to Tyler writing the “great American environmental engineer novel” someday and perhaps being recognized as the 21st Century’s equivalent of Mark Twain. Maybe I should write him again and remind him that our farming economy thrives on corn and so he should keep writing what he termed “corny” stories.

© 13 May 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

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Springtime for Hitler, by Ricky

It is written that in the springtime a young man’s heart turns to romance and love. Who are we kidding? It turns to sex. Romance and love may follow, but not always. To be completely honest, once puberty strikes, a male’s mind (not heart) turns to sex all year long. Any season is highly conducive for the activity to be sought after.

Unfortunately, I am no longer young enough or my heart strong enough to enjoy springtime in the Rockies, except for the 1942 movie. So instead, my heart and my mind take flights of fancy. I fancy this or fancy that or just fancysizing that I am young again revisiting the happy times and events of my past. Or, perhaps I should say my way way past.

Nonetheless, it really is spring and if my autumn, if not winter, memory was any better, I would probably be making a fool of myself while walking down the sidewalk. How? By fancying that set of broad shoulders, those tan legs, cute faces, kissable pouty lips, and gorgeous blue eyes (no offence brown and hazel eyed people, it is just that I like blue) and flirting with a tall, dark, and handsome server at the Irish Snug. Oh. Wait a minute, that last one I actually do. So maybe my memory is still a summer memory, but I am just as foolish.
© 16 Apr 2018

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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Explorations, by Ricky

“Exploration” and 8-year old boys naturally go together as it is part of a boy’s job description along with: mischievousness, recklessness, inquisitiveness, disobedience, playfulness, rowdiness, loud, annoying (“Are we there yet?”, and the ever popular “Why?” repeated ad nauseaum), seekers of anything remotely fun (especially if it involves dirt or mud). But the description also contains: loveable, unlimited energy, full of wonder at new things, dreamers, and the all powerful over riding (and indefinable) “cuteness factor.” It doesn’t matter from what background or environment or race or culture a boy comes from (as long as no one has beaten such characteristics out of him) all boys share this common job description.

My story actually has its roots in 1953 with my first day of kindergarten. My grandmother dressed me in old style “baby” clothes (that in her day were perfectly acceptable girlish styles for little boys) as often as she could. My mother wisely stopped that practice when I began school. Unfortunately, her choice of shoe styles did not match the opinions of other boys of the same age or older. I had to wear sandals with wingtip style little holes punched into the leather. That day I learned the word “sissy” and I did not like it. So, I pitched a fit (mostly crying) and my dad over ruled mother and I got normal shoes that very evening. Nonetheless, “sissy” did not disappear from other boys’ vocabulary when referring to me for the next three years (K-2).

Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived 8-year old), was sent to live on my grandparents’ farm in central Minnesota while my parents (unbeknownst to me) were arranging their divorce. Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately), autumn, winter, and spring in rotation. Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest trapper ever known, to bring in beautiful animal pelts for the ladies back east to wear. (Okay, so they really weren’t buffalo or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints just right under the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like buffalo or bear hides.)

1956 was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop (stay away from there—guarded by a vicious rooster; Hey! I was only 8 and the rooster was “big”), granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the stink you “enjoyed” twice a day). State and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns (varieties of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc.), judging of canning, 4-H, displays of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, bailers, rakes, manure spreaders (yucky!), thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway (yea!!) in the evenings.

As summer waned and school began I met and made a few friends: two farm kids (one even in my third-grade class); and several “townies” (my best townie friend was the son of the high school football coach). I also discovered that one of my dad’s brothers and two cousins also were townies. I had ridden school busses for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new. One of my farm friends and I were part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning. (Hmmmmm. Could that have been early “training” to enjoy phallus shaped things?) Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploration of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never got caught).

Another school-yard “exploratory” activity involved games. One favorite among all students (townies and farm boys) was marbles. Our version involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school, placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed. If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process until there was only one shooter in the depression. The winner would then collect all the marbles in the hole and the betting process would begin again. Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this game.

The second game we called Stretch. I can’t speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school). [Can’t do that today due to fear of violence in schools.] In this game two boys would face each other and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg. If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved, and the other boy took his turn. If the knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had been standing. If he was successful in touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife, returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife. If he could not touch the knife, he lost the game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.

The third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously reserved for winter recess). I trust I don’t need to describe these. With all of these games, I (we) were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.

The elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three story edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two floors and storage rooms on the third floor. The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’ restroom. “Yes,” even during a pee break (raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to” “explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class (remember the job description—mischievous).

Anyway, 1956 is when the “sissy” got lost and I became all boy.


© 26 March 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 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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Quirky Domestic Situations, by Ricky

Me? Quirky? I don’t think so. I’m perfectly normal in every way even for a gay guy. Very nondescript, average looking, wonderful personality (so I’ve been told and I choose to believe it) and nothing quirky about me. So, I felt very secure in asking my oldest daughter if she thought there was anything quirky about me; knowing all along that she couldn’t think of anything even if she thought more than her 30-second attention span for caring about anything I say.

Apparently, it was a case of me not seeing the forest because the trees were in the way; or (as the Bible puts it in Matthew, Chapter 7) a case of “mote” “beam” sickness. Let’s see if I can remember accurately. My daughter thought for all of 3 seconds and came up with “The Lord of the Rings”.

Apparently, every time we have guests over I always ask them at some point if they like to read books and if so what type. (My daughter keeps track of these things somehow; I don’t keep count.) Not long after the topic of books and movies turns up, someone, not always me, will bring up “The Lord of the Rings”; at which time a 15 to 30 minute discussion of the book and movie will follow. My daughter has grown very tired of hearing it over and over.

The last time it happened was two weeks ago. She had invited the church missionaries over for dinner. I was on my way home from somewhere and called to let her know. She informed me that the missionaries were there for dinner so I asked if I was invited or should I eat before I came home. She told me to come on home. She told us all later, that at this point she wanted to add that I could come home to eat, if I did not talk about “The Lord of the Rings” but she did not say it. I came home. We all sat down to eat and during the small talk, my daughter asked one of the missionaries where he lived and went to school. He replied, “Sacramento.” My daughter thought to herself, “Oh no.” I said, “I went to college in Sacramento.” When asked where I replied, “Sacramento State College” and I flunked out after two semesters. (My daughter is now screaming in her head, “No. No. Nooooo.) When asked why did I flunk out, I couldn’t lie so I said because my English 101 teacher made us read “The Lord of the Rings.” After the ensuing 20 minute discussion, my daughter told us what she did not tell me when I called and then she said, “and I ended up giving the lead-in question to the topic I hate.” I think my daughter is the quirky one.

I’m sure I’m not quirky, but quirky things seem to go on around me. For example, my daughter’s mother-in-law, Maria, was raised on a collective farm in the old Soviet Union. As a result, she has worked all her life. When she came to live with us no one asked her to help around the house but she doesn’t know how to be “retired”. So, she is constantly cleaning, cooking, doing laundry (until the washer broke), and generally being every man’s ideal housewife. When she does want a private time, she goes to our old tool and garden shed where she has made herself what I call a “nest”; goes in and hides. It’s rather cozy actually, but she is the quirky one.

Maria’s husband, Gari, who also lives with us, is a bit quirky or maybe just eccentric. He walks ¾ of a mile to the grocery store and back and generally ignores the traffic signs for walk and don’t walk; at least until last month when he did it in front of Lakewood’s “finest” and received a $79 ticket for walking across the street at an intersection against the don’t walk sign. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of someone getting what is essentially a jay-walking type citation. I don’t know if he is quirky or if it’s just the situation that’s quirky.

My daughter’s husband and Maria’s son, Artur, is rather quirky. Today when I told him that our Himalayan cat was pregnant he became his quirky self. At first anger stating that he would throw her out and then a few seconds later he demanded we get the cat an abortion. When my daughter pointed out that he always had said he wanted the cat to have kittens, he responded that it was true but not by an alley cat (paraphrased). Once it was explained that the father was ½ Persian or ½ Himalayan he calmed down a bit. In a day or two he will be fine with the situation—that’s his quirk. In fact, we don’t know for sure who the father is. The only cat we’ve seen in her company was the one we mentioned. I also will not tell him that on the weekends when he and his mother are gone all day, I repeatedly let the cat out knowing she was in heat. I did it for two reasons. I got tired of listening to the cat yowling and I like kittens. Maybe that’s my quirk.

© 17 Apr 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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Rolling Thunder, by Ricky


As an 8 to 10-year-old boy living on a farm in central Minnesota, my 3½ year older uncle and I had to listen to the thunder that rolled across the rolling hills during rain storms. Many was the night when we had to sleep with the thunderous noise created by lightning strikes. As if that wasn’t enough, the flashes of lightning played havoc with the time it took us to fall asleep.

We were not overly scared of the lightning and thunder while in bed, or in the house. The farm-house we lived in had six lightning rods along the spine of the roof. My uncle and I slept together in a wire spring frame bed with metal head and foot-boards. We were well insulated from a direct strike to the house. At least, we believed we were safe from lightning. Now the storms that produced tornados, were another matter entirely.

On a side note, when I was 9¾-years old and sleeping in that bed, my uncle and I fondled each other once, two nights in a row. These events showed me the possibilities of male to male pleasurable activities. I am very fond of that bed.

J.K. Rowling receives thunderous applause at her presentations as did the first showing of Star Wars in Rapid City, South Dakota, which my spouse and I attended. As soon as the first space ship appeared traveling from the top towards the middle of the screen trying to escape the even larger ship chasing it, the fans of space movies began to applaud for about two minutes. Consequently, there was some dialog everyone missed.

North Vietnam and Laos received the fruits of Operation Rolling Thunder from 2 March 1965 until 2 November 1968. The effort was ultimately a failure as it did not achieve stated goals. See operation rolling thunder in Wikipedia for more details.

I have been seated in restroom stalls and often have heard “rolling thunder” from nearby stalls, and in all honesty, from my own as well.

Who can forget the rolling thunder of multiple bowling balls dropping to the lane and the subsequent crashing of the pins as they are knocked about. And, there is also the vibrating air as a railroad diesel powered engine, or two or three and sometimes four, pass by loud enough to be classified as rolling thunder (in my opinion).

Anyone who has witnessed in person the launch of a Saturn V rocket, carrying astronauts to the moon, could never forget the rolling thunder of the powerful engines pulsing across the water to the on-lookers 3-miles away.

© 13 November 2017

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