Tag: Ricky

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Competition, by Ricky

        I
am not a “competitive” person.  When I
was a child, I enjoyed playing games where there was a winner and one or more
not the winners, but I didn’t care which category I was in ultimately.  I just played any game for fun.
        When
I was old enough to play Little League baseball, I was nearly competitive by
doing my best to help the team “win”. 
But when we would not win, I did feel a bit down, if I had made mistakes
that contributed to our failing to win. 
However, I did not castigate myself because I knew that in spite of
making (or not making) mistakes, I had done my best for the team and I knew not
winning did not reduce the amount of fun I experienced playing the game with
other boys.
        Just
playing a team game for fun still taught me sportsmanship, cooperation, working
together for a common goal, and helped to build my character.  I did not need parents or coaches who
believed in “winning is everything” to motivate me.  If they had, I am sure I would now have more
character flaws than positive attributes.
        In high school,
I never played on the school sports teams. 
They were all about winning and I only liked to play for fun.  The fact that I wasn’t all that good at any
of the sports also contributed to me not even trying out for a team.  I did play friendly team games during PE
class.  Besides the seasonal games of
softball, flag football, basketball we would also play other games for a week
or two.  One of my most memorable games
was badminton.
        The
PE teachers decided to set up two badminton courts/nets inside one half of our
gym.  They then organized the girls and
boys into teams of two players and held a tournament.  Eventually, the boys’ champions played the
girls’ champions.
        My
teammate, Ray Hoff, was one of my two friends in high school.  We first met in 6th grade and
continued as friends throughout our school years.  Winning was nice but we played for fun.  We would constantly talk to each other during
the game, giving encouragement, criticizing our play, and telling jokes all
while batting the shuttlecock over the net. 
Sometimes we were laughing so hard that the other team would score.  In the end, we were the boys’ champions and
got to play the girls’ championship team for our class period.  Ray and I continued our antics and had lots
of fun.  The girls would often laugh with
us.  Ultimately, the girls won with 4
sets to 3 but those 7-games took two class periods to play.  I don’t think anyone else ever watched our
games against the girls.  The other boys
were busy playing basketball and I don’t know what the other girls were
doing.  All I know is that Ray and I had
tons of fun playing a non-macho game.
        For
the years following high school, I still would rather play a game rather than
watch one.  To me, just sitting watching
a baseball, football, or basketball game is rather boring and many people take
those games way too seriously and kill all the fun.  Even when I play a board game like Risk or
Monopoly, I play for fun.  When it
becomes evident that another player is getting too emotional and is too
personally involved in the game, it kills the fun of playing and I’m ready to
stop.
        I
have given up watching team sports that are not sports anymore.  They have become big business and I find no
fun in business.
© 3 March 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 9-11-2001
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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Birth Experiences, by Ricky

        I don’t remember being born, but I
imagine it was not a pleasant experience being squeezed through a small opening
like toothpaste from a tube and suddenly finding oneself in a cold unfriendly
environment without mom’s heartbeat to supply normalcy.  I’ve since learned that it wasn’t an
enjoyable experience for my mother either.
        I do remember
that the births of my four children filled me with happiness.  Considering what my wife went through and
what she put me through during “transition”, it jolly well better had made me
happy.
        There were some
rather humorous events during the birth of our first daughter in 1977.  At about 5AM, I was awakened by a swift poke
in the ribs and a voice that said, “My water broke.  Go get a towel.”  I sleepily replied, “What?” after which the
first message was repeated.  I then
staggered to the bathroom to get a towel, but first answered the call of nature
for about 1-minute.  Meanwhile, Deborah
was repeatedly yelling at me to hurry up. 
Well, this is only funny in hindsight but the excitement of the
impending birth quelled her anger.
        By 10PM she
still had not dilated sufficiently for birthing nor had she eaten anything
since dinner the day before.  Deborah was
famished so I went to a McDonald’s and brought her back a Big Mac and a vanilla
shake, which she wolfed down reasonably slow considering.  At the midnight nursing shift change, an
unsympathetic nurse took over and decided to “move things along” by trying to get
Deborah to push, attempting to use the baby’s head to stretch the cervix.  At one point, Deborah was told to tuck her
chin down and push hard.  Deb tried once
but told the nurse that it made her gag. 
The nurse told her it was nonsense and to tuck her chin and push.
        The nurse was
standing where the doctor would stand during delivery so she could monitor the
cervix stretching.  Deb did as she was
told and again told the nurse it was making her gag.  The nurse again insisted that Deborah to tuck
her chin down and push hard.  At this
point, the nurse learned an important and disgusting lesson as Deborah threw up
her recently ingested Big Mac and vanilla shake.  It was a perfectly cylindrical projectile
that arched over her chest and stomach and hit the nurse squarely in the chest.  I was mortified on behalf of the nurse and
did not laugh until the nurse had angrily stomped out of the room.  After all, she had been warned, apparently she
was a “know-it-all” type.
        With some more
suffering on Deborah’s part, but no more drama, our first daughter was born
26–hours after Deb’s water broke.  The
smile and happiness on her face when she was able to hold our baby made it all
worthwhile for the both of us.
        Each of the
following children took less and less time to deliver.  The only other unforgettable event was during
the birth of our third baby, our son.  He
was two weeks overdue and large.  It was
decided that Deborah would be “induced” using Pitocin.  The day for birthing arrived.  We had never needed Pitocin before and did
not know exactly what to expect.  We
waited and waited and waited for the Pitocin drip to take effect.  After about two hours, nothing had begun and
it was explained that the Pitocin did not work because Deborah’s body was not
ready to give birth.  So, the doctor
decided to wait another week.
The next delivery day also arrived
and all went well with the preparation until the nurse administered the
Pitocin. Again we waited and waited and waited but nothing was happening.  After about an hour, another nurse arrived
and discovered that the first nurse had missed the vein and the Pitocin was not
getting into Deb’s blood stream.
        So, while the
nurses were now preparing everything to insert the drip needle properly, I went
to another wing of the hospital for a brief visit with a family friend who was
in the hospital due to heart issues. 
After about 20-30 minutes, I returned to Deborah only to find out that
she was in transition, yelling at me for not being there (I was her Lamaze
labor coach) and was about to be wheeled into the delivery room.  Apparently, Pitocin works very fast and I
barely had time to change into the delivery room green scrubs.  I arrived just ahead of the doctor.
        One week later, Deb
and I were driving two cars to Florida from Montana, as I had just been
discharged from the Air Force.  That was
the trip that was hell for Deborah.  But
that is another story probably best not remembered or told—the modern version of the pioneers
crossing the prairie in covered wagons or on foot.
© 27 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 9-11-2001
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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Reputation, by Ricky

In 8th grade I was given a reputation as a DAR, Damn Average Raiser, when my teacher pointed out to my classmates that I received the highest grade on a test when I only had one night to prepare and they had two weeks.

In high school that reputation followed me but was undeserved as I was mostly an “A” and “B” student, mostly because I did not study but just crammed information the night before a test. At that point in my life, I still had a pretty good memory.

In the military as an enlisted member, my reputation was outstanding because I had a logical oriented brain and I could accomplish multiple tasks in a timely manner. As an Air Force officer, in the eyes of the enlisted men/women I supervised, I had a reputation of always helping the enlisted force rather than being a severe disciplinarian. In the eyes of my commanders, my reputation was one of being too soft and not “hard core” by building my career on the number of careers I could destroy.

As a deputy sheriff, my reputation was of being very tough on DUI drivers and speeders. But my patrol district traffic accidents dropped from 93 to 47 in one year with traffic related deaths from 7 to 3. So locals could call me what they will; I don’t really care. We saved at least 4 lives my first year on the job.

As a husband and father, my family set my reputation as a “fix-anything” person. I has taken me a life-time to dispel that belief, but it just won’t go away.

In this group, you all know me for a pun loving smart ass.

© 27 October 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

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Angels by Ricky

I don’t believe in angels, at least not androgynous beings with wings that one sees in classical religious paintings. I do believe in messengers from God and, in these contemporary times, those messengers we call “angels”. I have never knowingly seen one nor have I had anyone give me a message from God. The one time a voice in my head warned me that two boys riding on one bicycle would fall down into the path of my car, the warning did not pass through my ears first but went directly into my brain and did not resemble or feel like my thoughts.

I attribute that warning to either the Holy Ghost or to one of the boys’ Guardian Angel because, if it had been my brain’s analysis of the situation, I expect the warning: 1. would not have been repeated with more emphasis and, 2. with an explanation that was a statement of fact—not speculation. On the other hand, I don’t know if guardian angels exist as some believe, but the above incident leaves my mind open to the idea.

When one has received the Gift of the Holy Ghost the Holy Ghost will be one’s constant companion as long as one remains sufficiently righteous. Since the “voice” in my head was not mine, I can believe it was the Holy Ghost. I don’t even want to consider, “if not the Holy Ghost, who else is in here with me?” I’m pretty sure guardian angels would be external to my body. So perhaps it is some Heavenly spirit hiding out as it were–sort of like being in the closet. More likely than that, it could be my split personality—my 12-year old self lurking in the background and not yet fully integrated into one whole adult. I prefer the Holy Ghost version.

There are three kinds of angels. Not to be flippant, but two categories are good ones and bad ones. Good ones serve God and the bad ones serve not God but whatever name one calls the supernatural being who is opposed to most of what God wants. There are two subcategories within the good and bad categories. Now pay attention even though there is no test later.

The first subcategory is angels who are “Resurrected Beings” which are people already resurrected and now serving as messengers (angels) of God. Most Christian denominations believe that only Christ has been resurrected and that everyone else must wait until “the morning of the first resurrection” sometime in the future. [See KJV Mathew 27: 52-53 for the truth of “resurrected beings”.]

The second subcategory is angels who have “Spirit Bodies” which are those who have not yet been resurrected, or yet been born to receive their bodies, or are among the spirits cast out of Heaven during their rebellion against God and thus cannot have been resurrected yet. [KJV Revelations 12:7-9] Of these, the first two listed serve God and the spirits “cast out” serve the not God that you can name yourself.

If you are ever visited by an angel, how can you tell which type, good or bad, you are talking too? Apparently, angels have laws or rules they must obey. Just ask them to shake hands. If the angel is a resurrected being he will shake hands with you. If the angel is still in his spirit body, one serving God will refuse to shake hands while one serving “the one you must name” will shake hands but you will not feel his hand in yours. What could be simpler, assuming that being in the presence of an angel will not have reduced you to a quivering mass of protoplasm barely able to function let alone remaining rational?

The third of the three main categories of “angels” is where we humans have assigned angelic attributes or qualities to mortal men, women, and children. Hence, the popular phrase, “You are such an angel.” Many such mortals probably deserve the comparison at least until their “feet of clay” are uncovered and exposed to the world, if they are famous enough. Mother Theresa’s case comes to mind. Personally, I can overlook her shortcomings and remember her as serving God among the poor.

As I said at the beginning of this piece, I have no experience with actual angels that I consciously know of but, from what little of him that I do know, I view our group member, Pat Gourley, as an angel due to his work among the sick and dying. Florence Nightingale, Mary Martha Reid, Catharine Merrill, Anna Etheridge, Cornelia Hancock, Louisa May Alcott, Clara Barton, and Walt Whitman were also famous nurses working among the sick and dying. Pat has followed in the path of nursing “greats”. Surely, he deserves the mortal title of “angel” despite any flaws he may have. I am sure God will judge him kindly because, as Jesus said, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [KJV Mathew 25:40 – see verses 35-40 for the complete concept]

I believe many people engage in angelic-like behaviors at one time or another. As we go through life, let us all remember the words of King Mosiah from the Book of Mormon, “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” [Mosiah 2:17]

© 13 December 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

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Sorry, I’m Allergic by Ricky

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do” may be great advice when trying to figure out proper etiquette for the dinner table; but, “when in Russia, do as the Russians do” is not always helpful, unless one is trying to blend in and not draw attention to oneself. In Russia, it is expected that when one is invited to dinner or other social occasions, one will join in the rounds of alcoholic drinks (principally vodka) served with or after the meal. “No thank you,” “I don’t drink,” “I don’t like it,” and even “It is against my religion,” are all socially unacceptable, rude, and is inferred that you are superior to your hosts. So, what is a teetotaler supposed to do in such circumstances? Ironically, “Sorry, I’m allergic” is a socially acceptable excuse, even though no one actually believes it. In fact, it may be the only acceptable excuse.

On a more personal level, I have many allergies of the common medical variety. Just like most people, I also have many non-medical type allergies. Among these are: liars, cheats, thieves, arsonists, bullies, megalomaniacs, violence-mongers, murderers, wars, drug dealers or pushers, and corporations with policies that are anti-social or destructive to individual or societal stability or are based upon greed.

On an even more personal level, at my current age, I am also allergic to: changing a baby’s dirty diapers, higher taxes, false friends, and physical labor. I feel an allergic reaction coming on from all this typing so I’m done.

© 4 November 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

Exploring by Ricky

Boys
and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and
marriage because curiosity and exploration are part of a boy’s job
description.  
I began my career as an
explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on
the floor and tasting small objects I encountered.  Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began
to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds.  I don’t think the term “baby-proofing” existed
yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me.  Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind,
exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.
 Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I
learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very
dangerous and to stay away from them.  I
suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.”  Once I began to open doors and explore
outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do
some serious exploring.  I quickly
learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.
My exploration
of kindergarten began in September 1953. 
I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate)
with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora.  I loved to color and play with all the messy
artistic stuff.  In first grade, Sandra
and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on
how to work quietly.  I’m sure I did not
measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat,
quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with
lots of pictures.  Being unsuccessful in
finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and
eventually sent us back to our class.
Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year
old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my
parents 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 explorer and
trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back
east to wear.  (Okay, so they really were
not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under
the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear
hides only smaller.)
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 guarded by a
vicious rooster, 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 for varieties
of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays
of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, balers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders,
thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.
As
summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends. 
I rode
a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new.  One of my neighboring 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.  Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring
of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our
crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).
Another
schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games.  One favorite among all male 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).  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 do
not need to describe these.  In all of
these games, we boys 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, (mischievous is in a
boy’s job description).
Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods
around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe. 
My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the
great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities.  About this time, I also began to explore
other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing
an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not.  Well, to be completely honest, of course
there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or
campouts.
During
those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not
what a person looks like on
the outside but what a person is
on the inside that really matters. 
Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to
know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.
Those
early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my
personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined
with a love of knowledge.  Those who know
me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected
questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers.  If that bothers some people, it is just too
bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.
© 29 April 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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

House Cleaning by Ricky

          I really do not like or enjoy cleaning
my house.  Even as an irresponsible teen,
I would vacuum the carpet but not dust. 
I would promise to wash the dishes and then not do it, until I needed
clean dishes.  When my stepfather finally
fixed the built-in dishwasher, the dishes got done daily.  Go figure, because I still did not like to do
it.  I kept my bedroom neat enough and I
washed all my own clothes and often those of the twins, my brother and
sister.  However, I never liked to do
house work let alone house cleaning (does anyone?).
          Another type of “house” cleaning also
exists which, as a teen, I never conscientiously enjoyed either.  I did not even know I was doing it until much
later in life.  Now that I am physically
grown up and psychologically aging, albeit slowly, I realize that I am cleaning
my “house” rather less often than before. 
I am referring to having a “clean” mind but not entirely in the
religious sense.  It is important to take
out the trash, cobwebs, dust, and litter that accumulated over the years and
“open the windows” to fresh information that can improve my ability to arrive
at more accurate responses and behaviors to my environment or situations.
          The old cliché states, “You can’t
teach old dogs new tricks.”  Well, people
are not dogs and those who still have undamaged minds are quite capable of
learning, or more accurately, updating their understanding of any issue –
except math in my case.  I am constantly
acquiring new information and insights into any subject or item that attracts
my attention or curiosity.  Some would
say that means I am just easily distracted. 
I try to keep my mind sponge-like and fascinated with the wind of new
information passing between my ears, blowing out the waste.  With any luck, some of it even stays inside
my head, becoming the latest tapestry decorating the space where I actually
reside and entertain my guests.
© 1 April 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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

The Party by Ricky

During my 13th or 14th year, while in 8th
or 9th grade, A female classmate invited me to her birthday
party.  Sadly, I do not remember her
name, but I do remember the highlight of the party.  There were no adults present as we began to
play spin-the-bottle.  Time passed
excruciatingly slow while I watched the bottle top consistently spin pass me
and settle on other boys in attendance – some two or three times.  We each got only one spin per turn and if the
bottle stopped on the same sex or between two people, your turn was over.
According to our rules, every boy/girl partner got three
minutes alone in a large storeroom.  I
guess everyone was supposed to know what to do in that room, which I thought,
was to “make out” but no one said anything at all to confirm that belief or to
explain what was or was not expected. 
Consequently, when the bottle finally stopped on me there was an awkward
moment in the storeroom as we negotiated what we would do.  It turns out the girl did not know what was
expected either.  We admitted that we
really did not want to “make out” so we just stood there talking until the time
was up.  I was not invited to another
party as an adolescent.
After I married, I returned to college to finish a degree in
Justice Administration.  While there, I
joined Air Force ROTC.  Since I already
had four years of enlisted experience, I only needed to do the last two years
of ROTC classes and obtain a degree to become an Air Force officer.  The timing, although unplanned on my part,
was perfect and both goals aligned precisely.
One day I read on the ROTC bulletin board that there was a
mandatory “social event” at Captain Williams’ home that night; casual
dress.  I told my wife and we both
attended.  I was somewhat bewildered upon
my arrival when I did not know any of the other ROTC cadets.  It turns out that there were two Captain
Williams; one Air Force and one Army. 
Since I did not know either of their first names I accidently crashed
the Army’s social.  Captain Williams was
very gracious and invited us to stay.  We
did.
As we partook from the bountiful refreshments, Deborah asked
me to get her some of the fruit punch.  I
shortly returned with two glasses and gave her one.  I found it to be a delicious blending of
various pieces of fruit, sherbet, and 7-Up. 
Deborah sipped her’s slowly while I “sipped” much faster and went to get
another.  A short while after I returned
with my second drink, Deborah had finished and asked me to get her
another.  Before I left, I asked her if
she liked it and she responded that she did. 
I retrieved another cup of the punch for her.
After she had drunk about half of the second cup, I asked
again if she really liked it.  Deborah
was no dummy so she immediately got suspicious and asked me why I was asking
her.  I said, “Just curious.”  She replied, “What’s in it?”  I told her that there was a variety of fruit
flavors but the predominant flavor was banana. 
Deborah has hated bananas even before she could talk.  She communicated her dislike by spraying
whatever her mother had mixed bananas into all over her mother, table, and
wall.  Her mom was consistent and so was
Deborah; her mother finally gave up.  At
the social, she put down her punch cup and did not drink from it again.
This past New Year’s Eve, I went alone to a party held in the
Constitution
building.  I paid my Greenbacks and entered.  All the big Whigs were there spouting the usual
Anti-Federalist
propaganda – sounding very Republican. 
The Tories
family arrived at the party wearing Bull Moose headdresses.  I thought they appeared rather Progressive
but everyone else said it made them look like has-beens; so the family members
promised to Reform
and wear something more Libertarian in the future.  The hostess tried her best to provide
nutritious refreshments which included Greens. 
Some Bostonians took offense and wanted to hold their own little party
in another room, but a Prohibition on violence effectively prevented
them from throwing out the Tea.  A few
Silver
haired guests wanted to ruin People’s games by starting an Anti-Monopoly
chant.  Shortly thereafter, a cadre of American
Socialists demanded Justice in entertainment and began to light up
the Marijuana.  The police responded when a Communist
and an American
Nazi engaged in fisticuffs.  I
tried to have an Objectivist attitude towards all the activities, but since I
value Peace and
Freedom and I am a Pacifist at heart, I left the party early along
with other Citizens.  All in all, it was a very Democratic
affair.
© 7 January 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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

Teachers by Ricky

Tragedy brought them together,
United by a common desire to help those in need.
Their desire entwined with emotions strong and
yet tender.
They huddled around a table, while awaiting their
host,
Yet were confused why this meeting was necessary.
The host arrived and addressed each by name,
“Anne, Dawn, Lauren, Mary, Rachel, and Victoria;
I see you are all here so let us begin.
Do you all understand why you are here?”
“No!” said Dawn (the others joining in),
“We all have important work to do.  People need us right now!
Sir, you must let us all go back to work—Please.”
With eyes radiating love and compassion the host
looked at those
Seated around the table before he spoke.
“I perceive that you do not understand.
We have a great need for you to remain here with
us.” he began.
“We need your skills, talents, abilities, and
creativity.  
Your transfers are all complete,
And only your concerns need be
discussed.”
He continued, “You are no longer needed in your
other positions.
The people you wish to help are cared for by
others but,
Those who actually do need your help,
Also are here, specifically to be with you.”
“You see our schools need teachers,
administrators, staff,
And therapists too,
But only those who actually love whom they serve.
Not just anyone will do,”
The veil was lifted from their minds and
understanding,
They slowly rose from their seats, kneeled, and
Thanked their host who indicated a door,
Which they passed through into a classroom.
Vicki called roll as the students from Sandy Hook
Elementary
Arrived one-by-one.
In memory
of those innocents lost to senseless violence.
Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Rachel D’Avino
(adult), Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Dylan Hockley, Dawn Lafferty Hochsprung
(adult), Madeleine F. Hsu, Catherine V. Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Nancy Lanza
(adult), Jesse Lewis, Ana Marques-Greene, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Anne
Marie Murphy (adult), Emillie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline
Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Lauren Rousseau (adult), Mary Sherlach
(Adult), Victoria Soto (Adult), Benjamin Wheeler, Allison N. Wyatt.

© 5 January 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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

A Meal to Remember or Rather Forget by Ricky

Sometime in the 70’s, around the same time as the gasoline shortages, there was also a drastic price increase in the price of beef. My spouse, Deborah, decided that we needed to stretch our meat budget by using less meat by adding protein “fillers” to recipes that required meat. She saw a billboard advocating the use of peanut butter as a protein substitute. It sounded reasonable to her so she decided to try it out; on me.

Thus, one day when I returned home from a very hot Arizona day “fighting crime”, she already had dinner prepared. She told me of the billboard and the idea it gave her so I was forewarned about the experimental cuisine, but I was also somewhat excited to try it. After I had taken my place at the table, Deborah brought out our meal. There was salad, vegetable, baked potato, and meatloaf. More accurately, peanut butter meatloaf. Five-star cuisine it was not. In fact, the meatloaf was awful.

Until that evening, neither of us knew just how powerful the peanut oil flavor really is. Two tablespoons of peanut butter added to the meatloaf completely overpowered all the spices added to the hamburger and the flavor of the beef itself. The taste of peanuts combined with the texture of ground beef just did not pass the taste test. It was edible, but not desirable. If we would have had children at that point, I’m sure I would have had to arrest my wife for child abuse. Even if I didn’t, the kids may have gone looking for a foster family.

© 31 March 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