Tag: Ricky

Posted on

Spirituality by Ricky

In my opinion, there are five kinds of “spirituality”: spirituality of the first kind, spirituality of the second kind, spirituality of the third kind (not to be confused with the movie of a similar name), spirituality of the fourth kind, and spirituality of the fifth kind.

The first kind of spirituality I call Mysticism. Wikipedia defines mysticism as a multitude “…of distinctive practices, discourses, texts, institutions, traditions, and experiences aimed at human transformation, variously defined in different traditions.”

The second kind of spirituality I call Spiritualistism. I define this as people who believe they can talk to spirits with or without a human medium. This definition includes extreme “pot heads” and dopers.

The third kind of spirituality I call Hate Mongerism. These are the people who profess to follow a religion of love and peace, but preach intolerance, hatred and violence. A subcategory of Hate Mongerism is Demonism. These are preachers who demonize people that have a different culture, lifestyle, or belief system; but do not preach hatred towards those demonized.

The fourth kind of spirituality I call Spiritsulaity or just plain  Alcoholism. (Enough said about that.)

Spirituality of the fifth kind is what I have. (Hint: it is none of the above.)

© 26 January 2015

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Lonely Places by Ricky

Deserted Islands

Sinai Desert

Gobi Desert

Death Valley

Rural Nevada

I-90 between Minnesota and Montana

Wyoming

West Texas

Occupied Life Rafts in the Pacific

Australian Outback

Antarctica

SW Arizona

Trapped under the rubble of a collapsed building

Buried Alive

The mind of an Alzheimer patient

Hospitals while an in-patient

Walking on the moon

Graveyards

Empty Theaters

Ancient Ruins

Your home after the death of a spouse or partner

Memories

Broken Hearts

Jail and prison cells

Working in unrewarding or unfulfilling jobs

And last but not least: Sitting in front of a PC at 2AM writing a list of lonely places.

© 11 August 2014

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Feeling Loved by Ricky

In
hindsight, I am sure my parents sort of loved me.  Early photographs clearly show me smiling, especially
on my birthdays, Halloweens, and Christmases. 
I did not feel loved during my frequent spankings for being
disobedient.  I am fairly sure that my
dad did not like spanking me but felt that he had to; the old “spare the rod
and spoil the child” philosophy.
It is
rather ironic how our brains tend to be very selective about which memories it
chooses to give us access.  For example,
I get glimpses or figments of some happy or pleasing moments, but not a lengthy
detailed viewing.  I know I was cared for
and nourished, except for those darned stewed tomatoes, and yet I have no
memories of being hugged or kissed.  I am
sure I got hugs and kisses or I would be a complete basket case by now; I just
don’t remember any.
My
maternal grandparents loved me but were not demonstrative in showing it with
hugs or kisses.  Instead my grandfather
pulled a trick on me by pre-filling my lunch drinking glass with yogurt-like
“liquid” accurately named “long milk”, as it was thick like honey or molasses
but lacked a decent flavor.  That he, my
“hero” surrogate father, would do such a thing really hurt my feelings and I
definitely did not feel loved at that point.
At the end
of my first summer with them on their farm in Minnesota (June thru August
1956), my mother called me on the phone and talked me into staying there for my
3rd grade school year.  I
didn’t know about the divorce proceedings yet, but I still did not feel loved
by her.  When she came out later that
year to attend her sister’s wedding, I thought I would be returning to
California with her.  It did not happen
and I felt unloved again.
When I did
not get to go home at the end of that school year and had to stay for the 4th
grade too, I began to wonder why can’t I go home but no one would tell me
anything truthful.  I was loved, but
didn’t feel loved.
When my
dad came to visit at Christmas in 1957, I finally was told the important part
of the truth and why I could not go home with him.  I know he wanted to take me home but was
constrained by the law.  Nonetheless,
when he left I began to feel that I was unlovable.  At the end of May 1958, my mother came to the
farm with my infant twin brother and sister and my new step-father to introduce
him and them to her parents and to take me back to California.  I still did not feel loved, but I was very
happy to go back to a new home.
While
living at Lake Tahoe, we had three different residences but all felt like some
kind of home.  The last place is the one
I refer to as “home” during conversations. 
It was while living in that particular house, I began to feel loved
again, but not by people.  Of course my
baby siblings grew to love me of a sort since I was practically their parent
until I left for college, but the love I am referring to came from our pet
female dog, Peewee.  She was a lap-dog,
with long shaggy fur; a mixed breed of ¾ Oriental Poodle and ¼ Pomeranian. 
Peewee’s
previous owner was a woman who was moving and could not take her pet to the new
location, so my mother brought the dog home. 
Being a small dog, she was shaking with fear when she arrived and ran
under the couch to keep away from me (13) and the little-ones (both 3) whom all
wanted to touch and hold her.  After the
twins went to bed, I was still lying on the floor with my hand under the front
of the couch, while watching the television. 
After a while, I felt the dog licking my fingers.  I slowly pulled my hand back and she followed
and then walked to my side and cuddled with me. 
At that moment, we bonded and from then on, I was her’s and she was
mine.  That dog loved me and I loved her
back.  We both felt loved for many years
until I left for college and then the military. 
I was stationed in Florida when I learned that she had passed away.  In spite of my traumatized emotions, I
grieved for the loss of my first love, the one who was always there and never
made demands.  Since then, I have always
had deep affection for my pets.
When I was
11, 12, 13, and 14, my paternal grandmother babysat a Downs Syndrome pre-teen
girl named, Jackie.  When my dad took me
over to visit my grandmother, I also got to meet Jackie who always remembered
me after our first meeting and who also greeted me with a huge smile and strong
hug.  That was the way she greeted every
one, with pure innocent happiness and radiant love.  I have often wondered if Jesus would welcome
me like that someday.
Eventually,
I met my soul-mate and we were married. 
I felt loved again.  With each
child we both felt an increase in love. 
Naturally, a child’s love for his parents fluctuates with the pangs of
growing-up, but eventually equilibrium is obtained and love makes its presence
known again, unless the parent or child has done something to destroy it along
the way.
After my
wife passed away, I thought love was gone from this life.  The love of my children is there but just is
not the same.  Since attending the SAGE
Telling Your Story group sessions, I am receiving the love of friends, both
close and casual when I am around them. 
I feel loved but not the kind that lasts.  This kind of love needs frequent refreshing
just as if we were all partners or married and living together.
To close
with a borrowed quote from two movies, The Boy with Green Hair and Moulin Rouge, I leave you with, “The greatest
thing you will ever learn is to love and be loved in return.”
© 21 October 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.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

The Bells Toll at Midnight by Ricky

BYU Carillon

Boy and man, I have always
been very mischievous.  In 1977, I was a
senior at BYU and working part time as an armed Campus Security Officer assigned
to night duty as a patrolman.  During my
shifts, I would occasionally explore the underground maintenance tunnels to
learn my way around in preparation for any needed response to an incident.  Using my pass key one night, I entered the carillon
tower about 2 AM via the maintenance entrance and began to explore the ground
floor level.  (I must note here that the
carillon would automatically chime the hours from 6AM to 10PM and remain silent
between 10PM and 6AM.)
I previously read about the mechanism
used to play the carillon manually, which is located near the bells at the top
of the tower, but I did not climb the stairs to see it or the bells.  I did discover a small concrete room on the
main level that contained a piano or organ style keyboard against the
wall.  It was electric, so I flipped the
switch and began to play a little.  I did
not hear any bells, just the keyboard tones.
Better-late-than-never, the analytical
part of my mind finally wondered, “Why is a keyboard down here?  Could it actually be connected to the bells?”
 I hit the lowest note key, ran out of
the room and opened the outside door just in time to hear the bell’s echo.  I turned off the keyboard and fled as fast as
I could–still unseen through the underground tunnels.
In October, I again went
into the tower unobserved via the maintenance access, turned on the keyboard,
and at midnight I played the Big Ben Chime Theme followed by “bongs” to mark
the hour.  In later years, my wife and I met
a married graduate who remembered that particular Halloween in 1977 when the
carillon struck 13 at midnight.
BYU Carillon
© 6 May 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. 
Posted on

My Favorite Transportation by Ricky

(Planes, Trains, Automobiles & Buses, without John Candy)
Preface:  I wrote and submitted this piece to the SAGE
Telling Your Story group, while visiting my brother and sister at South Lake
Tahoe (SLT), California.  My brother had been
diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer and had driven from his
home in Oregon back to SLT to visit our sister. 
While there he became so ill that he could not return to Oregon so I
also stayed throughout the summer until his end.
          I spent most of my teenage years either being driven or,
when I reached 16, driving myself in either my or my family’s car.  Once each year during Christmas school
vacation, however, I got to ride Greyhound buses to and from my father’s home
in Torrance, California (a suburb of the Los Angeles metro area) so he could
have his one-week visitation rights. 
Those trips occurred from my age of 10 through 18 when I left home for
college.
          Whenever I had to catch the transfer bus in Carson City,
Nevada, I always dreaded the 5 to 6 hour wait until I discovered the Nevada
State Museum.  Eventually as the years
passed, I managed to see all the exhibits (and I even started reading the signs
telling about the stuffed animal dioramas). 
I learned a lot about “things” during those years from visiting the
museum.  My favorite exhibits were right
at the entrance; the history of and silver service from the USS Nevada
battleship, ultimately used during the hydrogen bomb test at the Bikini Atoll
in the South Pacific.  It had various
animals on it to represent human crewmen. 
My other favorites were the displayed collection of Silver Dollars and
Gold Coins minted in the Carson City Mint and at the official exit in the
basement, the mock-up of an underground silver mine.
          Whenever I had to catch the transfer bus in Sacramento,
California, I was usually involved in reading a book specially purchased for
the trip.  Once, when I was 16 a slightly
overweight girl my age sat by me for the whole trip.  She was going home to Venice (another suburb
of Los Angeles) and very talkative and all I wanted to do was read but, since I
am often too polite for my preferences, I talked with her until she got sleepy
and then I read.  Once close to Los
Angeles “we” decided that I would pick her up for a date in two days.  My dad loaned me his car and we went to
Pacific Ocean Park (sort of a carnival with rides built on a pier over the
ocean at Venice).  We had fun there.  I took her home and walked her to the door
but we did not kiss and I never saw her again.
          After the above mini-stories, you might think that
Greyhound was my favorite mode of transportation.  While buses played a major and positive part
in my youth, my recent 24-hour bus ride from Denver to Reno definitely removed
any “romantic” attachment buses had as a result of my youthful memories, so it
is not my favorite.
          From age 10 thru 17; I was probably the happiest when
riding with my dad during his 30-days each summer visitation time.  He would pick me up at Lake Tahoe and we
would then travel to Minnesota, Iowa, and points in between during the days the
interstate highway system was just beginning to be constructed.  One year on our way to Minnesota, we went to
Mt. Rushmore first and traveled on a portion of I-90 in Rapid City, South
Dakota.  I had my learner’s permit then,
so I was driving at that point.
          On one of those cross-country trips I learned something
about sleep and dreams.  On one very warm
(no auto air conditioner) day, I was dozing or perhaps actually sleeping.  I was actively dreaming about being in a WW1
trench with other soldiers.  Apparently,
I was the commander because I began to give my men a “going-over-the-top”
pre-attack motivational speech.  During
the speech I started to sing and everyone joined in.  We were singing “San Antonio Rose”.   After a couple of choruses, there was an
artillery blast that roused me a bit and I felt my dad shaking my leg and heard
him tell me to wake up.  As I woke, I
heard “San Antonio Rose” playing on the car radio.  So it is possible to hear the real world
while dreaming and incorporate it into the dream world.  This is not unlike dreaming of using the
bathroom and waking up to find out you have either wet the bed or are about to,
if you don’t hurry. 
The
artillery blast turned out to be the result of a large goose that did not move
out of the car’s way in time and had hit the windshield in front of me.  Unfortunately, the goose’s neck and head got
stuck between the windshield and the exterior “visor” overhanging the
windshield on that model of car (possibly a ’55 Studebaker).  Dad made me go pull it out so we could
continue.  Yuck!!
While
I have always enjoyed “road trips” because of my yearly travels with my father,
it is not my favorite mode of transportation; most common, yes.
My
first experience flying was just before I turned 8.  My parents had decided to send me to live
with my mother’s parents on a farm in Minnesota while they obtained a
divorce.  I didn’t learn about the divorce
until age 9 ½.  Since that time, I’ve
flown a lot on personal, union, and military business.  Once on the way back from visiting my father
in Los Angeles, the plane I was on almost was involved in a mid-air
collision.  That particular experience of
violent turning and climbing and turning again put a solid fear of flying into
my conscious and subconscious.  So, now
days I’m am always tense while flying. 
As you should expect by now, flying is not my favorite mode of traveling
either.
At
age 13, my parents decided to take a late summer vacation to the farm in
Minnesota.  So, after packing us all
roast buffalo sandwiches for the trip, we left Reno for Des Moines, Iowa where
we needed to change to a northbound train. 
When we reached Ogden from Reno, the train was to be stopped for
20-minutes.  My parents went to get
coffee and left me with my 2 ½ year old twin brother and sister on the
train.  About 10-minutes after they left,
the train began to move and I went into major panic mode.  “Where are they?” “Are they leaving us, like
mom did when they sent me to the farm when I was 8?” “How am I going to care
for two babies?”  “Can I stop the train somehow?”  Those are the questions that started racing
through my mind, repeatedly.  I don’t
know why or how, but I didn’t cry.  I
think I wanted to.
As
it turned out all the railroad did was move the train to a different track a
bit beyond where they had stopped originally. 
About three minutes prior to the expiration of the 20-minute stop, my
parents were back on the train with us. 
Contrary to all the TV ads, “relief” is not spelled “Rolaids” it is
spelled “let-me-give-you-both-lots-of-hugs-and-tears-of-joy.”
We
returned from that vacation 1 ½ weeks after school started.  I was starting 8th grade.  My first day of school was Thursday.  My teacher, Mr. Ross, gave me my books and
assigned me a desk.  Just before the
final bell rang for the end of the day, he announced that there would be a test
on the first 3 chapters in our social studies book the next day.  He told me just do the best I can.
I
did some panic stricken cramming that night and the next morning and took the
test.  On the Monday following, he was
upset with the class because they had done so poorly on the test.  Then he did the unthinkable.  He told the class that I had only one night
to prepare and they had nearly two weeks; then said that I had scored the
highest in the class by a lot (like an 86 or something).  That statement fixed my reputation as a DAR
(Darn Average Raiser) and my classmates were slow to become friendly and the
reputation (much undeserved in my mind) continued through grade 12.  In college the real truth was revealed.
Train
transportation is not fast in the west and central parts of the country, but it
is very stress free and relaxing (unless you start school late).  Yet, it is still not my favorite mode of transportation.
My
favorite method of transportation is books! 
Reading books can transport one to places that cannot be reached by
planes, trains, buses, or automobiles.  I
love to lose myself (and problems) in a good stories contained in books.  Television and movies are often stories first
told in books.  Books have the benefit of
taking longer to finish and can easily be taken off the shelf and
revisited.  Books contain adventures and
knowledge without end.
The
cliché states, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”  This submission to our storytelling group is
1579 words long.  So, you should have a
decent image of me in your minds, in case you all have forgotten what I look
like.  I will be back soon.
© 25 September 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.
Posted on

Mushrooms by Ricky

          Why are mushrooms and
children so different yet still in the same Kingdom?  Why are children and mushrooms so alike but
not in the same Phylum?  Does it really
matter?  Yes, it does.
Similarity #1:  Mushrooms are Fungi which thrive in dark and damp places
often sticking their heads up into the sunlight to examine the world above the
soil and to scatter their spore.  Kids
stay in the shadow of their parents, then ever so slowly peer or venture out
into the world beyond their home seeking greater light and knowledge.  Adolescent male children prematurely scatter
their “spore”.
          Similarity
#2:  Mushrooms feed upon
smelly decomposing organic compounds predominantly in the dark.  Children are kept “in the dark” about many
things and accuse their parents of feeding them smelly decomposing organic
compounds.  Yet some parents do “feed”
their children’s minds a steady diet of “BS”, by continually espousing concepts
of bigotry, hate, and homophobia.
Parents unwisely keep their
children “in the dark” to protect them from information which theoretically might hurt or damage the child
or which is too embarrassing for the parent to talk about.  Not talking about sexual matters early enough,
but waiting until the child has already obtained a rudimentary knowledge which
is often wrong and incomplete is not good for the child.  Thus, a child who feels “different” for some reason
has no one with which to discuss their feelings, because the parent has closed
or not opened the door to such information or discussion.  This has a disastrous impact on the child’s
mental health, life, and is hazardous to their adult future.
Parents often struggle with
and wonder why their children don’t remain active in the parent’s church in
which the children have been raised since birth.  I suspect that years of lying and supporting
the myths of Santa Claus and Elves, the egg-laying Easter Bunny, the Sand Man,
Frosty the Snowman, and the Boogeyman finally carried over to the stories of
Jesus.
Parents keep forgetting that
children are NOT STUPID.  They are smart,
cunning, and bear considerable watching. 
Continually lying to them, even if it is a white lie like Santa Claus is
not setting a good example.  There must
be a discussion early on in a child’s life of the difference between a fictional
Santa and a real Jesus – a wise parent will ponder and prepare for that discussion very carefully
or be forced to admit that they
don’t know if Jesus is or was real.
Difference #1: 
Mushrooms
are Fungi.  Children are not Fungi.
Difference #2: 
People
eat mushrooms for flavor or recreational purposes.  Mushrooms only eat people after the coffin is
sealed, and often for the same reasons.
One day at our dinner table,
we were eating spaghetti with the sauce provided by a jar of Prego. 
This particular version of Prego
contained small pieces of mushrooms. 
Partway through the meal, my oldest daughter (7) proudly announced to
everyone that in school she had learned that mushrooms are poisonous and she
would not eat them anymore.  Instantly,
her sister (5) and brother (3) stated that they would not eat them either.  No matter how their mother and I explained
only some mushrooms were poisonous and they had been eating mushrooms in the
spaghetti sauce their whole lives and not died; no argument or fact could or
ever did change their minds or behavior. 
Sometimes, children really can be less smart than a parent wants to
believe.
What is the point?  The two questions that opened the mushroom memory
story are totally irrelevant to my point except as a literary device to get you
to read this post.  The question of “does
it really matter” is important.  It
matters because too many youths are still killing themselves over sexual
orientation bullying and parental homophobia. 
THIS MUST STOP!!!  Open and honest
dialog between parent and child must begin before age 5 and continue throughout
their lives.
So called Christian
ministers who preach hatred and homophobic sermons ARE NOT CHRISTIANS and
should be discharged and shunned until they repent and teach correct Christian
doctrine.  In my opinion, these ministers
could be prosecuted for some form of “breach of the peace” or “inciting
violence”.  They definitely are causing
discord and not preaching Jesus’ Gospel of love and harmony.
I am someone who believes that
every life matters. 
Every youth suicide represents a lost national treasure.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is
a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away
by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to
know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
– Poet John Donnes, 1624.

© 8
December 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

Grandparents by Ricky

I never met my father’s father, John Leonard Nelson. He died when my father, John Archie Nelson, was only 9 years old. As the oldest of six siblings (2 girls and 4 boys), he became the “man-of-the-house” and had to help his mother, Emma Sophia (Ungar) Nelson, support the family. He ultimately left school after the 8th grade to work full-time. Emma was a short but not frail woman. After I was born, she lived with us in Redondo Beach and Lawndale for awhile. During that time she would dress me like mothers did back in the early 1900’s; in clothes that looked like small girl dresses. I was too young to care, but when, as a teen, I saw the old photographs of those days, I was embarrassed to have a record of how I had been dressed.

As I grew into my teens, I remember Emma as a thinner elderly lady with silver grey hair and a really nice personality. At that time in her life, she was a live-in “nanny” for a downs syndrome girl, Jackie. I first met Jackie when she was about 3 and the last time before she passed away she was about 13. In all those years whenever we would meet, she would run to me and give me a big hug. To my everlasting shame, I always felt awkward and uncomfortable around Jackie, but I can still see her round smiling face and her radiating pure love to this day. Truly, she was one of God’s special gifts to our world.

In her later years, Grandma Nelson alternately lived with my dad or his oldest sister, Marion, until she finally passed away.

I first saw my mother’s parents, Richard Pearson and Signe (Erickson), when they came from their farm in Minnesota to visit us shortly after my birth. Of course, I don’t remember any of that, but I have seen the photographs of the event. For my 3rd birthday, my “party” and birthday cake were served at the farm because their 25th anniversary was less than 2-weeks after my birthday and our family was there to help celebrate. I don’t remember that event either, but once again, I’ve seen the photographs.

When, at the age of 8, I was sent to the farm to live while my parents divorced, I was able to learn somewhat about them during the 2-years I lived there. Both Richard and Signe were the first children born in America in their respective families, so they were raised in the traditions of the “old” country, Sweden. As such, they were not very “touchy-feely” people. Others would probably classify them as being rather “cold” or “distant” emotionally.

I felt pretty close to both of them; to my grandfather, because I was named after him; John (after my dad and his dad) and Richard (after grandpa). I was “close” to my grandma because my mother was in California and I missed her so much.

While I was there, I was not allowed to do anything with the fun farm equipment, or fun chores, like driving the tractor while plowing, mowing the lawn with a power mower, etc. I suppose that was because I wasn’t raised on the farm from infancy AND because I wasn’t their child only a grandchild. They were very protective of me (irritatingly so).

I was allowed to help feed the cows, stack hay bales onto trailers and then again in the barn. I was no good at milking because the cows were so much bigger than I was and I was VERY hesitant in getting between any two of them in their stalls to install the milking machines onto their business ends. I did watch and laugh, as grandpa would occasionally hand-milk a cow just to squirt milk at all the cats and kittens that would sit on their hind legs and beg like a dog.

Grandpa did allow me to ride on the tractor with him while he would plow, plant, cultivate, and harvest his crops. I could also ride whenever he would mow, rake, and bale hay. I spent many long hours riding with him.

Grandma absolutely refused to let me mow the yard with the power mower. She considered it too dangerous. She did assign me the job of collecting the morning eggs, however. That didn’t even last two days as I was terrified of the rooster or more accurately, of his talons and extremely aggressive behavior.

Grandma made the most delicious dessert, which remains my favorite to this day. It’s called, Cherry Delight and is extremely “rich” in flavor and calories.

Sometimes, I helped her do the laundry, not from any sense of duty but because my part was running the clothes through the “wringer”, (it’s a boy vs machine thing). While grandpa was generally proportionally muscled for his average frame, grandma was a bit on the husky (not fat) side as she was a hard worker who not only managed a two-story farmhouse but also had a nice medium sized garden. Every autumn she would do a lot of canning of her garden vegetables, including the ever-present rhubarb. Even into her older age, she was quite a lovely woman and nice to look at.

Because he spent so much time out in the sun, grandpa resembled one of those ancient cowboys one occasionally sees on greeting cards. He had a very dark tan, but with his shirt off, the sun, reflecting off his alabaster chest could be quite blinding. He was truly a “red neck” but not in intelligence or personality.

One of the chores I got to do, I did because I wanted to, not because they asked me to. I just loved to go out to the fields and trap gophers. My grandpa was the township’s “gopher bounty” paying agent so he paid me 10 cents per gopher trapped. Other farm boys would come over to our farm with their dads and show him the tails from gophers that they had caught and he would pay them 10 cents a tail. I just brought home the whole body. Killing the gophers in my traps was one thing; I did not want to cut the tail off.

I loved all my grandparents and I miss them as much as I miss my own parents.

© January 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

Posted on

Locked Out by Ricky

Locked Out or Locked In, It’s All the Same

Perhaps the greatest fear a person can have short of going to hell when one dies, is the fear that they might become locked into their own minds, and locked out of reality at the same time. Dementia and Alzheimer diseases are two examples of this condition. Another would be where a person has an active and normal mental state but is incapable of communicating anything to anyone. I certainly would not like to be in any of those conditions. Although I have made jokes about the good thing about Alzheimer disease is that, you get to meet new people every day; it really is not funny.

Can you imagine the frustration, confusion, disorientation, and fear that probably results from not being able to communicate or understand what is happening around you or even to you? It is easy for me to imagine it as I have been “locked out” and “locked in” a few times in my life so I remember the feeling. I imagine I would feel mental anguish a thousand times worse, if I had any of those conditions permanently.

My future wife got off from work one Friday night in Pensacola and drove to her mother’s home 50-miles away in Niceville (yes, that’s a real town). Her arrival at about 9PM was unexpected and her mother refused to let her in for the night, effectively locking her out of the home where her childhood bedroom was. In desperation she came to my trailer (or called me first) where upon I let her stay that night and the rest of the weekend. I knew how she felt because her tears and words were communicating perfectly.

As a youngster, I was fairly fearless or perhaps my parents would have used different words such as thoughtless or even stupid. Even then, I had a healthy case of acrophobia. Climbing the ladder to join my father on the roof of our single-story home was no problem. The problem manifested upon my turning around to get back on the ladder to go down. Anyway, at about 14-years old my father had taken me to somewhere in Minnesota to visit one of his childhood friends who just happened to have two boys, both younger than me.

These boys were truly farm boys, while I was only a 2-year “pretender” to farm life. As farmer’s sons, they naturally had to help with all the farm work, which included stacking hay bales in the hayloft of the barn during summer harvesting. So being boys, they stacked the bales to create a secret passage to their “hideaway” near one of the windows in the wall that was hidden by 10 or 15 feet of stacked hay. There were three hidden access “tunnels” to the hideaway; two along the wall and one in the middle of the hayloft with a vertical drop and a crawl-only tunnel at the bottom under tons of hay.

The boys told me about their hideaway and wanted to show it to me so I went to the barn with them being anxious to see what I had only fantasized doing while living on my grandfather’s farm. By this time in my life I had mentally matured somewhat so I was not thoughtless, but still not completely un-stupid either. The boys would only take me to their hideaway if I used the vertical shaft as the entrance. I looked at the opening and told them that I was too big to fit and they said there was plenty of room as they were not that much smaller than me. My common sense was overruled by my desire to see the hideaway and so ignoring my eyes, which had been telling me the truth, I started down the shaft to the bottom and then managed to back into the tunnel, which was only about 9 inches high and 13 or 14 inches wide. I managed to crawl backwards about four feet and then got stuck. I spent three-months stuck under all that hay during the five-minutes it took them to use one of the other tunnels to get behind me and pull me feet first into the hideaway. Using the other entrances along the wall I easily returned to the surface of the hay. Needless to say, I’ve been claustrophobic ever since, all because of being locked-in under a “mountain” of hay and locked-out of normal life.

One could say that I was locked-out of a normal life because beginning in high school I was not attracted to girls’ looks but only their personalities and only then when thinking about having someone with which to go to movies or other non-sexual activities associated with dating—at that time I only fantasized sexually about boys. Although this has not been as explosively traumatic as being stuck under tons of hay and the result thereof, this type of locked-out was nonetheless a chronically mild trauma whose persistent presence kept building consequences beyond it’s apparent significance. Of course it didn’t help that apparently none of my female classmates took any interest, sexual or otherwise, in me either even though I was always a gentleman, respectful, and spoke with them easily. However, I never asked any of them for a date and they never offered either.

As I’ve mentioned in prior stories, my emotional trauma caused by my parents incorrectly shutting me out of their divorce situation and my father erroneously waiting to tell me about it the night before he left, was for me the most important and crippling locked-out or locked-in depending upon point of view. Having access to only half, if even that much, of the range of possible human emotions is not desirable or even close to being a good thing. If one is so severely locked-in to depression and locked-out of empathy, how could one feel the opposites? I could not feel joy or true happiness as they were denied me until the effects of the emotional locked-out could be reversed or canceled. Fortunately, for me, as I have stated before, I am now free of those influences and am emotionally whole, but still learning how to deal with the new emotions.

Being free of emotional lockouts does not prevent my unfortunate tendency towards being physically locked-out. After I got married a new mental condition surfaced—forgetfulness. I suspect I may have had it before, but my wife certainly was able to point it out. I don’t know if it is a genetic condition or if it is a naturally occurring phenomenon of marriage as I’ve heard almost all wives complaining about their husbands’ lack of memory.

My wife and I once visited Arches National Monument on a nice hot summer day. As I exited the vehicle and shut the door, I suddenly realized that I had left the keys in the ignition. My wife had left her purse under the seat so we had no keys and the doors were locked. We were locked-out of our vehicle and locked-in to the great American Desert—without a cell phone—without water—without clothing for nighttime in the desert—and most importantly without a coat-hanger or any other object with which to unlock the door. Eventually, another tourist happened by and gave us a hanger.

I tend to believe in my genetic theory of carelessness or forgetfulness; perhaps they are really manifestations of the same thing. Even when my wife was not around to be involved, I would still lock myself out of my vehicles occasionally but still far too often. This was most evident and embarrassing while I was serving as a Missile Security Officer in Montana, Arkansas, and South Dakota.

Part of my military duty was to drive around the “missile field” to visit and inspect the security police guards. I had a deserved reputation of locking myself out of my vehicle while over 200-miles away from the base where the spare keys were. Fortunately, I had personnel on my security flight that grew up in New York City, so they had the skills needed to open locked vehicles and they were only 20-miles away on the average.

Eventually, I began to carry two sets of vehicle keys with me whenever I leave home. I still lock myself out occasionally, but now I don’t need help when it happens. Who says you can’t teach a senior citizen new tricks?

© 9 January 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

Posted on

All My Exes Live in Texas by Ricky

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

Favorite Places by Ricky

I
have many “favorite places” depending upon which part of my life I am
remembering.  Only a few can be called
absolute favorites throughout my life. 
What follows is only a listing of those places which are withstanding
the ravages of time upon my memories.

These places are listed in no particular “favorite” order.

1.   Disneyland
– Peter Pan Ride (I first rode this in 1955)
2.   Disneyland
– Alice in Wonderland Ride (I first rode this in 1955)
3.   Lake
Tahoe – Emerald Bay (My first summer home at Lake Tahoe – 1958)
4.   LDS
Manti Temple (Deborah and I married here in 1973)
5.   Mt.
Rushmore, South Dakota (I recharge my patriotism here)
6.   Epcot
Center – Journey Into Imagination with Figment (My family LOVED this ride.  We rode it three times in a row without
getting off the ride to reenter.  This
link is for the newest version not the one we saw years ago.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPr7G-uBmM
  
7.   BSA
Camp Winton (I was a boy camper 2 years and on the “Staph” in 1966.  The “staph” spelling was my idea.  My name is recorded around the “XX” brand
left of center.)
8.   Disneyland
Paris – Space Mountain (My youngest daughter, her friend boy, and I rode this
twice.) 
  
9.   Step-father’s
Tour Boat (I was his deckhand all summer in 1958)
10.   The
California Redwood forest at Trees of
Mystery.  Specifically, the
“Cathedral Trees.”
Cathedral Tree video 1:48
minutes.
The Redwoods

Joseph B. Strauss

Here,
sown by the Creator’s hand.
In serried ranks, the Redwoods stand:
No other clime is honored so,
No other lands their glory know.

The greatest of Earth’s living forms,
Tall conquerors that laugh at storms;
Their challenge still unanswered rings,
Through fifty centuries of kings.

The nations that with them were young,
Rich empires, with their forts far-flung,
Lie buried now-their splendor gone:
But these proud monarchs still live on.

So shall they live, when ends our days,
When our crude citadels decay;
For brief the years allotted man,
But infinite perennials’ span.

This is their temple, vaulted high,
And here, we pause with reverent eye,
With silent tongue and awestruck soul;
For here we sense life’s proper goal:

To be like these, straight, true and fine,
to make our world like theirs, a shrine;
Sink down, Oh, traveler, on your knees,
God stands before you in these trees.

© 7 July 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 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.