Tag: Ricky

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Camping by Ricky

In the summer of 1986, I was in the Air Force and stationed at Little Rock AFB in Jacksonville, Arkansas. While there my wife, Deborah and I got the irresistible urge to buy a tent trailer in which to go camping with our three children. We looked at several models and finally decided to purchase the top-of-the-line Coleman tent camper. We were mesmerized by the quality and creature comforts built into the unit.

It had a queen size bed at one end and a double bed at the other. The table could be converted into a space for one or two small children. The refrigerator could be run on propane, electricity, or the battery. There was an outside compartment for the Coleman stove as well as a stove on the inside. An electric air conditioner was mounted in the roof along with a fresh air vent. The hot water heater ran on either gas or electricity. Besides plenty of storage space, there was a room for a standup shower and another room for the indoor port-a-potty. Completely prepared for travel, the unit was slightly longer than our Chevy Astro van.

We promised each other that due to the cost, we would go camping at least twice a month. That promise was easy to make but hard to maintain in the short to long term. My duty schedule enabled me to have weekends off but not consistently. So, gradually our commitment to camping waned.

Deborah and I loved to visit and camp in state and federal parks. Our thought was that the camper was a good deal because many parks do not have motels or hotels within their boundaries so the camper would be our portable home at a park.

In February 1987, Deborah became pregnant with our last child and that spring, I received orders transferring me to Ellsworth AFB, near Rapid City, SD. We were all excited to go but me most of all, as I had finally “had it” up the “ying-yang” with a completely incompetent commander and really “could not wait” to get away from there.

We left Jacksonville in late May or early June enroute to Ellsworth. Deborah was feeling pretty pregnant and enduring morning sickness, fatigue, and gestational diabetes. Greatly adding to her discomfort was the oppressive muggy heat. We only made about 150-miles that day and spent the night in our camper in northern Arkansas in a “mom & pop” tiny campground where other RV‘s were parked within 3-feet on either side.

The next day we only went about 50-miles because Deborah was so stressed and uncomfortable. We camped in a Missouri state part a few miles off the main highway. Our spot was under a canopy formed by overarching trees which kept out the direct sunlight and provided much shade to keep the temperature way down. There was even a children’s play area close by.

The next morning, Deborah was feeling better and we and the kids all took a walk along one of the park nature trails. This one was about ¾-mile long and remained in the forest mostly under the trees where it was shady and cool. Along the trail we discovered wild strawberries and raspberries. We stopped and ate a few each then finished our walk. The trail began and ended very near our campsite. By this time Deborah was a little “tuckered out” and wanted to rest quietly (i.e. without the kids making noise), so she made an offer we did not want to refuse. Deborah suggested that while she rested, that all of us go back along the trail with some small buckets and pick as many strawberries and raspberries as we could. She said that when we got back, she would then make us some pancakes with the berries included. She didn’t need to say it twice. In a couple of minutes we were off and she was asleep.

We stayed at that campground another day and Deborah recuperated quite well and the kids had fun playing in a new environment with other kids whom also were camping overnight. The next day, we continued our journey to South Dakota without any further significant problems except for the “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” routine as the endless miles of the Great Plains rolled by.

© 17 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

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Great Performances by Ricky

Part 1 – Ballet

I am not a connoisseur of ballet. My experiences with ballet being limited to a television performance of The Nutcracker, a portion of Swan Lake, and a glimpse of what it takes to become a ballet dancer in the movie Billy Elliot. You can understand then when I say I basically have no vast collection of ballet memories upon which to evaluate any ballet, let alone enough knowledge to judge one performance as being “great” compared to all the others. Having explained my lack of background, I will do it anyway.

This past week, I did watch a ballet that I had recorded on my DVR off the Rocky Mountain PBS channel, a ballet performed by the Milwaukie Ballet that is titled Peter Pan. Many of you already know that Peter Pan is my favorite childhood story and should not be surprised that I would want to watch it. I desired to watch this ballet not because I love ballet, but because I didn’t think that with such a varied and complicated story background, anyone could adequately stage and perform a ballet to do justice to the story. I wanted to see how the choreographer and composer along with all the other persons involved in the production could actually create a decent performance of a great story.

Put together a great performance they did. I can’t comment on the quality of the dancing or compare the dancers to other ballet performers, but I can say that I loved their skill and the talent displayed in this performance. The choreography, music, costumes, and set design were appropriate. The technical application of flying was skillfully done and Peter’s dance with his “shadow” was creative, unexpected, and very well done. Another technical achievement was Tinker Bell’s costume of multi-colored lights and the occasional transitions from live dancer to traveling balls of light sometimes on the walls and sometimes in Peter’s hand.

Another unexpected treat was the interesting way the audience was involved in the “Do You Believe in Fairies?” scene. Ballets being void of speaking (at least in my experience), the scene had to be silent and yet the audience was able to participate by waving small fiber-optic flashlights at the appropriate time.

All-in-all, I believe this was a great performance.

Part 2 – Summer Sausage

From about 1989 until 1997, I worked for the South Dakota Division of Emergency Management, the state equivalent of the Federal Emergency Management Agency known by its acronym, FEMA. My position was titled the State Hazard Mitigation Officer. South Dakota had several federally declared natural disasters during the time I was serving there. The disasters were mostly flood, drought, and tornado related. By the time I departed, I managed about $50M in disaster mitigation project funds.

After local government jurisdictions submitted their project applications and the “state” selected which ones to recommend to FEMA for approval, FEMA would send a team of two young grant professionals to visit each proposed site and further evaluate the proposed project in relation to the site to verify that it was not only feasible but also would actually mitigate the problem caused by the disaster.

On one such visit by the FEMA team, I was part of a “great performance.” I will call the two team members Bill and Ted because I am reporting their “excellent adventure.” We all traveled in their FEMA rented car to visit project locations throughout the state. Our first stop was in Yankton. We stopped at the motel in which we would spend the night and began to check-in. I went first, followed by Bill and then Ted. We were all chatting with the clerk and Ted most of all. When the clerk slid Ted’s credit card back to Ted, I was standing by Ted’s side and reached in and slid the card off the counter and gave it to Bill who was standing behind me. (Anyone who knows me well enough will not be surprised by my action.)

Ted never noticed and put his wallet away. While still standing at the desk, I suggested that we go to dinner next, and Bill, while putting Ted’s credit card in his wallet, said, “I’ll even buy dinner.” I choked back a laugh and the clerk started to smile and laugh quietly also. Bill did buy Ted’s dinner, but on Bill’s own card. I bought my own. The next morning we all left for our next destination with Ted still not knowing that Bill had his credit card.

Once again we arrived at a motel and Ted, Bill, and I went in and registered. Ted was first to register and for some reason he could not find his credit card. Bill and I suggested that perhaps he left it at the previous night’s motel and that he should call the motel and check. Ted used his cell phone to do just that but to no avail. I finally suggested that maybe he just overlooked it in his wallet. Ted had checked his wallet several times before I suggested it, but it still wasn’t there when he checked again.

Bill and I were just dripping with empathy, sincerity, and concern for Ted. It was a great performance up to that point. I suggested to Ted that perhaps the card had somehow fallen out of his wallet and was somewhere around the driver’s seat in the car. Ted, being desperate at this point, went out to check and left his wallet on the desk as he did so. Bill immediately put Ted’s credit card back in the wallet, at which point the desk clerk cracked up laughing. We even had time to explain how we had gotten it away from Ted the night before.

Ted returned from the car totally crestfallen and defeated. Bill suggested that he check his wallet one more time very carefully. Ted resisted but then looked and found his credit card almost immediately. Of course the clerk, Bill, and I were appropriately happy for him, again dripping with sincerity. Ted never did catch on. I was the last to register so the other two had gone ahead to move the car and to locate their rooms. The clerk gave me 10 extra coupons for a free small French fry at a hamburger chain because we had given her such wonderful entertainment. Yes, this was a great performance, but nothing like the one the next day.

We were on the way to a very small town in NE South Dakota when I decided that another great performance was needed. So, I told Bill and Ted that we were going to a small town in a part of South Dakota where people were not fond of federal officials and that a couple of them had “disappeared” in the past two years while in that region and suggested that they be very polite and agreeable. I told them that we were going to meet with the mayor of the town to visit and discuss the project. I also told them that we would meet the mayor at his butcher shop.

Upon arrival, the mayor was in the “workroom” in back of the shop so we waited in the lobby-display or sales area. Ted noticed a display of Summer Sausages and we all began to discuss how much we like summer sausage. I made a small comment that maybe the missing federal officials had been turned into summer sausage. Bill and Ted suddenly got very quiet and thoughtful.

The mayor finished his business in the workroom and we all went outside and walked around the town for a while viewing the proposed projects various locations. The mayor explained his vision on how the project would mitigate some flooding in his town. The tour ended up in front of his butcher shop where it began. About that time, a butcher’s assistant came out the front door and told the mayor that they were ready for him. The mayor asked us to wait as he had to go butcher a hog and he went inside. After a minute, Bill said he had never seen a hog butchered and wanted to watch. Putting words to action, he began to walk along the side of the building towards the rear of it. I called to him and said, “Stop. Haven’t you ever seen the movies where someone is told to wait but doesn’t and sees something he shouldn’t have seen and gets killed over it?” Bill stopped dead in his tracks and looked back at me. Before he could say anything in rebuttal, there was a gunshot from behind the building and Bill came back to where I was faster than when he left.

We then went in the shop’s front door and waited for the mayor to return, which he did momentarily. We all made a bit of small talk and prepared to leave for our next destination. The mayor said wait a minute I have something for you and went back into the workroom. I said, “Oh oh” and obviously but slowly moved away from Bill and Ted in the general direction of the front door. I could tell by their faces that they were not calm but not sure what to do. The mayor came back about then and handed each of us a tube of Summer Sausage. We thanked him and left.

Once in the car, I made a comment that since this appeared to be fresh sausage, we didn’t need to worry about eating those missing federal officials. I never did tell Bill and Ted that I made up the whole background story. It was a great performance even if I do say so myself.

© 20 April 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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Self Labeling by Ricky

Interestingly enough this topic is so two sided in the sense of positive and negative labeling (three or four sided if you consider the options of secret labels or deceptive labels). Perhaps a better way to describe labeling would be: uplifting, destructive, or even empowering. I leave it to each of you individuals to discover or categorize labels into whatever groups you desire.

When I was serving as an officer in the military in the position of a Flight Security Officer in charge of 40 enlisted nuclear missile security guards, at one point I was assigned to lead a flight of personnel who were not pulling together to get the job done smoothly without interpersonal problems. I was not the typical air force officer so, I did not impose “severe punishment” for trouble makers right off the bat when I took over. Instead, I did the following to defuse the problems by emphasizing the similarities between everyone.

At my first “guard mount” I had the men repeatedly organize themselves into different groups as I called out the categories (i.e., one group over here, another stand over there, etc.). The categories (labels) were: Republicans here, Democrats there, others by me; blacks to the right, whites to the left, American Indians across from me, others next to me; Catholics to the left, Protestants to the right, Jewish across from me, others next to me (and so fourth through…); enlisted vs officers; NCO’s vs non-NCO enlisted; rural vs urban origins; Western vs Central vs Northern vs Confederate states; high school vs junior college vs college graduates; 4 year vs 6 year enlistees vs lifers; 18-20 vs 21-25 vs 26-30 vs 31+; married w/no children vs married w/children vs single vs widowed/divorced; action films vs chick flicks; and so on for about 15 minutes. At the end I reminded them that regardless of rank or position or psychological temperament, we all belong to different groups with different people we work with at one time or another; we all have something in common with others that perhaps we didn’t get along with prior to today. So, lighten up and see if you can’t become friends rather than enemies because we are all “stuck” together in the Air Force on this flight.

I am happy to report that as far as I could tell, all the interpersonal problems became non-issues and the flight became the best performing flight in the missile security squadron. Naturally, it was not all my doing, I happened to have an extremely well qualified Flight Security Sergeant as my second in command and most of the credit goes to him.

So moving on to a more personal level, I was quite naïve about many things dealing with sexuality growing up. I engaged in what has been labeled as “age appropriate” sex play/experimentation with both boys and girls as I hit puberty but the only label applied was “this is fun, but don’t let mom, dad, older brother, or anyone else know what we do.” There was one member of my Boy Scout troop who was my main sex play partner but we never did anything while on scout campouts or events. After he moved and I was in high school, my naivety continued to confuse me and I began to wonder why I was not attracted to any girls. Mentally, I was fantasizing about sex with boys (and rarely girls) but noticed that I was not attracted to any particular girls but I was to a few school mates. I just never thought of or realized the implication.

It wasn’t until I was in the Air Force as an officer that the possibility of being gay crept into my mind on a few occasions, but since I was married with kids, I put that thought out and eventually accepted that I might be bi-sexual. Ultimately, after my wife died and through the years of depression and self-evaluation I realized that I am (or at least have a large percentage of gay orientation). With the acceptance of this dual labeling, the stress in my life (and the confusion that went with it) disappeared and I feel much more relaxed and comfortable in my skin and around other men regardless of their orientation. In other words, I now know who/what I am.

So, some labeling can be damaging if it is “true” but denied and acceptance can be liberating but under many circumstances can still be damaging if one is not living in an environment where “truth” is tolerated. I’m pretty sure many of you have had experiences that demonstrate the accuracy of my last statement. Even if you have not, you must know of others who have had those negative experiences of revealing the “truth” to those who don’t tolerate or can’t accept it.

© 11 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

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Favorite Literary Character by Ricky

At my age it is not surprising that I have a lifetime of literary characters to choose from to become my favorite. I have never before thought of which character was my favorite so the mental process of searching memories and titles should have taken quite a while. Fortunately, it did not take too long at all.

In my writings for this our Telling Your Story (TYS) group and in conversations with group members, I have often mentioned that my personality, psychological makeup, and emotions, are those of a 12-year old but with an adult body. That is to say, I feel and act not like a grown up but a not matured adolescent. Those of you who know me well enough through personal interaction or through my writings posted on my blog or the TYS blog could be presuming that my favorite literary character is — Peter Pan. I most likely contributed to that impression by my behavior and speech. In that presumption or educated guess, you would be wrong.

While the fantasy fictional character in the Disney animated version of the story Peter Pan has truly influenced, and even impacted my life to a very large extent, Peter is not my favorite character. Yes, he does have adventures with pirates, has fun with other boys, sparked my imagination as well as millions of other children, but in the end he is pure fantasy—no boy can stop growing up or fly with pixie dust in our world. Besides, I like the original version of Peter as written by the author, James Barrie. The original Peter was more realistic; he had undesirable character traits, even a “dark” side. He was more like me than the angle face portrayed by the Disney animated feature. Believe it or not, I can tell the difference between fantasy and reality or more to the point, between fantasy and a character who actually could have or does exist in some form or another.

My favorite literary character is a free spirited, quick-thinking, rapscallion prone to adventures, loyal to his friends, struggling with the morality of laws that enslave people, and willing to risk everything to do what he believes is right. In many respects he and I are quite similar but unlike Peter Pan, he actually could have lived in the time period specified and done the things attributed to him. It is easy for me to identify with his personality and almost become him as the story progresses. His name? Huckleberry Finn.

© 16 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 

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“Do I Have Your …” by Ricky


There are so many words that could complete the title sentence. Some will be funny and some not funny but obnoxious and I will spare the reader any examples which one can easily create one’s-self. Many examples could be serious, romantic, or even insulting, but only one word will due for my written memory.

Last Tuesday, 3 September, my friend Donald and I were eating dinner at the Odyssey Italian restaurant in Denver. During the meal, I enjoyed listening to the Italian background music. While waiting for the server to finish clearing the table of our used dishes, I noticed that the song playing in the background was no longer Italian but was being sung in French. In spite of the language, it sounded familiar and mentioned that to Donald. Suddenly, recognition hit with emotional force catching me totally unprepared and I quietly began to sob pushing my napkin into my mouth to stifle the noise until the song finished. The song was being sung in French with great emotion and with an orchestra accompanying. The combination of the beautiful music and tenor voice just overwhelmed me because it was OUR SONG and she has been gone 12-years next Sunday, September 15th. Until that night, I have never felt the grief of her passing and I was finally able to release some of that pent-up sorrow.

So for me, the only word that can complete the title sentence is “love” as in “Do I Have Your Love.”

Our song is the July 17th, 1965 version by the Righteous Brothers of Unchained Melody.

Unchained Melody
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrK5u5W8afc
Oh my love my darling
I’ve hungered for your touch
A long lonely time
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me

Lonely rivers flow to the sea to the sea
To the open arms of the sea
Lonely rivers sigh wait for me wait for me
I’ll be coming home wait for me

Oh my love my darling
I’ve hungered, hungered for your touch
A long lonely time
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unchained_Melody
Deb & Ricky – BYU Military Ball
© 9 September 2013

About
the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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The Accident by Ricky

When I first thought about this topic, I could not think of anything to write about. Then four-days ago, the memory floodgates opened and many memories of accidents came to mind.

Some involved me, like my mother’s pregnancy with me (I actually attended her wedding in utero), or when I cut the back of my hand on broken glass while playing in a junk car, or when I stepped on a rusty nail, or when I lobbed a small rock at a Robin and it hit and killed it, or when I was hiking and slipped breaking my ankle. Growing up, I had my fair share of accidental injuries to my body. But like always, I am not going to write about those as being not worthy. Besides, I just did write a little about those accidents.

I have written before how my parents’ divorce ended up causing my subconscious mind to shut off nearly all of my negative emotions. So, while I was working as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County, Arizona, the loss of those feelings or rather those feelings being walled off, actually helped me do my job without emotional interference.

One midnight shift, a highway patrolman contacted me to help him find an address and to go with him to deliver a traffic death notification. It was not a pleasant experience and although I did feel sad for the lady whose husband had been killed, it did not consciously affect me.

On another midnight shift in the late fall, I responded to a rollover accident along a road next to an irrigation ditch. In this case, two high school boys were in the car and the tracks in the dirt and gravel roadway indicated that the driver either was showing off and lost control or he just lost control. The car rolled and both boys were thrown from the car as they were not wearing seatbelts. More accurately, the driver was thrown clear, but the passenger only got half-way out before the rolling car shut the door on his middle and killed him. Both boys had left a party where drinking was occurring. The driver was the drinker and lived. The passenger did not drink and died, which is an all too common result. One family lost a child needlessly and the driver has to live with the knowledge that he killed a school-mate.

On one summer afternoon, a car with six-migrant farm workers stopped by the local convenience store and purchased three or four six-packs of beer. Less than two miles from the store, there was another rollover accident, again with no seatbelts and one man was thrown out and the car ended on its side but right on top of the man’s head. Evidence at the scene, indicated that at least one or two six-packs had already been consumed. No one called in that accident; I was driving by and saw the car on its side so I stopped. All of the five remaining men in the car had disappeared into the migrant worker camps and were never found or, I suspect, never even looked for. Once again I felt sad for the family left behind in Mexico, but did not mourn. I do wish the driver had been identified and caught. I don’t blame him for running away because in Mexico the punishment is much more severe than in the US (at that time period anyway) and I’m sure he thought punishment in the US was probably the same or worse.

The following accident I wish I had not remembered. I remember it quite vividly and even the date, if not the exact year. It was winter, Christmas day to be exact. A member of the Air Force, an Airman First Class I believe, had been driving all night from southern California. His destination, Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson. People who stopped to impart information (or just to gawk) reported that he was passing them ‟like they were standing still.” Apparently, he fell asleep at the wheel and left the right side of eastbound Interstate-10 at the worst possible point and “T-boned” a concrete abutment for cattle to cross under the roadway. He, his wife, and three-month old baby all died. Two families lost a child AND a grandchild. I’m fairly confident in saying that Christmas day will never be the same for those families. This accident did affect me. I did feel sad, but I ended up with a strong dislike for the US Air Force personnel system.

The airman had orders to report to Davis-Monthan by noon on Christmas day. If not for the accident he would have made it. NO ONE would have been there to process him into his unit. He and his family would have been given temporary quarters until the next duty day. I dislike the Air Force personnel system, not only for what it did to me, but also because it doesn’t care about the people the system is designed to serve. Rather the system serves the Air Force, not the men and women who make up the organization. In my opinion, there is no reason for anyone to transfer or report to a new assignment through the period beginning one week before and ending one week after Thanksgiving and the period beginning 15 December through 15 January. These are major holiday periods for families and human nature (which the military does not understand or care about) results in military personnel wanting to stay with their extended families until the ‟last minute.”

Over my adult life, many people, including some in our Telling Your Story group, have noticed I have some idiosyncrasies. I don’t apologize for any of them. I just want everyone to recognize the events I have related in this and my other postings, helped shape me into the character whom you perceive today.

© 22 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 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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Endless Joy by Ricky

To me “joy” is “happiness on steroids.” “Infinite” is a synonym for “endless”. “Eternal” is a synonym for “Infinite,” therefore, I maintain it follows that “endless joy” can be expressed as “Eternal Joy” or the life of an eternal being.

Heaven is often described as a place where we will go for our “eternal rest” often expressed as singing with the angels and playing a harp while relaxing on soft puffy clouds in a peaceful bucolic environment where we will have no cares or worries beyond singing or playing the correct notes. Our bodies will have been resurrected into their perfect young adult form with no blemishes, diseases will not exist, and no sadness will distract us from our musical talent and performances. In that state we will live forever, to infinity and beyond. Could anything be wrong with this description?

I was taught by my religion teachers that earth-life is a probationary state of existence and it is here where we are to prepare ourselves to meet God when this life is over. So are there any similarities between Heaven where God lives and this planet we call Earth?

In Genesis we read that after six “days” (periods of creation) God rested. Good! We can expect to rest, but He worked six “days” before He rested. In our society most people only work 5 days and get 2 periods of rest. We are often referred to as the children of God, that’s why we call Him our Heavenly Father. Do you suppose that He will work six days while we all sit around singing and playing harps? Even parents down here don’t allow that. So, I expect we will be doing come kind of heavenly chores (like making divinity or polishing the gold-brick sidewalks and streets) and only sing and play harps on the celestial Sabbath.

In the Book of Revelations, we are told of a war in heaven in which 1/3 of the inhabitants of Heaven rebelled against God (who was righteously angry and not happy) and as punishment were cast down to (or imprisoned on) the Earth along with the Devil (Satan, if you prefer). Well, we have wars here too, so apparently we are being well prepared for Heavenly-life. Wars of rebellion are begun by angry people upset with the government the leaders of which are not happy with the situation. As a result, people die and there is much unhappiness. And, of course, we also punish our rebels with imprisonment or casting them into the earth.

I don’t sing well and I can’t play a harp, so where is the joy? I don’t know about any of you, but harp music and choral singing is only music to my ears for so long, and one “day” of a thousand earth-years of rest is well beyond my limit of tolerance.

In this earth-life, I am happiest when I am engaged in positive activities with my family and circle of friends. I expect God is happiest when He is with His children and family members as well. So, while Heaven, in fact, may not be all that peaceful or carefree, as long as I have friends around helping me with my celestial or cosmic chores, I will be filled with as much joy as I can have for endless time into infinity and beyond.

© 6 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

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My Favorite Fantasy by Ricky

If I were to follow my financial greediness, my favorite fantasy would involve having lots of money so I could travel when and where I wanted. I am not greedy, but I could become so should I ever have large amounts of personal funds.

A not so favorite but highly enjoyable fantasy involves lots of Baseball Nut ice-cream everyday for treats between meals.
As a pubescent pre-teen and an adolescent teen, to help me fall asleep, I would draft movie plots in my head. One favorite was a series about a group of humanoid, pubescent, hermaphrodite, pre-teen aliens from another planet who land on Earth because their flying-saucer needed some repair. While here they used their advanced technology to secretly fight crime like the comic book heroes of the time.
During my youth, my all-time favorite fantasy, as you might expect from my previous stories, involves a lot of sexual behaviors featuring me. I won’t go into any details but if you could see the geographic setting for my adventures, you would understand without being told that my name in the fantasy is, Peter.
© 14 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 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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Juvenile Crime by Ricky

The very first criminal act I can remember doing was when I was only 10; in the 5th grade and on my way home from school. I have a powerful attraction to ice cream. So strong it is that back then, you might have even seen me transform into an “ice cream-zombie”. For that matter, I still do occasionally.

So, one particular week previous to my act of criminality, I had been stopping by the local grocery store where my parents shopped. I had left over lunch money and my purpose for stopping there was to buy an ice cream sandwich at a cost of 10-cents; eating it on my way home.

The week following I had no left over lunch money but the attraction to ice cream was still as powerful as ever and I stopped by the store. I searched everywhere in my pockets and book binder while walking up and down the aisles but try as I might, I just could not find the money that was not there. So I turned into a criminal. Carefully scanning for potential witnesses and hoping no one could hear my pounding heart, I quickly opened the ice cream cooler, removed one ice cream sandwich, placed it into my book binder and left the store.

I waited until I crossed the highway before I removed the thing, unwrapped, and ate it. On the bright side, I did throw the wrapper into a trash bin I was walking by; after all I wasn’t a despicable litter-bug. The next four days found me doing the same thing before guilt overcame attraction. I learned from these experiences that males (especially boys) can hear the “siren call” of inanimate objects quite clearly, objects such as ice cream sandwiches, or firearms, or fast cars, or any baseball/football games in their vicinity or on a TV, or the call of a video game console.

Once back from my grandparent’s farm and again living with my mother, I went by myself trick or treating until my little brother and sister were old enough to go, and then I took them. The last year I ever went, my friend and I did pull a couple of “tricks” on two homes we got candy from (interpret that as vandalism). Both people we met at the door said that we were too old to be “trick-or-treating”; I was 15 and my friend was 13. I replied that no one is too old to want free candy. Since they had challenged our “right” to beg for candy, we used ski wax to write four letter words on their car windows. Ski wax doesn’t come off by washing; it must be scrapped off.

Like Peter Pan, I also had a dark side. I wasn’t always a nice kid.

Pan’s Dark Side

© 2 February 2013

About the Author

  

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com


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Straight Friends Who Love Me by Ricky

Sadly, except for my siblings, my children, and my grandchild, I cannot think of any other straight people who love me. Not even my surviving aunts and uncles fall into that category. There is one straight person who tolerates me now. He once told me years ago that he loved me, but he has never said it again.

He was a school friend of my then 13-year old daughter. At one point my daughter told me he actually told his mother to divorce his dad and marry me. His dad is deaf, refuses to learn sign language, and is a drug addict. All his son wanted, was to have the same kind of relationship that my daughter had with me. The quirky thing about this is that my daughter asked me, if I married his mother, could my daughter marry him. I said no, unless they married before I married his mother. I find the mind of 13-year old’s to be very strange. It must be the raging hormones. I never figured out if it was their hormones or mine.

On the other hand, I have a few happy friends, who are very cheerful when around me, and probably even more joyful when not around me. Nevertheless, not to confuse anyone with these multiple designations, I will just call them my gay friends. To me they are as straight as my non-gay family members are, because to me, they do not appear to be bent or crooked.

It is rather depressing not to have straight friends, so I will end this story session with a happy little anecdote sent to me by a friend.

It was a dark and stormy night. Bob Hill and his new wife, Betty, were vacationing in Europe…as it happens, near Transylvania. They were driving in a rental car along a rather deserted highway. It was late and raining very hard. Bob could barely see the road in front of the car. Suddenly, the car skids out of control! Bob attempts to regain control of the car but to no avail! The car swerves and smashes into a tree.

Moments later, Bob shakes his head to clear the fog. Dazed, he looks over at the passenger seat and sees his wife unconscious, with her head bleeding! Despite the rain and unfamiliar countryside, Bob knows he has to get her medical assistance.

Bob carefully picks his wife up and begins trudging down the road. After a short while, he sees a light. He heads towards the light, which is coming from a large old house. He approaches the door and knocks. A minute passes. A small, hunched man opens the door. Bob immediately blurts, “Hello, my name is Bob Hill, and this is my wife Betty. We’ve been in a terrible accident, and my wife is seriously hurt. Can I please use your phone?”

“I’m sorry,” replied the hunchback, “but we don’t have a phone. My master is a doctor; come in, and I will get him!” Bob brings his wife in.

An older man comes down the stairs. “I’m afraid my assistant may have misled you. I am not a medical doctor; I am a scientist. However, it is many miles to the nearest clinic, and I have had a basic medical training. I will see what I can do. Igor, bring them down to the laboratory.”

With that, Igor picks up Betty and carries her downstairs, with Bob following closely. Igor places Betty on a table in the lab. Bob collapses from exhaustion and his own injuries, so Igor places Bob on an adjoining table.

After a brief examination, Igor’s master looks worried. “Things are serious, Igor. Prepare a transfusion.” Igor and his master work feverishly, but to no avail. Bob and Betty Hill are no more.

The Hill’s deaths upset Igor’s master greatly. Wearily, he climbs the steps to his conservatory, which houses his grand piano. For it is here that he has always found solace. He begins to play, and a stirring, almost haunting melody fills the house.

Meanwhile, Igor is still in the lab tidying up. His eyes catch movement, and he notices the fingers on Betty’s hand twitch, keeping time to the haunting piano music. Stunned, he watches as Bob’s arm begins to rise, marking the beat! He is further amazed as Betty and Bob both sit up straight!

Unable to contain himself, he dashes up the stairs to the conservatory. He bursts in and shouts to his master.

“Master! Master! The Hills are alive with the sound of music.”

© 28 October 2012

About the Author


I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I 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.