Tag: Ricky

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My Didn’t It Rain by Ricky

(Or Did It Rain, Rein,
Reign?)
         
A poet once wrote, “Rain, rain go away and come again another day for little Johnnie wants to play.” On rainy days, when I was little, I really liked that poem and would repeat it over and over until I realized the raindrops kept falling (on my head, they keep falling…) and my mother would finally tell me to be quiet and go play outside in spite of the rain. It didn’t make much sense to me because, she also said, “Don’t get dirty.” Apparently, getting wet was okay but not wet and dirty at the same time. So tell me, how is a little boy supposed to play in the rain without getting dirty? How is that any fun? It is definitely awkward to be the lone boy on the “sidelines” watching all the neighborhood boys splash in puddles, run through patches of mud, and even throw mud-balls at each other. Then, to add insult to injury, when called back to the house for the eventual “time-to-come-home” routine, mom would have me take a bath before dinner. What’s up with that? I could have had some fun just by being naked in the bathtub all day playing with my rubber ducky instead of being frustrated and jealous of all my wet and dirty playmates. Moms just don’t understand “boy-fun.”

The first “single date” my future spouse and I took was to the Mariana Caverns in NW Florida (a two-hour drive east of Ft. Walton Beach in the panhandle). About 30-minutes prior to our arrival it began to rain. By the time we arrived the rain had lessened to a light drizzle. I guess I must have commented (well, maybe bragged a bit) about building fires without matches while in the Boy Scouts. Naturally, like many young women I’ve met, Deborah thought I just made that up so, she challenged me to prove it. Like any young man, I could not just ignore the challenge (or maybe it was a dare) so I did it. After lunch was cooked on my matchless fire, for my punishment for showing her not to doubt my word, she did the “mom thing”; “John, let’s go walking in the rain.” By this time I had my “spirits” dampened by rain for several years at home, by excessive rain and wet sleeping bag during scout campouts, and rain during Air Force basic training situations so, I was not the least bit interested in walking in the rain. But, since I had no bath tub with rubber ducky in my car, in order to make a counter offer, I went with her on the walk. I’m sure if you could have seen my posture and the look on my face, they would have mimicked the illustrations of Alexander in the book titled, Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. [On the bright side, I’m sure I didn’t accidentally call Australia.] In spite of Deborah’s assurances that I would not melt (because I wasn’t made of sugar and spice) I nearly did. Contrary to public opinion, snips and snails and puppy-dog tails are not waterproof.  
[Just for the record: I may not be made of sugar and spice, but I do
have a large chunk of “everything nice” within me—probably because I like to
eat chocolate and Baseball Nut ice
cream from Baskin and Robins.]

At one time I lived in Tucson, Arizona, with the family of a retired Air Force member. One day four of their children and I wanted to go to see a movie. So, we piled in my little two-door, four-cylinder Opel Kadet station wagon and set out. About half an hour earlier there had been one of those famous Arizona desert “gully washer” downpours; the kind that generate flash flood warnings. Time was pressuring us to arrive prior to the movie starting when we approached a “low” spot that had about 20 yards of cross-flowing water over the road. I was young and all grown up at 22, but still stupid, I decided that the movie was worth the risk of trying to drive through the flooded road. At the deepest spot, water was splashing over the front of the engine hood and appeared to be about 1/3 to 1/2 ways up the side of the driver’s door. We made it across, but I believe if I had been alone in the vehicle, it would have floated away.

Once, while in the forest with a female friend, I was saved from injury and embarrassment by about 3-feet of rein. We had come to a small creek and my friend had crossed easily. However, when I got there my horse balked and tossed me over his head, but I held tight to the reins and so landed on my feet. I smacked the horse alongside his head with the reins, got back on, and the horse walked calmly across the creek. Even on horseback, water and I don’t mix but this time the rein was my friend.

Genesis Chapter 2, Verses19-20 describe how God gave Adam the task of naming all species of animals. We know that many species of creatures are now extinct and yet thousands remain. I can just imagine Adam reaching a breaking point one day and sassing God about not having any more ideas for names, which resulted in a small cloud dumping a bucketful of rainwater on Adam and the creature standing next in line to be named. Adam recognized the hint, so that’s how the reindeer got its name. The name is misspelled due to a dictionary printing error centuries ago.

My spouse, Deborah, loved to do genealogy research on our family-lines. She discovered that she is a distant descendant of King Harold of England. He was involved in a six-month reign until he met his end at the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I guess he never heard, “He who fights and runs away, lives to reign another day.”

Eric “The Red” is another distant ancestor of Deborah’s. While he was more infamous than royal, he is the father of Leif Erickson, the probable leader of the Viking expedition, which landed in North America. Eric may have owned a herd of reindeer and I’ll bet he spelled it correctly in Runes as he had no dictionaries to confuse him.

© 17
October 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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Exaggeration by Ricky

In civilian life, fairy tales usually begin with “Once upon a time… .” The military equivalent phrase is “This ain’t no shit … .” When used properly, these expressions are essentially the same but not always. Sometimes the fairy tales sound more real than the story told by a military member as the actions of the military are often unbelievable; activities which we never heard of due to security classifications, cover-ups, or possibly just the passage of time. I would relate some of those unknown activities, but then I would have to kill you to protect the secret, and I don’t want to do that.

All advertisements for commercial products contain major exaggerations or out-right lies. I do not believe that statement to be an exaggeration in any way. Ever since I was 5-years old, I hear about the “New and Improved Tide” for washing clothes. The only thing I know that changed is the box it comes in. During all that time, I have not seen any of my clothes get cleaner than in any previous version.

Some exaggerations are in common usage. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times;” “I’ll bet you a million dollars you can’t do it;” and “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” are just three of the hundreds of possible examples.

Myths are similar to fairy tales. Another type of exaggeration is the myth type of story that is so outrageous, no one would believe it. This type is of the category Tall Tales, which is just a nice way of saying it’s a big lie. This type is not so much harmful as entertaining, in effect; a big white lie as it were. For example, most people believe the Grand Canyon is the result of river and wind erosion. The reality is a fact well known; the Grand Canyon is the result of Paul Bunyan dragging his axe along the ground while walking from Minnesota to the redwood forests of California. (I actually believe this is probably true, because the story was in my reading textbook in 3rd grade elementary school in Minnesota. Schools never teach bad information.)

I cannot count high enough to list all the dining establishments that proclaim their cuisine is the “best” in town, state, nation, world, etc. If I tried to add them up, I would fry my brain or burn out my calculator’s batteries.

Did you notice that even the Weather Channel is not above reproach on this issue? It seems that each-and-every common and routine weather event is portrayed as being a major disaster in the making. So, I’ll end my story today with a warning to all of us, “global warming” will kill us all, because we did not do something about it a hundred years ago, and now it’s too late.

I’m so thirsty from reading this paper, I’m going drink ten gallons of water before I go home.

© 3 June 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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My Most Vulnerable Moments by Ricky

Vulnerability affects every person at several points in their lives. The moment a person is conceived, they are vulnerable to the actions and reactions of the mother’s body and her choices (to abort or not, what food to ingest, drink alcohol or not, take illegal drugs or not, level of activity; the quality of the environment the mother lives in, and etc.). As vulnerable a person is while in utero, the growing fetus is protected by the mother’s body. It is after a successful birth that the extended period of greatest vulnerability begins as a baby is totally helpless and dependent upon others to sustain its life; and so it was for me as well.

All children grow and as they do, vulnerability changes in both degree of risk and impact of the consequences. People learn as they grow and a child must process and internalize a massive amount of information as their senses provide the input. Most children are very successful in this endeavor but some get sidetracked along the way. I got derailed somewhat because I did not learn the consequences of “disobedience” quickly enough and received many corrective applications of father’s hand or belt to my bottom. Therefore, I was constantly afraid of him because I never connected the discipline to my actions. Naturally, I was also mentally vulnerable as I learned that my mother was a “snitch” by telling all of my misdeeds to him so he could apply the corrective can of “whup ass” to my butt. In other words, I could not trust her and I feared my father. I tried to please both of them but never quite understood that I must follow their instruction and not my own desires. [What two through five-year old child ever does?]

While living on my grandparent’s farm, I was not as mentally vulnerable as when living with my parents, but my vulnerability to physical harm skyrocketed but not from my grandparents. There were many ways to become seriously injured or even to die on the farm. Falling off the tractor while riding with my grandfather and being run over, or falling into the maws of the bailer, discus, harrow, or plow are but a few ways. Other ways included being kicked by a cow, falling out of the hayloft, or having hay bales fall on me.

Mental vulnerability on the farm consisted mostly of feeling abandoned by my parents and not receiving the kind of outward signs of love from my grandparents like those my own parents would give (hugs, kisses, and other such signs of affection). Those feelings followed me back to California when I finally was able to rejoin my “new” family (mother had remarried and I now had an older step-brother and twin half-brother and sister). I became the proverbial “middle child” and spent nearly nine years without much of a social life due to babysitting requirements. Thus, I acquired personality “issues” that have followed and negatively influenced me throughout the rest of my life to date.

My sexual activities made me extremely vulnerable. When I finally quit lying to myself and admitted to myself (what others already “new”) that I am gay, I became the most vulnerable. I managed to retain the psychological maturity and mentality of when I was twelve years old even though I grew up physically. Due to my suppressed sexual orientation, when I “came out” to myself and other men, my age, I wanted to experience gay sex in quantity. Thus, I am currently vulnerable to the advances of men I would not normally want to have as sex partners and with whom I have not established some type of personal or social or friendship relationship. I’m also especially vulnerable (as a 12 year old) to “fall in love with” someone who is simply using me to gratify himself and ultimately wounding me emotionally. (All gay men are vulnerable to this, so I am no different than anyone else on this issue.)

I know I am at risk but I try to be careful. That’s one of the minor reasons I come to The Center to deal with my issues. Therefore, my most vulnerable period in my life is currently right now.

© 24 November 2010

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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Still Learning by Ricky

Part 1


My brother Bill runs a still on the hill
Where he turns out a gallon or two.
The birds in the sky get so drunk they can’t fly
From that good ol’ mountain dew.

[Chorus]
They call it that good ol’ mountain dew, mountain dew,
And them that refuse it are few, mighty few.
Well I’ll hush up my mug if you’ll fill up my jug
With that good ol’ mountain dew.

My aunt Lucille had an automobile,
It ran on a gallon or two.
It needed no gas and it needed no oil,
It just ran on that good ol’ mountain dew.

[Chorus]

My uncle Mort, he is sawed off and short,
He stands ’bout four foot two,
But he thinks he’s a giant when you give him a pie-ant
Of that good ol’ mountain dew.

[Chorus]

Old Auntie June had a brand new perfume,
It had such a wonderful “pew”.
But to her surprise, when she had it analyzed,
It was nothing but good ol’ mountain dew.

[Chorus]

The preacher-he walked by, with a tear in his eye
Said his wife came down with the flu.
And hadn’t I ought just to give him a quar-art
Of that good ol’ mountain dew.

[Chorus]

There’s an old holler tree, just a little way from me
Where you lay down a dollar or two.
You go ‘round the bend and come back again
And pickup a jug of that good ol’ mountain dew.

[Chorus]

Part 2

When I was born, I began to learn how to control my body and to understand the sensory input I was receiving. Rather quickly, I learned to control my environment to obtain things for myself by communicating with the moving objects within my field of view. My method of communication was not all that sophisticated as I was still trying to control my vocal cords and mouth, but the moving objects seemed to understand and brought me food and warmth. I felt cared for and the master of my “world”.

As I grew, I realized that those moving objects did not always respond to gentle requests and I had to raise the volume of my slowly improving speech. They were rather slow in understanding my attempts to learn their sounds. But eventually we learned to communicate reliably.

At last I had learned enough to be safely around other people and I was sent to school to learn more skills and information about the world I live in. This learning process continued for 12-years until I graduated high school. My first year in college taught me that I would never be a high school chemistry teacher. Shortly after I learned that particular lesson, I joined the Air Force and serious education began.

The first military lesson I learned was self-discipline. This was achieved by forced discipline based upon fear of what would be the consequences to me if I did not do what I was told – consequences far worse than my parents had inflicted upon me. I learned that not all friendly people were “true friends”; not all good looking people were in fact, good; not all “ugly” people were dumb; and most importantly, don’t judge people by skin color. I also learned to differentiate between people worth knowing and those whose personalities were so distasteful as to be avoided.

During those years and the ones that followed, I continued to learn about people, places, and things worth knowing. Unfortunately, I also learned that the world is not a particularly safe place and that tragedy and injustice abound. I learned the world of people is constantly changing, sometimes for the better and sometimes not. I also learned that when the wicked rule, the people mourn.

Now, some 65-years after my birth, I am still learning. Only the lessons are more about me than the world around me. I am learning about my orientation and what it means. I am learning to integrate my 12-year old adolescent personality with my 65-year old adult body. It is not happening very smoothly and probably has to do with a left-brain, right-brain conflict. Or perhaps I am just doomed to have a child-like outlook my whole life.

As the time draws ever closer to the occasion of my passing, I will still be looking to learn what is beyond this life. To paraphrase the attitude of my close friend, Peter, I declare, “To die will be a great adventure — in learning.”

© 18
November 2013  



About the Author  



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

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

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Discovery by Ricky

I am not famous or even infamous, nonetheless, I made many discoveries in my life. As an infant, I discovered that I did not like being tossed into the air and then caught by my father. Of course getting caught was much preferred to hitting the floor unhindered. My father always caught me, but I never liked or enjoyed the falling feeling.

As a 1st grader, I discovered, but did not understand, that I could not trust my mother and I feared my father and yet I still loved both of them dearly. Perhaps children are ‟hard-wired” to be that way or maybe it was the unconscious realization that they provided everything I needed to survive—a juvenile Stockholm Syndrome as it were.

As a pubescent 5th grader, I discovered the initial pleasures of male genitalia and the physical differences between boys and girls. Boys were more ‟interesting”. I also discovered ‟responsibility” while caring for my younger siblings. It wasn’t something for which I wanted to be responsible.

As a 6th grader, I finally discovered all the pleasures that male genitalia can provide and that there were other boys who liked rediscovering those pleasures with me. During the school Christmas presentation, I discovered stage fright when I saw my parents sitting in the second row. I also discovered that it is much more fun to play sports than to watch from the bleachers.

In the Boy Scouts, I discovered the pleasures of belonging to an organized group of boys having fun camping, learning new games and skills, and performing campfire skits. Because I was the oldest boy in the troop and held the position of Senior Patrol Leader, I was always ‟responsible” for everything boy related and sometimes other things. As a result, I was always on my best behavior trying to be the good example. While my time in the troop was very enjoyable and fun, the boys had more fun than I.

As an 8th grader, I discovered the first pangs of being different as all my friends began to favor girls while I still wanted to be with boys. From this point forward my interests began to diverge from the mainstream interests of other boys until in my freshman year of high school, I began to wonder if I was a ‟slow developer” or something else altogether.

Increasingly throughout high school, college, and into mainstream adulthood, I discovered I was growing more comfortable around groups of females and more estranged from and apprehensive around groups of men, lest they detect that I had no interest in their primary topics of discussion. Groups of women did not make me uncomfortable in the least. Nonetheless, I crave male companionship.

In the first semester of college, I discovered that I would never be a high school chemistry teacher.

In the military, I discovered self-discipline. Unfortunately, when I left the military, I also left behind nearly all traces of self-discipline. Fortunately, I also discovered the pleasures of heterosexual relationships and in separate events met my future spouse.

After being married, I discovered that I liked it and also discovered the joy of being present at the birth of our four children.

Upon returning to military life, I discovered I am still a child psychologically. I found this out while in training when I read in a manual on how to set up an “L-shaped” ambush. Specifically, where to aim the machine gun to inflict the greatest damage if the bullets fall short or go past the aiming point. I actually realized that the military was no “game” like I played as a little kid.

I discovered that I rather enjoyed being a military officer and also a deputy sheriff both of which were childhood desires.

I discovered that I am a child of God and that most people are good, although many are misguided.

I discovered just how devastating it is when one’s soul-mate passes on leaving one behind.

I discovered the importance of being around family and friends and to keep lines of communication open.

In 2010, I finally admitted to myself that I am sexually oriented towards males and discovered just how liberating the admission was to my psyche.

Lastly, I discovered The Center and SAGE’s Telling Your Story group and the wonderful people who attend. I am looking forward to next Monday’s get-together for conversation and, of course, food with ice cream.

© 22 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

Getting Caught by Ricky

          From
June of 1956 to June 1958 I was living with my grandparents on their farm in
Isanti County, Minnesota.  I was eight
and nine years old at the time.  On
Saturdays, after the morning chores were completed, grandpa always drove us
into Cambridge, in their 1949 Kaiser Deluxe Sedan.
He and grandma would run their
individual errands as my uncle and I eventually ended up at the drug store to
spend our allowances.  My weekly
allowance of $1.00 allowed me to purchase a model airplane kit and a Cherry
Cola from the drug store’s “soda jerk.”
          In
the beginning, I could buy each weekend a model airplane and a comic book for
98-cents, including the tax.  The comic
book was only a dime.  As time passed,
the comic book price increased to 12-cents and I could not buy both for $1.00
so I began to buy more comic books and the Cherry Cola.  My grandma said I had to save the left over
money so I could still buy a model and drink or model and comic book, if I had
saved enough left over allowance.  I
really didn’t like that plan, but I did not have a choice between alternatives.
          Thus,
for two years I developed a strong attachment to reading and building my model
airplanes.  Now jump forward to when I
lived with my mother, stepfather, stepbrother, and my twin half-brother/sister
at South Lake Tahoe.  The year is
1960.  I am 12 and we live in our second rented home on Birch Street.
3745 Birch Street, So. Lake Tahoe, CA
          The
house is a two-story edifice of what I call a rather rustic design and
matching interior.  Our allowed part of
the upstairs is about one-third of the total area available.  Crammed into that small space were two cribs,
end-to-end, and a set of bunk beds.  Back
at the first rented house, I had the bottom bunk as my then fifteen year old
step-brother, Eugene (Gene for short), insisted on the top bunk.  In this second house, at seventeen Gene was
literally tired of climbing into bed and so claimed the bottom bunk.  The twelve-year old man that I was enjoyed climbing into my top bunk.
          The
roof sloped steeply but not quite as steep as an “A-frame” constructed
house.  This resulted in a shortage of
space near the upstairs walls that were actually the sloping roof.  Nonetheless, Gene and I made two small “cubby
holes” among the “rafters” for each of us to use as a study and personal area.  It was a tight fit for Gene, being bigger
than I am.  I was considerably smaller
but it was a tight fit for me also.
          Gene
and I got along well.  We never fought,
wrestled, or were loudly argumentative with each other.  I suspect that was mostly because he was so
much bigger and intimidated me by his size and status of being in high
school.  We each were very protective of
our study areas and did not like the other to enter or touch anything in our
areas.
          Our
parents did not bring home cookies very often, but when they did the package
contained about 40 or 50 of them.  Gene
and I learned early on that the cookies (or other treats) would disappear
quickly.  Therefore, to ensure we both
got an equal share, when the cookies arrived home, mother would watch us divide
them up between us.  She always held some
back.  Gene and I took our cookies and
“hid” them in our study areas so we could not steal each other’s treasure.
          One
day, being the immature man
that I was then, I ate my last stashed cookie but still craved more.  Since Gene was not home, I searched his study
area and found his cookie stash.  I
didn’t think he would miss one or two and that’s how many I ate of his.  I did it again a couple of days later and he
noticed.  The next time our stashes were
refilled, he raided mine and of course, I retaliated once too often.
          I
came home from school one day and found that Gene had broken a part off two of
my model airplanes.  I bought these same
model airplanes with my precious left over allowance money back on the farm in
Minnesota.  As such, they were important
to me.  I thought that breaking my
airplanes was going too far.  I mean I
didn’t break anything of his—I just ate his cookies.  I quickly escalated the “war.”
          I
loved model airplanes.  Gene loved his
paint-by-numbers kits.  I took four of
his small paint bottles and began to throw them out the upstairs window onto a
pile of chunks of broken concrete on the vacant lot next door.  My step-father was home but I believed him to
be inside doing something.  I was
wrong.  He came in from outside and
called to me asking if I was throwing anything out the window.  I lied and said I was not.
          He
went back outside and I watched from the window as he began looking around the
vacant lot but didn’t seem to find anything and left the area.  Apparently, he either remembered what it is
like to be 12 and questioned by his father, or somehow he knew I was lying and
was waiting for me to throw something again. 
In any case, I still had two little paint bottles to throw so I
did.  This time he called me down to him
and asked what I threw out the window.
          At
that statement, my guts and butt suddenly developed a serious case of major
“pucker factor.”  I did not lie
again.  I told him what I threw and when
he asked why, I explained that Gene broke my models.  I was afraid he would spank me or do
something similar but worse.  He
didn’t.  He only told me not to lie to
him again.  I never did and never needed
to either.  I do not remember if I told
him the whole truth though.  I am fairly
sure I did not tell him I started the “war” by eating Gene’s cookies.  If I had, things might have turned out
different for me.

© 4 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.

Posted on

Elder Experiences by Ricky

When I was a young boy, parents and teachers always were giving orders some of which were demanded by society of that era. Parents and teachers both believed they were giving sound and correct instruction or at best directions on how to survive family and school life without receiving any physical pain as a result of not heeding their words; corporal punishment still being in vogue. Some youths were naïve enough to believe everything their parents or teachers would tell them. Of course those youths never got into trouble, but they did pick up some quite erroneous views of the world. Those of us who were skeptical about what the adults were saying learned the hard way the difference between an order and good advice; but we also learned early-on in life that not everything we were told was true.

I was definitely one of those who was smart enough to know some things I was told simply did not make any sense. Unfortunately, I was not smart enough to avoid pointing this out to the adults in control of my life so I received many physical corrections until I learned to keep my mouth shut… which I never did. What I did learn was to not say anything loud enough to be heard…sometimes.

Like many children of that era, I was constantly reminded whenever I would “screw-up” that I must always, “listen to your elders.” Naturally being a smart ass even at 4 or 5 years old, I just had to ask, “What’s an elder?” I was politely told that it was someone older than I was. I gave it a brief thought and then asked, “How much older?” They were not amused. I was finally told how much older after the spanking for mouthing-off to my father. I was not amused by the irony.
Also at a very young age I was taught, or so they thought, to eat everything on my dinner plate and become a member of the “clean plate club;” not to be confused with the Mickey Mouse Club, although they expected me to believe there really was a “clean plate club” and it would be nice to be a member. So I listened to them and obeyed. I enjoyed being a member of this club for a long time until that fateful day when I decided to voice my opinion (justifiably based on my gag reflex) that sometimes it just wasn’t possible to maintain membership each and every day based upon what exactly was placed on one’s plate.

That day was the first time big chunks of stewed tomatoes were presented for my taste buds to enjoy. I took one chunk and began to chew and swallow, when to my surprise and consternation, I nearly threw up as the mashed chunk made a valiant effort to slide down my throat which was trying very hard to close off and deny entry. I definitely did not want to make a mess so I desperately made the supreme effort and forced the offending blob to go down, but my throat didn’t like to be forced to obey one little bit. Therefore, in an extremely short time it notified my brain that it was through taking orders from me concerning swallowing stew tomato chunks; my brain duly noted the rebellion and notified me that it would be very prudent to refrain from eating any more of them. I readily agreed. This whole event took no more than 8 seconds from start to what I instantly planned to be the finish; closed book; a done deal. Boy was I in for a nasty surprise.

My super intelligent adults sitting at the same dinner table happened to notice the look on my face as I was facing this challenge and one of them leaping to an obvious conclusion said, “Is there something wrong?” Refusing to follow my first instinct of “keeping my mouth shut” to avoid punishment, I plowed ahead oblivious to the danger and told them that the stewed tomato chunks make me want to throw up. In their I-am-your-elder-voice I was told it couldn’t be true because I loved sliced tomatoes plain, with salt, or with sugar. Not only that, but I loved tomato catsup, tomato juice and tomato soup. All they said about liking tomatoes was true, but I could not understand why they did not believe me about gagging.

Consequently, in a display of their superior elder-wisdom and by virtue of their position of authority, I was told that I must clean my plate anyway. They then returned to eating their dinner and I sadly returned to eating mine. After they were done and I only had the offending large pile of stewed tomatoes left (well it was really only about four large chunks) I protested again and even resorted to some tears, but to no avail. Resigned to my fate I valiantly managed to eat two more pieces.

Little did I know that those two pieces strengthened my throat’s determination to stay closed and weakened my ability to force the issue. My brain just watched from the sidelines watching the battle between reflex and will power. Just eating those two pieces took me about seven or eight minutes and my elders expressed their opinions: first that they were right I could really swallow them, and second that I was just stalling, and third to hurry up as it was past my bed time. I put the second to the last piece in my mouth, chewed a bit and swallowed. At this point reflex overcame will power and my entire dinner returned to my plate.

The elders learned three things that night: their “wisdom” just might be flawed; they could still learn some things even if from a child (I was their first born so they really did have a lot to learn about kids); and that father does not always know best. From that night on I was never again forced to eat anything I didn’t want to eat. I learned that I could win a battle of wills, if I was in the right, which thinking still led me into trouble because I never learned which battles that I was on the right side of until I was old enough to leave home by joining the military.

Having won the “food fight” on a major technicality, I gave in to the next food issue which came up shortly thereafter. My family would frequently spend the evening with my dad’s sister’s family which included dinner. I had already had issues with the types of vegetables my aunt would serve; namely yellow squash and green beans. Now these two foods did not make me gag but to me the taste and texture was disgusting, which is probably a contributing factor in my elders refusal to believe me about my gagging over stewed tomatoes.

My parents and I had a few dinner table discussions about this during previous visits. After the above event, I was told that I didn’t have to eat all the green beans and squash, but I must eat at least one “bite” of squash and one green bean and to push the stuff around a little, occasionally, to make it appear that I’m interested in eating it. I did listen to them this time figuring winning one out of two was a pretty good split and I knew that the green bean and squash would not make me “sick”. I also liked the idea of fooling my aunt about liking what she fed me. So the elders and I both learned to compromise, but I didn’t realize it until I was much older.

12/5/2013

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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First Times by Ricky

A person has multiple “first times” in their life: first car, first bicycle, first breath of air, first fight, first argument, first joke told that was actually funny, first kiss, first kiss not from mom or dad, first romantic kiss, and et cetera. So, here are a few of my “firsts.”

My First Scary Dream at Age 0-1 Years

I see solid pale-green; like a “green screen” television screen which fills my entire field of view regardless of direction of looking, but I don’t look around and remain fixated on that pale-green. Then, I get a “funny feeling” in me; I don’t like it and tense up. I recognize the feeling as that of falling and I panic but don’t awaken. (I have heard that Freud equates “falling” with fears of sexual failure, which is stupid, as babies don’t have sexual knowledge sufficient to fear to perform correctly.) Years later, I learn to apply this dream to the times my father would toss me up in the air and catch me on the way down. To this day, I have much stress and fear of the negative gravity feelings brought on by roller coasters or other amusement park rides.

My First Girlfriend (Age 5)

Her name is Sandra Flora. With her curly hair, she looked like a 5-year-old Shirley Temple. I carried her kindergarten school photo in my wallet for many years into my adulthood before I finally managed to misplace it.

My First Boy Friend (Age 5-8)

His name is Michael Pollard and his sister is Joan. They both were near the same age as me and both are redheads complete with freckles. Mike lived across the street from my house on Mathews Avenue in Redondo Beach, California. We played together quite often. His father was a roofer and the family pickup truck always smelled of tar due to the “puddles” of dried tar in the truck bed. At age 6, Mike and I caught the city bus alone and rode it to the beach where we went into the roller-rink and played a game of pinball or two before we rode a bus back home. I don’t think either of our parents even knew we were gone for that 1 ½ hours.

My First Scary Movies in a Drive-in Theater (Age 4 or 5)

It was at a drive-in theater somewhere in the Los Angeles metropolitan area. There was the usual a double feature. One movie was “Rodan” and the other I think was titled “Them.” “Rodan” was a flying-dinosaur-type creature and regardless of the actual title, “Them” was about giant ants that made a nest in the sewers of Los Angeles. In that movie, James Arnes played an army colonel ordered to destroy the ants and the nesting queen. In any case, the monsters scared me so much that whenever one was on the screen, I would hide in the back seat and not look until one of my parents said it was okay. I guess I should say that I actually started to watch the first movie from the front seat between my parents. I guess I wasn’t very macho. During the intermission between movies, I walked to the refreshment “stand” to buy myself a piece of pie. The teenage attendant could not understand me very well and after explaining that they only had pizza pie sold me a piece placing it into a small box to take back to the car. Naturally, as I left the building I saw all the cars in front of me and wasn’t sure how to find my family’s car. I was lucky and found it after only a very mild panicking. When I got inside to eat my pie, I started to cry because it wasn’t pie. My parents ate it instead. I guess I didn’t understand the teenager either focusing on the word pie rather than the modifier “pizza,” which I didn’t know what it meant anyway.

My First Scary Visit to the Beach (Age 2 or 3)

The family went to the beach several times I’m told, but I only remember this one time and only then this one event. I was really cute in my blue little-boy bathing suit. You know the type; the ones that squeezed the front so tight whatever size “package” a toddler might have was squashed into not showing a bulge. I was playing in the sand right next to the water line where the waves would reach. Earlier, dad had taken me in deeper and we bobbed about and I played while safely held in his arms or hands. I must have decided to play in the water a bit so while my parents relaxed on their beach-towels a couple of yards away, I moved into water that was up to the middle of my lower leg (about 5 or 6 inches deep) during the maximum reach of the wave on the beach. A series of unexpectedly larger waves arrived and the first one knocked me down and rolled me along towards the shore. As I tried to stand, the retreating water kept pulling the sand out from under me and I went back out into the deeper 5 to 6 inch water. The next three waves did the same thing and then dad arrived and picked me up. Naturally I was crying because I was scared but I don’t know what of. To this day I am very uneasy around large deep bodies of water, including swimming pools. It took years before I could pass my First Class Scout badge by swimming 50 yards.

My First Award (Age 1)

During the summer of 1949, my family was living in Lawndale, California. The city parks & recreation department held a “Baby Show” that mother entered me into. I won a couple of 2nd place red ribbons and one blue ribbon. Mother questioned the judges about the red ribbons as I was clearly the first place baby in those two categories. The judges told her that they just could not award me all the blue ribbons because the one I did win was the “King of the Show” award for being the “best baby” overall. I still have the cardboard covered crown with gold foil and stick-on stars as well as the photo of me wearing the crown. Mom and dad must have been very proud to have a child to brag about. Interestingly though, my future wife was crowned “Queen” of her baby show that same summer in Ohio.

Crowned 5 August 1949
My First Crush (Age 10)

After living with my mother’s parents for 2 years, mom and my new step-father came to Minnesota to show off the newly-born twins and to bring me back with them to California; south shore of Lake Tahoe to be precise. I turned 10 two weeks later. When school started, puberty had already begun for me, but no one had any idea it had (there were no outward visible indications). I was assigned to a 5th grade class with a brand new teacher, Miss Herbert. Until I was picked up from the farm in May of 1958, I had not seen my mother in about 2 years so I missed her and my dad for that long. Now I was living with her and yet by October I was madly in love with Miss Herbert. She must have known or suspected because one day she arranged with my mother to take me to her house after school to work on a project for our classroom bulletin board. To say I was in overjoyed mode would be a gross understatement of how I responded to the situation. Miss Herbert offered me cookies and milk and then we got to work. Nothing sexual of any kind happened, but if she had tried to seduce me, I would have been putty in her hands. Then the forest ranger entered into her life and I told the other boys in my class that she was going to marry him, but they didn’t believe me. We started Christmas vacation and left the school leaving Miss Herbert behind and returned to Mrs. Walksdahl (the ex-Miss Herbert) as our same teacher. I also returned after a case of laryngitis had healed over the Christmas break. When it was over my voice had permanently changed, so I never went through the “squeaky” stage.

My First Time Sex (Age 10)

During the autumn of 1958 or the spring of 1959, I was alone playing bus driver in an old 1935-1940 style bus, which someone had turned into what we would call a motor home. I had done this during several weekends for about ½ hour each time before I got bored and quit for the day. One day, the second to the last time I ever went there to play, another boy showed up. He was 8 or 8 ½ as I recall. We took turns driving the bus and being the passenger. At one point, he told me that his older brother, who was 11 or 12, would make him suck his brother’s dick. I thought, “You can do that?” followed by “I want to try that.” So, I asked him if I could suck his dick and he refused my request at first but I kept asking so he gave in. I made him promise to not pee in my mouth and began to suck. It was a wonderful. About 2 minutes into the act, he saw an adult heading our way so we stopped.

My First Scary Movie on TV (age 40ish)

You may think that I would have seen many “scary” movies in the theater and TV by the time I was 40; and so I had. The difference was that by this time, my emotions were sufficiently “blocked” that my mind kept telling me its all fake so nothing was really scary. However, this movie got to me because I was now the father of four children, three of them girls, and in this movie there was a little girl (8-10) who was in danger throughout the movie. You may have seen it, the second Alien movie with Sigourney Weaver.

My First “Scary” Book that Unsettled My Mind for 3 Days (Age 62)

The book was titled, “Lost Boys,” written my Orson Scott Card a rather famous LDS author. It was one of his earliest works and according to him was inspired by Steven King’s “Pet Cemetery.” The story was rather slow to develop but all the elements were in place by the end. The story revolved around the family’s oldest boy; an 8-year old “perfect” child who became very sullen when the family moved to a new small town. The townspeople did not realize until well into the story that young boys were being abducted by an apparent serial killer. The ending had an unusual twist that totally unhinged me. I had wanted the boy to live and figured that he would be the one to expose the killer; and in fact, he did. So there was a partial happy ending but not one that I would have expected.
My First “Scary” Porn Story that Really Got to Me.  
(Age 57)

This one bothered me for a day or so because I could actually imagine that it could really happen unlike the story I related above. The premise of this story is that scientists actually identified a gay gene in human DNA. As a result, laws were passed that all male children reaching age 10 were tested to see if they carried the gene. If so, the child was either castrated by a doctor or nurse or a “clam shell” was fitted over the boy’s scrotum which could not come off as the opening was too small to pass the testicles. The “clam shell” device contained a small radioactive particle which eventually killed the testicles and they shriveled as they died until they were shriveled enough for the device to fall off the scrotum. Boys thus altered were sent to “summer” camps where they were all instructed in the details and methods of gay sex. At the completion of their training each boy was partnered with a known pedophile. As long as the man only interacted with his assigned boy, he was not prosecuted. If he strayed, nullification and life imprisonment awaited.

As I said at the beginning, I can actually see where this could happen if a gay gene is actually found. Thus, it really bothered me for a day or two.

© 23 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

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Summer Camp by Ricky

I went to a Boy Scout summer camp only six-times: twice as a camper, once as a staff member, and thrice as a substitute adult leader.

The first three times were all at Camp Winton along the Bear River Reservoir near Jackson, California. Two of the last three were at Camp Sol-Meyer (near the Fort McKavett Historical Site) and the last at Camp Fawcett (on the Nueces River near Barksdale), both camps in Texas.

I was 15 the first time I went to camp. Our Scoutmaster, Bob Deyerberg, was there the whole week and two other adults took half a week each to be with us. We worked on rank advancement, crafts, swimming, canoeing, relaxing, and enjoying a week away from home with many friends at once. It was like an extended weekend campout. I bought a moccasin kit and assembled it before I went home.

The next year I was 16 when we went. One weekend before the camp opened, myself, our Scoutmaster, and three other members of our troop were there for a three-day work detail to prepare the camp for opening. The we were there because at the previous Spring Camporee, we had all been “tapped out” (pushed violently from behind) from a council-fire circle to be inducted into the Order of the Arrow (a BSA honor society). The induction ceremony is held at the summer camp pre-opening work detail weekend. It was called The Ordeal. And so and ordeal it was. But also mostly fun.

When our week to arrive at camp that year was upon us, none of our adult dads could stay at camp with us, so a rather new to our troop 19-year old assistant Scoutmaster stayed with us. We enjoyed the same activities as the previous year except it was not quite as fun when back at our campsite due to the assistant Scoutmaster. He was rude and obnoxious and most of us were afraid of him because he carried a large knife of the Jim Bowie style but not as large. Unfortunately, he liked to brandish it and would poke our backsides with the point, if we were not watching. When our Scoutmaster and other fathers came to get us, myself and the boys in the car I was riding in all complained about him and at the next troop meeting the other adults told him that he must leave the troop. He was disappointed but we all were relieved.

I did not go to camp when I was 17 because the dates conflicted with my father’s 30-days in the summer visitation rights. My Scoutmaster did mail me a postcard from camp, which came in the mail while I was gone. I always thought it was a very nice thing to do. He really liked me.

At age 18, I was on the staff of the camp. I worked in the commissary section making sure each troop received and turned in all issued cooking gear. I also ensured that each troop received the correct amount of food for cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if it was not their turn to eat in the dining hall. I also taught the motor boating merit badge.

The staff members designed and made a large wall plaque on which to record our names to hang on the lodge wall as long as the building lasted. It was my idea to spell “staff” as “staph” and all the other guys agreed it would be funny. So we did.

Staph of  ’66 Plaque

As you look at the photo of the plaque, you will notice on the left side a circle with what looks like two “X’s”. That is the symbol or logo brand of the Winton Brothers logging company which donated the land for the camp to the Boy Scouts of America. The “X’s” are not “X’s” but to “W’s” back-to-back representing the two Winton brothers. Because I was teaching the Motor Boating merit badge and because the current TV show, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, featured an Admiral Nelson, I printed my name around the circle as “Admiral Nelson”. I also wrote it normally somewhere else on the plaque, but I don’t remember exactly where.

While undergoing training with the Air Force at San Angelo AFB, Texas in 1968, I volunteered to be a temporary adult leader for the base troop and two other Texas troops because no troop adults could get off work for a week to stay with the boys. The first time I was still 19 and the last two times I had turned 20. The second event was the time I was seduced by the 16-year old senior patrol leader. All in all, those week-long camps were enjoyable because it got me out of three-weeks of “base details” while waiting for phase two training to begin or transfer orders following my being molested by the base psychiatrist which I wrote and posted on my blog under the title of Visits with the Doctor on Summer Afternoons.

In 2011 I visited BSA Camp Winton again after it closed for the season. Fortunately, there were five people there doing some pre-winter repairs and completing the camp shutdown activities. I was able to enter the lodge and wander the grounds reliving some memories and taking photographs. The camp was essentially the same, but the reservoir was significantly lower from when I was there as a boy.

This topic brought back many pleasant memories.

Hiking Trail to Camp Winton












Camp Winton Lodge/Dining Hall


Camp Winton Dining Hall Interior














Dining Hall Fireplace



© 19 August 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

Sandy Hook Elementary Victims (14 December 2012). Gone but Not Forgotten — by Ricky

          I hope the following photographs forever haunt the dreams of our Congress’s heartless, soulless, and cowardly elected members who voted down (or blocked) the firearms background checks bill. May they never have another peaceful night of sleep! 

In Memoriam of Sandy Hook Elementary Victims
(14 December 2012)
The Adults
Rachel D’Avino (Teacher’s Aid with her dog)
Dawn Hochsprung (Principal)

Nancy Lanza (Mother of the murderer)

Anne Marie Murphy (Teacher)

Lauren Rousseau (Teacher)

Mary Sherlach (School Psychologist)

Victoria “Vicki” Soto (Teacher)

The Children
Charlotte Bacon 6

Daniel Barden 7

Olivia Engel 6

Josephine Gay 7

Dylan Hockley 6

Madeleine F. Hsu 6

Catherine V. Hubbard 6

Chase Kowalski 6

Jesse Lewis 6

Grace McDonnell 7

Ana Marques-Greene 6

James Mattioli 6

Emillie Parker 6

Jack Pinto 6

Noah Pozner 6

Caroline Previdi 6

Jessica Rekos 6

Avielle Richman 6

Benjamin Wheeler 6

For a list of school shootings in the U.S. from 26 July 1764 through 13 December 2013 visit:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_school_shootings_in_the_United_States

© 29 January 2013, revised 18 March 2013, 27 April 2013, 5 May 2013, 9 November 2013, and 14 December 2013. 



About the Author

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.