Tag: Ricky

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Quirky Domestic Tidbits, by Ricky

          Me?  Quirky?  I don’t think so.  I’m perfectly normal in every way even for a gay guy.  Very nondescript, average looking, wonderful personality (so I’ve been told, and I choose to believe it) and nothing quirky about me.  So, I felt very secure in asking my oldest daughter if she thought there was anything quirky about me; knowing all along that she couldn’t think of anything even if she thought more than her 30-second attention span for caring about anything I say.
          Apparently, it was a case of me not seeing the forest because the trees were in the way; or (as the Bible puts it in Matthew, Chapter 7) a case of “mote” “beam” sickness.  Let’s see if I can remember accurately.  My daughter thought for all of 3 seconds and came up with “The Lord of the Rings”. 
          Apparently, every time we have guests over I always ask them at some point if they like to read books and if so what type.  (My daughter keeps track of these things somehow; I don’t keep count.)  Not long after the topic of books and movies turns up, someone, not always me, will bring up “The Lord of the Rings”; at which time a 15 to a 30-minute discussion of the book and movie will follow.  My daughter has grown very tired of hearing it over and over.
          The last time it happened was two weeks ago.  She had invited the church missionaries over for dinner.  I was on my way home from somewhere and called to let her know.  She informed me that the missionaries were there for dinner, so I asked if I was invited or should I eat before I came home.  She told me to come on home.  She told us all later, that at this point she wanted to add that I could come home to eat if I did not talk about “The Lord of the Rings” but she did not say it.  I came home.  We all sat down to eat and during the small talk, my daughter asked one of the missionaries where he lived and went to school.  He replied, “Sacramento.”  My daughter thought to herself, “Oh no.”  I said, “I went to college in Sacramento.”  When asked where I replied, “Sacramento State College” and I flunked out after two semesters.  (My daughter is now screaming in her head, “No. No. Nooooo.”.) When asked why did I flunk out, I couldn’t lie so I said because my English 101 teacher made us read “The Lord of the Rings.”  After the ensuing 20 minute discussion, my daughter told us what she did not tell me when I called and then she said, “and I ended up giving the lead-in question to the topic I hate.”  I think my daughter is the quirky one.
          I’m sure I’m not quirky, but quirky things seem to go on around me.  For example, my daughter’s mother-in-law, Maria, was raised on a collective farm in the old Soviet Union.  As a result, she has worked all her life.  When she came to live with us no one asked her to help around the house, but she doesn’t know how to be “retired”.  So, she is constantly cleaning, cooking, doing laundry (until the washer broke), and generally being every man’s ideal housewife.  When she does want a private time, she goes to our old tool and garden shed where she has made herself what I call a “nest”; goes in and hides.  It’s rather cozy actually, but she is the quirky one.
          Maria’s husband, Gari, who also lives with us, is a bit quirky or maybe just eccentric.  He walks ¾ of a mile to the grocery store and back and generally ignores the traffic signs for walk and don’t walk; at least until last month when he did it in front of Lakewood’s “finest” and received a $79 ticket for walking across the street at an intersection against the don’t walk sign.  That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of someone getting what is essentially a jay-walking type citation.  I don’t know if he is quirky or if it’s just the situation that’s quirky.
          My daughter’s husband and Maria’s son, Artur, is rather quirky.  Today when I told him that our Himalayan cat was pregnant he became his quirky self.  At first, anger stating that he would throw her out and then a few seconds later he demanded we get the cat an abortion.  When my daughter pointed out that he always had said he wanted the cat to have kittens, he responded that it was true but not by an alley cat (paraphrased).  Once it was explained that the father was ½ Persian or ½ Himalayan he calmed down a bit.  In a day or two, he will be fine with the situation—that’s his quirk.  In fact, we don’t know for sure who the father is.  The only cat we’ve seen in her company was the one we mentioned.  I also will not tell him that on the weekends when he and his mother are gone all day, I repeatedly let the cat out knowing she was in heat. I did it for two reasons.  I got tired of listening to the cat yowling and I like kittens.  Maybe that’s my quirk.
© 17 Apr 2012 
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com 
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I Did It My Way_How Else? by Ricky

When I was a toddler, my parents wanted me to do things their-way. While potty-training, my dad demonstrated how to pee standing up. As I did not like to wear wet diapers and the fact it was fun to “aim” at different spots in (or at least near) the toilet I adapted quickly; although my mom probably wished my “aim” was a lot more accurate. No one ever demonstrated how to go “number 2”. They only verbally explained the “procedure” and the expected “outcome”. At this time “Houston we have a problem” became my-way’s “game of choice”.

Their-way involved them standing there watching me sit on the juvenile-throne expecting me to do my business. My-way involved them leaving me alone in the room. Now, I had never had an issue with mom or dad watching me pee standing up or sitting down, but for some reason I didn’t like them watching me for “operation number 2”. It was either that, or I took some kind of sadistic pleasure waiting for them to release me and then going outside and squatting, filling my training pants with the material I’d been holding back. Besides the sadistic streak, I probably enjoyed their cleaning my private (or to them my public) parts after I’d made the mess. The warm or cold water washcloths rubbing and scrubbing those sensitive genital regions undoubtedly felt as terrific back then as it does now.

Finally arriving at the terrible part of being 2 which came with the twin concepts of “I have choices” and “the-others-keep-asking-me-if-I-want-something-and-offering-me-things-as-they-ask-the-question”, it became inevitable that my growing self-awareness finally made the connection with the fact that I could say, “NO!”. At that point their-way became, “their-way-or-else”. The “not-their-way” always had unpleasant consequences. Did I ever mention that I got lots of spankings? Apparently, I was either a slow learner, just plain willful, headstrong, or addicted to “my-way”.

Anyway, many months and spankings later, I finally arrived at age 4. By this period, I realized that their-way was less painful, but I kept to my-way when not being closely monitored. However, outright lying was not yet something available to me due to insufficient brain development and lack of an example I could recognize. Nonetheless, my developing self-awareness allowed me to understand that their-way involving eat-everything-on-your-plate did not fit into my budding comprehension of what my taste buds and throat muscles were trying to communicate to me. There was a serious mismatch between their-way (eat-everything) and my-way (eat-everything if it tastes good or doesn’t cause gagging). With lots of “prompting” on their part, I really tried to do it their-way, but ultimately, it was the “second-coming” of my dinner that finally convinced them that my-way was best.

At the age of 5, their-way still involved expectations of strict and swift obedience; as in “go to your room and change all your clothes”. I was perfectly willing to do just that, but there was another “Houston we’ve got a problem” moment. In 1953 ADD had not yet been invented, if it had I could have been a poster-child. I only have a mild case but it was combined with a well-developed sense of 5-year old scientific curiosity. So, my-way manifested as, when I was naked changing clothes the scientist part of me wanted to learn all about the hard little “spiky-thing” attached to me. Thus, changing clothes became a secondary pursuit and exploring the unknown phenomena briefly became my primary concern, just before the exploration was interrupted by yet another spanking of which I’ve written about before. My-way for several types of scientific self-exploration which followed also included the catch phrase, “explore in private” or in other words, my “don’t-get-caught-way”.

At age 10 their-way was effectively my step-father’s-way. In the summer of 1958 I was his deckhand on his tour boat. I readily agreed that his-way was the only-right-way. It was a fun time that summer and I didn’t want to screw it up. I couldn’t swim so I didn’t want to risk either falling overboard or, worse, being thrown overboard. I didn’t know him very well at that point.

He was a good man and never bothered me, nor I him. At age 12 I lied to him once and he caught me in it. I had to explain why I did it and he just told me to never lie to him again and I never did, nor did I need too.

During my teen years, their-way was really mom’s-way. Her-way mostly involved getting me to “promise” to do one or two chores before she got home. My-way was to promise and then do or not do as I desired. There were no consequences for not doing and I mostly procrastinated until it was too late and I needed to go to bed before school in the morning. Those were the golden-years of my-way.

School classes, Boy Scouts, and life in general did successfully teach me that some of my-ways were not as good as other-ways. In one area, child rearing, my-way was the only-way because their-way was for me to be the 18-hour/day live-in babysitter while they stayed in the bar until closing time. Under those circumstances I had no examples of good parenting to follow. The only parenting book I knew of was by Dr. Spock, but fortunately, I didn’t even try to learn his-way, because I was sure I already knew everything I needed to know about that subject. I was wrong, but it’s too late to sue me.

My enlisted time in the Air Force was good for me. My-way was to follow their-way as exactly as I could because there were very serious consequences for failure to do so. I did well.

My time in a marriage relationship was wonderful, not perfect all the time but great nonetheless. My-way was to follow her-way as often as possible. Life was simpler that-way. Once she heard of an interview given by the wife of the leader of our church. The wife was asked what was the secret of their long, loving, and happy marriage. The wife’s reply was, “If you ask your husband to move a mattress from upstairs to downstairs and he then opens a window, throws the mattress out the window, walks downstairs and drags it in to the house—you hold your tongue.” After my wife heard that interview, the stress between us lessened quite a bit—her-way now included details on how to do things her-way. This in turn resulted in discussion of the other-possible-ways and a negotiated lets-do-it-this-way was often the result.

As an Air Force officer, I had lots of leeway with the their-way vs. my-way issue. In the management of my assigned enlisted and officer co-workers I had great latitude, but no leeway with the regulations. The greatest problem with their-way involved using training situations or exercises to punish weaknesses in performance. My-way is to use training situations and exercises as a teaching tool to strengthen performance. This issue ultimately led to our parting-of-the-ways.

After years of experiences traveling the highways, one-ways, two-ways, byways, bi-ways, and waterways of life, I’ve arrived in the senior-citizen zone. Now all but one of my-ways are open to suggestion. The only-way that is not up for alteration is the one-way where I get ice cream, my-way.

Baskin Robin’s “Baseball Nut” — Hmmmm Yummy!

© 19 December 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 Sep 2011 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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Three Little Words, by Ricky

Tag, you’re it! — In modern adult parlance that would be a text or voice mail message expressing mild annoyance over a non-entertaining game of phone-tag; frustration building along with unrequited curiosity. How long has it been since you have played a real game of tag? Who was it with? How old were you? Do you remember any of the other player’s names and descriptions? Were they friends, relatives, or only acquaintances? Where was the game played; in the forest, your yard, their yard, or on a school playground? Can you recall the type of weather, clouds in the sky, smell of the grass, sounds of laughter or ridicule? If you have children, did you play tag with them? If so, were they too fast for you? Did you like the game or hate it? Why?

Alas, I don’t remember clearly any games of tag; only that I did play it at various times in my youth. I also know that my speed and agility did not keep me safe from becoming “it” just as often as everyone else. It is a real shame that people tend to forget most of their childhood fun and game activities in detail. Details that would come in handy during later years when “happy thoughts” can raise us to a better mood or even take us on an adventure in Neverland, if we could find a fairy, full of dust who doesn’t mind being shaken (not stirred).

Let’s Play Chicken — That was another game from my early sexual awakening. I only got to play it once but it ended up being highly satisfying. Without going into much detail and leaving most to your imagination; I will say this much. The game is played by repeatedly taking turns touching someone in different places until one of the players says, “stop”. That player is then named “chicken”. When I played, neither the other boy nor I said “stop” so we both won and then moved on to other games.

Old Mother Hubbard — That nursery rhyme seems to mimic my financial life at this time. When I go to the cupboard to get my cats or bird some food, there it is, but when I go to the refrigerator or cupboards to get me some food, there is nothing to eat. Well, actually there is food available but it all looks foreign and I just can’t bring myself to eat fish heads and tiny dried octopi or most Russian food. One major exception is borscht, which I love. I used to tell my wife that if she ever died before me, I’d have to get married within a week or starve to death. Well, she did and I didn’t, but I’ve not eaten well at home ever since.

Disney’s Wonderful World – I’ve always loved any movie made by Walt Disney. I’ve even enjoyed some of their “Touchstone” productions, but my primary love is with Disney’s animated productions from 1949 forward. Yes, there were a few years where they experimented with weird forms of animation but they quickly abandoned it. I especially liked their blending of live actors and animation as in “Song of the South”, “Mary Poppins”, “Pete’s Dragon”, “Bedknobs & Broomsticks”, and “Tron”.

I should mention again that I also enjoy any non-animated Disney movie and will choose to watch them on TV over the more violent-laden non-Disney, non-family oriented films.

On this day before Saint Valentine’s Day in 2012, I’ll give a “shout out” to my favorite three little words, I LOVE DISNEY (always have and always will).

© 13 February 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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I Met a Fairy, by Ricky

I MET A FAIRY TODAY THAT SAID SHE WOULD GRANT ME ONE WISH.

“I want to live forever,” I said.

“Sorry,” said the fairy, “I’m not allowed to grant eternal life.”

“Fine,” I said, “Then, I want to die after Congress gets its head out of its ass!”

“You crafty bastard,” said the fairy.

© 8 Apr 2012

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Elder Words, by Ricky

I believe that everyone would agree what the word “Words” means. I don’t guess that there is another meaning. But the word “Elder” has several possible meanings depending upon spelling and the context in which it is used. So, that being said, lets explore this topic of “Elder Words”.

In general, “elder” implies age, but in the Mormon church capital “E” Elder denotes a male 19 years of age or above who holds the Melchizedek Priesthood. So, their words could convey mundane meanings or specific religious messages as in, “I baptize you in the name of . . .,” etc. The title is used in other religions as well for similar or the same purpose.

So, perhaps it boils down to the degree of “age” in which the term “elder” is appropriate within different cultures. For example, in the book Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the word is used to designate the most senior (as in most powerful) magic wand, the Elder Wand. The word “senior” is a synonym for “elder” which category would include: old, ancient, adult, and grownup. Another thing about this word is that it can also be used as a proper noun as a “stand alone” name or even part of a name; as in the John Wayne movie, “The Sons of Katy Elder” and “Elderberry” as in bushes and wine.

As we are not met this day to discuss the merits of movies or to relax with a glass of Elderberry wine or listen to sermons by Elder Berry, I will present for your enjoyment, boredom, or discomfort my take on the topic of Elder Words. Be forewarned, this topic is sometimes rather depressing so I will pause briefly so anyone can take an anti-depressant or you can tough it out without one. I guarantee there will be a happy ending, however sad the journey to get there.

As one moves through life from younger to not so younger and thereby gain a life time collection of experiences speaking with those persons who either preceded or are following down the path of destiny, we have the opportunity to reflect on, ponder, skim through, or try to remember those conversations and what they may have meant or done to us.

As a potential elder everyone has one or more embarrassing words moments that parents like to recall at family gatherings. Words like, “Mom, my urine is runny.” Embarrassing words may not become embarrassing words until after the fact, as in, “I don’t want to go get it because I might break it.”, then after 4-minutes a loud crash is heard in the school hallway.

And then there are words spoken by children before they become self-sufficient: “I want. . .”; “Can I have. . .”; “Will you buy this for me?”. Sadly, sometimes these words are re-spoken by those same children after they become senior citizens. At that time, the now elder is often told by his now grownup children: “You can’t watch TV until you eat all your dinner.”; “No, it’s too dangerous for someone your age.”; “It costs too much.”; “You don’t need that.”; “You can’t have ice cream. Have some yogurt instead.”; “It’s your bedtime.”; “I don’t have time to drive you everywhere you want to go.”; “I’m not made of money you know.”; “You want to have a party while we’re gone for the weekend! Do you think we’re crazy?” Those are the moments that make an elder think weird thoughts of the type, “Oh crap! My children have become me! Now I’m in real trouble.”

Sometimes parents deliberately create “embarrassing words” moments for their children, as in these words said over an external CB loud speaker while stopped at a large intersection in Salt Lake City; “Don’t touch me there Ricky, until we get home.”

Potential elders also get elder words of advice as they grow: “Don’t eat that from the floor.”; “Just say ‘NO’!”; “Do yourself a favor and . . .”; “You get what you pay for.”; “When you go to the chicken coop, just kick the rooster away like I do.”; “Please do me a favor, when you visit grand-elder, don’t be noisy or demanding because grand-elder tires easily.”; and the ever popular, “Don’t lie to me again.”

Then there are elder work-related words. Some of which we never wanted to hear: “You’re fired!”; “Get me your supervisor.”; “All you public servants are ass holes!”; “Touch your finger tips to your nose.”; “Assume the position.”; “You have the right to remain silent and I suggest you use it. You long-hair hippie freak.”

Of course there are also hateful elder words like: “I’ll make a man out of you.”; “It’s my way or the highway.”; “You’re no son of mine.”; and “I want no homos in my house. Get out and don’t come back!”

Now let us consider the words of the Eldest of all. His guidance to us is to “Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” Over time this Elder’s advice is often quoted as, “Honor your father and mother” but the reason is seldom given. Now in our time it has been shortened again to the simple but less powerful, “respect your elders” or “respect your parents.” These smacks of a dictatorial demand of parents but again lacking any explanation as to why that should be done. It often boils down to those famous but unsatisfying elder words, “Because I told you so.”

Now as most parents and other observant elders know by either personal or sad experience, requests, demands, or procedures that don’t have logical, reasonable, or plausible explanations as to the “why” something is a procedure, request, or demand will cause different levels of irritation in children. Irritation leads to frustration. Frustration leads to resentment. Resentment leads to suppressed anger. Suppressed anger leads to a rebellious attitude. A rebellious attitude leads to a conflict of words (if you are lucky and violence if you are not). A conflict of words results in elder words like: “Are you stupid or something?”; “Don’t sass me.”; “Don’t talk back to me.”; “If you say that word again I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”; (Mother to son, “Don’t talk to me like that. You just wait ’til you father comes home.”); (Father to son—after coming home, “Never talk to your mother like that again.”); (Father to son—double standard, “Don’t talk to me like that you little shit. Go get my belt!”)

There are elder words that are not generally spoken out loud but, nonetheless, pass through the consciousness of elder and younger minds. “Can I afford it?” “I can’t afford it, but I’m buying it anyway.” “Does he/she like/love me?” “How will I survive on only social security.” “Oh crap, I don’t remember his/her name.” “I think I’m losing my mind.” “Am I bi or gay?” Etc.

Taken as a whole, all these elder words paint a rather dismal portrait of the language of elders. I believe that over our life-time we elders have learned too many of the wrong words and not enough of the right words and how to use them.

In my experience, all grandparents have a special brand of English elder words for their grandchildren. I’ve even used this language myself recently and will again this week. I will now show you how I use it to communicate with my grandchild. “Schmooch, Schmooch, do you have a kiss for grandpa?” (With finger rubbing closed lips) “Blubb, blubb, blubb.” “Open wide. Yum, yum.” “Yea! (clap, clap, clap).” “Pppppst on the tummy.” “Psssst with tongue.” “Putt, putt, putt” with lips. “(blow a kiss).” “No, you can’t eat my cell phone.” And, “Don’t eat that from the floor.” That one seems to be universally contained within all cultures.

When the time comes I’ll add these elder words also: “Hi. Grandpa is here. I brought you a present.”; “Here is a cookie, but don’t let your mom see it or tell her I gave it to you.”; “Your bedtime is 9:00 but I’ll let you stay up until 10:00 as long as you don’t tell anyone.”; and “Let’s sneak out and go get ice cream.”

Elder words that are relatively rarely spoken: “Let me show you a better way to do this.”; “Wow. You did that really well.”; “Am I doing it right?”; “How can I do it better?”; “Let’s go play catch.”; “Why don’t you invite 2 or 3 friends and we’ll go to a movie.”; “Yes, I’m busy but I will always make time for you.”; “Do you want to talk about it?”; “Hey, I’ve got this extra $5 bill you can have with your allowance this week.”; “Where do you want to go on vacation this summer?”; “Yes dear. I’d love for your mother to come visit.”; “Yes, you can invite your friends over for a party. What do you want for snacks?”; “How do you feel about . . .?”; “You’re so smart.”; “You’re so bright, I’m gonna change your name to Sunny.”; “Can I help you with your chores?”; and, “No dear. Nothing you wear makes you look fat.”

The topic of elder words would not be complete without the words that are never ever said enough to anyone, “I love you.”

© 2015

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Gym³, by Ricky

Gym1  
          It was in early
June 1956, when I was banished (due to divorce proceedings) from California and
sent to Minnesota to live with my grandparents on their farm.  I had just turned 8 years old on the 9th.  At the time, I expected to be gone for only
the summer; but it turned into a 2 year “prison sentence” away from home and
“loving” parents.
          I shared a room and bed with my uncle,
Dixon, who was 11 in December of 1955 and 11 ½ by June of ’56; and about to
enter 6th grade, while I was looking at starting 3rd
grade.  Due to that traumatic spanking I
received when only 4 or 5, I was extremely shy and reluctant to let anyone see
me dressing, undressing, in my underwear, or bathing; and would “pitch a fit”
if someone tried.  Of course, I couldn’t
do much when Grandma bathed me the first two times in the summer kitchen’s
galvanized “wash tub” because I hadn’t washed all the dirt off by myself.  I quickly learned to do that however.  I was dirty because farm life is not soil
free and baths were only on Saturday nights to be fresh for church on
Sunday.  I had to use my uncle’s used
bathwater so perhaps I never really got clean.
          When school began, my uncle, who by
then knew from personal experience of my extreme reactions to any attempt to
breach my “modesty”, began to tell me about having to take showers naked with
other boys present after gym classes beginning in 6th grade.  Daily school showers were a necessity back
then as most farms did not have indoor plumbing and once a week bathing on the
farm just wasn’t sufficient in a close social environment.  Pubescent boys smell as they perspire during
gym activities and recess playtime.
          As a result of my uncle’s teasing
about showering naked with other boys, I began to develop a fear of 6th
grade, even though it was 3 school years away and I expected to return to
California soon.  The months of my exile passed,
and a new school year began and I realized that 6th grade was now
closer than desired and my fear level increased but mostly ignored for the time
being.  Fortunately, I was given a
reprieve and my “sentence” was commuted in late May of 1958 and I was taken
back to California to live with my mother and her new husband.
          When I began 5th grade at
So. Lake Tahoe, I discovered that there were no showers after recess or any
P.E. classes in elementary school, those being reserved and mandatory in high
school only.  I was able to put my fear
and stress level on hold for 4 more years, while I got to “enjoy” the
beginnings of puberty.
          In September of 1962 I finally had to
face my fear as I had finally arrived at high school and the dreaded after P.E.
mandatory naked showers with other boys. 
By now, due to my well-established desire to see any boy naked, I no
longer feared being naked among boys (or girls for that matter).  What I was afraid of was having a spontaneous
erection while showering, because at 14, I was still having random ones. 
          At school, they mostly struck when I
was sitting in front of my 9th grade English teacher, Mrs. Joyce
Holmstad.  She wore low cut blouses and
sat on the front edge of her desk (directly in front of me) and would often
lean forward revealing to me (or maybe exposing to me) some bra and more than
sufficient for erection purposes, cleavage. 
I always had to hide my crotch with books when I left at the end of the
class period.  But I digress from the
gym.  In all the four years of mandatory
PE showers, no one ever got an erection that I could tell, and I certainly took
every opportunity to look for one.
          Gym2
          Actually, gym2
is really Jim #1.  I met Jim Robertson
when he was 11 and I was 13.  We became
friends and he asked me to go to church with him one Sunday and we went for
about one month until the pastor and his baby were killed in a car crash.  I invited Jim to join Boy Scouts with me and
he did.  We were two of seven boys who
ended up starting a new troop, #456, at So. Lake Tahoe.  I taught him about sex and we became
sex-playmates on sleep over nights but never did anything together during scout
campouts.  He ended up going to live with
his aunt and, according to him, began to really enjoy sex with his female
cousin.
          Gym3
          As you may have guessed, gym3
is really Jim #2.  Jim Dunn was the son
of a California highway patrolman and joined my scout troop when he was 12 and
I was 14.  He was taller than most boys
his age and matched my height of 5′ 11”. 
His hair was blondish and eyes a very nice shade of blue.  I liked him for his looks and gentle
personality.  Strangely, I was never
sexually attracted to him probably because he did not look “interested”.  I was so naïve about that stuff. 
          As we aged and moved into Explorer
Scouts, we shared a couple of experiences that should have tipped me off that
he was interested in boy sex play, but I never caught on.  As an adult, I learned that he died early
from AIDS.
          That’s all of my “gym” memories. 
© 24 Oct 2011 
About
the Author 
I was born in June of
1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I was
sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for
two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my
mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and
then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in
1966.  After three tours of duty with the
Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four
children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days
after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man
in the summer of 2010.   I find writing
these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
Posted on

New Year and Houses, by Ricky

At this point in my life, I have
experienced 63 “new years”.  That’s a lot
of days to review for anything to write about, especially when you must also
include New Year’s Eves as well for a total of 124 days of activities.  The first one that stands out would be the
one in 1958 (when I was 9 ½) which followed 3 days after my father told me
about the divorce of my parents.  It was
the year that began with me in a new family arrangement with an older stepbrother
(a good guy) and younger twin half-brother & sister (also good).  The remaining months of school passed fairly
quickly and in late May my mother, babies, and stepfather came to my
grandparent’s farm to show off the twins and to pick me up.  Later that fall I became sexualized and my
life further changed.
          The next new
year of note would be 1968 where at age 19 ½ I found myself in Air Force basic
training at Amarillo AFB, Texas and later in tech school at Goodfellow AFB in
San Angelo, Texas to become a Radio Intercept Analyst.  Looking back at those days, it was actually a
good thing the base psychiatrist washed me out of that program.  I did come away with a Top Secret security clearance,
which followed me for the next four years. 
The other good thing that came out of this “rejection” was I was sent to
Florida where I met my future spouse on December 21st.  (So there really can be a “silver lining” in
the clouds of life’s storms.).  Naturally,
at the time I was “washed out” I was not happy, in fact my ego was pretty much
devastated as I had been the top student in my Phase 1 training class. 
          1968 was also
the year I joined the LDS church, which is why I met my future spouse on 21
December.  The following New Year (1969)
began many years of church association bringing me outer peace and occasionally
inner joy.
          In 1971, the
“new year” began with me completely dropping out of college in January after
one semester to work at the Anaconda copper mine in Sahuarita, Arizona, before
beginning training as a deputy sheriff. 
Sixteen weeks later, in early December, I was sworn-in as a deputy in
Pima County, Arizona.  I completely
enjoyed that experience for the next 3 ½ years before returning to college to
obtain a BS degree. 
          I would be
very remiss if I did not include 1974, 1978, 1981, 1983, 1988, and 2001 as very
significant because they are the first new years to follow: my marriage; the
births of our four children; and the passing of my spouse and best friend of 27
¾ years in 2001, four days after 9/11.
          While there
are many new years between 1988 and 2011, those following Deborah’s death
through 2010 were filled with major depression and memories I’d rather not
recall.  By contrast, 2011 appears to be
a year filled with opportunities for happiness at last.  It is the first new year following my coming
out and finding people my age who are friendly, fun-loving, and good at making
a “newbie” feel welcome.  I am looking
forward now instead of living in the past.
          There are many
things that our topic word “house” could bring up memories, emotions, or
passions in anyone: House the TV show, House of Commons, whorehouse, White
House, House of Representatives, and others are some.  In all honesty, those were suggested to me by
my friend Michael King after I told him that only my houses came to mind.  Since I had already started to write about
them I decided to continue in that vein; to do otherwise, those of you reading
this would not be sufficiently bored.
          My life is
filled with memories of the different houses I’ve occupied.  The first was in 1948 at Lawndale,
California, a suburb of Los Angeles.  I
remember a small octagon window set in the wall of our porch by the front
door.  I remember our first pet—a purebred
black and white collie named Bonnie.  My
parents asked me to name her and I chose Bonnie because I liked the song “My
Bonnie Lies over the Ocean” which was played over the radio rather frequently.  My parents thought that a purebred should have
a fancier name so she was registered as “Lady Bonita”.
          According to
my mother, Bonnie was a wonderful nursemaid or watchdog for me.  If I got past the gate to the sidewalk,
Bonnie would bark up a storm; not necessarily to attract my mother’s attention
but to call out to me to let her come with me. 
Mother didn’t care what the motivation was; she promptly returned me to
our yard and tried another way to “lock” the gate.  Eventually, I learned to take Bonnie with me,
which stopped the barking, and I got “free” much more often and for longer periods.  Sadly, Bonnie got distemper and died before
her 1st birthday.
          In 1952, our
next house was in Redondo Beach (also a suburb), was brand new, and bought with
my father’s VA secured loan for his service in WW2.  That’s the house I unintentionally scared my
mother into thinking I was missing, lost, or kidnapped.  I had been eating, playing, or just being
naughty in the little café my mother owned two lots behind our house and she
had told me to go home and go to bed. 
          I did go home,
but being rather head-strong, naughty, and disobedient, I started playing in
our side yard with Mike Pollard; my friend from across the street.  I looked up and saw my mother come out of the
restaurant and come my way.  Believing
that she had not yet seen me, I quickly told my friend to go home and ran in
the backdoor (located on the side of the house where my mother could not see)
and took off my shoes and jumped into bed pulling the covers and bedspread over
me, and laying on my back, pretended to be asleep. 
          I heard my
mother come into my room and then begin to call my name.  Since I was supposed to be asleep, I didn’t
respond.  She then left my room and began
to call my name throughout the house. 
Finally, I heard her leave and I got up got undressed and went back to
bed and I actually fell asleep, not awakening until much later.
          The rest of
this story was told to me by my mother years later when I was about 15 or 16
when I reminded her of that day. 
Apparently, after she had left the house not finding me in it, she had
rather frantically looked for me over at the Pollard’s house and other homes on
our short block.  Still not locating me,
she then called my father at work to report me missing. 
          He left work
early (losing pay for the time missed) and came home where by this time I had
rolled onto my side so when he looked into my room he saw me sleeping
peacefully in my bed.  Mom didn’t relate
to me the exact conversation they then had, but she summarized it by saying
that he thought she was crazy.
          Apparently,
when I first jumped into bed and went under the covers, I pulled them over me
in such a fashion that the bed looked unoccupied.  It was my habit to sleep with my head
completely under the covers for many years and I was laying flat on my back, my
head under the pillow.  The mattress was
6 inches of foam rubber, which I “sank” into so there was no “lump” to show I
was in the bed, thus she thought I was missing.
          My favorite
house was in Minnesota at which I arrived in 1956.  This was my mother’s parent’s two-story home
on their farm I’ve spoken to you about before in conversations.  I’m not fluent enough in describing things so
just picture in your minds a typical mid-west, 1900’s turn-of-the-century,
nearly square, white-stucco, lightening rod studded farm-house typically shown
on older movies.  What makes this house
memorable was not only that it is the house of the divorce-notice previously
mentioned, but also the one where my uncle showed me the facts of life when I
was eleven (and also because it was very fun living there).  It was fun I suspect only because I was not
required to work but enjoyed: riding on the tractor with my grandfather, helping
with farm chores and work (where I could), and just watching when I could not.
          Naturally, as
I grew and left home, marrying and raising a family I have lived in a
collection of cabins, apartments, houses, military housing, and one time, in a
tent.  I will not continue with this
narrative except to say they also have positive and negative memories but I
don’t wish to document them at this time. 
I’m sure you will all understand and be greatly relieved that this,
reading a long narrative, ordeal is finally over.
© 6 Jan
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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
Posted on

Fairy Tales, by Ricky

          I know I’m not
the only one who noticed how fairy tales are used to teach safety,
appreciation, and “standards” of conduct. 
The brothers Grimm and Aesop are perhaps the best known to my youth.  The Grimm’s tales were often rather grim (pun
intended) and Aesop is known for the “moral” aspect of his tales.
          While the
overall stories seem adventurous enough for small children, the overt warnings
are clear–all step-mothers are wicked (Cinderella, Hansel & Gretel, Snow
White), witches are evil (Snow White, Hansel & Gretel), never take candy
(or gingerbread) from strangers (Hansel & Gretel), the woods are dangerous
places (Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel & Gretel, Wizard of Oz—which is just
a very long fairy tale).
          Then just when
a child has it all internalized, the contradictions become apparent.  Not everyone in the woods is evil or bad
(Snow White’s dwarfs, Little Red Ridding Hood’s woodsman, Wizard of Oz’s Tin
Woodsman). All princes are handsome and heroic (Snow White & Cinderella,
but not the singer Prinz).  Mothers
believe their sons are not very intelligent (Jack and the Beanstalk) nor do
they believe in magic.  Adults (who trade
beans for cows) don’t believe in magic even when they say they do (Jack and the
Beanstalk).  Children do believe in
magic, that’s why the beans did grow.
          The fairy
tales tell of justice served, if not always measured.  Wolves get killed and grandmas rescued
(Little Red Riding Hood).  Bad little
boys get eaten (the Boy Who Cried Wolf). 
Evil witches are destroyed, some in ovens and some by falling houses
(Hansel & Gretel, Wizard of Oz).  The
ultimate “justice served” is of course the “Happily Ever After” part. 
Now the third most important question
concerning fairy tales follows.  Except
for Glenda in the Wizard of Oz, “Why are there no good witches in fairy tales?”
The second most important question is
dealing with fairy tales is, “Why are there no wicked step-fathers?” Perhaps
because men wrote or told the stories???
I will now answer the most important
question.  The answer is “Peter
Pan.”  Why?  You ask. 
Because that is my favorite fairy tale, (Tinkerbelle is a fairy
so it counts as a fairy tale).  I don’t
know why it is my favorite, it just is. 
Hmmmmmm.  Let’s see—Peter Pan,
playing with the Lost Boys and a fairy. 
Hey!  Peter Pan is gay!!!
© 22 Dec
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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

Music, by Ricky

I like music. I like music from before the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s. I like certain pieces of popular music after the 50’s. I haven’t heard any thing DJ’s play from the 90’s and beyond that sounds like music; all I hear is yelling, screeching, and eardrum shattering noise. I recently learned to appreciate opera although I’ve enjoyed classical and Baroque music for decades. I’ve always enjoyed many types of music from my earliest days; here’s why.

When I was about 3 or 4 years old living in Redondo Beach, CA (a bedroom community west of Los Angeles), my parents bought me my own record-player for children. It was about 10-inches wide by 8-inches long, 6-inches tall with the lid closed, and weighed about 7 pounds. The lid was white and the base was bright red. The player only played 78’s. My parents also supplied me with 18 double-sided children size records, thus giving me 36 songs or stories to listen to and sing the songs while the record was playing.

While visiting my brother and sister at Lake Tahoe this past summer, I found my old record album containing a few of my childhood records. I am passing it around so you not only can see the music that started my enjoyment but also to perhaps stimulate some “ancient” memories of your childhood. I had not seen these in over 55-years so it was quite a memory shock to see, hold, and listen to them all again scratchy and juvenile as they are. Many happy hours in that album.

At the age of 5 my parents enrolled me in accordion lessons. They even got me a “loaner” child size accordion and later bought me a much larger adolescent size one. I chose to play the accordion because of watching Myron Florin play one every week on the Lawrence Welk TV show. Naturally, I had to learn to read music but my inherent laziness kicked in and I found all available opportunities not to practice. I had to be fairly sneaky about not practicing because getting caught always resulted in a spanking. I guess my parents didn’t like the idea of paying for lessons that were not being productive enough; how perfectly parental that was.

At 6-years old I started 1st grade, attending the Hawthorne Christian School, I somehow ended up in a band class part of each day. They did not teach accordion there, so I switched to learning how to play the trumpet. The best I could do was making real musical type notes come out and not the amplified breathless “ppppppptttt” sounds that novice beginners make. The accordion had actual keys, one for each note, while the trumpet had three valves that had to be open or closed in cahoots with one another to make the proper note. I never did really get the hang of it so I was very grateful when the trumpet had to be returned to its rightful owner.

When I was seven, the first song by the Chipmunks came out and soon thereafter (or maybe before) came Andy Griffith’s, What It Was, Football and I learned I liked humorous songs and stories on the radio.

Only a few days before my 8th birthday, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in central Minnesota. My musical preferences expanded as the birth of rock-n-roll previously had taken place. On the farm also lived my 3 ½ year older than me uncle. About 6-months after my arrival, he purchased and brought home a 45-rpm record with a song by Jimmie Rogers titled Honeycomb (my first rock song and I remember it to this day). Enamored by the song, I kept pestering my uncle to let me play it. I have no idea what song was on the flip side. Soon after, the DJ’s of the day began playing Johnny Horton’s Sink the Bismarck and The Battle of New Orleans and I was hooked on those styles of music.

In my school at Minnesota, 3rd and 4th grade classes had to (I mean got to) take music lessons. (We also got to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, which set me up for patriotism.) The whole class learned to play the Flute-a-Phone (now called a Recorder). We would practice different pieces of music and every year at Christmas time; all the classes sat together in the auditorium and at the appropriate place in the program, played the same piece of music, Flute-a-Phones on Parade. Do any of you remember the sound a recorder makes? A sort of high-pitched teakettle whistle which changes pitch according to which holes are covered or uncovered by the player. Back then, it sounded nice to me, but in recent performances, I have been to, it just sounded like wounded teakettles sounding off, each with a slightly different pitch and definitely without harmony, but I clapped and applauded anyway—not so much to reward the children, but because I was glad, it was finished. I guess the performance was a type of payback for what I put my grandparents through when I played.

The Christmas holiday period always filled the air and airwaves with beautiful carols and holiday music. The idea of receiving gifts of toys and other fun things (not clothes, socks, or underwear) made it easy to like the music that emphasized that Christmas Eve and day were near; using the same principle of “guilty by association”, Christmas holiday is good therefore holiday music is good. I was in a restaurant last Friday night and I began to tear-up and had a warm-fuzzy feeling all over when two of my favorite carols began to play; one was Oh Holy Night and I do not recall the other.

When the school would allow boys and girls out an hour early, IF they were going to sing in the local Lutheran Church’s Christmas Pageant, I went to sing there. That’s were I really learned to like Christmas songs. Of course, I already knew Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-nose Reindeer and Jingle Bells, but they were not the songs on the program, so I fell in love with all the religious carols. During practice sessions though, we were allowed to sing the fun songs they just were not on the program.

Just as I turned 10, my mother and new stepfather came to Minnesota and retrieved me. We went to live in California at South Lake Tahoe. Because I spent the majority of my time babysitting my brother and sister, I increased my reading of books to soften the boredom. Once I found my mother’s record collection, and had some spending money to buy my own albums, my taste in music further expanded. My mother had a multiple record Nat King Cole album and a multiple record Bing Crosby album of Christmas songs; both were 78-rpm “platters.” My favorite was White Christmas, the song that nearly did not get sung in the movie Holiday Inn because the producers did not think it worthy but, they needed a little “filler” so, in it went and the rest is history. That particular song by Bing always brings tears to my eyes now as I look back across the years into my past.

When not reading books and magazines or playing outside with my siblings, I would be playing music. Mother had some classical stuff I liked to listen to because it was so beautiful, melodic, and organized. I also bought Vaughn Meader’s First Family albums, both 1 and 2. Other favorites were Johnny Horton’s greatest hits album and my patriotic nirvana music; an album of John Phillip Sousa marches of which Stars and Stripes Forever is my favorite. If you ever see me playing it, you would also see me conducting it, even if I am walking down the street listening to it on my iPod. More albums I had: The Planets, The Nutcracker, Pictures at an Exhibition, Goldfinger, Thunderball, Songs of the North & South, The War of 1812, Handel’s Messiah, and one with the overture to William Tell.

Living at Lake Tahoe kept me in a sheltered environment musically speaking. The one radio station only played non-rock-n-roll music; show tunes from performers at the casinos, or movie soundtracks, or music by Bing Crosby, Pat Boone, Doris Day, Dean Martin, and the like; so, no Beatles music for me. My wife grew up a military brat so she was in love with Beatles music and owned all of their albums. I only learned to enjoy and like a limited number of their songs after we married AND as music deteriorated into the present cacophony of noise. I still like certain pieces beyond the 50’s like the long version of Inna-Gadda-da-Vida and nearly all of the Beach Boys with Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, The Righteous Brothers, and Simon & Garfunkel thrown into the mix.

As time progressed and music deteriorated, I realized that much of the 60’s and 70’s music I hated began to sound pretty good after all. In any case, that is how and why I ended up enjoying music of different types and quality.

© 16 May 2012

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

The Opera House, by Ricky

With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Ogden Nash I submit for your reading pleasure (or whatever it turns out to be):

The Opera House

Come inside, Mr. Bird said the mouse
And I will show you what’s inside an opera house.
An opera house has things like stairs,
Elevators and soft cushy chairs,
But don’t sit too long or ushers will stare.

Around the pillars and down the halls
There is more to see behind these walls.
On the stage, there is much to do
Before the productions are finally through.

There are ropes, ladders, and scaffolding galore,
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.

In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.

Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.
From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.

Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.
An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.

Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.
Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.

Composers recollected from times long past
Now drift through air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so,
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.

An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.

Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.

Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.
Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.

© 30 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