Tag: Ricky

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Ice, by Ricky

When I was 8 and 9-years old, I was living on my maternal grandparents’ farm in central Minnesota. During both winters, my uncle, Dixon, would take me out on the small farm lakes which were more like large ponds, to go ice fishing. We didn’t have one of those fancy ice-fishing sheds to keep us warm while fishing. We just bundled up with winter clothes and warm coats.

I never did care much for ice-fishing. It was always cold and I was anxious when walking on the ice, regardless of how thick it was. At ages 8 and 9, I didn’t weigh very much so the ice was not concerned about a little boy walking on it. I’m sure it was more upset by our chopping a hole so we could get to the fish.

Another reason I did not like ice-fishing was due to all the effort it takes before you can put a line in the water. Chopping a 10-inch hole in 12-inches of solid ice takes a lot of muscle power. I did not possess much power in my small muscles. My uncle, who was 12 and 13 during those winters, had bigger muscles, but it was still a chore to chip-out the hole – and then it had the audacity to keep freezing up while we fished.

Over the years, I have repeatedly been reminded just how slippery ice can be. One winter, I swore that I would not go outside without a pillow tied on my butt to cut down on the ice inspired bruises.

My first experience with “black ice” happened one January while I was driving from Rapid City to Pierre, SD at 2AM one Monday morning. I was driving a little Geo down the east-bound side of Interstate 90 moving at 60mph. The road consisted of long straightaways with occasional gentle curves. The roadway appeared to be completely dry. I needed to stop and relieve myself so I applied the brakes gently. The speedometer instantly went to zero as all four wheels quit turning. The Geo was still traveling straight down the highway at 60mph. After experimenting with the phenomena 3 or 4 times, I just let the car coast and guided it over to the shoulder. When it finally came to a stop, I opened the door and started to get out. Wham! I was on my butt again. My feet were out the door and my butt was sitting on the car’s rocker panel. Do you have any idea just how hard it is to get up from that position when your feet keep sliding away from you on the ice? After that experience, I still had to slide my way around the car to rough ground so I could relieve myself.

After careful and thoughtful consideration, I have concluded that the only good ice are the cubes one puts in a glass of water on a hot summer day.

© 5 Dec 2016

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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Mud, by Ricky

It is 11pm as I begin typing this and I am tired and sleepy. As a result, my mind is all muddled up. My eyelids are very heavy. Apparently, the Sand Man is using mud in my eyes instead of sand. This makes me feel muddy all over. Now I know what Stephen means when he says he feels, “Fair to muddling.”

I know a man who thinks he “knows it all”. I know a man who was awarded a non-medical PhD and likes people to call him by the title “Doctor”. I know a man who when he begins to talk will monopolize the conversation. I know a man who will tell you everything he knows about a subject without giving anyone else a chance to speak about the topic. I know a man who is so careless in speech that he insults people over the phone and then gets upset when they hang-up on him. I know a man who denies facts that contradict his closely held political beliefs. I know a man who believes it is perfectly okay for the wealthy to use their political contributions to buy access to politicians in order to corrupt the democratic form of government and gain more personal wealth. I know a man who believes it is okay for the poor to be poor, because, he says, “Jesus said the poor will always be with you.” I know a man who thinks Rush Limpbrain is a soothsayer. — I know a Republican. — His name is Mud.

I also know a Republican who is very caring, sensitive, generous with his money, handsome, and intelligent. — His name is Mud-lite.

© 4 October 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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Military and Law Enforcement, by Ricky

I once served as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County (Tucson) Arizona for just short of 4 years. At one time Pima County extended all the way south to the Mexican border during the time that Wyatt Earp was a lawman in that part of the county. So he and I were both deputies in Pima County. I resigned returning to college and pursuing a BS degree in Law Enforcement but the school, BYU, changed the focus of the course so I graduated with a BS in Justice Administration. During my time in Tucson, I was stationed 24 miles north in the Marana Substation and also served about 9-months in the vehicle maintenance section coordinating vehicle repairs and routine maintenance.

In those years I went to 3 fatal traffic accidents; apprehended two armed robbers—recovering $10,000 in stolen money from a drug rip-off; convinced a local “runaway” to return home voluntarily; recovered one stolen car driven by 5 escapees from a Texas Sheriff’s youth farm/ranch—the oldest being only 12; detained for ICE numerous undocumented aliens; eliminated one very potential neighborhood “feud” between a 12 yr old boy and an out of patience new neighbor; arrested 4 California men who came to Tucson to buy bricks of marijuana and who had an illegal sawed off shotgun; tracked burglars through the dessert; became a scoutmaster for the church troop; wrote over 200 traffic tickets; arrested 30 drunk drivers—one of which was a priest (I later learned the local “retreat” was one where the church sent its pedophile priests for rehab); did not arrest one drunk driver because he was only 20 feet from his driveway; got propositioned by a waitress; got propositioned by the CIA; recovered a stolen purse at a high school football game—referring one 6th grade repentant boy to his father and one unrepentant boy to the system via a “paper referral” and released him to his father; was the only lawman in 500 square miles during midnight shifts; in an act of revenge, I collected enough “dirt” on one of my supervisors that he was transferred back to Tucson and decided to resign instead—2-years short of retirement; and saving the best for last, I got married. Working in Marana was exactly like being a Wild West deputy except I drove a car instead of riding a horse. I loved the work.

When I resigned to return to college, I was in the process of collecting signatures to run for the local Justice of the Peace. Although I had more than enough signatures, when BYU called and said there was an opening in married student housing, Deborah and I decided to return so I could finish my degree. She had to quit her medical technologist position so we could go. Shortly after arriving and starting classes, I remembered why I really didn’t like school. I also joined Air Force ROTC so ended up on active duty once again when I graduated.

My first assignment as an officer was to the security police squadron at Malmstrom AFB, Montana as a Shift Commander for the on-base law enforcement and base security flights. The base security flight primarily guarded the nuclear weapons storage area. I spent two-years in that position and then was assigned as a Flight Security Officer for the flights providing security response in the off-base missile field. My flight and I would be away from the base for 3 ½ days at a time. I participated in a few incidents but the one experience I really want to tell you all about occurred after I arrived at my next base in Jacksonville, Arkansas circa 1984.

Little Rock AFB was home to a missile wing supporting the liquid fueled Titan II ICBM. In September 1980 prior to my arrival (1983), one nuclear tipped missile exploded in its silo. This is the story of what happened before, during, and after the incident. This information is not classified so I won’t have to kill any of you after you’re done reading it.

Whenever a nuclear warhead is present, Air Force regulations require that at least two people must be present in such proximity to each other that each can monitor the actions of the other—absolutely no exceptions or violations are tolerated. The Titan II is a two-stage rocket. In order to save weight, parts of the very thin outer skin of the rocket are actually part of the fuel tanks. The fuel is of two types—an oxidizer and the fuel. Both are hypergolic, meaning that when the two chemicals touch, they instantly ignite. The fuel and oxidizer tanks are so thin that the rocket will collapse in upon itself if the liquid fuels are removed improperly as the fuel keeps the tanks from being able to collapse. The skin is so thin that hand-held maintenance tools to be used on the missile or its components have lanyards permanently attached to prevent the tool (sockets, wrenches, etc.) from falling between the rocket and the maintenance platforms surrounding it and puncturing the skin.

So one day all the counts, accounts, no accounts, and recounts (oh wait that’s different story). One fateful day, two maintenance technicians were in the silo performing maintenance on a component internal to the missile. One of the men needed a tool that he forgot to bring down with him. He knew that a tool box (with tools to be used elsewhere in the underground launch complex outside of the silo) was located in the tunnel towards the launch control capsule. These tools did not have lanyards attached. Being stupid, careless, or just plain lazy, he left his partner alone with the missile (major violation #1 and also stupid decision #1) and went to get the unauthorized tool rather than having them both go topside and return with the authorized tool (stupid decision #2).

The tool needed was a socket for a socket wrench. While using the socket, it slipped off the wrench and because it did not have a lanyard, the socket fell between the missile and the maintenance platform around the missile (Murphy’s Law in action). Can you guess what happened right after the “Oh shit” expletive? You guessed it. The socket fell three or more levels gaining momentum before hitting the edge of a platform below and bouncing into the side of the missile puncturing a fuel tank. Instantly, red fuming nitric oxide began to leak setting off the chemical vapor sensors which triggered the alarm. The launch crew ordered the silo evacuated and notified the base of the problem (good decision #1).

The deputy wing commander responded with the emergency response teams. Upon arrival, two environmentally suited fuel personnel went down to the silo to inspect the damage. Upon their report the base contacted the Martin-Murrieta company (the builder of the Titan II) to get their input. After a short period of time, Martin-Murrieta replied: 1st you can’t do anything to stop the leak; and 2nd the missile will explode in approximately 8 ½ hours your local time today. Periodically, the two fuel personnel were sent down to check on the progress of the leak (dangerous or even stupid decision #3). (No civilian or even some military members routinely accuse local commanders of using their brains. Yes, I am biased.) At one time, they even ordered the 740-ton silo cover door be opened so that the explosion would not be contained within the silo. Instantly the highly toxic red vapor left the silo and a large red “cloud” began to drift towards highly populated centers, so the cover was closed (good decision #2).

An order was given to send one man back down to check on the missile (the launch capsule had been evacuated by this time) (major violation #2 & stupid decision #3).

As the 8 ½ hour time limit approached, two environmentally suited personnel were ordered down to check on the missile (stupid decision #4 and also fatal). As the expected explosion time arrived, the two suited personnel were on their way back. The first one had cleared the stairwell coming up completely above ground. The second one was still half underground when the missile exploded. The first man was blown across the complex into the chain link fence where the fence fabric cushioned his impact. The second man was “cut in half” at the waist by the force of the blast. The debris from the incident was stored in an above ground maintenance shed at one of the remaining missile complex sites. I had the pass-key and I actually saw the remaining parts of the destroyed missile and the bloody environmental suit of the airman who died.

Here is the sequence of events at the time of the explosion. The fuel finally leaked out enough that the missile began to collapse. As it collapsed the other 1st stage fuel tank ruptured, the two chemicals touched and instantly exploded; the pressure lifted the 740-ton silo cover door off its foundation rails; the blast spread out circular injuring the two airman; that blast caused the 2nd stage fuel tanks to rupture and they also added to the explosion which accomplished five things; 1st the 740-ton door was lifted quite high; 2nd the nuclear warhead was blasted like a bullet into the bottom of the 740-ton door breaking it into two pieces one being 1/3rd the size of the original; 3rd the larger piece flew about 30 yards and then flattened the Air Force pickup truck that the deputy wing or base commander had been sitting in just 30-seconds earlier; 4th the smaller piece landed about 100 yards away; and 5th the warhead was nowhere to be found (major violation #3—a lost and unguarded nuclear bomb—heads will roll).

The rest of the night, military radio traffic was filled with the euphemisms “has it been found” and “where is it”. The bomb was found the following morning during daylight hours. One of the perimeter security guards was actually sitting on it all night. He never reported finding it because he didn’t know what it was.

EPILOG

1. All security police personnel were shown a dummy warhead during their initial orientation upon arrival at the base (it looks like a large milk can of the type used on family dairy farms);

2. The two environmentally suited airmen were given medals (one posthumously);

3. The surviving suited airman was given a Letter of Reprimand because he was the one who went down alone to check on the missile even though he was following orders—he was supposed to refuse to obey as it was an illegal order; and

4. Nuclear bombs are designed to be “three-point safe”. This means that they will not yield a nuclear explosion if burned, receive a high impact, or hit by a stray electrical charge. The design could never be thoroughly tested. Anecdote: When the person who created the three-point safe design was told that the bomb was found with a large dent (from impacting the 740-ton door) having survived the explosion, he was heard to say, “I TOLD them it would work!”

5. In 1984, I became the project officer for the installation, planning the procedures for use, and personnel training for a DES confidential real-time usage encrypted radio system.

I know this is the true story because I read parts of the official investigation report and reviewed the numerous photographs. One photograph sticks in my mind. It is an overhead shot of the silo taken via helicopter. The silo opening is dead center and surrounding it are compression circles. It strongly reminds me of a dart board or even a target.

Do any of you remember hearing or reading about this event? I was in the Air Force as a Missile Security Officer in 1980 stationed in Montana; I never heard of it.

For other versions of the explosion go to:

http://encyclopediaofarkansas.net/encyclopedia/entry-detail.aspx?entryID=2543

http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident2.php

http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident.php

The public versions are different than the official investigative report I read. (Nothing new about that is there?)

What did a Titan Launch Complex look like? Go to:

http://www.strategic-air-

© 31 Mar 2012
command.com/missiles/Titan/Titan_II_missile_complex.htm

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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Believing with Hair, by Ricky

Is there any harm in believing in a higher power whether or not labeled as: Allah, God, Wotan, Zeus, Jove, Deity, Great Spirit, Supreme Being, El, Elohim, Ehyeh, Elah, El Shaddah, Elyon, YHWH, I Am, Yahweh, Adonai, Halakha, Jehovah, HaShem, Ihuh, Ho Theos, Ho Kurios, Jesus Christ, Hæland, Heiland, Alpha and Omega, The Light, King of Kings, Lord of Hosts, Ancient of Days, Father/Abba, God the Father, Heavenly Father, Father in Heaven, Nkosi, Jah Rastafari, Olodumare, Khoda, Ar-Rahman, Bahá, Dieu, and Dios? (Refer to: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Names_of_God for additional names.) How could there be harm in believing in such? If there is no higher power, then when we die there will be nothing more. If there is a higher power, then when we die we will continue in one form or another independent of one’s beliefs. If believing in a higher power gives one comfort or motivation to become a better person, then believe. One’s belief won’t interfere with another’s non-belief.

Believing in a higher power allows all of the world’s human societies and cultures to live according to respective sets of behavior that are beneficial to survival and cooperative peaceful coexistence. It allows us all to get along with each other peacefully, if we so choose. Without a higher power to provide absolutely correct principles of behavior, we would be living in an environment of “every human for himself”, the so called law-of-the-jungle. (Oh wait. That is nearly how we live now. Why is that?)

Where harm succeeds in inserting itself into the world of human behavior, it is not caused by a higher power, but the result of humans inserting personal thoughts, analysis, prejudices, desires, and self-righteous noses into other humans’ pursuit of happiness. Just because persons of great wealth, like Mr. Trump and the Koch brothers, have or control all the gold, does not give them the right to make rules for everyone else to obey. They are not the higher power and have no right to redefine the Golden Rule to suit themselves.

While a belief in a higher power was used to manipulate groups of humans to commit massive amounts of violence against others in the past, which continues to this day, the belief in a beneficent higher power is also used to organize humans to create abundant beauty and to lead peaceful and productive lives. I believe in doing and being good. I hope to continue until I move on to another “plane of existence.”

I also believe in the commercial properties of hare. The fur of a hare can be made into a covering for the hairless. This ends the topic of hare as any ideas I come up with just keep hopping out of my mind and off the printed page.

© 25 January 2016

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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Purple, by Ricky

In the early days of my memory, colors were not memorable or perhaps my brain was not developed enough for colors to form memories. My oldest memory of color was my first home in Lawndale, California. The house was painted yellow with white trim abound the windows and front door. Next to the front door was a wall with a small octagonal window also with white trim. I still have no memory of the colors of the inside of the house.

I finally arrived at that age of mobility and language. Along with it came a bit more of color memory. We got a pet dog. It must have been viewed as MY dog because I was allowed to name her. The song “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” was popular then (at least within my home or nursery school) so, I named her “Bonnie”. Because she was a purebred collie, my parents listed her name on the registration papers as “Lady Bonita” thinking that it more closely befitted her. To me, she was just Bonnie. Bonnie was black with a white mane as I remember. She was a good toddler sitter and playmate playfully knocking me down and licking my face as she was still less than a year old. She would pitch a fit barking and whining whenever I would open the gate of our home’s white picket-fence. I can “see” in my mind the fence, gate, and the yard but, not the grass. I have seen photos of the house and yard so I know it had grass which logically was probably green but I have no memory of its color.

As I wrote above, Bonnie would pitch a fit if I left the yard but left her inside the fence. Of course this would bring my mother out to see what the fuss was all about and managed to cut my explorations (interpret that as “freedom”) very short lived. This happened so often that my escapes lasted increasingly shorter and shorter.

Necessity, being the mother of inventions, and Shirley, being my mother, often had major discussions about me. Mom wanted me to stay in the yard. Necessity provided her with methods of securing the gate so I could not open it. They both failed. I opened every attempt to keep the gate locked. Necessity’s son, Precocious, had been arguing that I should not be confined to the yard since I needed to explore. So he decided to defy the two mothers and keep me safe at the same time. He gave me the idea of taking Bonnie with me whenever I would leave the yard. First, I would put Bonnie in my red wagon and pull her about the yard. Then when I judged that no one was looking, I opened the gate and pulled her out with me. Guess what! No fit pitching. I was then off-to-the-races. My mother worried less because she knew she could find me by looking for the dog also. Besides, I always went to the house two doors down to visit another boy who lived there — without permission of course.

At the age of three or four, my color memory was beginning to yield results. Arriving at that age about the same time that we moved to a new house in Redondo Beach, California. That house was purchased through the VA. It was white stucco on the outside with a brown porch railing. The windows were trimmed in a mid-range light-blue. My bedroom had a circus motif linoleum floor with blue walls and a red ceiling meant to resemble a circus tent. I had a Bozo the Clown light switch whose red bulbous nose was pushed up or down to operate the ceiling light. Blue became my favorite color ever since then up to this day.

In 2010 I finally admitted to myself that I was normal and attracted to males. Surprisingly, along with that attraction came an increasing appreciation for and interest in shades of purple. This interest in purple is vying for the position of my favorite color. It is so strong an attraction, I asked a friend if gay men gravitate to the color because they are gay — a manifestation of gayness perhaps. In my case, it may be true but, I am not convinced yet. I remember another possible cause. When I was two-years old, my mother took me to a baby show, which was a popular thing to do back then. I was crowned King of my show.

Purple has been associated with royalty for many centuries. I think that my attraction to purple has to do with my royal past inserting its influence over my favorite color changing from blue to purple as it is more fitting to my heritage.

The next time I attend our Telling Your Story group, I will be wearing my Royal Purple shirt. You may then call me “Your Highness”, “King John”, or “Purple Dude”. Just don’t call me “Late for Dinner”.

© 6 Mar 2016 

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

My Favorite Gay Role Model, by Ricky

This should be an interesting topic
for our story group.  I can imagine that
there will be several gay role models written about; perhaps, one for each of
the group members.  But, I can also
imagine there will be some members who, like me, have no gay role models.  In which case, it will be interesting to see
how those group members respond to this topic.
        As far back in
time as I can remember, I only met one gay man (Jim Nabors) that might have
become a role model but, was not.  The
problem was two-fold.  First, I did not
know he was gay until decades later and second, I did not know (or admit to
myself) I was gay until decades later.
        In my pre-teen
years, I did get to watch Liberace, if he was a featured guest on someone’s TV
show.  I did notice his flamboyant costume and signature candelabra sitting on top of his grand piano and thought it was
strange when compared to other pianists I had seen in movies or on TV.  However, no adult ever mentioned that he was
probably a homosexual in my presence.  It
would have been strange if they had brought up a sexual topic to me at that
age.  If fact, the only people who did
speak about sex were my peers when we finally reached puberty and began to
share forbidden information, magazines, and photos taken from our fathers’
“hidden stashes”.
        In high school,
I did not know any gay males.  In
college, while I did mentally lust after a few males in my dorm, I did not act on the
feelings because I was afraid of being labeled “queer” and, at that time, I was
terribly shy and did not know how to make friends, straight or otherwise.  After I married, there was very little
incentive to even mentally lust after males. 
So, it was easy to consider myself “normal” and not homosexual.  Besides, I really did want a family.
        Like many gay
men of my generation, marriage was expected by society and it became a place to
hide one’s orientation and consciously or unconsciously suppress the
desires.  Thus, during the marriage
period for me there was no opportunity to develop a relationship with a gay
person, so no role model appeared.
        At my current
age, I am fairly set in my ways and I have yet to find or (in my opinion) to
need a gay role model.  I obtained role
models when I was young.  Not human role
models, but philosophical role models. 
·      
If
you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.  (I don’t follow this one all the time, in
fact never did follow it exclusively.)
·      
Do
unto others as you want them to do unto you.
And then came the philosophical role models that still
dominate my life:
·      
The
Boy Scout Oath and the Scout Law. These two underpinnings were cemented in
place by my joining the LDS Church.
This is why I am the nice-guy I am.
        The Boy Scout
program stopped me from becoming a juvenile delinquent.  I was already on the path to become one
because I had no parental supervision and lots of time for my idle hands to
find the “Devil’s workshop.”  I could say
that my scoutmasters were my role models at the time I needed a role
model.  It was a pity that they did not
know I was sexually confused and they were not gay.  Who knows what or who I may have become if
they had un-confused me at that age.
©
23 February 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 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

When Things Don’t Work, by Ricky

I suppose I should begin with When I Don’t
Work.  As a boy and teen, I was in a
perpetual state of work avoidance.  It
didn’t matter if it was chores at home or homework for school, I did not want
to do it.  When Mom asked me to do the
vacuuming and dishes, I would do the vacuuming but would delay doing the dishes
until it was very late and I had to go to bed before school the next day.  As for the homework, I did do that, but
procrastinated as long as possible.
The skill of procrastination did not serve me
well when I attended Sacramento State College right out of high school in
1966.  My English 101 class introduced me
to adult fantasy novels.  The professor
told us that his professional colleagues thought he was crazy to teach his
selected book of ‟trash” as English Literature. 
Our professor told us that we would be reading and discussing the story because
it was the up-and-coming genre of literature. 
He was so very correct as the book we studied is Tolkien’s Lord of
the Rings.  I got so involved in the
story that I neglected most of my studies for two weeks and got so far behind I
was demoralized and so went on academic probation at the end of the
semester.  I then did not even try the
next semester so I flunked out of my first year of college.  I was still very immature.
After losing my academic deferment, I managed to
join the Air Force to avoid being drafted into the Army or Marine Corps.  I worried about the draft for nothing.  While I was attending Air Force basic
training, I received my draft notice—for the Navy.
The Air Force was good for me.  It gave me a safe place to finish growing up
and also taught me team work, skill with administrative work, a bit of
self-discipline, kept me out of Vietnam, and even paid me to learn.  Who could have asked for more?  After three years with my assigned unit, I
was selected to set up a newly organized squadron’s administrative section for
the squadron commander and first sergeant. 
It turned out that I really must have been a good worker as I was given
two medals for the work I did throughout my enlisted time.
I continued to work until a couple of years
following my wife’s passing.  Then my
depression was so bad I reverted back to my youth and avoided work whenever
possible.  Then after ten-years of
self-pity, I began to come alive again and sought out things to do that were
not work but mostly recreation.  I do
have modest financial stability through the VA, Civil Service retirement, and
Social Security but I needed to supplement my income a little bit, so after a
two-year search, I finally landed a position as a cashier in an adult video
store where I worked from 1 August 2012 through June 2016.
Now when things other than me don’t work, I react
totally different.  My behavior divides
according to specific scenarios.  The
first is, if the not-working thing is my property and can be fixed.  If I can fix it, I will try and do so.  If I cannot fix it, I send it to or call in a
repairman.  If that is not possible, I
will replace it or do without.
Second scenario is where the not-working thing is
a large project, if it is to be fixed, such as replacing the floor and wall
tile in a bathroom.  When I was in my
20’s, Deborah and I did just that.  I
know exactly how much work it was.  At my
age now, I am totally against do-it-yourself projects.  If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it.  If it is broken, call in an expert repair
person and pay the price.
The third scenario consists of not-working things
that I have no direct control over.  The
prime example of this is Republican obstructionism in Congress for the past
six-plus years, known to me as the Bonner Do Nothing Republican Congress.  The only thing I can do about that is vote
and write letters.  Another example is
potholes in city or county roads.  I can
notify the authorities where the potholes are but nothing is done.  Then there are the roads which are repaved
and repainted and 3 to 6-months later, dug up to replace water or sewer
lines.  The powers that be don’t
coordinate getting the underground work done before the repaving, so streets
are often disrupted longer than necessary.
My number one pet peeve I believe falls into the
category of things that don’t work. The movie and theater industry repeatedly
miscast actors in their productions. 
Specifically, beginning with Maude Adams, productions of Peter Pan
have featured women in the title role. 
Barrie’s manuscripts clearly indicate that Peter was small and still had
all his baby teeth.  He was not an adult
woman or a teen-age boy.  At least Walt
Disney used a 12-year old Bobby Driscoe as the model for the Disney animators;
he just used the wrong aged model.  This
past week there was another made for TV broadcast production, Peter Pan
Live, staring yet another adult female as Peter.  I am sure it was a good performance, although
I did not watch it.  Not to take anything
away from the actress and other cast members, the performance was still a
travesty.  The casting system is broken
and does not work with regards to Peter Pan and I am powerless to do
anything but complain.  Very frustrating
for me as Peter Pan is my all-time
favorite prepubescent story from childhood.
Anyone who has seen the musical Oliver,
knows there are many talented youngsters who can sing and dance.  If you search YouTube, you can find videos of
the search for and training of the actors who ended up playing Billy Elliott in
the American version stage play.  It is
nearly unbelievable the amount of talent children have.  There is absolutely no reason to keep casting
adult women as Peter.
Fortunately, someone has finally come along to
end my frustration.  While in a movie
theater this past week, I saw a preview of a new Peter Pan movie to be released
in the summer of 2015 titled, Pan. 
The role of Pan finally has been assigned to a young boy, one more
closely age appropriate and accurate to the original story.  The story itself is another prequel, but I
don’t care about that.  I just want to
see a more realistic Peter Pan.  So for
me, I can see that someone in the movie industry is actually trying to make
literary accurate movies whose cast actually resembles the characters in the
novels.
Just because some things don’t work, doesn’t mean
that someone cannot begin to fix them. 
Maybe there is hope for Congress too.
© 7 December 2014 / revised 3 Feb 2017
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

Communications, by Ricky

“What we’ve got here is …. failure to communicate” is a movie line from Cool Hand Luke spoken by Paul Newman that is perfectly delivered, humorously and sarcastically, in keeping with the character’s personality. Unfortunately for Luke, the senior guard was not amused, receptive, or tolerant of the mocking of the Captain’s phrase. Herein lies the difficulty with communicating with anyone; words.

The Captain and the Boss were communicating a message to Luke but their words were not precise enough for Luke to clearly understand. Thus, the Captain and the Boss were the ones who failed to communicate. They should have made it perfectly clear that if Luke tried to escape again, he would be shot dead; they didn’t and Luke died.

Words arrive containing varying numbers of syllables, shades of meaning, and ease of pronunciation. The definition of words can be modified from the original by common usage, which tends to happen because members of society do not learn enough vocabulary so they can pick the perfectly accurate but seldom used word. Some people use many long words and complex sentences to communicate simple ideas; a practice which often leads to misunderstandings. There are yet others who can communicate powerful ideas using simple and everyday words. An example is Abraham Lincoln’s statement, “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not fool all of the people all of the time.” Do you suppose Lincoln was warning other politicians, warning the public, or giving politicians a tip on how to get elected?

Some communications take on a life of their own and are so common in usage as to become cliches. “Houston, we have a problem.” is one of those. The phrase originated following the Apollo 13 disaster. Unfortunately, no one ever said those words. Here is the actual conversation between the Houston command center and Apollo 13.

John Swigert: ‘Okay, Houston, we’ve had a problem here.’ Houston: ‘This is Houston. Say again please.’ James Lovell: ‘Houston, we’ve had a problem. We’ve had a main B bus undervolt.’

For dramatic effect, the movie of the events surrounding Apollo 13, altered the exact words. The incorrect phrase was picked up by the movie going public and now is commonly used to indicate any problem not just very serious ones.

Likewise,”Beam me up, Scotty” is a catchphrase that made its way into popular culture from the science fiction television series Star Trek. Though it has become irrevocably associated with the series and movies, the exact phrase was never actually spoken in any Star Trek television episode or film.

“Beam me up, Scotty” is similar to the phrase, “Just the facts ma’am”, attributed to Jack Webb’s character of Joe Friday on Dragnet; “It’s elementary, my dear Watson”, attributed to Sherlock Holmes; “Luke, I am your father”, attributed to Darth Vader; or “Play it again, Sam”, attributed to Humphrey Bogart’s character in Casablanca; and “We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!” attributed to Gold Hat in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. All five lines are the best known quotations from these works for many viewers, but not one is an actual, direct quotation. Yet each of them conveys an idea, concept, and image that communicates very well because a large number of people have seen the source of the misquoted dialog and the erroneous version has become ubiquitous in our culture.

Communication also suffers when the sender and the receiver are not talking about the same concept or idea. Remember the dialogue between Tom Hanks and Elizabeth Perkins in the movie “Big”?

Susan: I’m not so sure we should do this. Josh: Do what? Susan: Well, I like you … and I want to spend the night with you. Josh: Do you mean sleep over? Susan: Well, yeah. Josh: OK … but I get to be on top.

One conversation between two different people, but on two incompatible topics. This particular conversation also illustrates the effect differences in age and experience (or lack thereof) can have upon the inferred meaning of the words heard.

Yet another problem with communication arises when one party doesn’t understand the clear and plain message he was given or does not take it seriously. While in the Air Force, one of my commanding officers was a colonel and a pilot. He related to me the following.

Before becoming a pilot he was a navigator on a military transport aircraft approaching his U.S. destination after crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The plane was understandably low on fuel. Their primary destination had bad weather to the point that they could not land and there was just enough fuel to make it to the alternate airport. The navigator called the traffic controller for permission to depart for the alternate destination. He was told to standby to which he replied that they needed to leave now or not have enough fuel to make it. Again he was told to standby. He repeated the situation yet again and was told to standby. At this point the pilot called on the intercom asking if they had permission to depart for the alternate airport. The navigator told him yes even though no permission was given. The person on the ground did not appreciate the gravity of the situation and let himself be bogged down with control issues.

Sometimes the person initiating the communication sends an accurate message composed of factual data but in reality doesn’t state the actual issue. For example, when I was young I once told my mother that my urine was runny (a fact), which did not impart any information to her. The real issue was I had diarrhea. Another example would be the numerous politicians who when asked a question answer with information not directly related to the question. I think they have a condition known as “Diarrhea of the Mouth”.

The moral of this essay: Be gay when the concept or idea or message goes through without resulting in chaos. The word gay is used correctly, but did it, the other words, and the sentence structure combine to confuse or clarify the message? This is yet another example of the potential for a message to get “lost in translation” when there is a poor choice of words and grammar by the sender.

The real moral of this essay: In your next life, pay attention in language class.

© 22 April 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

Piece O’ Cake, by Ricky

Cake, puzzles, Spanish coins, Picasso paintings, and advice all come in pieces. Marie Antoinette gave the French a great piece of advice.

Marie is reported to have given this piece of advice during a dinner party to which the lower classes had not been invited but were attempting to crash the event in search of bread. (It is a little known fact, or perhaps the best kept secret prior to the British breaking the enigma code, that the so called “beatnik” movement actually began in France, because the “bread” the crowd was seeking was money not Colorado edibles.) The queen misunderstood their demands and when told there was no bread at the event just the fancy cake, she is alleged to have said, “No bread and butter!!! Then give them our fancy cakes to eat.” She really wanted to say that the crowd should go home and eat Ratatouille, but her publicist suggested cake instead.

The king was not the sharpest tool in the shed but his publicist thought it would be a good Public Relations moment if he participated in the cake delivery. So, he went with the servants to deliver the cakes. When the king announced the queen had sent them cake to eat instead of bread and butter, the crowd was not amused and the king being mystified at their reaction asked the crowd, “What’s wrong?” (Although, he probably said it in French.) When a spokesman for the beatniks explained in plain French what they meant by the word “bread”, the king was amused and rushed back into the palace to tell Marie and all the aristocrats. When Marie heard the whole bread vs cake situation explained to her, she and the king saw the irony of the night’s events and began to laugh. Naturally, all the aristocrats present also began to laugh. The crowd outside the palace heard all the laughing and was still not amused. One could rightly conclude that the king, the queen, the aristocrats, and two publicists were all laughing their heads off that night.

Marie’s advice was actually good. If you have no bread, eat the donated cake of the wealthy. Only the failure to communicate the exact nature of the bread in question resulted in the unfortunate events which followed. I did learn a lesson from all that silliness. Marie’s advice became the mantra or perhaps “battle cry” I proclaim at the beginning of every meal when I eat out; “Life is short. Eat dessert first!”

© 14 March 2015

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Military and Law Enforcement, by Ricky

          I once served as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County (Tucson)
Arizona for just short of 4-years.  At
one time Pima County extended all the way south to the Mexican border during
the time that Wyatt Earp was a lawman in that part of the county.  So, he and I were both deputies in Pima
County.  I resigned returning to college
and pursuing a BS degree in Law Enforcement but the school, BYU, changed the
focus of the course so I graduated with a BS in Justice Administration.  During my time in Tucson, I was stationed 24
miles north in the Marana Substation and also served about 9-months in the
vehicle maintenance section coordinating vehicle repairs and routine
maintenance.
          In those years I went to 3 fatal traffic accidents;
apprehended two armed robbers—recovering $10,000 in stolen money from a drug
rip-off; convinced a local “runaway” to return home voluntarily; recovered one
stolen car driven by 5 escapees from a Texas Sheriff’s youth farm/ranch—the
oldest being only 12; detained for ICE numerous undocumented aliens; eliminated
one very potential neighborhood “feud” between a 12 yr old boy and an out of
patience new neighbor; arrested four California men who came to Tucson to buy
bricks of marijuana and who had an illegal sawed off shotgun; tracked burglars
through the dessert; became a scoutmaster for the church troop; wrote over 200
traffic tickets; arrested 30 drunk drivers—one of which was a priest (I later
learned the local “retreat” was one where the church sent its pedophile priests
for rehab);  did not arrest one drunk
driver because he was only 20 feet from his driveway; got propositioned by a
waitress; got propositioned by the CIA; recovered a stolen purse at a high
school football game—referring one 6th grade repentant boy to his father
and one unrepentant boy to the system via a “paper referral” and released him
to his father; was the only lawman in 500 square miles during midnight shifts;
in an act of revenge, I collected enough “dirt” on one of my supervisors that
he was transferred back to Tucson and decided to resign instead—2-years short
of retirement; and saving the best for last, I got married.  Working in Marana was exactly like being a
Wild West deputy except I drove a car instead of riding a horse.  I loved the work.
          When I resigned to return to college, I was in the process
of collecting signatures to run for the local Justice of the Peace.  Although I had more than enough signatures,
when BYU called and said there was an opening in married student housing,
Deborah and I decided to return so I could finish my degree.  She had to quit her medical technologist
position so we could go.  Shortly after
arriving and starting classes, I remembered why I really didn’t like
school.  I also joined Air Force ROTC so
ended up on active duty once again when I graduated.
          My first assignment as an officer was to the security
police squadron at Malmstrom AFB, Montana as a Shift Commander for the on-base
law enforcement and base security flights. 
The base security flight primarily guarded the nuclear weapons storage
area.  I spent two-years in that position
and then was assigned as a Flight Security Officer for the flights providing
security response in the off-base missile field.  My flight and I would be away from the base
for 3 ½ days at a time.  I participated
in a few incidents but the one experience I really want to tell you all about
occurred after I arrived at my next base in Jacksonville, Arkansas circa 1984.
          Little Rock AFB was home to a missile wing supporting the
liquid fueled Titan II ICBM.  In
September 1980 prior to my arrival (1983), one nuclear tipped missile exploded
in its silo.  This is the story of what
happened before, during, and after the incident.  This information is not classified so I won’t
have to kill any of you after you’re done reading it.
          Whenever a nuclear warhead is present, Air Force
regulations require that at least two people must be present in such proximity
to each other that each can monitor the actions of the other—absolutely no
exceptions or violations are tolerated. 
The Titan II is a two-stage rocket. 
To save weight, parts of the very thin outer skin of the rocket are
actually part of the fuel tanks.  The
fuel is of two types—an oxidizer and the fuel. 
Both are hypergolic, meaning that when the two chemicals touch, they
instantly ignite.  The fuel and oxidizer
tanks are so thin that the rocket will collapse in upon itself if the liquid
fuels are removed improperly as the fuel keeps the tanks from being able to
collapse.  The skin is so thin that
hand-held maintenance tools to be used on the missile or its components have
lanyards permanently attached to prevent the tool (sockets, wrenches, etc.)
from falling between the rocket and the maintenance platforms surrounding it
and puncturing the skin.
          So, one day all the counts, accounts, no accounts, and
recounts (oh wait that’s different story). 
One fateful day, two maintenance technicians were in the silo performing
maintenance on a component internal to the missile.  One of the men needed a tool that he forgot
to bring down with him.  He knew that a
tool box (with tools to be used elsewhere in the underground launch complex
outside of the silo) was located in the tunnel towards the launch control
capsule.  These tools did not have
lanyards attached.  Being stupid,
careless, or just plain lazy, he left his partner alone with the missile (major
violation #1 and also stupid decision #1) and went to get the unauthorized tool
rather than having them both go topside and return with the authorized tool
(stupid decision #2).
          The tool needed was a socket for a socket wrench.  While using the socket, it slipped off the
wrench and because it did not have a lanyard, the socket fell between the
missile and the maintenance platform around the missile (Murphy’s Law in
action).  Can you guess what happened
right after the “Oh shit” expletive?  You
guessed it.  The socket fell three or
more levels gaining momentum before hitting the edge of a platform below and
bouncing into the side of the missile puncturing a fuel tank.  Instantly, red fuming nitric oxide began to
leak setting off the chemical vapor sensors which triggered the alarm.  The launch crew ordered the silo evacuated
and notified the base of the problem (good decision #1).
          The deputy wing commander responded with the emergency
response teams.  Upon arrival, two
environmentally suited fuel personnel went down to the silo to inspect the
damage.  Upon their report the base contacted
the Martin-Murrieta company (the builder of the Titan II) to get their
input.  After a short period of time,
Martin-Murrieta replied: 1st you can’t do anything to stop the leak;
and 2nd the missile will explode in approximately 8 ½ hours your
local time today.  Periodically, the two
fuel personnel were sent down to check on the progress of the leak (dangerous
or even stupid decision #3).  (No
civilian or even some military members routinely accuse local commanders of
using their brains.  Yes, I am biased.)  At one time, they even ordered the 740-ton
silo cover door be opened so that the explosion would not be contained within
the silo.  Instantly the highly toxic red
vapor left the silo and a large red “cloud” began to drift towards highly
populated centers, so the cover was closed (good decision #2).
          An order was given to send one man back down to check on
the missile (the launch capsule had been evacuated by this time) (major
violation #2 & stupid decision #3).
As
the 8 ½ hour time limit approached, two environmentally suited personnel were
ordered down to check on the missile (stupid decision #4 and also fatal).  As the expected explosion time arrived, the
two suited personnel were on their way back. 
The first one had cleared the stairwell coming up completely above
ground.  The second one was still half
underground when the missile exploded. 
The first man was blown across the complex into the chain link fence
where the fence fabric cushioned his impact. 
The second man was “cut in half” at the waist by the force of the
blast.  The debris from the incident was
stored in an above ground maintenance shed at one of the remaining missile
complex sites.  I had the pass-key and I
actually saw the remaining parts of the destroyed missile and the bloody
environmental suit of the airman who died.
Here
is the sequence of events at the time of the explosion.  The fuel finally leaked out enough that the
missile began to collapse.  As it
collapsed the other 1st stage fuel tank ruptured, the two chemicals
touched and instantly exploded; the pressure lifted the 740-ton silo cover door
off its foundation rails; the blast spread out circular injuring the two
airman; that blast caused the 2nd stage fuel tanks to rupture and
they also added to the explosion which accomplished five things; 1st
the 740-ton door was lifted quite high; 2nd the nuclear warhead was
blasted like a bullet into the bottom of the 740-ton door breaking it into two
pieces one being 1/3rd the size of the original; 3rd the
larger piece flew about 30 yards and then flattened the Air Force pickup truck
that the deputy wing or base commander had been sitting in just 30-seconds
earlier; 4th the smaller piece landed about 100 yards away; and 5th
the warhead was nowhere to be found (major violation #3—a lost and unguarded
nuclear bomb—heads will roll).
The
rest of the night, military radio traffic was filled with the euphemisms “has
it been found” and “where is it”.  The
bomb was found the following morning during daylight hours.  One of the perimeter security guards was
actually sitting on it all night.  He
never reported finding it because he didn’t know what it was.
EPILOG
1.    
All security police personnel were shown a
dummy warhead during their initial orientation upon arrival at the base (it
looks like a large milk can of the type used on family dairy farms);
2.    
The two environmentally suited airmen were
given medals (one posthumously);
3.    
The surviving suited airman was given a
Letter of Reprimand because he was the one who went down alone to check on the
missile even though he was following orders—he was supposed to refuse to obey
as it was an illegal order; and
4.    
Nuclear bombs are designed to be
“three-point safe”.  This means that they
will not yield a nuclear explosion if burned, receive a high impact, or hit by
a stray electrical charge.  The design
could never be thoroughly tested.  Anecdote:  When the person who created the three-point
safe design was told that the bomb was found with a large dent (from impacting
the 740-ton door) having survived the explosion, he was heard to say, “I TOLD
them it would work!”
5.    
In 1984, I became the project officer for
the installation, planning the procedures for use, and personnel training for a
DES confidential real-time usage encrypted radio system.
          I know this is the true story because I read parts of the
official investigation report and reviewed the numerous photographs.  One photograph sticks in my mind.  It is an overhead shot of the silo taken via
helicopter.  The silo opening is dead
center and surrounding it are compression circles.  It strongly reminds me of a dart board or
even a target.
          Do any of you remember hearing or reading about this event?
 I was in the Air Force as a Missile Security
Officer in 1980 stationed in Montana; I never heard of it.
For other versions of the explosion go
to:
http://encyclopediaofarkansas.net/encyclopedia/entry-detail.aspx?entryID=2543
http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident2.php
http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident.php
The public versions are different than
the official investigative report I read. (Nothing new about that is there?)
What did a Titan Launch Complex look
like?  Go to:
http://www.themilitarystandard.com/missile/titan2/silo.php
© 31 Mar 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