Tag: Ricky

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The Females in My Life, by Ricky

Like everyone else on
this planet, the first woman in my life was my mother.  Mom was the care giver when I was young, but
she was also the rat-fink of my life. 
She would always tell my father of my daily misdeeds and he was the
disciplinarian in the family.  During
that time period, discipline consisted of not too gentle spankings, so I
learned to fear both of them.  Mom was
also the one who came to Minnesota, while I was living with my grandparents, to
be a bridesmaid for her sister and then did not take me back to California when
she left Minnesota after the wedding.  I
think I subconsciously resent her even to this day for leaving me and for being
a rat-fink.
The second woman was my
father’s mother.  After I was born she
came to live with us for about one year. 
I don’t remember that time period much and as I grew up, I did not see
her very often.  The next female in my
life was my beloved Bonnie, a black and white collie, who became the best baby
sitter a two-year old toddler could not escape; that is until I learned to take
her with me when I left the yard.  Sadly,
she got distemper and passed before her first birthday.  I don’t remember if I grieved for her very
much.  I only now remember her from old
photographs and the stories my parents told me over time.
Next was a girl in my
Kindergarten class at the Hawthorn Christian School in Hawthorn,
California.  Her name was Sandra
Flora.  She was like a girlfriend to me,
or more precisely, I was a boyfriend to her. 
With long curly hair and the full dress that little girls wore at that
time, she looked like a young Shirley Temple. 
I carried her Kindergarten school photo in my wallet well into my 40’s
when I finally lost it.
The next woman in my
life would be my mother’s mother.  I
lived with her and my grandfather for two years on a farm in central Minnesota
from the age of 8 until two-weeks before I turned 10.  She was a reasonable surrogate mother but at
9-years of age, I ended up with a mild ‟school boy crush” on my 4th
grade teacher, Mrs. Knoll.  She was a
very young beautiful lady and in her second year as a teacher.  The crush was mild because she was married so
I knew I had no chance and I was not quite into full blown puberty.  My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs.
Sorensen, was a good but matronly teacher and thus of no interest to me.
Back on the farm, my
aunt Darlene, my mother’s younger and only sister, would visit occasionally
with her husband.  When I was 8, I was a
ring-bearer (like Bilbo and Frodo) at her wedding.  My younger cousin, Pamela Anderson, was the
flower-girl.  There was one other female
on the farm that I had a platonic relationship with, at least on my part.  Her name was Peanuts and she was a Guernsey
cow.  Her stall was the first one as I
would enter the barn and so she became my favorite, almost like a pet.
One week before I
turned 10, my mother and new step-father came to Minnesota to pick me up and
take me back to California.  They also
introduced me to the next female to enter my life, my little baby sister,
Gale.  For the next 9 years she and her
twin brother and I had a close family relationship.  They were the kids and I was the
babysitter.  Not too much personal time
for me, but we did have some amount of fun growing up until I went away to
college and then the military.  She still
lives at our ‟home town” of South Lake Tahoe.
The next female was
never alive in the literal sense but she really was a lady.  She was the Skipalong, my step-father’s 39
foot cabin cruiser he used as a tour-boat on Lake Tahoe during 1957 and ’58.  I was his deckhand in 1958 and I
really loved the ‟job” and the boat.  All
I had was that one summer with her as the next summer, at the beginning of the
season, she sank at a pier while her engine was being overhauled and was sold
for salvage.  I still miss her even today
as that summer was perhaps the happiest of my childhood.


She had a colorful career.  It is
believed she was built in the 1920’s in Morris Heights, New York by the
Consolidated Shipbuilding Corporation. 
She was originally 36 feet long but upon arrival in San Francisco she
was modified to 39 feet long and a ‟lookout cockpit” was added to the bow as
she began service as a rum runner during Prohibition.
In the Fall of 1958,
after that wonderful summer, I developed another school boy crush.  This time it was during full blown puberty
and on my unmarried, first year 5th grade teacher, Miss
Herbert.  She was beautiful, young, and
had a wonderful personality.  I was in
LOVE!  Then she got married over
Christmas vacation.  I was
devastated.  It appeared to me that I
would never get the women I loved, which due to the age differences, is
probably a good thing.
The next female arrived
at our house on Red Lake Road, in South Lake Tahoe when I was 12.  She was ¾ Oriental Poodle and ¼ Pomeranian—a
little, black, shaggy, and “yippy” lap dog. 
She bonded to me the first night in our house and became the first
female I slept with for the next 9-years. 
I was monogamous but she was a very prolific bitch. No! I was not the
father of her litters.
After I joined the Air
Force, I met my first girlfriend as an adult. 
She was the best friend of the woman I would marry 5-years later.  During the intervening years, I also met the
woman who taught me about making out and foreplay.  Then there was the woman who took my
virginity.  Actually, I guess it was a
mutual thing as she did not have to twist my arm to get it.
Then I married Deborah
and we enjoyed 27-years and 9-months together before she passed from complications
of breast cancer.  During those years,
the final women in my life were born to us—our three daughters, one of which
made me a grandfather with her 2-daughters.
So those are the women
and other females in my life.  I chose
not to tell about my two female cats, so be thankful for small favors.
© 23 November 2014  
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I 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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The Fractured History of Clothes, by Ricky

The
first case of sunburn resulted in the slang term “red skins” to differentiate
the early humans into two groups; the clothed and the nudists.
Clothes!
 What a wonderful invention.  The first recorded version of clothes was fig
leaves, which were then exchanged for animal skins; a much needed improvement
for winter and colder climates.  We
should all be grateful for those two “cave” people who had the foresight to
switch from leaves to animal hides.  This
had the added benefit to reduce the excessively sunburned population so that
today the only few remaining “red skins” are those very few that play professional
baseball.
Over
time the cave people moved into communities and the hunter-gatherer peoples
prospered.  But as populations of these
people increased and the animals used for food and skins began to shun the
presence of hunters, some enterprising gatherers sought out some means of
supplementing the animal skin shortage. 
Eventually, they found a way to process animal fur, vegetable fibers,
and worm cocoons into a suitable product for making something to wear.
Since
this was something completely new, there was no name for it.  Clothes are what they wanted to make out of
the new product but they needed a catchy new word to market their product.  Finally some pundit from “Madison on the
Avenue” in the ancient village of York reasoned that since “clothes” was a
plural word and this new product is what is used to make clothes, the product
should be named “cloth” using the singular form of “clothes”.  The community of merchants quickly adapting
to the new word, needed a generic way to indicate the multitude of different
furs, vegetable, and worm based products they had for sale in their
possession.  They decided to use the word
“clothes” but were quickly corrected by their language instructors that
“clothes” and “clothes” were spelled the same but pronounced differently.  Since homonyms had not yet been invented, the
merchants were compelled by their instructors to use the word “fabrics” to
avoid confusion.
The
makers of fabrics tended to be women and were referred to as “loomies” because
“fabric makers” was too hard to say and “loomers” sounded to close to “losers”
which had already been assigned to those who did not win at arm wrestling and
“weavers” was used to label people who would drink too much fermented liquids
and thus could not walk a straight or gay line.
The
merchants quickly discovered that the majority of people who purchased their
fabrics were male.  Indeed, in those
ancient times and into our modern day the males would wear highly colored
fabrics with varied glyphs, runes, borders, and designs to make themselves look
more important than another.  This became
a quasi-universal trait among males of any community.  They were easily recognized by their plain or
elaborate dresses, robes, and evening gowns. 
Eventually, these men became known as “men-of-the-cloth” because “men-of-the-fabric”
seemed too formal.
As
the cost of the fabrics became prohibitive for the poorer members of a
community, the “men-of-the-cloth” were looked upon as being wise and
knowledgeable because they could afford to buy clothing made of fabric.  So, gradually the men-of-the-cloth were
granted leadership positions and the power of authority over other community
members.  This did not always work out
well.
There
are remnants of this practice today. 
Traditional men-of-the-cloth still exist nearly everywhere, but they are
not as powerful as they once were. 
Modern men-of-the-cloth can be identified by the red color of their
neckties and can still be heard talking as if they were all wise and
knowledgeable.  In our day, the most
flamboyant of the men-of-the-cloth often attend after work establishments and
entertain the crowds.  Reportedly, they
are well respected and revered by everyone except those known as being “dragaphobic”.
With
hindsight, perhaps it would have been better if the ancient fig leaf wearing
cave people had stayed nudists.

© 22 September 2014

About the Author

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

Aw Shucks! I have to work today and will miss SAGE’s Telling Your Story group. I was going to regale you with an awesome story of living and working on my grandparent’s farm. I got so dirty shucking corn husks that I had to shuck off my clothes and bathe in a galvanized wash tub at night. I guess you could say I was a dirty little shucker. In any case, since I must shuck off story group and go to work on Monday, there is no point in writing that awesome story. So, I guess I will just shuck off my clothes and go to bed instead. Night night.

© 5 April 5, 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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Nowhere, by Ricky

Like many men of my age group, I had my mid-life crisis a few years ago. At this point in time, I perceive that nothing has changed since then. I still have feelings that my youthful goals and dreams are nowhere in sight for the future or accomplished in the past. With the loss of my best friend of 27 years and 9 months, most of the joy of life went with her. I now have no ambition, nowhere to go, no one to go there with, and no money to spend when I don’t arrive there.

I have been blessed with a modest amount of financial and medical security, but the Republican Party leadership is poised and planning to take even that mea-ger amount away by making major changes to existing law and pro-grams. Republican Paul Ryan has published his proposed budget for 2015. Bruce Lesley reported inThe Huffington Post [1 Dec 2014],”In the name of protecting children, the poor, and the states, the Ryan budget does the opposite.”

Like the Beatles’ Nowhere Man, the Republican Party’s proposed federal budget for 2015 is a “nowhere plan.” The republican leadership inhabit their “fortress of solitude,” listening to no one except budget extremists, and where they make all their plans for nowhere budgets for the benefit of nobody except the wealthy.

Nowhere does that nowhere plan contain the Affordable Care Act or the expansion of Medicare or uncapped Food Stamps or Public Radio or the endowment for the arts or Amtrak or even basic research grants or funding for educa-tion. Republican leaders are, “No way, No how, Nowhere Men”.

They know not where they will lead us to.
They are as blind as they can be.
They see what they want to see.
Nowhere Men can you see the poor at all?

Somewhere, somehow, sometime, the Nowhere Men will find the way to fund their favorite project – weapons for war to either use or sell. After all, a good old fashioned war is great for business because war makes the rich richer.

Nowhere Men never learned the lessons of history: wars cost money, the outcome is never certain, and innocent nobodies will end up, no-where. “Nowhere Men wars” will take us all nowhere, somehow, in no time.

In exchange for a unique American culture of democracy and the American Dream, by defunding education, Public Radio, and the endowment for the arts, the Nowhere Men would have us embrace a culture of rule by the few wealthy Nowhere Men – an oligarchy based upon military strength and a subservient poor.

Nowhere Men would be well advised to remember that Democrats, Libertarians, Independents, other groups, and individuals also own guns and were trained to use them during combat in Vietnam, the Gulf Wars, and on the streets of major American cities.

© 1 December 2014

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Patriotism, by Ricky

Exactly
what is “patriotism”?  Who possesses
“patriotism”?  What does “patriotism”
look like to me?  What does “patriotism”
look like to others?
Today
is November 11th, Veterans’ Day, the holiday Americans set aside to
honor and remember our country’s military personnel, past and present, and the
resulting deaths and heroic deeds.  At
least that is what it was following the Korean “Police Action”.  The unpopular “non-declared-war conflict” in Vietnam
with the anti-war protests, primarily lead by the under 21 draftees and
draft-dodgers, tarnished this holiday for many decades.  During the years that followed, politicians
and corporate board of directors expanded the roll of “capitalist greed”
destroying American citizens’ confidence and trust in the concept of benevolent
authority.
I
am very cynical about businesses and corporate “chain” stores offering veterans
special discounts on this one day per year. 
Corporate business do these public relations gimmicks to attract money
from those people they can fool into believing the corporation actually cares
about our veterans both alive and dead. 
If they really cared, the corporations and business groups would send
their lobbyists to Congress to demand that the Veterans Administration be fully
funded and have the best facilities to serve our veterans.  But instead, they send lobbyists to ensure
laws are passed that favor their greed. 
As I said, I am very cynical.
When
I was a child, I spoke as a child; I understood as a child; I thought as a
child; I trusted as a child: but when I became a man, I eventually learned to
use my intelligence and actually think
and reason.  This I can do fairly
well.  I only act childish.
        During the American Revolution, everyone was a patriot and a
traitor.  Colonists who were patriots for
England were traitors to the revolutionaries. 
Patriots to the revolution were traitors to King George.  Both groups believed they were “right”.
Lord
Baden Powell of England founded the Boy Scout movement.  It was an organization to teach British boys
the desired character traits, sense of honor, and moral values.  No boy would willingly join a character
building group, so the name became “Scouting for Boys” and was patterned after
Baden Powell’s experience in the British army, specifically his time as a
military scout.  The Scout Oath begins,
“On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country. …”  It is the duty to my country which is the
patriotic problem.
        Raising generations of children to believe without critical thought
that “duty to my country” means, “My country right or wrong” is a recipe for
disaster.  This is never more
historically apparent than during military activity.  For example, when the Redcoats retreated from
Concord and Lexington back to Boston, they marched in ordered columns,
shoulder-to-shoulder while those pesky and cowardly rebels shot them from
behind trees and rock fencing, and ran away without giving a fair fight.  Another example is the fighting at Gettysburg
during the Civil War; specifically Pickett’s Charge.  Thousands of brave men again stood
shoulder-to-shoulder and walked across a mile of open field into the point
blank firing of those damn Yankee soldiers and cannons all of whom were protected
by a rock wall.  Thousands of very
courageous Confederate soldiers died doing their duty to their country
as they believed it to be.  Nonetheless,
it was sheer stupidity.
        Back to the British: during WWI, the British army lost
approximately 60,000 men on July 1, 1916 (at the battle of Somme) by sending
them to cross an open field (the so called “no mans’ land”) into multiple
German machine gun emplacements.  Again,
sheer stupidity.  “Aye, but we showed the
buggers.”  At least by WWII, everyone
learned to make like Little Egypt and crawl on their bellies like a reptile
when crossing open fields under fire; except the Japanese whose “banzai”
charges into automatic weapons fire met with the exact same results obtained at
Gettysburg and the battle Somme in WWI.
        “My country, right or wrong” brings death and destruction to
soldiers and civilians alike.  This is
not a good definition for “Duty to my country”. 
I do believe that every citizen has responsibilities: voting, paying
taxes, engaging in dialog over public issues, serving on juries when selected,
and to use their God-given intelligence to think and reason and not to trust
blindly.  I do not believe that any
citizen need die overseas to keep Dick Chaney’s or Scrooge McDuck’s money-bin
full.
        I believe a true patriot: resists warmongers and bullies, speaks out for
truth, exposes government and corporate corruption, and when necessary or
unavoidable, makes the other guy die stupidly for his country.
© 11 November 2013 

About
the Author 

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

Hold My Beer and Watch Me Participate in My Favorite Water Sport, by Ricky

As a pre-teen, I could never hold my beer very long. For that matter, I could never leave it on the table or TV tray for long either. My parents had a modestly stocked liquor cabinet under our built-in BBQ in the kitchen. Jimmy and I did sneak a taste, once only. Neither of us cared for hard liquor but the beer we attacked without hesitation each time he visited until it was all gone, followed by a somewhat lengthy visit to the bathroom to see a man about a horse as it were. My parents were not blind and noticed the disappearance of the containers. After that, they did not buy me any root beer in large qualities when they went to the store.

One day when I was 13, I was attending a Red Cross swimming class to learn how to swim. I had no bathing suit so was wearing a one year too small pair of green shorts. The shorts were not tight anywhere except at the waist but, they were loose at the crotch. Did I mention they were small or perhaps I should have said “too short”? During the classes, my favorite thing to do was to be up to the waist in water at the shallow end, take a deep breath and hold it, dive down to the bottom, then swim underwater to the other end of the pool, all the while slowly rising towards the surface. I would do this repeatedly as long as the female instructors would let me. This was and still is the only way I can swim for short distances.

At the end of the second swimming class, I was walking home with Roy, the brother of another boy who was in my rival scout troop. As we were talking, Roy told me that as I was swimming he could see my testicles through the leg opening of my shorts. Remember, I did say the shorts were too short. The shorts were not a swimming suit so there was no liner in them either. Naturally, I was slightly embarrassed but also titillated as I imagined all those female instructors feasting their collective eyes on me and whispering to each other “Look at that boy’s balls”. Roy’s revelation to me about my equipment, shortly thereafter led to some naked playtime before he had to go home.

So, you can see why as a teen, swimming class was my favorite water sport—just ahead of seeing a man about a horse.

© 26 Oct 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

Grandparents, by Ricky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© January 2012

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Culture Shock, by Ricky

“Culture” is a word that strikes fear into the world’s families of bacterium as if they know that shortly following the culturing will be an anti-biotic of the lethal type for all or specific families. A situation quite shocking from the point of view of the bacterium.

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of loathing in the stereotype masses of the American populace. For some reason they feel that quality music in the form of opera, symphonies, and songs where one can actually hear and understand the lyrics is not of any worth. Thus, they vote to stop government support for these enterprises. As for TV entertainment, the masses do not seem to like a broadcast which does not contain lots of violence, sexual innuendo, or cheap humor.

These same masses will support government spending taxes for the things they prefer, for example baseball, football, and soccer stadiums. (If such things are good for business, shouldn’t business pay for it and not taxes?) But worse of all is their tendency to label those who do like quality music, songs, TV, screen play, or drama productions as elitists (at best) or snobs (at worse).

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of joy or happiness in the stereotypical well-to-do (previously referred to as elitists or snobs). This group also tends to view the “less fortunate others” as undesirables for friendships and as a drain on the public treasury. Thus, they vote to cut social programs that support the poor, as the poor are viewed as lazy and uncouth leeches.

Of course these stereotypical views are not totally accurate and there are those of us who enjoy activities and recreations that fall into both camps. Sadly though, we are a minority.

“Culture Shock” commonly occurs when persons from one background encounter persons from another. An example is when “Johnny-Reb” moves into “Damn Yankee” territory or vice versa; or when a “New Yorker” moves to San Francisco; or when anyone from the east or west coasts moves into the mid-west or America’s “heartland” (the “fly-over” parts from which many gay men and women escape and move to either of the coasts).

One example occurred in my own home. My oldest daughter married a man from the Republic of Georgia. After he obtained citizenship here, he arranged to have his parents move to Lakewood and live with me and them. His parents grew up entirely under the authority of the old Soviet Union and its economic and social “values.” Maria grew up on a collective farm and so worked hard as she grew.

One day, my daughter took her mother-in-law to a discount store to buy her a new purse. While trying to decide which of many different styles to buy, Maria began to cry. When asked why by my daughter, she replied that there were too many choices and she could not make a decision. Maria was faced with “culture-of-plenty” shock.

Other “shocking” opportunities occur when military, police, gang, generational, and sexual orientation cultures have values that clash.

I have not experienced culture shock per-se. What I am experiencing is culture confusion. Being a closeted gay boy since my young teen years, I lived in the straight world most of my life. When I finally officially “came out,” at age 63, I was gently exposed to the gay “culture” of senior men. Then I learned a little of other sub-groups of gay culture; some of which apparently don’t “play-well” together, physically or politically.

So just as Maria experienced culture shock trying to adjust from a Soviet life of “little” to an American culture of abundance, So in my case, I am trying to understand all the subtleties of the elusive gay culture. Since I do not generally expose myself to the sub-groups of that culture, I am not likely to ever comprehend them well enough to form a cohesive or unifying understanding.

© 26 November 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

Over the River and through the Woods, by Ricky

In my case, the title should be Through the Woods and Over the River. In the 1960’s no one advised me about anything not related to schoolwork. Therefore, I remained confused about my personal, physical, and mental development. I did not even know that my emotional development was deficient. I was naïve about such things and could not see my orientation because “the trees were blocking my view of the forest.”

Metaphorically speaking, I lived my life in the “woods” until the trees began to “thin out” in 1982.

I finally made it through the woods and out into the open during the summer of 2010 when I finally reviewed all the trail signs together and arrived at the conclusion that I am on the correct trail. However, I faced another obstacle – should I cross the river in front of me or remain near the woods for safety.

For the vast majority of my life, I was in denial and did not believe the signs often posted along the trail I was walking. After I accepted that the signs were correct, I pondered for several months if I even wanted to cross that wide and foreboding river.

Eventually, I did cross it when I told the members of my therapy group; I am out of the woods and now across the river. Strangely, when I looked back after that meeting, the “mighty” river appeared to be nothing more than a small creek easily walked over.

All the time I spent fearing the crossing equaled time wasted. My fears were real enough but in my case, groundless and now I am healing mentally and emotionally.

I know others will have similar experiences with woods and rivers just as I know some others will have vastly different experiences. In life, a person will face many rivers that need crossing and perhaps there will be many woods or even forests to pass through.

Different trails have varying opportunities for growth, experiences, development, satisfaction, self-awareness, and offer different or strange woods, and rivers. The trick is to select a trail that matches one’s personality, abilities, understanding of the terrain ahead, dedication, preparation, and skills, or the journey may not be very enjoyable.

I hope everyone’s journey is successful and a reasonably pleasant stroll compared to a difficult, stress filled, and dangerous climb, or with river crossings filled with turbulent rapids and packed with piranha.

© 25 June 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

Scarves, by Ricky

        I suppose that boys and men who cross-dress, or are
drag-queens, or who are comfortable enough to wear women’s clothes in a play or
at a costume party, and most girls and women have at one time or another used
or wore a scarf as part of their attire. 
I am not in one of those categories and have never worn a scarf.
        There are several synonyms for “scarf” listed in the Windows
Thesaurus.  Cravat, tie, and handkerchief
are three of those.  Of course, I have
personally worn a tie many times so I guess one could say that a tie or cravat
is a “manly-scarf”.  I have also had a
handkerchief on my person, infrequently, when I was much younger and mother would
insist.
        According to Wikipedia at some point in history,
handkerchiefs began life being a kerchief for either a head covering or the
wiping your face or blowing your nose purposes. 
To differentiate between the two purposes, the nose type was called a
handkerchief and the head covering became the headkerchief.  The latter term I personally have never heard
used, so I suspect it is now in the realm of being an archaic word usage.

        If
handkerchief is a synonym for scarf, then scarf is a synonym for
neckerchief.  I have worn a neckerchief
from the age of 13 to 20 as a member of the Boy Scouts.  In my scouting career, my troop had three
different neckerchiefs over time: 

Yellow & Black
Blue & Yellow
Purple

  

BSA Camp Winton Staff

      I also wore a plaid neckerchief while on the staff of a BSA summer camp.  
Order of the Arrow
       As a member of the BSA’s honor society, Order
of the Arrow, I was given a solid red neckerchief with a large patch on the
back.
      I can’t speak for all scouts, but as an adolescent boy, these
neckerchiefs meant a lot to me and they still do.  I have many happy memories of that time of my
life with activities our troop engaged in as part of the scouting program.
        At that young age, the most common use of a neckerchief is to
identify members of one’s own troop from a distance while camping out with many
other troops during a scouting competition. 
The Scout Handbook also contains the more practical though not commonly
needed uses for the neckerchief.  Uses
such as a sling for a damaged arm, bandage, tourniquet, sprained or broken
ankle support, and signaling.  Wikipedia
also lists many uses one hopes scouts will never need, such as: a gag, a
blackjack, or a Molotov cocktail wick.
        The neckerchiefs I displayed in this story are a visual
stimulus to very happy memories which I have not thought of for decades.  They were located in a large box where I
placed things about my life that I want my offspring to know about me.  I hoped I could find these neckerchiefs to
show all of you but was not sure they still existed.  Fortunately, I did find them and spent much
time remembering before I began to write this story, memories I have yet to
write.
I
stored the neckerchiefs away about 41-years ago along with the memories.  Now both are back.
© 23 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 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.