Tag: Ricky

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The Big Bang, by Ricky

In 1966 I was a senior at
South Tahoe High School (now the Middle School). One of my classes was Ecology and was team taught by
Mr. Harold Mapes and Mr. Al Hildinger. 
Mr. Hildinger also taught a lapidary class during the evening adult education
program.
Our ecology class was taught
in the biology classroom of the science wing of our school.  At the time, the school was laid out like a
giant letter “E” with the science wing at the top “arm” of the “E”.  The administrative offices and library were
located along the main corridor representing the upright line of the “E” with
other classrooms off the other arms of the “E” shape.  The science wing had five classrooms with the
biology/ecology classroom at the beginning of the hallway followed by the
chemistry classroom, two more classrooms, and at the end of the hall was the
physics room.
On one particular spring day
near the end of term with graduation rapidly approaching, Mr. Hildinger was
teaching our ecology class, as previously indicated, in the biology room.  He was teaching the adult lapidary class in
that same room later in the evening and wanted to have his rock-saw moved from
the physics classroom at the end of the hall to the biology room and asked for
a volunteer to go get it for him.  No one
volunteered.  After waiting a few
seconds, he told me, “Please go get it.” 
I said, “I don’t want to.  I’ll
probably break it.” (I was not having a good day.)  Handing me the key to the room, he said,
“Just go get it.”  I left the room to do
so.
Upon arriving at the physics
room, I used the key to gain entry and immediately saw the rock-saw several
feet in front of me.  It was basically an
electric motor looking to weigh in at about 30 pounds, attached to a mechanism
to hold a rock sample while a diamond tipped circular-saw blade would spin
while slowly moving forward and slicing its way through a rock sample.  The result would be a thin slice of rock to
be turned into jewelry or other item of display.
The rock-saw was sitting in a
large 5 inch deep tray located on the top of a metal cart about 5 feet tall, 20
inches wide, and 3 to 3 ½ feet long.  The
cart was supported by 4 spindly metal legs on small wheels with two metal
platforms located at the bottom and middle of the cart’s legs to provide
stability for the legs and thus the cart itself.  Along with the rock-saw in the 5 inch deep
tray at the top of the cart was approximately 3 gallons of kerosene used to
cool the saw blade and lubricate the rock sample while it was being cut.
The whole contraption was
heavy and did not want to roll very well so I had to push hard to get it
moving.  Fortunately, the cart was
aligned with its long axis towards the door so I was able to push and pull it
out the door into the hallway after draping the power cord up along the
rock-saw.  It was not easy to get it out
the door because the wheels would not pivot. 
I locked the room and prepared to complete the task.
Since I could not get the
wheels to pivot, I decided to push the rectangular cart sideways down the
hall.  I began by placing my hands on the
top tray and gently pushing.  Nothing
happened.  I pushed harder.  Still no movement.  I pushed even harder.  Finally, the cart began to move towards the
biology room some little distance away. 
I passed one classroom.  I passed the
second classroom.  I was nearly at the
chemistry room door when Murphy’s Law teamed up with the laws of physics and
gravity.
As I neared the chemistry room
door, I failed to notice that the power cord had fallen off the rock-saw down
to the floor.  It landed in front of one
of the little wheels.  When the wheel
made contact with the power cord it stopped turning and the leg it was attached
to stopped moving forward causing all the legs to stop moving forward.  However, I was still pushing on the top of
the cart which did not stop moving forward. 
By the time I noticed, the top of the cart was leaning away from me not
very far but beyond the center of gravity and inertia was in control.  I could not hold it and pull it back to
upright.
Time slowed down as I watched
in horror as the momentum kept the rock-saw and cart top moving to the
inevitable conclusion.  In less than
three heart beats it hit the floor with a resounding BANG
which echoed down the halls, around the corner, and alerted most of the
administrative personnel, librarians, and all the classes in the science wing
that the chemistry lab had exploded. 
Instantly, it seemed, all the students in the science wing classrooms
began to empty out into the hall and I was caught like a deer in
headlights.  As bad as this was, 3
gallons of kerosene were now flowing down the hall towards the chemistry
room.  The floor having been depressed by
many years of students walking into the room, the kerosene made a 90-degree
right turn and began to flow into the chemistry room.  I could envision a real explosion if kerosene
fumes reached a Bunsen burner.
When the mess was finally
cleaned up and I helped Mr. Hildinger lift the cart upright and moved it into
the biology room, he determined that the rock-saw was okay but the diamond saw
blade had been warped by the force of the fall. 
It cost him $100 to replace but he never asked me to help out.  This was my own personal experience with an Alexander’s
Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day!
© 21 October 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 Grim Reaper, by Ricky

It was a bright and
sunny day, until sundown when it became a dark and stormy night.  The Arch Chancellor of The Invisible
University was asleep in his study and all was peaceful except for the flashes
of lightening which illuminated The Invisible University and the resulting
thunder which rattled the massive stone walls.
The Invisible
University was, of course, completely visible at all times.  No one still living knew how the university
got its name.  Speculation among the more
recent students favored the myth that a preeminent and powerful wizard, who
also happened to be arch chancellor of the university a few centuries past,
cast an invisibility spell to conceal its location.  (This theory was actually correct as far as
it went.)  The ancient arch chancellor’s goal
was to include “the finding” of the university as part of the entrance exams
for would be wizards.  Thus, it was
necessary to make it hard to find as none of the wizards in residence wanted to
be bothered with teaching wizard classes and if the university was invisible,
very few people could find it and the wizards in residence could be about the
business of wizardry and eating without interruptions.
Unfortunately, like
all the wizards in residence, the arch chancellor was only a powerful and
skilled wizard in his own mind and the spell did not work.  However, the arch chancellor did not realize
the spell failed and believed that the university and its grounds were now
invisible along with everyone inside, and therefore officially changed the
name.  All the resident wizards knew (in
their minds at least) that the arch chancellor was a bright, powerful, and
highly skilled wizard, so they did not for a moment suspect the spell had
failed.  (It is a well-known fact that
wizards can see right through working invisibility spells, so not one wizard
suspected the truth.)  So, The Invisible
University remained “invisible” in plain sight over the following centuries.
Believing the
university to be invisible, none of the wizards could understand why were there
so many rats in the pantries and larders. 
How could the rats even find the invisible university when it can’t be
seen?  (Apparently, wizards are so
self-centered they never suspected that other living things could smell food as
well or better than wizards.)  They correctly
deduced that the rats were eating much of the food destined for the wizard’s
table four times a day, and also many of the snacks for between meals.  Consequently, when a bolt of lightning struck
the arch chancellor’s room and powered up a light globe, he awoke with an idea
to solve the problem.  The arch
chancellor immediately called a meeting to announce his plan to summon Death,
also known as The Grim Reaper, to complain about the rats and demanding to know
why He did not “reap” them.  As usual, no
one wanted to get out of bed OR to
gain say the arch chancellor, so several of the wizards prepared the library
and joined together in forming and casting the spell, and getting a mid-night snack. 
This may seem strange
to non-wizards, but Death and wizards have a professional relationship.  For example, wizards can see Death and Death
will appear before their time is up and let them know how much time they have
left so they can prepare for the transition.  For some unknown reason, children and cats can
also see Death.
The spell was cast
and a very annoyed Death arrived having been summoned from a very pleasant
afternoon on the beaches of Y-Key-Key and into the midst of a leaky and
rattling building on a dark and stormy night.

The
arch chancellor put the question to Death, but then had to resurrect it so he
could ask it to Death (who was not amused by the arch chancellor repeating the
question over and over thus beating it to death.)  Death told the arch chancellor to invent a
better rat trap so there would be rats whose spirits needed reaping.  Death also explained that reaping rats was
not his job.  At this point, Death reached
into his robe and introduced his newest assistant, The Death of Rodents, also
known as The Grim Squeaker.
Death then departed,
returning to his chaise-lounge and piña colada at Y-Key-Key, leaving the
squeaker behind.
Try as they might
(actually the wizards never tried, because one of the cooks brought in a
pregnant cat). The cat along with her eventual brood, kept the Death of Rodents
very busy.
And that is the true
story of how the wizards of The Invisible University saved their food.
Believe it or not!

[Death and the Grim Squeeker are patterned after Death and the Death of Rats in Terry Pratchett’s Disc World books.]

© 13 October 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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Preparation, by Ricky

The Scout Motto is “Be Prepared.” I was a scout, so I learned as a young teenager to think ahead and prepared for any situation. It did not matter if it was for an upcoming camping trip, scout meeting, school tests, potential rain or snow fall, driving on less that a full tank of gas, or fixing dinner for my siblings; I always tried to have everything I might need to successfully complete the activity.

One rather dramatic failure to look ahead was when Deborah and I bought a new Toyota Land Cruiser to prepare for a job within the Sheriff’s Department which I did not get. I obtained two used “jerry cans” each of which held 5-gallons of gasoline and bolted their “holders” to the side of the vehicle. When it was time to use the gas while on a trip to Sacramento, I poured the gas into the main gas tank and soon thereafter the engine began to miss and eventually would not run at all.

Fortunately, we were near our destination in Sacramento and our friends came and towed us to their home. One of their friends diagnosed our problem to be a clogged fuel filter. I had not anticipated that the “jerry cans” were older and had rusted inside. Eventually little particles of rust in the gas had clogged the fuel filter. After installing a new fuel filter and cleaning out the “jerry cans” and refilling them with gas, we were able to finish our trip without any further trouble.

© 16 August 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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Hands, by Ricky

This story and memories are about hands, specifically my hands, although the hands of others may be mentioned. My hands are versatile; they work as a team or as individuals. They usually do good work but sometimes they shirk working altogether.

My hands like to do different tasks. One likes to write and brush my teeth. The other one likes to bowl, throw balls, and take the lead in batting a baseball. One pushes buttons and wipes both windows and my butt. One feeds me while the other helps and then loads the dishwasher. The first holds my rifle while the second squeezes the trigger. One likes to give me pleasure while the other usually watches, joining in on rare occasions. One operates my cell phone while the other holds it steady. Both make a great team using a keyboard and communicating using various non-verbal signs. They coordinate holding books and turning pages so I can read stories. They both chip in to sort clothes for the laundry and then to fold and hang them up later.

When I was a baby they both tasted good, even sweet like candy. At bath-time, they were my toys and servants, washing me at my command. As I grew my toys changed and my hands acquired new skills. They collaborated with my legs and feet and I was able to ride a tricycle and later, bicycles. They learned how to fly a kite and to operate lawn mowers. Still later, they would allow me to drive automobiles.

My hands would often do things that got them dirty, and then they wash each other to remove the dirt and grime. When I was younger, they liked to play in the snow but don’t enjoy it very much now.

My hands traveled far and wide. They have been to Disneyland, Disney World, Euro Disney, Knott’s Berry Farm, Shasta Dam, Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, Trees of Mystery, Crescent City, Grand Coulee Dam, Portland,

Vancouver, Seattle, Boy Scout World Jamboree, BSA Camps Winton and Harvey West, British Columbia, Alberta, Niagara Falls, Times Square, France, Germany, Moscow, Voronezh, Saint Petersburg, Tampa, New Orleans, San Antonio, Tucson, Sea World, the Eiffel Tower, Bitter Root Valley, Hot Springs Arkansas, both Titan and Minuteman missile silos, Pierre, straddled flag pole peak while holding on to the flag pole, and their favorite—piloting the Skipalong on Lake Tahoe.

Yet for all of this travel my hands are just two of many and are not particularly noteworthy like some others. Hansel is famous for getting lost. Handel is famous for composing music. Hans Christian Anderson is famous for writing stories for children. Hans Conried is a famous actor. Hans Zimmer is a composer. Hans Albert is a philosopher.

There are many hands. Black hands, white hands, Oriental hands, Polynesian hands, brown hands, straight hands, LGBT hands, and perhaps others, but they all have one thing in common. They are all attached to people who want to live a happy life and provide a happy life for their descendants.

The song says in part, “He’s got the whole world in his hands. …” Isn’t it about time all of us humans settle down and live peaceably together—before He uses His hands to slap us silly?

© 28 June 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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Exercising, by Ricky

For my entire life, exercising is an exercise in futility. Futile because I never liked to “exercise”. In elementary school I enjoyed playing at recess. Even the time labeled Physical Fitness was just a fancy term for recess. 

When I arrived in High School, recess became Physical Education or PE for short. After a few pushups, sit-ups, deep knee bends, toe touching, and trunk twisting to warm up (all of which I detested), the rest of the period was nothing more than organized recess in which we played softball, football, basketball or ran laps on the track. The best part of PE recess was the mandatory gang showers at the end of the period. Apparently, most of the teachers objected to smelly adolescent boys and girls in their classrooms. Perhaps the sweat laden pheromones were too much for teachers to handle professionally by causing them too much temptation.

Another exercise in futility was resisting the temptations created by a female teacher who would wear loosely fitting low-cut blouses while sitting on the front edge of her desk lecturing and frequently leaning forward exposing the beginning of her bosoms and a bit of frilly bra or slip. My desk was directly in front of her desk. It was hard for this 14-year old to concentrate and pay attention with all that exposure staring me in the face. 

Speaking of hard, I always had to leave the room with my book binder held in front of my crotch for a few minutes. Alas poor me. It was futile to even fantasize a breach of the “look but don’t touch a teacher” rule because, she never said anything to encourage or tease out a fantasy or a grope. Alas, none of the male teachers did either. If any teacher had done so, I willingly would have given in and had real sex at a much earlier age.

Yet another reason exercise was futile became apparent as I joined the Air Force to avoid the draft when I flunked out of my first year of college. Whatever benefits I gained from all those recesses, PE classes, and basic training were completely lost when the Air Force assigned me to a desk job. At the time, there was no exercise requirement so all that “benefit” wore off and the time I spent playing at exercising was wasted on me.

© 24 August 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

Being Gay Is …, by Ricky

Being gay is a many
splintered thing. A gay person faces many splinters during their lifetime.  If these splinters are not removed and the
wounds treated properly, the splinters will remain under the skin working their
way deeper and deeper into a person’s psyche infecting the brain with festering
and toxic mental traumas.
One such trauma is the lack
of knowledge resulting in confusion as to why one feels “different” from other
boys while growing up; resulting in making interpersonal mistakes at a young
age and becoming labeled, shunned, isolated, or assaulted. These negative
experiences last for years or a lifetime if not diagnosed and treated.
Since the seeds of a happy
life are sown from the moment we are born, traumatic splinters must be removed
as soon as discovered lest their toxicity prevents the seeds of happiness from
growing and propagating.
In America, gay orientation
is slowly being tolerated on the way to becoming acceptable to the heterosexual
culture.  I anticipate that today’s gay
youth may have fewer splinters in their lives and may live to see a time when
gay boys and girls can become complete and mentally undamaged or traumatized
by toxic attitudes towards them.
© 29 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. 

Posted on

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me, by Ricky

In the spring of 1969, I was
in the Air Force and stationed at Hurlburt Field near Ft. Walton Beach in the
western panhandle of Florida.  One day I
was alone driving north along a road which was basically the top of a mile long
levy which was dividing a swamp to the west from farm land on the east.  The road/levy was approximately 10-feet above
the level of the swamp to my right.
I saw, about ½ mile ahead of
me and traveling in the same direction, two boys riding on one bicycle rather
unsteadily.  I was driving at the speed
limit of 55mph.  In the distance way
beyond the boys, I could see a school bus driving south coming towards us.
Suddenly, I heard a voice in
my head telling me to “slow down”.  I was
surprised because I know what my thoughts sound like and this “voice” was not
mine.  When I did not respond as directed
due to my surprise, the “voice” spoke again saying for forcibly, “Slow down!
Those boys are going to fall in front of you.” 
I immediately took my foot off the gas pedal and the car began to slow.
Sure enough, when I was
about 40 yards away, the bicycle hit some kind of object near the edge of the
road and the boys fell off the bike right in front of me.  As luck would have it, the school bus also
arrived going the speed limit.  I was now
going slowly enough that I was able to stop in plenty of time.  If I had not received the warning or heeded
it, I would have had three choices.  Run
over the fallen boys, swerve to the left and hit the school bus head on, or
swerve to the right going off the levy into the swamp.
I got out and made sure the
boys were okay.  I then had one boy ride
in my car while the other one rode his bicycle to the end of the levy where the
boys would turn onto a side street to their destination.  I followed behind the bicycle so no other car
would hit him, if he fell again.  At the
end of the levy, both boys thanked me and rode off to their destination.
I have not heard any “voices”
since that time on the levy.
© 6 October 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.
Posted on

The Dance, by Ricky

          In
the fifth grade of elementary school (1958/59), one winter week on a Monday,
instead of going outside in the cold and snow our teacher, Miss Herbert, had us
stay inside for morning recess.  On that
day and the remainder of the week, we learned to square dance and polka.  It was really fun, except for holding hands
with the girls, which was tolerated as it was necessary for “the dance”.  Nonetheless, we boys would rather have been
outside playing touch football in the snow and slush.  Since we were all bundled up for the
conditions, the “two-hand touch below the waste” rule was usually forgotten in
favor of full-tackle football.
          In
1958/59 South Tahoe only received Channel 8 television out of Reno,
Nevada.  One day in the spring of 1959 I
turned on the TV after coming home from school and to my surprise there were
many of my classmates dancing on Reno’s version of Dick Clark’s music and dance
show.  Now, I could not have attended
because I had to be home to babysit but, I wished they would have at least
asked me to attend.  It wasn’t rational
of me, but I did let it hurt my feelings.
          Once
during my high school years, my mother set me up with a date to the junior prom
with the daughter of family friends.  I
actually didn’t want to go and wasn’t planning on going but mom insisted, so I
did take the girl.  Her parents threw us
a pre-prom dinner featuring a small glass of champagne and some unremembered
food.  At the dance I danced every slow
dance with her (there were precious few of those) and the last dance was also a
slow one.  Other than those times, she
and I did the wall-flower imitation. 
Occasionally, another boy would ask her to dance the fast ones and I did
not object.  All in all, I don’t think
either of us really had any fun.  I can’t
speak for her, but I was just too self-conscious to go out and fast dance in
front of people as I really did lack coordination.
          Even
after I married in December of 1973, I was not fond of dancing, nor did my wife
ever get me to feel comfortable dancing although she did try quite often.  The only dance in which I am competent, is
the one I do while waiting for the bathroom to become vacant.
© October
2012
About the Author 
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I 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

Away from Home, by Ricky

On Tuesday, 21 July, Donald and I drove to Lehi, Utah and used it as a “base” to do a little tourism. The next day we visited the Temple Square visitor center. I took him up to see the copy of the Christus Statue whose original is in the Church of Our Lady in Copenhagen, Denmark. This is a special place to me because this is where I proposed to Deborah who promptly said, “Maybe.” Being an artist, Donald was impressed with the surroundings.

Donald and I then went across the grassy “plaza” to the Tabernacle where at luck would have it, we were in time for an organ recital. Donald really enjoyed that. He had been to Temple Square before but had no opportunity to see or go inside.

We then went to the Family Search facility where with a little help from a friendly volunteer managed to find Donald’s father in some old census records.

Donald used to work as window trimmer supervisor for various department stores throughout his life. His store would often come in second place to ZCMI department store in Salt Lake City, so he wanted to see who was winning the awards. During the past century, the LDS Church divested itself from ownership and sold the pioneer era building to Macy’s. The old building was demolished but the old front façade was preserved into the new building.

It was late by then so we returned to Lehi and prepared for our adventure on the next day.

The next morning, Thursday, we drove to BYU because Donald really wanted to see where I went to college. After arriving, we walked from the parking lot to what you would call the “student union building”. While there, I bought us each a “famous” BYU Brownie. When I sent my daughters back in Lakewood the photo below, they replied I better bring them some or don’t bother to come home.

Donald and I really enjoyed them. When finished, we walked over part of the campus and I pointed out some of the landmarks. I took him to the Karl G. Maeser Memorial Building, the oldest building on the BYU campus which currently houses the honors program.

The campus is built on the shelf/plateau left behind by the receding waters of Lake Utah and consequently overlooks Utah Valley.

After Deborah gave me her “maybe” at my proposal of marriage, we drove to BYU and she took me to her favorite place which is/was on the side of the plateau not far from the Maeser Building. I tried to take Donald there to show him, but too much time had passed and the place was no longer in existence. At the time it was a small bench underneath a small arched trellis along a tree and plant lined path which ran from the bottom of the plateau upwards to the top coming out just before the university president’s house. While sitting together there, she changed her “maybe” to “YES”.

It was a HOT day and Donald and I were running out of walking power so we returned to the air conditioned car and left the campus. He really wanted to go see where the church’s Christmas programs were broadcast from so we returned to Salt Lake City.

The Tabernacle was too small to hold the crowds of people who wanted to attend the semi-annual church conferences, so the church built a new and huge Conference Center across the street to the north of Temple Square. Upon our arrival, we parked in an underground parking garage directly under the “center of town” and then went to the Conference Center.

We took the 30-minute tour and, as luck would have it, discovered that every Thursday night at 7:30pm, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir held a rehearsal in the building. We attended. Donald was mesmerized and I learned a lot about how much practice and effort goes into a professional choir performance.

Once again Donald was thrilled. I was also enjoying this trip because Donald was excited with just about everything we did and his enthusiasm was infectious. At this point we were done being tourists and were ready to return to Lehi for a good night’s rest before returning to Denver in the morning. However, one more real and unexpected adventure lay before us. 

(The following is the story all of the previous stuff was leading up to.)

As I said earlier, we had parked in an underground parking garage. When we came up from the garage, the elevator doors opened directly into what had been the old Hotel Utah. Naturally, we did not pay attention to where it was. Consequently, we had to ask directions on how to get back into the parking garage where we were parked on level 2.  A local volunteer gave us good directions but unknowingly to the wrong garage. When Donald and I got out of the elevator, we were on Level 1 and we could not find any other elevator or stairs to level 2. Eventually, a middle aged man came by and I told him we were lost and if he knew where level 2 was. He invited us to ride in his car as he drove around all of level 1 to make sure I was not confused as to which level on which I had parked.

Not having any success, we then went to level 2 followed by levels 3, 4, and 5. At that point the gentleman thought he would have to drop us off at security. Suddenly, he asked if I had a parking permit. I said I did and pulled it out of my pocket. (It was the kind of small business card size permit you usually get at any paid parking complex.) He was a bit mystified and then pulled out his permit which was much bigger, plastic, and a hang-on-the-rearview-mirror type. That is when he recognize that we, in fact, Donald and I were in the wrong garage. At that point we left the underground complex, drove around the block and entered the complex again and following my entry route arrived at my car on level 2 moments later.

We thanked him for his kindness, courtesy, and assistance and learned that his name was Phillip. Judging from another Phillip I know, I guess kindness and courtesy automatically come with the name.

© 3 August 2015

PS: Maybe if we each contribute $20 to Gillian and Betsy, perhaps they will let us have a party at their house while they are Away From Home.

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

Alas, Poor … , by Ricky

If someone else is reading this to the story telling group, then know I can’t be with you due to water leaking into my basement. Alas, it is the poor house for poor me.

When my spouse, Deborah, was a little girl of 4 or 5 years, she would frequently spend the night with her grandmother, Marie. Marie’s house was a small two-story home with two bedrooms up a narrow and steep stairs and with a front porch that had a swing. The indoor bathroom was on the ground floor. Deborah really loved the house and her grandmother. At night they would both sleep in the same bed under a thick layer of blankets and in the winter, quilts.

Marie was rather elderly and could not use the stairs without some degree of caution and did not like to go down to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Consequently, she had a ceramic chamber pot which she kept under the bed in case of need. In due time, Deborah noticed it and inquired as to why it was under the bed and what was its use. Naturally, Marie explained what it was and how it was used. Deborah began to help Marie safely negotiate the stairs in the morning to empty the chamber pot. Deborah was allowed to carry the pot back upstairs and return it to under the bed.

One fateful day the pot slipped out of Deborah’s hands and fell to the floor shattering into several pieces. When Marie came upstairs in response to the noise of the pot breaking, she found Deborah in a mild state of shock and fear. Marie knew how to take such accidental breakages in stride. She looked woefully at Deborah, who was barely able not to cry, and defused the situation by saying in a very sad voice, “Poor pot.” They both burst out laughing and “poor pot” became a private funny memory for them. If things were not going well, either one could say “poor pot” and immediately cheer up the other.

As for poor Yorick the slain court jester, I believe Shakespeare killed him — in the library — with the quill. Yorick probably told Will a “Rickyism” (a play on words) and was stabbed in the heart for his trouble.

© 15 June 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