Tag Archive | Erickson Educational Foundation

‘Breaking Out The Loose Ends’


‘Breaking Out The Loose Ends’

*(1969 xx xx) Slim - Muffin - Charlie (Side yard)

(24 Apr 18)


Greetings, Wai, Sahwdee Khaf, Yasou.

I am overdue for a post to this web-site.

Much has been happening – life – allow me to share some moments that I hope are of interest to you, Dear Reader.


I found Mary G a few weeks ago – my Pinewood school-mate and Prom date for 10th Grade and 11th Grade.  We are doing well catching up on old times.

Here’s one of her favourite songs:

It’s good.  Give a listen.

*(1972 xx xx) Dad-Slim at Anatolia campus

In terminology during the 1960s, 1970s, 1980s when I was young, there we these.

‘Pseudo Transsexual’:  Someone with a mental development of a sex different from their assigned sex, but has minimal desire to change from their assigned anatomical sex.  ‘I want to be a girl.’  ‘I want to be a boy.’

”True Transsexual’:  Someone with a mental development of a sex different from their assigned sex and is determined to change it – consistently, persistently, insistently.  ‘I am a girl!’  ‘I am a boy!’

‘Feminine Protesting’ tantrums:  When a boy insists that she is a girl.  ‘Masculine Protesting’ was for a girl who insists that he is a boy.

‘Gender Dysphoria’:  A mental condition when identity is incongruent with anatomy.

(1972 03 00) Slim and Nick at Anatolia CampusSome people insist using ‘Transgender’.  That is becoming an umbrella term that actually does not apply to many it purports to include.  Its literal meaning is someone who changes their gender identity.  My gender identity has always been female, so ‘Transgender’ doesn’t apply to me.

‘Transsexual’ is used by some to report that they changed their sex anatomy.  Technically, this also doesn’t apply to me because I always have been a genetic female.  It was my birth room doctor who erroneously assigned me to ‘male’; it was my family who forced me to ‘present’ as male based upon that faulty assignment.  It was one of my doctors during Transition who diagnosed me female due to Inter-sex in 1982.

‘Trans’ tends to be used as both short-hand and as a way to better include ‘Transgender’ and ‘Transsexual’.

Some people currently scorn the use of ‘sex change’, I don’t.  It was a common term that I recall from my youngest days and into the 1980s.  While maybe in detail it is not what happened to me from my perspective, it is a simple term to explain what I did as perceived by the outside world.

(1973 02 xx) Kathy-Nick-Slim at Thasos‘Hermaphrodite’ was in common use until some time recently.  It fell into disfavour, but I have no idea why.  I have seen ‘Inter-sex’ being used as far back as 1974.  I am fine using either term for myself.


I don’t have value in chiropractic.  As to what it is – I consider it as little more than a massage.

My dad had kidney cancer from at least 1963; it’s what killed him by 1989.

I often wonder if my dad’s prescription pills that I was downing in October 1968 (trying to commit suicide) were pills meant to treat my dad’s kidney illness.  He was hospitalised in January 1969.

My earlier suicide efforts were kinda dumb – the ‘I’ll show you’ sort.

When my dad and I stayed at his sister’s home (Summer 1967), I would sit on the railroad tracks near their home, I hoped a train would hit me.  None came.  I didn’t know that the rail was a commuter line – morning and evening rush hour only.  D’oh!


Skip to 1980s.  My dad’s illness was hitting him.  He continually complained of ‘back’ pain.  I was employed in the medical community – health insurance utilisation review.  I was honestly concerned for my dad’s health.  He went to chiropractic; he refused to see medical doctors or cancer doctors as I tried insisting.  His chiropractor obviously failed to recognise my dad’s true reason for ‘back’ pain – his kidney cancer that was spreading throughout his entire anatomy.

As Lisa told me, my dad was teaching class one day (January 1989).  He suddenly collapsed right there in his classroom.  Emergency ambulance took him to the hospital, doctors finally examined him, they told him that he had six months to live.

You and me – we compare our dad’s timeline to our own.  I am at my dad’s timeline same as when that hospital doctor told him that he was terminally ill.


My Thai Experience friend sent this URL to me:

I tried to listen to that Dr. Bowers’ video.

‘Try’ is the key word.  The audio volume is almost nothing – I have my device’s volume full blast, but can barely hear her.

It is frustrating!

Whoever edited this didn’t bother to check the volume levels.

*(1970 06) Slim - Crater Lake (sitting - portrait)

I have been experiencing back pain – or at least perceiving pain at my lower back – during the past three weeks.

The frustration is how that pain – or at least the perception of a sensation that my mind interprets as ‘pain’ – comes and goes with no connection to anything.

My back feels okay lying down, getting up, walking, moving, bending – small twinges, but quite okay.

Sitting initiates paralysing ‘pain’ – I can barely move when I try getting up – it is absolutely excruciating – YOUCH! – the pain hits.  But once I walk, move, bend, stretch, then I have no disabling pain – just a twinge.

Lying down on my back, I can move, bend, and no pain.

This is frustrating!

I think that I am hungry and want to eat, but when that pain hits, I lose all interest.  I have barely eaten much these past weeks: a couple burritos from the fast food joint, Dragon Fruit, four apples, two Dragon Fruit, three pears, a can of sardines, yoghourt, and three cans of pineapple.

I went to my clinic’s Urgent Care facility.  They took X-ray views of my back and sides to determine any injury or deterioration of my spinal cord, vertebrae, discs.  No real issue there.  My X-ray established that I can eliminate vertebrae, disc, and spinal column injury or damage.  The doctor supposed that my pains are muscular and prescribed muscle relaxers.

It is not as though I did something to stress a muscle – no over-working, no excessive movement.

Two days later I began experiencing diarrhea that continued for five days.  But I had a colonoscopy less than 18 months ago; my Primary told me at my appointment from last week that there is nothing wrong with my bowels.

Along the way I saw network TV news reports about e coli poisoning spreading through the area.  I read about e coli from a handful of reliable Internet web-sites and wonder if this is what I have.IMG_0296

I clean fruits and vegetables as reasonably as possible – skin fruit, too (banana, orange, avocado).  I wash eating utensils and dishes. I wash after using the toilet.

I read that it helps to soak fruits and vegetables in baking soda before a final wash.  I bought baking soda the other day, mixed some in a bowl with baking soda in some water, soaked some items.  We’ll see if that helps clean better – if this was e coli from tainted food.

The only event that I can determine is that perhaps an e coli infected person touched something on the city bus and that I touched that infected surface.

A friend suggested seeking chiropractic treatment.  I don’t have value in chiropractic.  As to what it is – I consider that it is little more than a massage.

My dad had kidney cancer from at least 1963; it’s what killed him by 1989.  He was hospitalised in January 1969.  I often wonder if my dad’s prescription pills that I was downing in October 1968 (trying to commit suicide) were pills meant to treat my dad’s kidney illness.


Skip to 1980s.  My dad’s illness was hitting him.  He continually complained of ‘back’ pain.  I was employed in the medical community – health insurance utilisation review.  I was honestly concerned for my dad’s health. He went to chiropractic and refused to see medical doctors or cancer doctors as I tried insisting.  His chiropractor obviously failed to recognise my dad’s true reason for ‘back’ pain – his kidney cancer that was spreading throughout his entire anatomy.

As Lisa told me, my dad was teaching class one day (January 1989).  He suddenly collapsed right there in his classroom.  Emergency ambulance took him to the hospital, medical doctors finally examined him, they told him that he had six months to live.

I compare my dad’s chronology to my own.  I am now at a time in my life corresponding to my dad’s life when that hospital doctor told him that he was terminally ill.  These are heavy thoughts for me to ponder; I can barely comprehend my dad’s thoughts.

*(2015 08 20) Decide to be a Girl11046480_376569759191961_3227315234969587031_n

Quite simply put, no one goes into fits when a child with apparent female anatomy says that she is a girl; similarly, no fuss when a child with male anatomy says that he is a boy.

But just let a child self-identify different than how their birth room doctors assigned them and whole populations want to deny civil rights, go to war, kill.

You likely said to people when you were a child – ‘I’m a girl’ (when your doctor assigned you female) or ‘I am a boy’ (when your doctor assigned you male).  No one sought to beat you for it.

Well, when I affirmed to my family that I am a girl – at least as young as age 3 – my parents beat me, my sister beat me.

But they were inconsistent.

We would go visit relatives here where I grew up.  I made a bee-line to the bathroom, put on my teen cousins’ make-up, and was greeted with: ‘Oh, Nickie, what a cute little girl!’.  Then my cousins, my sister, and I would all go into our cousins’ bedroom, play records, and I would dance ‘like a girl’ to their amusement.

My school where I attended Kindergarten and 1st Grade had no issue when I used the girls toilet.  The only time I ever got in trouble being in the girls restroom was when my girl friend and I got caught throwing wet toilet paper at the ceiling and walls.

When I wore Kathy’s clothes, I got punished for taking them without permission, not for wearing them.

First time I was forced to use male toilets at school was Catholic school beginning at 2nd Grade.  The nuns would have none of me dare use the girls toilet.

*(1977 12 30) Stanford Reply (Name Covered)

I took time to ponder the past four decades. It all fits – it is all interconnected.

  • Stanford University Medical Center’s ‘Gender Dysphoria Program’ accepted me in 1977.
  • Forty years ago this month was my first medical appointment to obtain clearance; my physician approved me to proceed with Transition

I have few of my own experiences to compare that are typical of the ‘vanilla’ M-F Trans person.

One was wearing women’s undies – full-time beginning when my dad and I lived at New Mexico (1977 – 1978).

I first bought my undies and female attire through the Sears catalogue (1977) – separate orders from that which my dad made, but scheduled for the same pick-up date.  We ordered many items from that catalogue.  I was the one who drove to pick-up our merchandise.

I didn’t have the nerve to go as Nick to buy in the store.  No urge to browse lingerie specialty shops for me.  I still buy undies, bras, slips at the intimate section at Target or K-Mart; it’s just utilitarian to me, not erotic or sensual.

My Transition was long ago; I can’t consult with my diaries because they were stolen (2014).

I got to start thinking about 1979.

A pivotal year!  Gawd, yes!  That year – 1979 – was so pivotal.

I had my medical appointment with the local physician (January).

  • What if I chickened out?
  • What if I said that all I wanted was a general physical exam now that I had health insurance?
  • What if I failed to present my Stanford papers to him?
  • What if he tossed me from his office?
  • What if he didn’t offer referrals me to get my counsellor? That led to my Internist? That began my estrogen?



I had no idea what to expect.  I was honest with him – I told him that I didn’t obligate him to be my doctor unless he could do it, but rather use his connections to help me find someone at Flagstaff.

I was scared about work.  I feared that I would need a doctor’s letter to verify my appointments and that they would reveal my medical privacy.  My work supervisor never required any verification from me.  I suppose that she knew anyway.

(1978 07 00) Information for the Family (Janus) (Cover)I visited with Kathy and my mom that February.  They both were overhearing my telephone call to a counsellor.  I overheard them later talking about me.  That is okay, I was always glad that you heard – it forced my family to comprehend my initiative even though they refused to talk with me about it.  That was when I heard my mom say her words to Kathy – that she was ‘one and done’ with Kathy, that she is not my birth mother.  That truth freed me.

That Summer 1979 was my first Forest Service vacation.  My dad drove to New Jersey, Kathy drove me to the airport, I flew to meet my dad at New Jersey, we stayed one week, we drove home the next week.

My Estrogen was beginning, it was working its magic.  My personality was suddenly quite different; little bothered me during that time because of my new-found euphoria.  I also felt good physically – upstairs and downstairs.  You know – same as Cis female puberty.

I wore T-shirts that trip – the same that I had been wearing before ‘E’.  My lack of self-consciousness, lack of new self-awareness, hardly realised how much I might have been showing upstairs.  I didn’t think much about til I was there in New Jersey.  Maybe my T-shirts were now too tight?  It was too late to pack something different.  At least I remembered to pack male undies.  How could I toss my female panties in the wash at my Aunt’s home before leaving New Jersey?  Can you imagine her wailing about that discovery!  That was probably the last time when I wore male undies for such a duration.

My dad most certainly must have known that something was, um, developing.

I so much wanted to share my news – with my dad, with family.  Nope, family was out, I couldn’t take that chance and start an argument where I had no place to go for safety.

I was the one who made driving music – usually I would dub a mix of genres and artists that my dad and I both liked.  We could play the cassettes when we drove through radio dead zones.  But something was very different about the music that Summer 1979.  The only male performance was Paul McCartney’s ‘Back to the Egg’.  All the other artists were female:  Blondie, Suzi Quatro, Shocking Blue, Heart, Jan Park, Dana, Patti Smith, Genya Raven, Janis Ian among what I immediately recall.

My dad refused to talk to me during our alone time.  Maybe it was fear – my dad was afraid for the inevitable that he saw was happening right before him.  Maybe he was trying to be sincere when he kept telling me to ‘talk to a priest’?  That started when we lived at New Mexico (1977).  But that priest was absolutely anti-Transsexual.  I knew because of his sermons. He didn’t say ‘Transsexual’, but it was part of his weekly diatribe.

My dad and I drove cross-country mostly in silence.


I think that it helpt me that I hardly fell susceptible to lures from advertisements.  Certainly having older female cousins and an older sister presented female role models and female realities to me – clothing styles, make-up, hair fashion, hygiene.  I as much grew up as a girl presenting as a boy – an unwilling F-M.

I wonder what people do today.  I submit that you Newbie transitioners only become aware of advertising targeting women when you begin your Transition.  You try figuring what real Cis females do.  You see that advertising – newspaper, magazine, TV – selling the ideal woman.  You don’t know what to think because female life is new.  You suddenly see all that junk and you get that false notion that women do what is shown in those ads.  Lingerie stores can attract the Newbies – someone new in their Transition.

I see Trans women walk around in gaudy clothes that do not match – as if they figure that when the label says ‘female’, then they wear it.  Nope, not like that.  Female sense for everyday attire is a simple match of clothing and accessories.

Some M-F Trans persons appear – at least to me – as though they have not bathed in a week, washed their hair in the past month, no sense of self and presentation.  But I am reluctant to judge because I don’t know where they are in their life – maybe they are in crisis, maybe someone taught them badly, maybe they don’t know better.

Others know how to dress appropriately – tops, skirts, jeans always match, always well-groomed and bathed.  You are pleasant to be with.

My best time was from 1985 (when I went full-time) to 1989 (before my dad died).  I was in great physical condition, I cared about my self.  My clothing was fashionable; my wardrobe during my work life was reasonable office conservative – plain matching tops and skirts, nothing flashy, no low-cut tops, no skirts or hems above the knee.  My dad’s death put me in a downward spiral that I have been fighting for 30 years.

My current attire is what could be termed comfortable.


I found this album on YouTube a few days ago – music from my Transition past that I really miss (it was stolen by those crooks in 2014).  I dubbed my album to audio cassette back in 1979 as driving music for my dad and I.

I could sing along with it when I had my singing voice.  I just began my Estrogen when this album came out (1979).  The opening track – ‘Something happening to me …’. Yes!

I played Jan Park again when I was outside on my patio washing a couple towels and a sheet the other day.


Another album from my past in 1979:

I used the intro of that song for background music on several productions I did at the radio station where I was a DJ.

Allow me to share some of the lyrics, how I felt them, how I re-worked some of the lyrics to fit events in my life during 1979 when this album was released:


‘The smaller the town, the more the rumours fly around and they stab you in the back.’

– Small-town people, small-town employer – the rumours of my status, my co-workers with their hurtful gossip.


‘When you’re 17 …’, ‘Read between the lines …’

– I am a Janis Ian fan, had most all her albums, relate this to my interpretation of Ian’s ‘At Seventeen’, ‘Society’s Child’.


‘Makes you realise living in a town this size …’

– But the small-town people and co-workers didn’t even know my name, they never ‘knew’ me.


‘You know it made me see ..’

– They were never fooling me.


‘The stab in the back and the rumours in fact …’

– Are more than in my mind – they were quite real, quite painful.


‘I found the truth …’

Telling me to be!  Not going back.


‘The girl is back …’

– You can say I’m going ‘home’ – somewhere else will be my ‘home’.  You could say I’m never calling that small town, that small-town employer, my ‘home’ though I left with many emotions from there.

Many reasons why I stopped there when I drove the moving truck from Utah to Tucson (1985).

I could have easily filled up gas at Flagstaff and drove right through without stopping.

I had to see if anyone still knew me five years later.  Nope.  No one recognised me.

The woman at the diner downstairs from where I once resided didn’t bat an eye at me, not one sliver of recognition.

Nor the filling station on the corner.  I could have gone to the Whiting Brothers that was cheaper, but the guy at the filling station knew Nick every day for two years.  All he saw of me Sharon in 1985 was some crazy bitch who has no business driving a truck – about what he was cursing at me when I drove to the pumps.

(1985 08 xx) Pima CC ID - (1988 xx xx) DES IDI travelled there sometime later – don’t recall what year other than likely before 1989.  I went to my former Forest Service employer pretending to be a tourist seeking information.  OMG!  Lydia was still working the reception desk.  My heart nearly beat me out of my gourd.  All the days Lydia and I talked during lunch and break for two years, not even Lydia, a decade following Nick’s departure, recognised Sharon.

I also saw a few others during the few minutes there, I currently don’t recall whom.   They didn’t recognise me.

Most all those co-workers were phonies.  They considered Nick only as a foul rumour – queer, f*gg*t – words they spoke behind my back when they didn’t know I was listening.  Or maybe because they knew that I was listening, but they were too cowardly to tell me to my face.


This came into my Facebook feed:

I noticed it is from ‘Ehipassiko’ – that was the first Trans web-site that I found three years ago, but haven’t checked in since maybe two years ago.


Well, I don’t know.

Is it me?

Is it them?

I met many people these three years since I put my stealth in my past – people at Trans support groups.

Then I look at all the people I met doing TV for more than 20 years.

People from work.

I have only one friend in my life from all these years.

Am I that unpleasant to everyone else?

Maybe my self-isolation stunted my capacity to socialise?

Certainly outsiders could surmise that I am weird if maybe my Transsexualism complicates my presence that they don’t understand.  But they do not know that I am Transsexual and Inter-sex.

Certainly people at the support groups can’t use my Trans and Inter-sex against me.  They are hardly in a position to render that judgement against me.

Yep.  Support groups played their role in my life and now it is time to move on.

We’ll see what happens with other social ideas.

This past Saturday morning was the Phoenix Electric Auto Club meeting.  I decided to ditch this month.  Maybe next?


I agree that the past is done.  My past made me who I am today.  I would be someone else somewhere else if I had a different past.

Just one tweak, for example.(2002 xx xx) Estrogen Warnings (p 1 of 2)

If I left Tucson that fatefull December 1999 Sunday evening a few minutes earlier (or later?).  I was being sociable with the gas station attendant, wishing him Merry Christmas in case I didn’t return til next year.  Five minutes earlier (or later) and that bus might not have hit me.


Experiment with your estrogen if you think it will work.

I have been amiss – off my estrogen and progesterone meds – these past two, three weeks.  I had none during the 10 days prior to my blood draw.  I figure that will test where I am without all exogenous hormones.

I still have not made much effort to keep current.  I don’t totally care right now.  But it’s not just prescriptions.  I have also ditched vitamins and supplements.

That is not to mention lack of interest in food.

*(2002 xx xx) Estrogen Warnings (p 2 of 2)

Religion makes a difference to people.

Some can’t get past their dogma that lets them abuse and beat a Trans child or other Trans family member (such as mine).  Other families allow the opportunity to learn with the child.

You are accurate about the life-or-death option.  My family chose that they would rather have me a dead ‘male’ than a living daughter.

My mother beat me quite severely when she had custody of my sister and me.

When our dad got custody, then he was the one who beat me – sometimes hitting me for 30 minutes and more.  Kathy used to keep score of the time and tell me how long.

The reason why my dad and I travelled to Greece was directly following a beating.  We had a real bad argument the first Thursday of February 1971.  He literally pulled at my right arm trying to dislocate it all the while taunting me to scream.  ‘No one will hear you.’

The next day, he came home from work and told me that he applied to two foreign schools – one at Afghanistan, the other at Greece.

Pinewood hired my dad.  There you have it.

All through Spring 1971, my dad warned me that I better keep my mouth shut, ‘or else’.  I did have arguments with my dad while we lived there at Greece, but I also had the sense to take in the experience.

Nowadays, not one local ‘family’ member has anything to do with me.  I occasionally send texts to them asking to visit – no reply.  My Cousin Bev recently unfriended me from Facebook.  Kathy does not correspond with me.

I can’t say that no ‘family’ will communicate with me.  Relatives from West Virginia occasionally text me.  Cousin Nancy posted some harsh comments to my Facebook page recently.  And there is her older brother Cousin James.

I am the only one in ‘family’ who is Left of Ghengis Khan.  My ‘family’ are long-time Republi-con.  Bev’s older brother made the rounds in his state’s politics – himself a loyal Republi-con appointed by Republi-con governors to be director of various state agencies to impose Republi-con ideology.  He ran the state Republi-con Party, or whatever it was.

My sister Kathy and her family are among the infamous ‘1%’.

Sometimes I try excusing my ‘family’.

My dad received the Bronze Star for combat in Korea.  God only knows what he must have experienced the couple years when he was there.

My mom was an alcoholic.  She frequently told me how she was bullied at school as ‘that little Mexican girl’ so much that she quit high school early and found comfort in booze.  She was okay sober, but deadly on booze.

Our dad goaded Kathy to beat me or else he would beat her.

Crazy family.

There was no such thing as ‘domestic violence’ when I was growing up during the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s.  Besides, even if there was, what was the point?  I was a child during my mom’s custody; my dad presented evidence of abuse and beatings to the Family Court, but they ruled that my sister and I had to remain in our mother’s charge – susceptible to further beatings during her drunken rages.  I lived dependent upon my dad til 1978 when the Forest Service hired me; if I had called the police on my father and they arrested him, prosecuted him, sent him to prison – then what was I to do?

I so understand people who have been demoralised by family abuse.  It is a trap with no escape.


Most all politoical candidates pose to their electorate:  ‘Elections have consequences’.

I pose that same point to you, Dear Reader.  Liberal or Con-servative.  Democratic or Republi-con.

We don’t elect candidates in a vacuum.  No candidate is perfect – same as the rest of us.  Thus, our choice is not merely the individual candidate, but their political party, their political platform, the history, the following – all part of those ‘consequences’.

There are people in my life who claimed to hold similar perspectives as mine, yet they are Republi-con, they campaigned for Crooked Drumpf, they tell me to wait and give him time.  Others now claim that they preferred a different Republi-con candidate.  Does not matter.  You failed to consider the consequences of your vote.

() Supreme Court Guts Voting Rights ActThese people remain absolutely blind about Hillary Clinton.  They only know their Republi-con Party line:  hate Clinton, love Crooked Drumpf.  They have no motivation to recognise that their Party lies to them.

Some are starting to peel away, deny that they ever supported Republi-cons or Crooked Drumpf.  Yet they are not taking concern for the consequences of their vote.

People change only through their own initiative.  Some will not examine themselves, they refuse information contrary to what they hold as their truth.


Barbara Bush.

Sorry, I don’t feel mushy about her.  She was mildly defined as a Feminist during the 1970s.  But both husband George and boss Reagan read the riot act to her in 1980 – either fall in line politically, ‘or else’.  She abandoned her principles to surrender to George, Reagan, the Party.

I have no respect for her doing that.


So here I am – I am at this place in my journey because of what I did 40 years ago.  I wanna laugh.  I wanna cry.  I wanna celebrate.

With you – friends, family, support group members, strangers on the city bus.

Or without you.

*(2016 01 19) Bangkok Central Train Station (Ildi)

Dear Reader, allow me to spend my time outside on my patio enjoying the Spring weather, the fresh air, hearing the birds chirping and cooing.  I would like to socialise with the human species, but find it difficult as long as the rest of it considers me that misfit outcast.

Thank you for visiting today.  Please return for another essay.  Meanwhile, enjoy the other compositions here at this web-site.



‘Dancing On The Astral Plane’


‘Dancing On The Astral Plane’

*(1973 04 xx) Xanthi Easter Pageant 1

(04 Jan 18)


Welcome, Yassou, and Wai, Dear Reader.

It’s time for another episode.

This starts with a lead to another brief philosophical comment about how life’s twists and turns can have major and minor effects upon who we are, where we go, and who we bring with us during our lives.

Through all the bad that I have described here at this site, I consider that I had it good and that I made it good.  In fact, I thank my lucky stars and accept the blessing from whatever there may be of higher power.  There are too many of our community whose families send them out to be abused, to commit suicide, to be murdered.  They are the ones I keep in mind in my life and ask you to do the same.


Dear Reader, you have read here at this site that I resided at Greece for two years – 1971 to 1973 during my 10th Grade and 11th Grade.  I attended Pinewood International School of Thessaloniki (also known as ‘TIHI’).  Pinewood’s main campus when I attended was co-located at Pylaia, Greece, with Anatolia College .  Pinewood has since moved to another community in metropolitan Thessaloniki.

Lemme tell you about two neighbouring towns near Pylaia and at the same time share how our English language is filled with wonderfull Greek etymologies.(1971 09 xx) Mount Olympos - View From My Window at Compton Hall

  • Panorama.  Yep, so named for its panoramic view of Mount Olympos.
  • Hortiatis.  Ever hear of the ‘Greek Salad’?  How about the ‘Village Salad’ or ‘Hortiatiki Salad’?  Yep – so named for its creation at Hortiatis, much as we take for granted the ‘Sandwich’ so named by the Earl of Sandwich.

(1971 10 xx) Mount Olympos - The SummitCool, huh!


Anatolia College is a famed Greek school for the best of their nation’s students.  Non-local students reside at the school dormitories.  They had a pretty good library in both Greek and English language books.

(1972 03 00) Slim and Nick at Anatolia CampusI attended 10th Grade at Pinewood’s Anatolia College campus at Pylaia.  My dad, Slim, and I resided at Compton Hall; my dad was the dormitory supervisor for the Pinewood boys.

We Anatolia College campus residents awoke school days hearing the Greek National Anthem harkening the College’s students.  My memory is humoured when I recall that next came the sound of an alarm clock ringing through the campus PA system to summon Anatolia students to their First Period classes.

One of Anatolia College’s teachers owned a collection of American silent films; frequently, on Saturday evenings, he gave a showing of them to we dorm and campus residents; this was an opportunity for both the Anatolia and the Pinewood communities to interact with each other.  We Anatolia campus students also had a recreation room in the basement of Compton Hall: ping pong, billiards, TV.

My dad and I ate many of our meals at the campus cafeterias.  The names of all the Greek foods may have faded from my memory, but oh how I appreciate the great cooks and cafeteria employees as I came to love their fresh home-made Greek cooking.  Yum!  The cooks made breakfast for us before school, they made lunch mid-day, they served afternoon ‘snack’ to us around 4 pm after school, Greeks eat dinner late – around 8 pm or 9 pm.  We campus students ate at either the boys dorm or the girls dorm; that exchange was fun because we Pinewood students got to know all the Greek Anatolia students, we got to learn our languages, we got to learn about each other – both boys and girls.

There were approximately 60-some students attending Pinewood’s high school; there were only eight 12th Grade students that school year.

I took the usual classes including:  Physical Science, Geometry, Western History, Physical Education, English, French, Speech and Drama.

Our Speech and Drama teacher produced ‘Blithe Spirit’ for our Spring play.  I was under-study for the Dr. Bradford character, played the bird calls, and was the table-tapping; I was also among the stage crew.  I made an audio cassette recording of this.

Pinewood otherwise had no formal inter-school sports competitions as are common in American school systems.  I played on Pinewood’s basketball team.  Our basketball team played groups from the local ‘XAN’ (Greece’s YMCA).  No, I was not star player, but I did score a few points during a tournament that our Pinewood team played at Athens (Spring 1972).

(1972 02 xx) MUN duane-dave-nickAs I reported elsewhere at this web-site, Pinewood’s teachers and School Board selected me to participate as a member of our school’s International Model United Nations delegation representing Czechoslovakia during my first school year.  Our history teacher and we three students (Dave, Duane, and me) did extra studies after school – we worked on Czech history and politics so that we would be prepared to participate at the IMUN held at den Haag, Nederlands (February 1972).

I participated in our annual Pinewood field day; I placed among top three in two long-distance track events:  2nd Place in the 1500 meter run and 3rd Place in the 800 meter run.

We played softball during PE throughout our Spring season.  Many of our non-American Pinewood students enjoyed the sport, some played quite well.


I attended 11th Grade at the Dasahori campus.

Or at least I shall use that word ‘campus’ loosely – affectionately – about Dasahori.  Our Dasahori school was located at the now former Voice of America transmitter site at Dasahori. Greece – midway between Thessaloniki, Greece, and Istanbul, Turkey.  That Google Maps satellite view is Dasahori.  The Greek village is to the right, what remains of the VOA site’s residences is to the upper left, that clearing just below was the location of our school inside the VOA warehouse.

Our Dasahori main school room was a partitioned corner of the VOA warehouse.  One space was our classroom.  Another space was our recreation room to use when the weather was cold – we had a ping pong table, we made up our own rules for ‘Twister’, we listened to tapes of VOA’s music shows.

Our Dasahori campus also had two travel trailers: one was used for a second classroom and the other was our ‘Library’.  We older students – 5th grade through 8th Grade and me of 11th Grade – did most of our schooling at the warehouse classroom; my father was the primary teacher for we older students.  The younger students used one trailer as their primary classroom; they had their own teacher.  We mixed things up during the day when we older students attended Greek and French lessons after lunch break.  Our Greek ‘alfaveterion’ textbook was much the same as the American ‘Dick and Jane’ reading books (I still have mine – it’s in storage).

My 11th Grade curriculum came from the University of Nebraska’s home schooling program and was locally supervised by both my dad and Pinewood’s High School teachers.  Among my classes were: Chemistry, American History, Algebra, English, French, Greek, Photography, Psychology.  I travelled to the main Pinewood campus at the end of each school quarter to meet with the teachers, take exams, socialise with the older high school students.

I made friends with Brad, Keith, Dave, Brendan at Dasaori that school year.  Brendan lived at Xanthi (the relatively ‘big city’ about a 30 minutes drive to the North of Dasahori), so I usually saw him only during the school day.  We others frequently found ‘boys’ stuff’ to do after school:  explore the area, go to the beach, ride bicycles (Dave let me ride his ‘chopper’ bicycle), dig ‘fort’ holes and tunnels.  Brad and I listened to BBC on the short wave radio; Kathy brought Mexican food to share dinner between our two families.

Brad’s father was my Photography teacher that school year.  He taught photographic skills and styles and darkroom techniques to me.  I still have my developing tank, though I have not used it since the late-1970s.

(1973 02 xx) Kathy-Nick-Slim at ThasosThe Pinewood teachers and School Board again selected me to attend the school year’s International Model United Nations at den Haag, Nederlands.  Randy and I represented Sri Lanka; other groups of Pinewood students represented India and Italy, if I recall correctly.

I attended Pinewood’s Prom (May 1973).   Though I invited LeeAnne F as my date, she wanted to hang out with other school-mates.  That was good for me because I got to spend my time with Mary G, my Prom date from the previous school year.  Mary and I caught up on old times.


My Dasahori school-mate Brad recently created a great Facebook site for we ‘Dasahori Kids’.

Pinewood also recently began a new alum site for we former Pinewood and Dasahori school students.


I have led a not quite perfect life.  Some of us are able to put their disruptions aside; maybe not me.  My family and my personal quagmire overwhelmed my ability to consider much else.  Yet, for me, this inter-sexed transsexual element of my life has been quite a learning experience.

My memory is far more clogged with my messy adolescent life.  In it, I have many fond recollections of my two years at Greece.

My 11th Grade Psychology course spent one week teaching us that transsexualism is a ‘perversion’.  I knew that I am not a ‘pervert’, but that was the accepted ‘fact’ in 1973; those were the times as were also my family’s attitude about me.

The biggest point of fate to me was how my family and I were entrenched in our own positions.  My father made me ‘present’ to the world as Nick, a boy, while I was Sharon, a girl.  Maybe they did not know what to do with their teen-aged ‘boy’ whose anatomy was developing into female.  I made my life and social contacts on that imposed male role, rather than my innate female persona.  I knew what I needed.

I write as point of comparison that my peers at Pinewood and Dasahori tended to socialise and explore.  I tend to be introverted, keep to myself, limit my external opportunities.

My Pinewood and Dasahori school-mates recall their abundant experiences and memories of Greece; many school-mates also knew the locals.  I was there one year at Pylaia and one year at Dasahori, I lived my daily life among my school-mates, yet I barely knew them as well as they knew their school-mates and each other.

I as Nick made male friends rather than as Sharon making female friends.

My first friend when my dad and I arrived at Thessaloniki was our landlord’s daughter at our Harilau apartment – I apologise for my failure to recall your name.  She and I are the same age, she spoke English well enough for us to get to know each other those first couple weeks, we shared listening to Rock music.  Had my dad and I remained there and not moved to the Pinewood / Anatolia campus, how different would we have become friends had I been ‘presenting’ as a girl rather than as a boy?

Moving to the Pinewood campus, there became even the simple difference of who I befriended at the boys’ dorm rather than at the girls’ dorm:

  • I as Nick would have been out of place had I spent my social time at the girls’ dorm.
  • I as Sharon would have been out of place had I spent my social time at the boys’ dorm.

My first friend at the dorm was Eddie.  We did things our first few weeks that no teen boy and girl would have done together at our age.  Would we have become friends had I appeared presenting to him as a girl rather than as a boy?

As a boy at Pinewood, I made friends with Eddie, Miro, Jack, Anthony, Tom, Tim, Randy rather than as a girl with Mamiko, Mary G, Mary C, Maria, Liliarty.

As a boy at Dasahori, Nick knew Brad, Dave, Keith, Brendan.  Sharon would have known Susie, Angelina, Sarah, Toni, Jenny, Beth.

(1973 06 xx) Maggana - Town SquareI withdrew from knowing my Maggana ‘Upper Form’ Greek peers who attended school weekdays at Xanthi.  Steffi (our landlord’s eldest daughter) and I are the same age, but we had no friendship as did my sister Kathy with Steffi.  Would Steffi and I have made a friendship if I were Sharon, not Nick?


Can you see where I’m going with my theoretical philosophy?

I’ve come to learn that there are other Trans people who also fill with this ‘What if’ had we lived differently.

We – my school-mates from Pinewood and Dasahori – may not have known much of each other in the same ways had I been Sharon, instead of Nick, at Pinewood and Dasahori.  We would have missed the events that we shared – playing softball, participating in school plays, digging holes, riding bikes, listening to music, going to movies, dancing at the disco.

  • Would I have played on the Pinewood basketball team?
  • Would I have played softball with my Pinewood male classmates?
  • Would I have played Dr. Bradford in ‘Blithe Spirit’?
  • Would I have been selected to the IMUN either year let alone both years?  How would I have been partnered both years?

No complaints here, that’s the way it was as I accept it, then and now.


This quandary barely skims the surface.  This accounts for only two teen years of my younger age.  As I wrote in my earlier essay about the people in my life (‘In My Life …’ 19 Apr 2016), I likely would have had friendships with the girls had I been Sharon, rather than with the boys as I was as Nick.  But the full story means that I would have missed the wonderfull life experiences with the boys as they were in my actual life.

I make no presumptions about any one else’s life experiences. I am expressing for myself.  Maybe you got all your friendships and no looking back to wonder any ‘What ifs’.  I have so many.  Oh, I do not stay awake every night stressed by every little event.  I merely allow my thoughts to wander where they please at this life lived – for better, for worse.

Through all the bad, I had it good and made it good.



What is the solution?

Why need there be any?

Why couldn’t I have befriended both girls and boys equally?

(2015 08 20) Decide to be a Girl11046480_376569759191961_3227315234969587031_nI want to consider that I would have had better friendships without this messy transsexual and inter-sex thing that complicated my life.

Do you think that I awoke one morning at age 3 and said to myself:

  • ‘Gee, I wanna grow up and be inter-sex and transsexual, I wanna endure all the hardship and pain.’?

When did you, Dear Reader, decide during your childhood that you are a girl?  Are a boy?  During your adulthood that you are a woman?  Are a man?

For me, I made no decision; my childhood self-identity knew that I am a girl since the beginning of my memory at age 3; I knew that I am a woman as I reached my adult years.

My family forced this girl to be raised as Nickie / Nick and to live as a boy even when I began female puberty during 9th Grade and filled out bras naturally.  I was not Kathy’s weird brother trying to wear her clothes; it turns out that I was a girl trying, wanting to be her younger sister.


Did you watch the 1970s TV show ‘Soap’?  It aired on ABC network beginning September 1977.

I have made scattered references to that show here at this web-site.

One of the characters of ‘Soap’ was Jody Dallas (played by Billy Crystal).  Jody was introduced as a homosexual Gay man wanting a sex change operation to be female for his boyfriend.  That was quite an extreme character for those days.

I do not know what knowledge those story writers had of transsexualism in 1977 as they developed that plot-line.  As for Crystal’s character Jody Dallas:

  • What did Crystal know about Transsexualism?
  • What did he learn?

I knew then in 1977 that they were so wrong about it – whether they realised that fact or not – that they were perpetuating an egregious error about transsexualism:

  • No gay man wants a sex change operation that eliminates his manhood.

But there they were, a large segment of American psychiatry and psychology of that time into the 1970s who persisted that transsexuals were homosexual males who had a desire to conform to society, to be in a monogamous heterosexual relationship with their male partner, to not live as an outcast in a scandalous homosexual relationship.

I had to make my own insistence to my counselors throughout my years:

  • that I am not a Gay male,
  • that their theory is bogus.

I surely had the nerve!  Not ‘balls’, mine were ovaries.

It is better common understanding nowadays that no Gay male wants to remove his penis – the anatomical organ that provides sexual pleasure for himself and his Gay partner.

‘What Sex Am I’ (cablecast on HBO – April 1985) delves into this serious error of the medical profession of that time.

(1978 07 00) Information for the Family (Janus) (Cover)The people from both Stanford and Janus who managed the heart of my transition – the people I knew – were among the production and advisory personnel to that documentary working to set things correctly:

  • it goes against it all to administer a sex change for a Gay male.


Who says that channel surfing is a waste of time?  It pays off for me.

I discovered by randomly surfing that ‘Soap’ is making the syndication rounds again.  I caught it early Tuesday morning while browsing (Antenna TV – 2 am MST here at Arizona, check local listings).

It seems, as I recall of the series, that I missed the first episode in this current syndication re-play.

Episode #2 was when Jody told his parents that he wants his sex change operation.

Antenna TV probably began running it on Monday night; I found ‘Soap’ also airing at 8.30 pm (again – MST Arizona time, check your local listings).

If you can’t watch it at their broadcast times, well then, ‘use your brain’ as Kathy writes and set your VCR, DVR, or whatever you can.

(1977 12 30) Stanford Reply (Name Covered)>


Another sign of my 40th Anniversary.

I can’t express in words what this show means to me – the memories that it triggers of my past.  I know that you know, Dear Reader, those who travel this journey:  You ‘get it’.  We all ‘get it’.

My dad had fits when I watched ‘Soap’.  He had nothing good to say about it.  He, in fact, participated in the Catholic Church’s efforts to ban ‘Soap’ from TV.

When I moved to Utah (October 1980), I learned that the ABC affiliate station refused to broadcast ‘Soap’ during the prior three seasons; the 1980 season was their first time that they would carry it.  They delayed its broadcast to run at midnight (yes, I stayed up late to watch each episode).

Curious.  When ‘Soap’ went into syndication in 1983, the local network affiliate station ran full episodes after their 10 pm newscast.  No one from the TV viewership complained.  I seem to recall that it got higher ratings than the late network shows – ‘Nightline’ and ‘Tonight Show’.

So there!  So much for that Catholic Church boycott.  What hypocrites!

*(1970 06) Slim - Crater Lake (sitting - portrait)

Looks like I had another one in me, eh.

Thank you to the web-sites that provided their references to make this essay

Thank you, Valerie June, for today’s music:

Thank you for visiting, Dear Reader.

Please return for the next episode of …



‘Storyscope: My Story About Home’


(18 Oct 17)



‘Storyscope:  My Story About Home’


My friend is ill.

Wai, sahwdee khaf, and here’s hoping that you will be feeling better soon.

I told my evening nurse at Cottonwood Hospital (Salt Lake City, Utah; May 1983) that I like apples, so he brought extra apples to me after dinner and we talked.  I told my story to him.

My ill friend and I reside too distant for me to bring an apple to her personally, so here are apples in song to share with you to get you feeling better.

I thought of other songs, but I forgot them by the time I could write them.

Bless my Obama-phone, but its Internet was useless trying to do a search for the other ‘apple’ songs.

We had a good Tuesday Trans Spectrum meeting.  Josef scheduled two people who facilitate topical meetings.  Tonight’s topic was ‘Home’:

  • What is home?
  • What does home mean to each of us?

We each took turns telling our concept of home.  I presented my perspective when it came my turn.

Here I share with you an extended version of my thoughts about home.

Here’s another song:

I was born at New Jersey in 1956.  I know from the pictures and postal mail that our home was an urban apartment.

Our family moved west in 1958.  I recall that we stayed at a motel for some time; I was too young to have had the concept of time to know how long and family refuses to tell me.

We moved to my next home, a nice suburban home with three bedrooms, two living rooms, front and back yards where Kathy and I played; our dad installed a swing-set in our back yard.

I still feel Kathy’s pain when I think about that swing-set.  Kathy and I were playing on the glider one day.  For whatever reason – the likely curiosity of a child – she stuck her finger into the cap mechanism; she let out a blood-curdling scream as it crushed her finger.

I had my own serious injury at our back yard.   We pitched a tent to the northeast corner.  On this fatefull day, I was running as any toddler does.  That day I ran toward the tent and stept on a stake.   I suffered a serious gash to my foot.

Kathy and I pooled water on the front driveway and played ‘Slip and Slide’.

Those were the physical elements of this home.  Violence was an essence of my family, our relationships were not going well.  I recognised at my young age how my parents’ marriage was failing as I began 1st Grade.  Of course, I was outing my self,  demonstrated in my episodes of ‘feminine protesting’ that must have caused a strain on my family during the late-1950s and early-1960s.(1960 xx xx) Another Quiet Evening at Nickie's Home

The legal system of that time allowed my mother to retain full, absolute custody of both Kathy and me.  How could this be?  Our mom was an abusive parent.  She frequently beat both of us.  She used whatever was handy – be it a leather belt, an electric cord, a wire coat hanger, a stick.  Our physical wounds remained raw for several days; we applied Vaseline to prevent our clothing from sticking to our oozing sores.

Our dad was part of the abuse.  He threatened Kathy to beat me or else he would beat her – ‘Hit Nickie!’ he commanded to her.

There is this current ‘Me, too’ tag going around.  People are identifying that they were sexually harassed – more specifically at a workplace environment.

Is this now where I write ‘Me. too’?

Maybe it better applies to being fired twice because I am transsexual rather than for Kathy molesting me as a child.  Or both?

I shall refer to this in my latest post about ‘home’ as this is the topic here.  You can read elsewhere where I have recounted when and where I was the target of my workplace abuse.

Kathy tormented me.  She (at age 5) began sexually molesting me (at age 3), though i did not know it that way.  She pulled and grabbed me til i hurt, she locked me in her bedroom and forced me to do what no child of our age did – acts taught to her by an adult.

But from whom?

I learned her truth 15 years ago when I read the list of Catholic paederast priests; there was the name of our parish’s childrens’ priest.  Our dad worked with him during the many years when he was our parish’s lay director of religious education.  I connected those dots and concluded that our father molested Kathy who then molested me.  Thus this home was not safe for me.

That would not be the first time when home was danger to me.

Our father successfully petitioned the court to take full custody of both Kathy and me by Summer 1963.  We all moved together to another home that would be the scene where my experience of security at home would be further destroyed.

Kathy continued bullying me.

Now it was my father’s turn to be the parent who beat me.

I recall when I was in 2nd Grade and I could not find my arithmetic workbook; my dad beat me for it.  There it was, he found it 10 years later, where likely Kathy hid it at the bottom of our stack of fireplace wood.

Another of my worst experiences was 7th Grade when I missed submitting one homework assignment.  I was in such fear for my dad’s wrath that I consumed several of his prescription pills trying to commit suicide.  During that entire month of October, I endured being extremely ill, instead of dying, yet not once did my dad ever take me to a physician.  That teacher, a nun, called my dad in early-November; she told him that I missed that one homework assignment in October.  My dad took me to his room and beat me; Kathy told me that he had me for more than a half-hour.  My dad took delight in what he did to me – he made jokes and laughed about it for many years, talking nostalgically how he broke his hair brush during his assault.

I previously wrote about when, in my 9th Grade, my dad beat me when I was wearing Kathy’s clothes. My family thought it was cute for me as a young child to wear Kathy’s clothes or put on my teen cousins’ makeup – ‘Oh, Nickie, what a cute girl!’.  By the time I got into my early teens, they no longer could deal with me.

During Summer vacations, my dad and I made temporary homes at distant locations:

  • New Jersey (1967)
  • Saint Anthony, Idaho (1968)
  • Grambling, Louisiana (1969)
  • Ashland, Oregon (1970).

Home was not a sense of safety during the two years when my dad and I resided at Greece.  My dad told me within our first week of getting settled at our initial residence that I’d better behave ‘or else’.  I was not the sort to challenge his ‘or else’; I kept my mouth shut, did my best to control my feminine protesting tantrums, and focused on the greater experience of international travel.

Many parents toss their children to their own devices when they reach age 18; I told you how Clint went into the Navy.  I have come to know people in my support groups and among our community whose parents kicked them out at age 18 or sooner; they asserted their self-identification – Gay, Lesbian, transsexual – to their family and paid a dangerous price.  I knew that threat was hanging over my head, but I lacked their courage.

I also got lucky.(1978 07 00) Information for the Family (Janus) (Cover)

It was my dad who left home when I graduated high school and turned 18; he took his two-years contract to teach at an American international school at Brasil (1974 – 1976).  His two-years departure enabled me to officially begin my transition in stealth at age 18:  I read, studied, thought through my life, planned my future. I completed nearly 30 semester credits in psychology and sociology; I took advantage of my first opportunity to comprehend my inner being in the safety of home.  Denise was there to encourage me.  My parents’ abuses and Kathy’s bullying were gone.  I was safe at home during those two years, but lost that sense when my dad returned home.

Advance to the school year when my dad and I lived at New Mexico (1977 – 1978).  I read books from the Public Library to support my continuing stealth transition that I began in 1974:  psychology, sociology, feminism, Christine Jorgensen’s autobiography (gawd forbid!).  My dad knew that I had these books – he snooped and found them where I hid them in my room, he beat me when I came home from work.

  • ‘What are you doing with this trash?’(1977 12 30) Stanford Reply (Name Covered)

He surely saw postal mail addressed to Sharon, but as far as he knew (pretended to know?), there was no one who received mail at our school postal box with that name.  Who knows what he did with whatever arrived for me Sharon that I could not intercept?  Who knows if he stole tell-tale male addressed to me Nick?

The curious comparison was nearing – living with my dad under his roof, under his authority, under his thumb, and then that power suddenly removed by late-1978.  I received my appointment to a position with the Forest Service.  I moved to my own home the first time December 1978.  Did my dear ol’ dad howl and beg and cry at my departure!

  • ‘Dont go!’

His tears of abandonment were false.  I did not know it in November when I received my appointment that my dear ol’ dad made flight reservations to New Jersey – himself only – leaving me home alone had I not otherwise moved to my new job.

I moved to Utah (October 1980) and made my home there for five years.  I could not obtain any medical services for my transition at Utah – my recent counsellor told me two years ago that I might have been the only reported transsexual at Utah during the time of my residency (1980 – 1985); if you were trans there during that same time, then let’s start a club.

Though I did not actually reside at Costa Mesa, California, I consider that home.  I came in contact with a wonderfull physician who welcomed me and restored my prescription.  I returned for a few days each year for my annual check-up and renewal.  I learned two years ago that my doctor was among the first doctors to work with AIDS / HIV patients.  My great big thank you goes to him.

I was diagnosed female inter-sex and post-op, my circumstances were limiting myself to presenting female only part-time while I resided at Utah.  I departed my Forest Service position by May 1985 – eager to get on with my life female full-time.

Nevertheless, my brief homecoming of May 1985 proved dear ol’ dad remained in charge at his home (no longer ‘our’ home).  I previously posted how I did not feel safe arriving at his home as Sharon if I had no escape to my own home if something went wrong, horribly wrong.  I sat my dad down that first Saturday when we had time to talk – really, finally talk, just the two of us, adults with no worry of a time limit.  That went bad, terribly bad.  He disrupted me because he did not want to hear what I was planning to tell him; I knew it and he knew that I knew it.  My visit was rough on both of us; for me, it was another delay disrupting my final step to full-time.

I went apartment hunting and found my own home during those two weeks.

I briefly returned to my departing home of Utah to pack my belongings in the moving truck and make my way to my arriving home at Arizona.

I had an idea to move to Oregon after I departed my employment as a public assistance case manager at Arizona DES (June 1993).  I drove to California and Oregon on a job-hunting and home-hunting excursion.  I liked Salem, Oregon, and Santa Rosa, California; I also considered King City, California.  I visited Kathy on my way outbound, but that went badly; I considered making up with her on my way home, but decided against that.  I also realised that Arizona is my home and decided to remain.

I moved from Tucson to Phoenix in 1993.  I had to let go of two former homes:

  • my home at Sierra Vista where my dad and I lived, what my dad gave to me at his death
  • my home at Tucson that was my first home that I bought.IMG_0005

I could neither afford nor manage my past homes from Phoenix.

In a curious way, I consider my Baan Siri cottage ‘home’.  Sure, I was always going to return to my Phoenix home, but Cottage #4085 was my home during  my three calendar months at Bangkok, Thailand.  I want to return someday.  Maybe next Songkran 2018, eh?


(to be continued and finished at another wi-fi day at the Public Library)


Kapung Khaf.

Thank you for coming today.

Please return in a few days when I hope to have this essay completed and posted.