Ricky Turner is the child of William Henry and Artilus (Esters) Turner. On May 14, 1962, at 2:45 a.m., the Lord Jesus Christ blessed me with life and my parents.
My father, William Turner (from Louisiana) was Black, Apache, and a dash of French.
My mom, Artilus (Esters) Turner was Black, Cherokee, with a hint of German Jew.
I was born at Kaiser Foundation Hospital in Harbor City, California. Coming home as an infant to the residence of 142 E 137th Street, Los Angeles, California. Right between the cities of Compton and Gardena, just a block from Avalon Gardens Elementary School.
I came home to a beautiful world … one where I was loved and taken care of by my parents, extended family members, and the community at large. I fondly remember my mom calling me her “beautiful little chocolate baby.
My older sister, Henrietta H. Turner, was born with developmental disabilities. The doctors told my parents and grandparents that my sister would not live past the age of five. They said that she would succumb to the same fate as my older brother Henry Turner who died at birth. Well, thank God, because now my sister is 63 years of age and has more common sense than most folks. She is independent and takes care of herself with her own apartment and job. I am so proud of her.
My older brother, Billy W. Turner, protected and provided for me most of my life. First proving his character as a man, in spite of being a young boy, when I was all of six years old. Billy will always hold a special place in my heart and be the inspiration of my life.
Growing up, my sister, brother and I all stayed in one room and my parents in the other. My parents with the help of my Grandpa & Grandma Esters were able to purchase a modest two bedroom and 1 bath home in a working-class neighborhood. I was the happiest kid on the block with no worries whatsoever.
I had my mom, dad, sister, brother, and extended family all around with vacations to Yosemite, The Giant Redwoods, The Grand Canyon, etc. I was living a dream life. I remember continually having family all around me, like a herd of elephants protecting one of their very own young ones. During the week it was my nuclear family, but on the weekends I was at my grandparent’s or Uncle Ed and Aunty Annie’s home. I loved those “Good Old Times.”