Up On The Roof

I often found myself needing a place of refuge as a restless and anxious youth in my small town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. Growing up there in the 1970s was a mixed bag... wonderful memories interspersed with memories of sadness and isolation. We lived in an old house completed at the turn of the Century and modified extensively through the years. A couple named Earle and Elizabeth Rank were the owners of the house at the time they sold it to my parents. The Ranks purchased it in 1945 after a series of owners including the Armstrong Realty Company at some point during the Great Depression. It was Mr. Rank who completed the most extensive renovations attesting to his skills as a carpenter. According to mom, he also had a brother in the linoleum industry which was clearly reflected in his generous use of linoleum in all the renovations. After demolishing the garage facing the alley, Mr. Rank constructed an attached garage--one of the few on our street--Elk Avenue. He also designed a unique wood latticework to the slightly sloped roof--which appeared flat from the street. The window of my bedroom opened onto the roof of this garage.

At some point in my early teenage years, I discovered that simply opening the window to this roof offered a place where this particular child could claim ownership and, without permission of course, begin to spend a great deal of time there. A blanket often provided all that was necessary as a shield from the often hot asphalt shingles. In the heat of summer, enjoying a night in a sleeping bag in this personalized space was the ultimate. I found one of my few escapes from everything on this roof. Later, I discovered that strategically placing a ladder against the side of the garage would allow me to actually escape without ever having to exit any of the doors. It was ideal for those summer nights when I would steal away to watch old black and white movies with the elderly widow who lived next door. I could climb the ladder again at 2 or 3 in the morning without any concern for waking mom and dad. The roof would also ultimately assist me when I attempted to run away from home at fifteen. In the dead of winter, I tossed a suitcase into a snowdrift against the garage to grab on my way out the door to "school." The next morning I grabbed that suitcase and headed to the nearest highway to hitchhike my way to freedom.*

What I remember most about this roof was that it was my place to think. It was the place where I could imagine a future outside of the town. I could also write and draw with very few interruptions. I found that I actually enjoyed being alone. Unfortunately, I couldn't take my dog Barney out onto the roof. That would have truly completed the idyllic setting. I loved that roof.

Years later, after I'd been living in Texas for some time, I returned to Pennsylvania one summer to find that my father had removed the latticework from the roof of the garage. When I questioned mom she told me that the wood had rotted extensively and had to be removed. Even though this never truly served a utilitarian purpose it did kind of act as a "fence" around the perimeter of the garage roof. I  went up to my old room and opened the window to revisit my old escape. It felt a little less safe as I leaned over the edge to see the home of the widow next door--now dead for several years. I looked down where Barney used to have his doghouse and runner. I looked across the street to our longtime neighbors and friends--the Fabiano's. I took it all in. It was definitely a good memory.

That was the last time I walked outside on the garage roof at 205 Elk Avenue in Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. It's still there. I wonder sometimes if the new owners ever open that window and venture out for another view.

*see blog titled "January 21, 1980"

(brother Bill in front of the garage. 1964) 

Thomas Boylan · Upontheroof.WAV

Goodbye For Real

It has been a little over three months since I said "goodbye" to my mother for the last time. Our lives were all about goodbyes. In fact, the first time I told her "goodbye" for a stretch was the summer of 1981. I keep revisiting this summer in my busy mind for no other reason than recognition of the fact that it was when I finally felt the surge of release. Fact is, I wasn't too fond of my mother.

My teenage years in the small town of Johnsonburg were safe and insulated. I yearned to escape but there was no easy way out. Life was lived on the sweet memories and moments of time away from the safe, insulated hell. I tried to run away--unsuccessfully--during my sophomore year in high school. I read. I watched television. I counted the days. Mom couldn't figure out where I was coming from. I think she tried--in her own way but in my teenage mind, she didn't try hard enough. Of course, I hadn't completely leveled with her about my sexuality. In fact, we didn't discuss any aspect of sexual development or any of those "icky" subjects. I was pretty sure that I was a full-fledged queer. I could only go on what I'd read and seen and that wasn't much. In 1981, the most one could hope for when watching TV was an occasional "Donahue" episode where the subject was usually treated as a sympathetic curiosity. Of course, every once in awhile, the "gay scene" made it onto the news. In the aftermath of the assassination of Harvey Milk, CBS covered the candlelight vigil in San Francisco which--to my recollection--showed thousands of men and women marching peacefully in full acceptance of who they were. Mom's reaction, indelibly recorded in my memory, was "those people are very sick." Well, I knew where I stood. Would it have been the right time to come out? Younger readers would probably say yes but those of us who stood in the crosshairs of a very fragile moment in history would agree with me. It wasn't the time.

Texas was reached by train thanks to dad's railroad discount. I was thrilled to be spending the summer with my Aunt Bernice in the Fort Worth suburb of Hurst. I would get a job and I would make some friends. Maybe I would meet someone who would offer to take me away. That was my ultimate dream. The reality of finding a job wasn't as simple. After a week of pavement pounding in characteristic 100 degree weather, my Aunt Kay offered to take me to Grand Prairie (a suburb of Dallas) to try my luck there. I got a job in a donut shop and thoroughly enjoyed my summer until I realized I must return. The dread of my senior year in Pennsylvania wasn't warranted as I had a fairly decent senior year of high school. But I spent the entire school year preparing to say goodbye to mom again...hoping this time would be a bit more permanent.

The summer of 1982 finally arrived and I had my ticket in hand as my father took a photo of me in the backyard of my childhood home. I was excited and a bit scared. I would hug mom and dad but I just didn't feel like I'd be missing either of them very much. After finally arriving back to Texas, and this time actually staying with my Aunt Bernice, I found that I was not as happy as I'd predicted. Maybe being away from mom wasn't the best thing in the world. But it was there--living with Aunt Bernice--that my mom found out I was gay. I didn't have to do it face to face. She learned of it through a letter I'd written to my brother, who at that time was living in their attic. The age of AIDS was dawning. I'm sure my goodbyes to mom took on new meaning each time I travelled back to the woods of Northwestern Pennsylvania. Each time, the goodbyes got a little more difficult for me. She was making an effort to understand me--granted in her own way and on her own time.

In the summer of 2013, I couldn't wait to get to Virginia fast enough. I'd packed my dog into my Jeep and left Texas for good. It wasn't Virginia I couldn't wait to see. It was mom--who I'd be seeing as soon as I unloaded my stuff at my sister's house and drove the six hours to Pennsylvania. The last several goodbyes had been really difficult--for both of us. Full circle had been achieved. I couldn't wait to say "hello." When we hugged again that summer, my mind raced back to the summer of 1981. It was a different time. She was a different person. So was I.

This last goodbye was the hardest.





(photo credit: William J. Boylan. Summer, 1982. Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania)

Thomas Boylan · Goodbyeforreal.WAV