Travel Holiday Inns --All The Way

(Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. June, 1976)

The anticipation had started sometime in January--after Christmas break.

I waited patiently for the remainder of the school year to end and then the glorious days of summer would be upon us. My parents usually had at least one or two trips lined up every year and it didn't matter where the trips would take us. Just having the opportunity to spend any time away from the tiny town I'd grown to hate was enough to make celebratory fireworks go off in my head. This particular year-- 1976--was a true reason for fireworks. The nation's Bicentennial Celebration of Independence was an inescapable once-in-a-lifetime event and it was touted as such. This wasn't just any July 4th celebration. Television specials, school projects, advertisements of every sort and more than the usual red white and blue were everywhere one looked. It was impossible not to get swept up in the excitement. And we were on our way to Washington, D.C!

My sister's fiancé was graduating from the Naval Academy at Annapolis. We were to attend the ceremony but our trip would include excursions to Colonial Williamsburg, the nation's capital and the obligatory stay at my paternal grandparents house in Bordentown, New Jersey. My two brothers were busy with other things that summer. John had been attending college and working and my brother Bill had just started his post high school educational journey. This left my sister Amy and I as the backseat occupants for the road trip. Mary was already in Annapolis enjoying pre-graduation festivities with her intended, Doug. I'm pretty sure Amy would have rather been anywhere else but being the nerd of the family, I was excited!

As it turned out we were to stay at a Holiday Inn in Alexandria,Virginia for a couple nights and take in the sights of D.C. during the day. The humidity and heat were excessive that year--even by D.C. standards. As a kid, it bothered me and this was long before heat was an issue for me. These days I can last maybe five minutes without air conditioning on a typical summer day before a litany of profanity cursing the heat automatically rolls off my tongue. Our first day included the Lincoln Memorial and the Smithsonian Institution's various museums. When I look at pictures taken on this day with our handy Kodak Instamatic camera, I look miserable. I seriously doubt it was due to the heat though because I could always find a reason to pout--especially when I didn't get my way. I'm sure there were several instances of that on this scorcher of a day. I was a true test for my mother. My primary goal was to get as many free brochures as I could get my hands on. I had a growing collection back home and was eager to add to it. Pictures in front of Lincoln's imposing statue at the Lincoln Memorial captured the fashions of 1976 perfectly. Mom's well-coiffed hair fared well in the humidity--copious amounts of hairspray being the essential ingredient. There is one photo of my parents with mom in a lovely blue and white polyester dress and dad with his tight-fitting stylish short-sleeved dress shirt which emphasized his imposing beer gut. Amy looks pretty normal as a high school teenager. I chose an ensemble consisting of a short-sleeved pocket dress shirt accented by slacks--not shorts--and a red white and blue themed fisherman's cap.

(Mom and Dad at the Lincoln Memorial. June, 1976)

Holiday Inn motels were my parents' preferred lodging for road trips. Like Howard Johnson's for others, the Holiday Inn chain provided affordable accommodations which were usually consistent in regards to cleanliness and service. Every time we stopped for an overnight or two, I'd quickly set to work gathering all the small free toiletries. In those days, it wasn't unusual to find a complimentary shoe polish cloth or two. I would grab all of these items before anyone had a chance to use them and stash them into my small suitcase. I was always fascinated by the strip of paper adorning the lid of each toilet bowl reading "this toilet has been sanitized for YOUR protection." For me, it was always the little things. For my father, it was apparently also the little things...such as whether or not the motel housekeeping staff had cleaned our room and made up the beds. In this case, after a long and hot day of what had to have been miles of walking the nation's capital, we arrived to see unmade beds and no "sanitized for your protection" strip. My father was generally a pretty jovial character and especially so if he'd consumed a few beers and had an audience for a story. On the other hand, when he got "riled up" as mom liked to say, his face turned beet red and I swear there were times I saw smoke coming out of his ears. With mom's feeble protests ignored (they always went something like "now Bill, don't make a big deal out of it") the old man was on the phone asking to speak with the manager. "I don't care if they're gone for the day! I want someone in here to do the job they're supposed to do!" There were always a few expletives peppered into the rant but he was always clear to avoid the "f" word. Jesus Christ was totally acceptable. I think mom must have told herself this was his version of prayer. When he was finally satisfied with a good dose of apology from the manager, the lighter red (normal) color had returned to his face. 

"Grab your purse. Amy and Tommy, put your shoes on."

"Where are we going?," mom asked almost hesitating to hear the answer.

"We're not going anywhere. We're staying right here at the Holiday Inn. We're going to the restaurant."

It was a short walk outside to the Holiday Inn's version of a Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge style restaurant. The hostess quickly seated us and was exceptionally friendly. Handing us the menus, she said that Mr. so and so (of course I don't remember the name of the manager) will be taking care of our check. Dad had an ear-to-ear grin as he looked directly at me and said, "Order anything you want." Satisfied with my dad's smugness, I ordered fried popcorn shrimp. We all ate until our bellies were full. We were well energized for whatever adventure the next day held. 

(the one time advertising slogan: Travel Holiday Inns all the way)

Just A Small Hit

I've made it through Lent (with just a few days to go) abstaining from Facebook. Well, mostly. I mean, I still communicated with my students with another Facebook page of the "professional" variety--but my truly pleasurable addiction is to my personal Facebook page and I was certainly missing it by the time Holy Week got here. It is an addiction and it's a generally pleasurable one so it was indeed a sacrifice to give it up for Lent. I also amped up my use of Instagram in the process but, as much as I love to share my photos, it doesn't provide the same satisfaction of putting my thoughts out there in Facebookland. My lesson for future Lenten sacrifice: true sacrifice would be all social media. That would be a tough one.

One of the things I realized about abstaining from Facebook was that I was spending so much time watching other peoples lives that I didn't spend as much time on my own. My personal journey has been on hold for the past ten years. Well, not entirely but certainly for the huge chunks of time consumed by Facebook voyeurism...and of course posting both short and lengthy diatribes, positive thoughts and quotes and far more than anyone should really know about my own life claimed additional chunks of time. Was it really ten years ago? Facebook reminds me constantly with the tempting (and often irresistible) "memories" that it was indeed. The sorcery they use appeals to those of us with a nostalgic streak as well. Ten years. I wouldn't remember many of the things I was doing on this day in 2009 if it wasn't for Facebook. Fortunately, Facebook didn't stop me from my regular practice of journaling...but my journaling did become less frequent after it came on the scene.

Big question: Will I now spend less time on Facebook? Who knows? I would like to think this sabbatical has impressed something meaningful and that I'll be more cautious about the time I spend checking in and checking out others' checking in. We'll see.

Abdomination

I haven’t looked at my abdomen since March of 2016.


It’s not that I don’t take care of it. I mean, I shower daily and wash without looking. It sounds strange and I’m sure it is strange but I just can’t bring myself to look at the disfiguring scars and resultant hernias I’ve developed from three major surgeries. I am working on it. Wait…that’s bullshit. I’m not working on it at all. I’m planning to never look at my abdomen again. At least for now.


I’ve written about my surgeries and near-death experience (even though I never saw any white light or, for that matter, any proof of a life hereafter) on these pages before so I won’t bore you with any of the details.  If you really want to read those, you can certainly use the opportunity to seriously check out my blog…it can be interesting at times. In 2016 I had major surgery after what was supposed to be a routine laparoscopic procedure to correct a case of diverticulitis. Major infection occurred and a subsequent series of surgeries followed by a 70-something day stretch of time in the hospital. That’s the short version. I nearly died. So…I’m extremely grateful to be typing these words out on my computer in the month of April. Year: 2019.


Back to the abdomen. I have to say that by the time I reached 51 years of age it wasn’t what I would have called a pretty abdomen. It was just “standard,” for lack of a better word. The skin was smooth—very little hair. A furry patch of graying hair covered my upper chest and then a smooth ribbon of hairless skin—very white—followed by a seemingly normal “insie” belly-button. Below that, a single line of hair worked its way down to…let’s just say a very neatly groomed and trimmed area that had seen plenty of action well into my descent from the peak of a gay man’s life: somewhere around 25 years of age…usually. There was a period of time in my late 30s to early 40s where I actually took an interest in working out. At the time, I’d experienced some success with improving my overall physique without much professional training. I’d reluctantly (I really want to emphasize that word so I’ll say it again: reluctantly) go to the gym three to four days a week and when I wasn’t at the gym, I’d work out with a modest set of weights at home. I had developed—for the first time in my life, mind you—arm muscles and actual defined pectoral muscles! It was truly a shock but it got me some much-needed attention. At least I thought I needed it. One thing that didn’t happen however was any development of the gay man’s dream. A six pack was never in my future. But let’s just say I was happy. After all, I could still look down and actually see my penis every time I peed. It pleased me at the time to be able to look down at fairly well-developed pecs each time this happened. My mid-40s saw that zeal to work out fade away. But I was generally happier with my appearance than I’d been all through my awkward 20s and early 30s. I’d worked hard to overcome a never diagnosed illness that I’m now certain was body dysmorphic disorder. In March of 2016, I still had a full head of hair, a little paunch but definitely not the big gut so many of my fellow travelers were burdened with and a still strong and now alcohol-free libido. I wasn’t complaining. That is…until the worsening pain in my gut became unbearable.

By that time, I was married and was the primary caregiver to my still very vital and relatively healthy 92 year old mother. For me, I guess the important thing was that I’d finally felt at peace with my body. I think that’s the most troubling aspect of this “setback.” I find myself struggling to use an alternative word—something less weighty than setback but I think it’s appropriate here. This truly is a type of setback for me and I’m not over it. While the substantial portion of my colon that was removed to rid me of the diverticulitis pain worked, my resultant hernia pain has contributed a daily reminder that the weak pain management medication (thank you, opioid crisis) does little to alleviate. I’d just like to feel as close to normal as I can again but the fact that I cover myself before looking in the mirror reflects a clear message to me over and over again. This isn’t normal.

****

On a cold January day in 2015, I recognized the fact that I was single and relatively happy in my new environment. Although selfies had by that time become a regular part of my social media experience, I rarely took photos of my shirtless body. I could gladly leave that indulgence to the proud gym bunnies out there. Regardless, on this particular day, I was freshly showered and somewhat surprisingly—and perhaps a bit modestly—admiring my body, perceived flaws and all. I have no idea why I suddenly found myself on my bed snapping a few selfies. I certainly didn’t plan on sharing them with anyone. As it turned out, these would indeed be the last pictures of my abdomen, pre-disfiguration. Maybe I had a clue. It would be a year before surgery and I had no idea what was on the horizon. I’m just glad I froze that moment—digitally speaking.

Listen to this:

Thomas Boylan · Abdomination.WAV

Gone With The Wind

Atlanta is foggy this morning. The scene from my balcony reminds me of a scene from “Gone With the Wind” toward the end of the film, when Scarlett runs from the deathbed of her long suffering cousin Melanie looking for Rhett. The streets are foggy courtesy of dry ice and the Hollywood movie magic. In a sense, it is surreal but actual. Life mimics art. Or is it the other way around?

I’ve been on a journey since the beginning of the new year. I’ve been looking for the artist who exists within me. Somewhere along the way, he got lost and he stopped making art. When that happened, he looked for other ways to express himself. Nothing seemed to work. There seemed to be a deep chasm between that lost artist and the person I’d become. How could I possibly begin to retrieve something—anything—of him?

Just as the fog of this grey day will eventually lift, I’m sure that the fog of the past several years will also lift. I’m not sure what it will reveal but I have a sense of hope and adventure lurking somewhere beneath that mist. Accompanying it is a corresponding sense of dread and anxiety. Perhaps the lifting of the veil will reveal darkness. It is a risk I must take.

Will I write? Draw? Paint? Start crocheting? I haven’t a clue. All I know is that he’s ready. I’m ready. Let the adventure begin…