Grand Prairie (Part 3)

All summer I had been saving money for a permanent wave.  I was convinced this would give me the edge in the looks department.  I was pale (despite spending a hot summer in Texas), wore glasses, and was very skinny.  A perm would change all that!

My Aunt Kay had a hairdresser and salon that she used regularly.  She made an appointment for me with her stylist--a middle-aged lady with red hair and a strong southern accent.  I don't remember her name.  The perm would cost $30.  That was a lot of money in 1981.  But I had it--thanks to all of my hard work at the donut shop.  I had visions of becoming the post-perm version of Mike Brady.  The day of the appointment had me giddy about my impending transformation.  I was ready for my re-birth as a stud.

The appointment took longer than I expected.  The shop was filled with middle-aged women, a few of them a bit curious about my procedure.  I liked the smell of the chemicals used to give my hair that weather-resistant curl.  When finished, I looked in the mirror and saw Mike Brady--with glasses.  Oh well, I could remove my glasses for short periods of time if I found myself in a disco-- using my newly seductive power of the perm. I was ready to head back to Pennsylvania with my new look, and my richly rewarding experience as a donut seller.

When I got off the train in Pittsburgh, mom and dad were there to greet me of course.  Dad had been busy all summer remodeling my bedroom.  It now had faux wood paneling and brown carpet (so the dirt wouldn't show) and was ready for my arrival. New me.  New room.  And, to top it all off, I was to be a senior in high school.  I had my whole life ahead of me.  Mom seemed a little reserved as she hugged me--eyeing the perm with some suspicion.  I'm not sure if Aunt Kay got her approval on this.  At this point it didn't matter.  I think she recognized that it made me happy and that was a good thing, given the fact that I literally attempted to run away from home just a year earlier.

The summer of 1981 had been a smashing success in my book.  I was ready to conquer the world in my devastating curls.

Thomas Boylan · Grandprairie3.WAV

Grand Prairie (Part 2)

I think my Aunt Kay was kind of surprised that they had entrusted a key to such a relatively new 16 year-old employee but I took my job duties very seriously and made sure that I did everything that was expected of me.  The leftover donuts were a bonus on this closing shift.  Although I was supposed to throw them away, I would load them into trash bags and take them back home to Aunt Kay's house. We had discovered that when briefly heated in the microwave oven, the nearly day old donuts tasted close to fresh.  Also, my cousins had voracious appetites so this was good for everyone involved except for me.  One night, as I was totally focused on taking the store's trash out while separating the trash bags full of leftover donuts, I inadvertently locked myself out of the store.  I had no phone numbers.  I hadn't even remembered everyone's names at this point.  Aunt Kay and my cousin John came to pick me up at the usual time (at night--especially with the donut stash--I didn't risk walking home) and found me outside the store.  We quickly loaded the bags of old donuts into the car and then tried to figure out what to do.  As it turned out, the only thing we could do was call the police.  The Grand Prairie police came to the store and were able to open the door without management ever having to find out.  They didn't even ask me for ID.  I guess my uniform was enough for them.  My cousin John helped me finish cleaning the store and we were off to enjoy the day's take of donuts.

The summer wasn't all work.  My cousin John was then working at a place in Arlington as a busboy.  It was a restaurant with a fairly large staff.  One night, they were having a 4th of July party.  I was dropped off there and waited for him to finish his busboy duties and we were waiting for the party to begin.  Someone had promised to give us all of the alcohol we could consume.  I was ready.  I know that at some point I was drinking tequila.  This was a new alcohol experience for me and I liked it!  Before I got sick, I remember hearing a song piped into the speaker system:

Ooo wah, ooo wah cool, cool kitty 
Tell us about the boy from New York City 
Ooo wah, ooo wah c'mon kitty 
Tell us about the boy from New York City

I don't know why but I just started dancing until I fell over...yes, just dancing by myself to this catchy but irritating song.  By then, it was determined that we should leave--and not determined by us.  We decided that we could walk to Grand Prairie--from Arlington--at 1:00 am!  I know that each of us fell several times along the way.  We were lucky to have not faced any major harassment from passing motorists.  By the time we got to Grand Prairie, we took a break at the sign entrance to "Cottonwood Park."  I remember this sign very well because I vomited all over it. When we made it to the house, Aunt Kay wasn't very amused.  But at some point I do recall her laughing at us.  The next day, I had the worst hangover of this summer.  But I was still determined to do the one thing I wanted before returning to Pennsylvania.  I had saved enough money for a permanent wave.

(To be continued...)

Thomas Boylan · Grandprairie2.WAV

Grand Prairie

The summer of 1981 forced me to grow up a little.  I had made an arrangement with my Aunt Bernice to stay with her for that summer and get a job where she and my Uncle Carroll lived--Hurst, Texas.  I was between my Junior and Senior years of high school at Elk County Christian in Saint Marys, Pennsylvania.

I took the train because my father's job allowed me to ride for free as long as I was under eighteen.  I was so excited because I would have an eight hour layover in Chicago--and I was thrilled to finally be able to see the Sears Tower since I had never been before.  But that's another story.

When I arrived to Texas, the job search got off to a very slow start.  One day, my Aunt Kay--who lived in Grand Prairie--came to Hurst and asked why I couldn't just try to find a job there.  I was welcome to stay with her.  I'm not sure how Aunt Bernice felt about this but I don't recall any objections.  So, off to Grand Prairie I went.  According to my Aunt Kay and cousin John (her son, a year younger than I) there were numerous opportunities for 16-year olds in their fine city.  For those of you not up to speed on Texas geography, Grand Prairie and Hurst are really bedroom communities.  Cities in their own right, their growth was facilitated by their proximity to two large cities; Grand Prairie to Dallas and Hurst to Fort Worth.  They were right.  I was able to find a job within a couple of days.  I would be working at a place called Winchell's Donuts.  Today, there is little evidence that this chain of donut shops ever existed in North Texas.  Though still in operation as a subsidiary of a new company, Winchell's once ubiquitous presence in Texas is now just a memory. Some of my contemporaries may remember the music video for Rock the Casbah by The Clash which was filmed in Austin, Texas.  In this video (filmed in 1982 I believe) there is a scene where an armadillo is seen passing by a Winchell's Donuts location.

I immediately became fond of the menagerie of characters that worked in this little donut shop.  It was located a few blocks from Aunt Kay's house in a shopping center anchored by a Piggly Wiggly grocery store.  I soon made friends with the guy who fried and baked the donuts every morning around 3 or 4 am.  His name was John Hernandez.  One day, he invited me to his house to have a few beers but I soon found out that there was something even better at his place--and so I smoked weed for the first time.  I loved it!  From that day forward, I would be spending a lot of time with John, his wife and their children.  He was a very sweet guy, even though I can now say with reflective vision that he was corrupting a minor.  I never really had any conversations with his wife for she didn't speak any English.  She was always very nice to me though.

There were also others quite busy at work in this little donut shop.  I'd heard of them before but had never seen one.  They were everywhere in that place and every once in awhile, one of them would end up in a donut.  Yes, the cockroach situation was very bad.  The manager must have had some kind of deal with the Grand Prairie health inspectors because there is no way a legitimate inspector would not have immediately closed that place down witnessing the inhabitants of the back rooms.  It was as though they knew to stay out of the front counter area.

The older lady with no teeth who trained me on the cash register was named Blanche Brigg.  She was always spiking her coffee with whatever liquid was contained in the little flask she carried in her purse. She also chain-smoked which was pretty cool--especially when it came time to serve a customer.  She would simply rest the cigarette in the ashtray while she removed donuts from the display case.  Once she had them boxed or bagged, she'd put the cigarette back into her mouth where it dangled as she rang up their purchase.  No one ever seemed to mind.

There was another younger woman who worked there named Lynn.  I can't remember Lynne's last name.  She didn't like me and I didn't like her.  I think she had something going on with the store manager although she was married.  The manager--the guy who hired me--was young and good-looking and always smelled of Aramis.  At that time, I thought he was incredibly sexy.  His name was Ruben and, although I've met quite a few Ruben's since then, I can comfortably say he was the first.

Just a few days after I was hired and trained, I was given a store key and my job was to work evenings, clean and lock the store up at night and dispose of any remaining donuts.

(The once ubiquitous Winchell's sign)

Our friend...the cockroach

Piggly Wiggly, the anchor supermarket. Another disappearing icon

 

(...to be continued)

Thomas Boylan · Grandprairie1.WAV

Home

This most recent journey home made me think of so many things.  My latest trips to my hometown always make me consider where I came from and what role my hometown plays in my life today.

I grew up in Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania.  Johnsonburg is an industrial hamlet tucked into the northwestern corner of the state.  It's chief industry (some say it's only industry) is a paper mill which has been there for over one hundred years.  Today, there is a declining population due to an aging demographic.  Many young people leave the area and do not return.  Of course, there are many who stay.

I have written about Johnsonburg previously--both in this blog and in personal essays.  Though some of those essays were the result of assignments for various classes I was taking at various times, there were others I wrote to express myself.  I shared some of these with select individuals, but not many.  My circle of critics is deliberately (or used to be) few.  With the advent of technology, and the blogosphere, I have been more sensitive when writing about my home because of the audience--or potential audience.  I didn't wish to offend anyone who still lives in the town of my childhood.

My parents chose to settle in Johnsonburg.  They were both from small towns--dad from Kane, Pennsylvania, roughly same size and composition of Johnsonburg.  They both made serious moves after graduating high school--though they had not yet met each other.  It was World War II.  Can you even imagine what it was like graduating during this uncertain time?  A world war is serious business.  I would guess one would do all they could to live life to the fullest.  Dad joined what was then the Air Corps, mom went to Chicago to work in a factory that assembled war planes.  Though dad never saw combat (thank God, for I may not have existed), he travelled the U.S. as he trained to become a combat pilot.  Mom gained enough experience and money that she could have easily pursued a higher education or another path.  But it was family that compelled them both to send as much money as they could back home.  It was also family that compelled them to return to Kane and Johnsonburg, respectively.  Before this, mom had even lived for a few years in New York (Manhattan) and on Long Island.  So, when I say they were compelled to do things because of family, it was because that feeling was so strong and there was a sense of responsibility that overrode their personal desires.

I had already been living in Texas for nearly twenty years when my father's health began to seriously decline.  I had recently returned to school upon his advice.  I was on disability after being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and forced to undergo a painful hip replacement.  I remember the conversation we had over the phone very clearly.

"What do you think I should do, dad?  Go back to work or go to finish my education?"

"Well, I think you ought to go back to school.  Once you get that diploma, no one can ever take it away from you.  I wish I would have finished school."

"I guess that's what I'll do.  I'll let you know what happens.  I've got a meeting with a counselor from the school tomorrow."

Returning to my second year of school, dad wasn't doing well.  He had already suffered a heart attack and before long, he would suffer a major stroke.  I seriously considered, since I was still drawing disability and working sporadically, that I could move closer to Johnsonburg and complete my schooling there.  The thought frightened me.  I had established a life in Texas.  I hadn't made any money--with the illness having sidetracked my working for some time.  I was comfortable with my medical team.  There was some sense of security in Texas, though I sometimes longed to be elsewhere. I thought often about my aging parents--especially dad--and how I was in a unique position drawing disability to spend some time with them.  I opted to finish school in Texas.  I also had a succession of failed relationships during this time.  I was constantly looking for someone to take care of me, I was drinking and drugging heavily, and I had shifted into a serious survival mode.  Despite all this, I considered moving.

After dad had his stroke, he was never the same.  Mom's life had evolved to one of a 24-hour caregiver to the man she had given her heart to in 1953.  I had finished school and graduated, finally getting a bachelor's degree.  They couldn't even attend my graduation.  Travel for them was now out of the question.  I debated once again whether or not I should move to be with them and help.  God knows, they had helped me considerably through the years.  Instead, on the well-meaning advice of someone I was then involved with, I interviewed for a job that I got (thanks to his influence--he helped to arrange the interview) and actually liked.  It was the first job that I ever liked--honestly.  Taking this job was a leap.  Even though it wasn't full-time, I had high hopes that it would develop into full-time eventually.  It gave me enough hours so that I would be forced to give up the security of my monthly disability payments.  Once again, I opted to stay in Texas.  I visited Pennsylvania frequently but my heart ached each time I saw dad's diminishing health.

Eventually, dad had to be placed into a nursing facility.  None of us wanted it, but mom was killing herself taking care of him.  It was getting dangerous for both of them.  The whole situation seemed an accident waiting to happen.  Trips to Johnsonburg became ominous.  We all knew dad was never going home.  I considered going home for an extended time to help mom but it didn't materialize beyond staying with her for a couple of weeks.  Then I got the dreaded call...or should I say the one I didn't expect.  Dad was still with us, but he wasn't expected to last much longer.  I made it in a day before we lost him.

I looked at family and Johnsonburg much differently after I returned to Texas, the funeral behind us.  I started to think about sacrifice and love.  I began to think of how much I'd really changed six months into sobriety.  There was something far less selfish about me.  It was dad...and mom that came to my mind over and over.  Family--done right--is an awesome responsibility.  They did it right.  They weren't selfish.

A few nights after we lost him, the family gathered in our living room on Elk Avenue and watched videos that dad had filmed before his health declined.  They were old VHS tapes.  One of them was filmed after mom and dad had returned from a trip to Texas, where we all took an extended trip to Las Vegas.  Dad, for some reason, didn't have his video camera along on the trip.  So he took photographs that I had sent him after they returned and filmed the photographs one at a time and narrated them as though he were narrating a slide show. I began to cry because there were photos of a day we spent together--just he and I--touring Hoover Dam.  It was the best day I ever spent with my father.  I'd never seen this video before.  While he narrated, it was as though he were talking directly to me.  It was as though he were telling me to live.  It was as though he were telling me that what I did--finishing school, not moving from Texas, enjoying lovers and life--that they were all ok.  But now, I needed to consider the rest of my life.  I needed to consider the people who will never leave me.  I needed to be home.

January 21, 1980

On Monday (January 21st), I had an unusual anniversary.  This day marked thirty-three years since I attempted to run away from home.  I was fifteen years old and I remember the day very well.

The night before I took off, I packed a small green Samsonite suitcase and snuck out of my bedroom window to the roof of the garage where I dropped the suitcase down into a snow bank which was about three feet deep against the garage.  The next morning, I didn't dress in my school uniform and told my mom we were having a "casual dress day" at my high school.  From the house, I headed out to Route 219 and began to hitch hike all the way to Buffalo.

It was 1980.  Jimmy Carter was President and the hostages were still being held in Iran.  What possessed me to travel to a city farther north in the dead of winter is still a mystery to me.  There are  sights and sounds to this journey which have left indelible imprints in my memory.  One is around midday--freezing cold--in my tennis shoes walking across a bridge in Salamanca, New York.  A man had just let me out of his truck because he was taking a turn to another route.  I walked across the bridge (a long one) as the snow was getting heavier and accumulating on the surface.  It was dead silent.  I wondered if I might freeze to death.  Eventually, another trucker--a semi driver--picked me up and took me to Kenmore, New York.  This is a suburb on the outskirts of Buffalo.  It's strange.  I never considered that I was ever in danger along this route.  I was probably wishing for a little danger.  Who knows?  I do find it kind of crazy, however, that none of these drivers who picked me up thought anything about driving a fifteen year-old boy hundreds of miles on a school day.  Perhaps they did.  It was such an unusual day.

When I eventually started to wander the streets of Kenmore in the cold snow, I was shocked with the reality of my situation.  It would be dark soon and much colder.  Where would I go?  What would I do?  Long before the age of cellphones or even pagers, there was really no way I could reach out to anyone for help without using a direct approach.  I stopped into a Catholic church to pray.  It was warm there.  I considered my options.  It suddenly dawned on me that I could talk to a priest and the priest would have sympathy towards me.  He would find me a caring family and that would be that.  I went to the rectory which was right next to the church.  An older woman answered the door and I told her that I needed to speak to a priest.  A middle aged white man with cold eyes invited me in.  I told him that I had run away from home and that I needed help.  He quickly assessed the situation and told me that he would have to call the police.  In retrospect, he did the appropriate thing obviously...but in my fifteen year-old mind, I was appalled!  I couldn't believe that things had turned out this way.  A couple friendly police officers (in uniform) arrived to take me to the local police station.  I sat there as I was gently interrogated.  My parents were called and they were on their way to retrieve me.  The drive to Buffalo is around two and a half hours or more, depending on weather so I was in this small suburban police station just waiting and thinking.  One of the officers offered to buy me a hamburger.  I wasn't very talkative so I don't think I even responded to him.  He brought me one anyway and I did eat it--if my memory serves me correctly.  The ride back to Johnsonburg was quiet.  When I got home, my entire family was waiting for me.  The rest is a blur, as I know that I was answering many questions and trying to maintain my composure.  Something in me clicked that day, however.  I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but I began to change.

It wasn't until many years later that I found out what my father did that day.  He had been called home from work of course, and then he and my mother had to give a description of me to the local police.  He set out on foot to look for me in the local woods.  I can only imagine what my parents were going through.  My mother says that my father cried only two times (at least where she saw him) in all of their married years.  This was one of those times.  He didn't even cry at his own mother's funeral.  It's strange that at the time of my running away, I couldn't stand or understand my dad.  As the years rolled on, it was he who made me cry each time he expressed his love for me in a caring letter or with sincere and wise advice.

On 7 January, I lost my father.  He was eighty-seven years old.  For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about that cold January day in 1980.  I wish I knew then what I know now.

Thomas Boylan · Jan21.1980.WAV

Historic Preservation: My Thoughts

I've been thinking a lot about the past recently.  Not just my personal past, but the past in general.  About time, history and a sense of place.  I've wanted to become more involved in historic preservation at the local level, but time constraints have kept me from doing much in this area.  Instead I've focused on national organizations--particularly the National Trust For Historic Preservation.  This is a great organization and I am happy to donate what I can to it.

Here in Fort Worth (the city in which I live) preservation was not actually a cool thing until recently.  And even now, historic structures can be razed without much consequence.  Back when all things "modern" stood for progress, whole sections of this city were destroyed to make way for nondescript buildings or parking lots or garages.  Thankfully, those days are now relegated to collective regret.  Back in the 1970s, Fort Worth lost some signature structures in the downtown core--most notably The Medical Arts Building.  It seems a little strange for someone who moved here in the 1980s to be talking mournfully about buildings that were lost in the 1970s, particularly when I didn't grow up here.  But with Fort Worth as my adopted home, I have developed a fondness for this city and an appreciation that perhaps many natives are blind to.  Mind you, I don't necessarily believe that living in a particular city or town makes a person insensitive to the necessity of historic preservation, but I can say with some degree of certainty that a different perspective is often helpful when addressing the aesthetics of a place in which one has not lived an entire life.  If I pass a particular building every day for 30 years on my way to work, it would certainly strike me if that building were to disappear, but I might actually welcome something new and shiny in its place just to break from the monotony.  I might even welcome a blank space rather than a filled space.  Regardless, I would definitely have a different perspective than someone who has a fresh view of the scene.

Many folks don't really concern themselves with historic preservation because they feel a type of disconnect from history.  Perhaps they don't appreciate history as some of us do or feel that there are more pressing concerns or matters that need to be attended to--not only in their daily lives but also in the larger political sphere.  I would really like to suggest that we are all vitally connected to our history, whether we grew up in a certain area or not.  I enjoy perusing photographs of historic Fort Worth and often feel that there are not enough available to get an accurate picture of what this city was once like.  One thing that I do know is that with each building we allow to fall, an inferior structure or no structure will usually take its place.  Craftsmanship that was commonplace at the turn of last century no longer exists.  When we lose these buildings, part of us is lost forever.  Locally, one only needs a drive down Hemphill or East Lancaster Avenues to imagine (from what few remaining structures exist) a different time...a time when people didn't even know what a "payday loan" or "cash advance" was.  There wasn't a convenience store on every corner, but there may have been a "corner store" in just about every neighborhood.  I know it sounds a little unrealistic or even romantic, and I'm keenly aware that the "good old days" were definitely not always that.  But there was a sense of community.  And much of that sense of community existed because we took pride in our architecture.

I applaud all of the efforts of our local historic preservationists.  But clearly, we have a long way to go.

(undated postcard of Medical Arts Building, Fort Worth, TX.  Wyatt C. Hedrick, architect.  Demolished 1973)

Newspaper Headlines

Yesterday, I brought some copies of newspapers from Kennedy's assassination to class so that my students could see some of the headlines and stories from this horrible event nearly fifty years ago.  The pages are yellowed and fragile...even preserved in the shrink-wrap and cardboard.  I wasn't yet on this earth.  Not yet a sparkle in my father's eye as they say, but it wouldn't be long as I was probably conceived sometime in March of 1964.  Of course, I was certainly not expected--but what could they do?  We were Catholic.  No birth control.  Definitely no abortion.  My parents generation remembers the assassination very clearly, as do my older siblings.  Kennedy was the first Catholic president of the United States.  I have only pictures and history to remind me of this.

All of my students were born when Bill Clinton was president.  They haven't known the assassination of a U.S. President in their lifetimes--and really, neither have I.  We've lived through the horror of 9/11, with my students being very young when that occurred.  I was 37 at the time.  I sometimes wonder if the impact of the Kennedy assassination was as heavy as that.  Judging from the newspaper headlines, I am guessing it was.  As I have observed some of the students looking at the newspapers from that time, I am struck by a couple things.  First, they aren't really that impressed.  In fact, newspapers are really a foreign thing to them.  The other day, I asked how many of them ever read a newspaper and only one responded to the question.  "I don't but my grammy does.  She old."  I've lamented the passing of the printed word in a previous blog so I won't go into that again here, but I will say this.  Back in 2001, when the September 11 events happened, I had a subscription to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. At that time the newspapers still had some relevance.  It was the only time in my life that I can recall an "extra" edition of a newspaper being printed.  I saved those papers from that day of course.

As these historical events recede in my personal rearview mirror, I'm reminded of how short this life really is.  I am grateful for an appreciation of history.  I am hopeful that I can impart even a little of that to my students.