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

Repeated Lessons

My mother came from a line of Polish immigrants. They were farmers and hard workers. Life was difficult but simple. We often spoke about this rich heritage after we moved in together in early 2014. Mom's advancing years had graciously spared her any loss of memory so the accounts of life she relived through our numerous conversations were precious to me. I only wish I'd recorded them for posterity. Now, I must rely on my own shoddy memory--not nearly as good as mom's.

One of those accounts was about her own mother, Mary Rose Redmond Muroski. I have little recollection of this imposing woman. One of eleven children raised on a farm in the small town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania, my memories are only of a frail woman no longer able to speak due to cancer of the larynx-- on a death bed in the dining room of my parents home. She died when I was five years old.

Mary was only allowed to attend school until the 6th grade because her chores were essential to keeping the farm productive and her duties were prescribed at her birth just as those of her remaining siblings. Mom told the story countless times about how Grandma Muroski excelled in her classes at the small grade school on Dill Hill. She was a model student who loved learning. On the last day of class in that 6th grade year, Mary cried and cried. Her grades were excellent and she knew that she would not be returning to school the next year. The incessant crying and almost hysterical behavior concerned the teacher so she personally visited "Babci"--the Polish name of endearment given to my Great-Grandmother. Her concern for the child's well-being convinced the farmer's wife to allow Mary to attend another year of sixth grade, despite her good grades. Mary's tears of sadness quickly changed to tears of joy as she now had an additional year to learn.

This is perhaps one of my favorite stories from mom. It was one I heard as a child whenever I complained about school. What a wonderful line of strong women.

"Babci" (second from left) and Mary Rose (fourth from left) of the Redmonds.

Thomas Boylan · Repeatedlessons.WAV

Mom And God Calling

"May we make God's merciful love ever more

evident in our world through dialogue,

mutual acceptance and fraternal cooperation."

~Pope Francis

"God Calling" is a well-known book of spiritual guidance written by two anonymous women in the early part of the 20th Century. The only thing I know about these ladies is what little is available in the introduction to the book--they were anything but wealthy, they lived together, were both deeply spiritual and resided in England. From the brief introduction, written by one of the "two listeners" as they called themselves, the writer states, "...we were not in any way psychic or advanced in spiritual growth, but just very ordinary human beings, who had had more suffering and worry than the majority and who had known tragedy after tragedy." Sometime in the early 1980s, my mom's best friend, a dear lady named Pat, gave her a copy of this book. She started reading from it faithfully each day--making of it a regular part of her daily "prayer time." I caught sight of the book in her stack of daily devotionals once on a visit to Pennsylvania to visit and was intrigued. The beauty of the book is that it began with a partnership. This partnership was expressed again by mom and her dear friend reading and reflecting on the book each day. I purchased a copy in Texas and began reading it myself, feeling a certain connection with mom across the miles. Years later, when her dear friend Pat died, I continued to read and share with her insights about the readings. In 2011, I bought a bound leather version of the book which was designed with additional space for journaling and sent it to mom for her birthday that year. My inscription read: "April, 2011 Dear Mom:  I want you to use this book--please write your thoughts and feelings and share your wisdom. I love you. I am so lucky to have you as a parent. You are a treasure! Love, Tom" Obviously, she took my words to heart and immediately began recording her own thoughts and feelings about what she read each day. At that time, she was visiting my father daily in a neighboring town where he would die in less than two years. They were extremely difficult years for her. Today, my most cherished possession is that very book in which she wrote so many lovely words. Day after day, they comfort me and let me know she is with me. I can't contain the tears even as I type these words but one day I will follow her to that place of peace and contentment that she's written so beautifully about. Until then, I have her words. I have her words.

"Yesterday I turned 94! How good God has been to me allowing me to experience all these years with much joy and happiness but also His Presence in times of sorrow and regret when He's so close to us. I am so grateful for all the calls and well wishes and equally thankful for the wonderful celebration and dinner and all the gifts. Eduardo and Tom worked so hard to make this a memorable occasion. God bless them all."  ~Marjorie Marion Boylan, 4/9/2017

We Were Happy

There was a period sometime in the year 2013 when I decided I needed to take care of my mom. In January, we lost my father. I was still living in Texas and working part-time as an English instructor. Mom lived in a small, very rural, town in northwestern Pennsylvania. I couldn't imagine myself moving there but I thought perhaps there could be some compromise--to find a place closer to her other children and still close enough to Pennsylvania where she could visit if she chose. By spring of 2014, we had sold mom's house and moved her into an apartment with me just outside of Richmond, Virginia. The arrangement wasn't perfect but was as close to perfect as we could get. My sister closest to me in age lived literally five minutes away in the same neighborhood. My oldest sister was a two and a half hour drive to Maryland. My oldest brother lived in Virginia Beach--about a two hour drive. I have a brother who lives in Johnsonburg (our hometown in Pennsylvania) so now he was the farthest in distance. Mom was happy. I was happy. It was a good set-up.

As we settled into a new normal for both of us, I discovered--or should I say rediscovered--a long lost friendship with my mother. It wasn't only distance that had separated us for close to thirty years, it was a difference of opinion on many things and also a stubbornness on both our parts to remain intractable in our positions. The last several years had softened us and we were once again sharing an appreciation of our mutual spirituality across the miles. I was cautious but hopeful that we could continue this as roommates. My best expectations were far surpassed as we settled. I hadn't been this close to my mother since I was bordering teen hood.  It was a wonderful feeling...but we both knew it was occurring at the twilight of her life. She was 91 when we began our cohabitation.

We settled into a routine as I discovered how important routine was to mom's daily agenda. I so enjoyed bringing her coffee in the morning. She would often wake up with my gentle prod and ask "what time is it?" and I'd show her the alarm clock. She'd sigh and say that she's sleeping later and later each day. I would remind her that was pretty normal as you age. This went on the entire time she was with me. She would often have me take the coffee to her reading chair as she performed her daily ablutions in the restroom. There, waiting for her, was a stack of spiritual guidebooks and unfinished crossword puzzles. She would usually take about an hour while I prepared breakfast. Aside from the times we would veer from the usual, she would have her "red, white and blue" breakfast. Wheat toast with heavy butter, whatever cereal she requested (usually Special K or something similar) with skim milk, blueberries and strawberries and always 1/2 of a banana. I was quickly accustomed to how much she would eat. She never liked to waste food so it was important not to give her too much.

As weeks turned into months and it was just us (before I met my husband, Eduardo) we would often talk about our mutual morning meditations. These conversations were so rewarding. They are as much a gift to me now as they were at the time. Mom--at 91--was still searching and questioning but had a most steadfast faith. I learned so much from her.

After losing mom in January of this year, I went back to see all of the deleted messages on my phone. I just wanted to hear her voice. There were perhaps thirty or more.  After retrieving, I listened to each...and one after the other was her just asking me what time I'd be home from work. But there was one in which she told me that she'd had a "brainstorm" because I was planning on preparing a lemon cake and had complained that they were never moist enough. She suggested I stop at the store and get a package of lemon pudding. That message made me smile. The funny thing is I don't remember if I ever stopped to get the pudding. Her voice was so happy though. She was happy. I was happy. We were happy. I miss her so.

Thomas Boylan · Wewerehappy.WAV

One More Try

I had one hell of a year in 2016. More than seventy days in the hospital. An operation that saved me from near death. A slow and painful recovery. A depression that began when I realized--long before the election--that a demented clown would become our president and quickly begin to destroy our great country. December really sucked as one after another, cherished celebrities died. Hospital. Election. Depression. Death. I really didn't cry. I came close on election night but I couldn't even squeak out one tear. Didn't cry as my beloved celebrities died one after the other. Didn't cry when I suffered one physical setback after another and scarring that turned me into a type of Frankenstein's monster. But...

Things changed on Monday, January 30th. I was feeling miserable. Physically, I was suffering with another bout of bronchitis--and the pain was excruciating. Every time I coughed, my entire chest cavity felt like it would rip open as searing pain shot up and down the area where they'd sliced me open. Two hernias had developed during the healing process and they produced their own hellish pain. I had to go to the store. My husband was working late and I needed to get something for mom and I to eat. Also, we were low on a few staples. I headed out to Kroger. It was rainy and miserable. I wanted to get a rotisserie chicken but the deli folks told me it would be at least 45 minutes. I decided to wait. My body, racked with pain, slumped into one of the chairs in the in store café. I had the remaining groceries in a large cart which had done a great job of holding me up while I'd shopped. Then there, in the Kroger, George Michael's soothing voice came over the sound system in the form of one of my favorites, "One More Try"...and there, yes...right in the Kroger with people all around me, I burst into tears. They weren't just a few tears. I was sobbing. I was actually crying buckets right there in the Kroger. No one really paid any attention to me and I was glad for that. I hung my head low as the tears flowed. Then, just as soon as the song stopped playing, I gathered my wits and raised my head--dabbing my eyes with my jacket sleeve. The crying stopped. I felt better. You know that feeling you get when you're sick and you throw up and then actually feel better? That's how I felt.

Back home with my chicken, I gathered my thoughts. All of 2016 got out of me there at the Kroger. Every...last...bit... And I felt better. I really felt better. Sometimes all it takes is a really good cry. No matter where you are.

(Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Michael)

Thomas Boylan · Onemoretry.WAV

Relax. God's In Charge

(sketch by Clarence Boylan. 1925)

When we lost dad in 2013, I had no idea that I'd be moving from Texas to start a new life in Virginia. I wasn't particularly happy in Texas but I had a good job that I really loved and there was the "comfort zone" of course. Eventually, I started to think about mom and how her life would play out if she remained in the house--their house--and the town that was increasingly becoming unfamiliar to her--not due to any mental deficiency mind you, but because the town was changing and she was losing many of her friends. So I made the decision to move and put a huge amount of faith in God for what was to be my future. 

Fast forward to 2016. I am now living with mom and we share our modest apartment with my husband of a little over a year. Too bad dad never met my husband, Edu. Fortunately, he and mom have become best of friends. If I plopped back into the last months of 2012 at this moment through some time machine magic, I'd probably see someone who was more certain of his faith than he is now. I'm not sure why that is but one big reason could be that I became a little more cynical and a little less certain that decisions based on faith are always best. There's a small card in one of my many meditation/prayer books that says "Relax. God's in charge." It's becoming clear to me that although He is in charge, that doesn't mean we will always like how things turn out. I made a decision to have surgery in March and the prevailing attitude I had was it's not in my hands--it's in God's hands. Death came very close to me as the result of that decision. Was it a good decision? Probably…given the uncertainty of any real healing of the severe condition caused by my diverticulitis. Although I was aware of the possibility of complications I didn't count on any of that happening. 

Dad lost his father Clarence in 1933--a victim of infantile paralysis, also known as polio. He was only eight years old at the time. Memories of his father were rare and precious and little physical remnants remain of his brief time on this earth. One find, however, has intrigued me and I keep coming back to it as I try to imagine a future for myself. Shortly after dad was born, Clarence made a little sketch on a notepad and wrote "Our son Bill~25 yrs. from now." The sketch--with the exception of the mustache--looked a lot like my dad at 25--judging by photos I frequently scan. I guess Clarence expected his son to live a full and good life. Dad did just that. He did so many things without a father. He was a good man. I'm sure that when dad was my age he had a lot of the same questions I ask myself now. I'm not sure but I think he acted on faith in many instances. When dad was 25, he nearly died in a terrible car accident. My brush with death came at a much later time in my life. Has it made me a better person? I'm not so sure of that. I'm still putting all the pieces together and hoping that I can get back to that place where I felt a little more certain about putting it all in God's hands.