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.

Alive And....Well...

The big wake-up call happened in my 51st year on the last day of March. I went into the hospital for what was billed as laparoscopic intestinal resection. In other words, the doctor was going to remove a portion of my colon (which had perforated) and I'd be free of the pain that had been plaguing me for several months. The surgery seemed to have been successful. A few incisions in my abdominal area and a good dose of morphine for a few days post-surgery and I'd be headed back to work in no time.

That changed on the 6th of April when I lost consciousness and was diagnosed with sepsis and renal failure. I had a major infection. I was rushed in for emergency surgery and was cut from stem to sternum. I wasn't aware of it at the time but my rib cage was opened like an actual cage as they flushed my body with whatever was needed to heal me. When I woke from this procedure, the pain was unbearable and I began a very long road to recovery. But I was lucky to be alive. During the course of my hospital stay, I learned that actress Patty Duke had died of the very thing that happened to me. In other words, I could have died. But I didn't. I'm still recovering and I've got many scars to prove it. I'm thankful for another shot at life. Writing is going to help me to heal.

I'm sure of it.

(Actress Patty Duke: December 14, 1946 – March 29, 2016}

A Message From One Of The Last Baby Boomers

The latest issue of "Boomer" magazine revealed something to me that I'd not considered before: I'm not just a bookend to the baby-boomer generation, I'm at the tail end of the bookend.  There will be no baby-boomer under fifty once December 31st passes and the year 2015 rolls out.  My 50th birthday is November 1st.  I will join the ranks of the 50+ folks and, while simultaneously saying goodbye to my youth and embracing "Golden Girls" territory, I will take some small pleasure in being at the end of a trend.  It's kind of like being the baby in the family.  I know that experience well--being the youngest of five children.  It's still not an easy pill to swallow.

We of my generation have witnessed the upheavals wrought by the "elders" of the baby boomers.  We were pre-K when they were marching against the war in Vietnam and burning bras.  We were playing with toy guns while they were shooting real guns--some in Vietnam and some as National Guardsmen right here, shooting those who thought we shouldn't be soldiers.  We were riding bicycles with training wheels (without helmets) while Richard Nixon resigned in shame.  Yet all these events had indelible effects on our collective psyches.  We saw our "greatest generation" parents recoil in horror to the "loose morals" and open drug use displayed at Woodstock.  We watched our older brothers and sisters wishing they could be there.  We listened to the music of our older siblings and tried to grab the meanings of lyrics we were still unable to process.  But we liked it.  Most of it.  

I guess I was kind of cut from a different cloth.  I did indeed witness all of the above within the lenses of childhood glasses, real ones which were of the Coke bottle thickness variety and would forever alter my self-image.  From a very early age--to the best of my recollection--I wished that I'd been born into a different era.  I was drawn to the movies of the 1930s and 40s and would prefer to sit indoors on a beautiful Saturday to watch them instead of playing outside.  I loved the way people from the earlier era dressed.  I had a keen sense of style, or at least I thought I did.  I knew that the Brady Bunch fashions of the 70s were tacky and I thought that published materials such as books and magazines from an earlier time were much better.  I couldn't at the time say that the "better" was a certain polished advertisement or typeface...but I just knew it was better.  As I've come to understand the younger version of myself more than ever before, I'm glad I was "different." I've only recently come to view the fashions and styles of the 60s and 70s as a bit nostalgic.

When I look at the bigger picture, I think about the influence of the older baby-boomers on my life--as they were not just my siblings, but also older cousins.  I'm reminded that they've already crossed that bridge I'm about to cross.  I'm also comforted to see many of them having made peace with and embracing age.  I am doubly blessed as I have beat the odds to survive far past an expiration date that was given me by a doctor some twenty-one years ago.  I'm glad to be a baby-boomer.  I'm glad to be alive.  I'm glad to be crossing that bridge.

Me. Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. 1966.

Thomas Boylan · Babyboomer.WAV

Mothers-In-Law, The Twilight Zone, And Memory...In Living Color

I arrived on November 1st, 1964.  It was a Sunday...9:32 AM.  The high temperature on that crisp autumn day was 65 degrees.  It was partly cloudy.  I don't remember any of that, of course.  It's true for most people--I guess--that we don't remember many things from the first few years of our lives.  I'm fortunate that I can remember short snippets of time from my 2nd, and even more from my 3rd years on this planet.  It's weird what our minds choose to remember, though.  I can recall being in a crib.  This is my earliest memory.  It's really just a flash in time.  What I remember is crying and standing in a wooden crib.  I was uncomfortable and was crying because I was hot. 

It's interesting that so many of my earliest memories revolve around television programs.  As a bookend to the Baby Boomer generation, children of my era became perhaps the first generation in which the television served not only as entertainment but also as babysitter.

With the recent advent of NETFLIX and HULU into my life, I've discovered a truly interesting phenomenon.  I've been able to revisit and review both popular programs and obscure shows that never really made it into heavy circulation or even syndication for that matter.  One of these shows was called "The Mothers-In-Law", which aired on the NBC television network from September, 1967 to April of 1969.  I don't think that this program was a favorite of my parents because I can only remember watching one episode.  I don't recall the details of the episode.  What I clearly recall is the title, the performers and the graphic colors.  I think we had only recently acquired a color television set and NBC was really exploiting this feature as more and more families obtained these color sets.  I distinctly remember the ads that were played before many of the programs.  It was just a seventeen second spot that showed a peacock logo erupting with all the colors of the rainbow while the announcer said, "The following is brought to you in living color on NBC."  What I remember distinctly are the exaggerated facial features of one of the key characters, played by Kaye Ballard, who portrayed one of the meddling mothers-in-law.  As an adult, my mind tries to connect to the memories surrounding this program as it aired in primetime. 

It's happened with other programs and episodes as well.  I can recall watching syndicated "Twilight Zone" re-runs, black and white--on that color set.  One particular episode that I recently re-watched on NETFLIX originally aired in April of 1964.  Since this was approximately seven months before I was born, and since that was in fact the last season that the series aired in primetime, I can guess that I was watching this episode in syndication sometime in the late 1960s.  The title of the episode was "Stopover in a Quiet Town" and it was about a married couple who wake in a strange town after a night of drinking only to find out that they are now the "pets" of a giant little girl from another planet.  As a small child I was wide-eyed and fascinated by this--so it stuck with me.  Seeing it on NETFLIX so many years later, I can see how time distorts memory, as many of the details my child mind remembered didn't correspond. But surprisingly, many of the details were intact. 

These "television moments" of my youth, of which there are many, serve me as I try to put the childhood memories to paper.  I am sure that, just as memories of the television shows I watched are slightly distorted, my memories of actual life events may be slightly distorted as well.  I think it's important to acknowledge that.  It's not going to stop me, however, from writing about my pre-journal keeping life.  Fact checking and photographs will help, and so will mom's recollections.  Everything will be true as I remember it.

Kaye Ballard (Scene from "Mothers-In-Law")

Opening title from the show "Mothers-In-Law"

The Twilight Zone

Scene from 1964 episode of "The Twilight Zone" --"Stopover in a Quiet Town"

The NBC color peacock

Me (center) in front of the TV. 1969.

You CAN Find It On A Map!

Looking at a map of the United States pre-Google Maps (you remember how they used to have maps...on paper?), a person wouldn't find the town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania.  The more detailed state maps and highway maps always listed it in very fine print.  Today, one can easily locate it on Google.  Go ahead.  I know you want to.  Just search "Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania" and you can zoom in as far as it will let you.  They even let you do street views now.  Just a few years ago, when Google Maps was still taking all the pictures, before they started blurring license plate numbers and peoples faces, you couldn't even zoom in on Johnsonburg.  But now you can.  And it's pretty amazing for me to examine it from above.  I can see myself as a kid, wandering the streets on foot or on my bicycle.  Not much has changed from a distant view.  When you zoom in closer however, you would see a very different town than the town where I spent my childhood and early youth. 

I guess one could say that Johnsonburg, like so many rural towns in the northeast and Midwest, is a town in decline.  But that's a generalization.  It doesn't sit well with me and I'm sure it wouldn't sit well with a number of people who still call it home.  But you'd be surprised--when speaking with folks one on one--how many people from this special place might pull you aside and let you know that they don't like what they see.

There are times when I breathe a silent prayer of thanks for being allowed to experience a childhood in this place in the 1970s.  In my mind I'm often transported back there...

I can see Market Street just as clearly as I saw it as a 3rd grader at Holy Rosary School.  I've often thought about how, as a child, I was filled with wonder about everything.  The buildings of my hometown's "downtown" really fascinated me!  At the time, the only bank in town was called Warren National Bank.  It was a solid stone structure built on a steep incline, directly below the imposing Romanesque Holy Rosary Church.  The stunning red brick of the church contrasted well with the large grey stones of the bank building.  Across the street from the bank stood the Johnsonburg Community Building.  My earliest recollections of this impressive structure were speech lessons given to me by a Mrs. Schreiber.  I could be wrong on that name but I'll fact check later.  I would walk from Holy Rosary Grade School to the second floor of this building and I think our meetings would last maybe an hour.  I was pronouncing my "s" sounds with a "th" sound.  I guess that would have been considered a lisp?  Anyway, it was corrected.  The lisp, that is.  My other earliest recollections were the countless hours I would spend on the second floor in what was the library.  There were three rooms: The grown-up library, the children's library and the study/reference room.  If I close my eyes, I can still see these rooms.  I memorized them.  In my pre-teen to earliest teen years, I would volunteer at this library as a page for the head librarian.  Her name was Wilburta Nelson.  I adored this mildly eccentric lady.  If there ever was a librarian stereotype, I guess you could say she fit it.  She always wore her hair pulled up in a bun.  At various times, this hair bun would serve as a pin cushion for several pencils.

Across from the bank--at the opposite corner from the Community Building, there was a long row of stores known as the "Brick Block" and the second floor of this large brick structure were apartments.  There was a newsstand, a hairdresser and several other small businesses.  Next to this was a five and dime store.  We used to call it "the five and ten" but it was officially G.C. Murphys.  It was always a treat to go into this place to buy candy.  On one occasion however, me and one of my fellow students (his name was Rich) decided that we would steal a candy bar.  We were promptly apprehended and our parents were called.  It was decided that a lecture and a lesson on the perils of theft (addressing morals and sin) would suffice.  And it did!  I never stole another thing until many years later.

Across from the Brick Block and Five and Ten was the Elks Club.  I spent many wonderful hours there as well.  These are especially cherished memories because my dad didn't spend a lot of time with me as a small child.  But, since he would always be attending to some business at the Elks, I would tag along.  He served in various capacities in the Elks hierarchy.  I suppose that, because his line of work as a railway clerk was a specific skill, they utilized those skills for some recordkeeping duties at the club.  I would sit and play with all of the office supplies--especially the rubber stamps--while he attended to paperwork.  Later, when he'd finish his work, he'd always stop in for a beer or two and chat with the bartender who was on duty.  I was free to explore all of the nooks and crannies of this old building.  There was a massive (or what seemed to me as a child to be massive) staircase that lead to a ballroom on the second floor.  I would play on that staircase or run around in the ballroom--also the scene of many memorable weddings from my youth.  Everything was accessible.  I can still smell the stale cigar smoke and beer.  I can still see the mysterious windows on the door to the office--scalloped and fuzzy so you couldn't see what was going on inside.

The backdrop to all of this was like a set from a movie.  The constantly billowing smokestacks and massive brick buildings of the Paper Mill loomed behind all and churned out not only paper, but the livelihood of so many of the people who patronized and inhabited these buildings.

This was the town of my youth.  It's still there.  It's in my mind...in my heart.  Through the eyes of a child, it wasn't such a bad place, but I knew I didn't want to be there for the rest of my life.  These memories are what I want to preserve, before I forget them.  They are largely inhabited by ghosts and even those players still living are not the same people they used to be.  One thing's for sure.  Words will never be sufficient to describe it.

The Brick Block (April, 2013)

The Bank Building. Has been home to many banks through the years, but was Warren National for most of my youth. (April, 2013)

The Johnsonburg Community Building (April, 2013)

All photographs copyrighted TAB Photography