Bicentennial Memories

There are journaling exercises I perform where memories are activated by songs played on iTunes. Recently, I’ve been playing pre-selected pop hits from the 60s, 70s and even some 80s. Sometimes, I’ll seek out a certain week or month to activate memories of specific events. I’ve written about this before but lately I’ve really been fascinated by just how many memories are recalled with these exercises. I guess the memories have been there—lodged in my subconscious all these years—but it’s the songs that bring them to the surface.

I’ve written about 1976 previously on this blog but it keeps coming back because it was such a special year—personally and nationally.  As far as the world stage is considered, I’m not very knowledgeable about events from that year but nationally, the country’s Bicentennial celebration was well underway. The year began with the second half of my 6^th grade year at Holy Rosary Grade School and ended with the first half of my 7^th grade year—same school. In between, the summer of 1976 was the pinnacle of national fervor over the Bicentennial, culminating on July 4^th with spectacular televised fireworks from every U.S. city broadcast on TV. I was particularly impressed with images of The Statue of Liberty in New York harbor with the glistening towers of The World Trade Center dominating lower Manhattan. I was beginning to have a keen interest in architecture at this time. I probably would have followed that path later in life if I’d not been hampered by an arithmetic aptitude disorder (undiagnosed until I was in my 30s) and a general aversion to anything that involved…well..work. The President of the U.S. at that time was Gerald Ford. The economy was in shambles and, from my distanced perspective as an astute couch historian, the country was on its way down. Handed to Jimmy Carter with the election later that year, his inability to improve things would ensure he lasted one term.

My homeroom teacher at the beginning of the year was Sister Jude Marie (see “Sister Jude Marie,” “Eating Words” July, 2018) and she was the best possible teacher to have been assigned for fragility wrought by the tragedy of the previous year (see “Peace, Denny” from “Eating Words” May, 2018). My mother had written to my oldest brother (then in college) stating, “Tommy is enjoying his teacher this year. Sister told him that his artwork for the Bicentennial contest was good and he was happy.” I think Sister Jude Marie recognized what was best in each student and encouraged it. I remember the fact that she wasn’t easygoing and could be hard on me but it was a strategy I needed. I was generally very lazy when it came to academics and I benefitted from a dose of discipline though I didn’t recognize it at the time.

In June of that year, my parents took me and my sister Amy to the commencement ceremony of my oldest sister’s then fiancé, who was graduating from the Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. Doug was a good-looking, farm-bred small town boy who had the added benefit of smarts. He was always nice to me and would frequently send letters while he was attending the academy. I was happy to get them and he encouraged my then interest in all things dinosaur. At the time, he would stimulate my interest in archaeology—sending newspaper clippings about new discoveries. Once, he also sent a computer-generated banner with each letter of my name made up of hundreds of each letter in smaller font to spell it out. I kept it on my bulletin board for years even after he broke the wedding engagement with my sister, Mary. The break-up devastated her and I remember very clearly feeling empathy (a childhood rarity for me) in regards to the separation. 

I often think of my parents’ struggles during this time period. Dad was 51 and still working as a railway clerk at what was by that time changing names from Penn Central to Conrail. When he began working for the railroad, it was simply The Pennsylvania Railroad. In the early 1970s, bankruptcy forced a re-structuring but things didn’t improve. A reorganization court ordered the railroad to develop a plan to save Penn Central. The result was Conrail—owned by the U. S. government—nationalized on April 1^st of 1976. Dad would eventually retire from Conrail in 1985. The intervening years—including this critical year of 1976—didn’t do anything to assuage what I now know to be my father’s real fears regarding job security. Mom, 53, had a few years left as a homemaker before she would get a part-time job as a dietician at a hospital in a neighboring town. She would often complain about money—or lack thereof—and impatiently waited for multiple household improvement projects which would be put on hold repeatedly. The money just wasn’t there. She wanted simple things like wall-to-wall carpet (a mid-70s staple, as ubiquitous as faux wood paneling) and a modernized kitchen. I can remember the proverbial shit hitting the fan when my father purchased a boat that year. It sat propped up in our backyard nine months out of the year. My mother would stare out of her 50s-era outfitted kitchen window muttering “there’s my new kitchen” as she glared at that boat.

I spent the year oblivious to such things as money. I wished I could skip turning 12 in November and just move right into my teenage years. I couldn’t wait to grow up. Now I wish I could go back to those carefree days just to afford appropriate cherishment. As for the actual Bicentennial celebration…for all the buildup, it was sort of “blah"--kind of like the song that's playing as I wrap this up: "Afternoon Delight" by one-hit wonder Starland Vocal Band. Infectious but not memorable.

(click for link to video)

Afternoon Delight

Thomas Boylan · Bicentennialmemories.WAV

Thomas Boylan · Introeatingwords2.WAV

Our Hidden Depression

 My mother was never professionally diagnosed with clinical depression but in an experience she related to me back in 2009, I became convinced that she suffered from more than just mild depression or sadness at a certain point in her life. 

I was still a toddler and my mother had to make a run to the only bank in our small town. The bank had a walk-up teller window and cars needed to be parked on a steep incline to access the window area. After conducting her transaction--as she told it--she got back into the car and like a thunderbolt, the sadness and grief she was experiencing manifested in a horrific thought. Long before the lawful requirement of car baby seats, I was happily bouncing around unbelted in the front passenger seat. She put the car into gear and briefly considered ending it all by running full speed into a solid brick wall a block away. She thought it would be the fastest and least painful way to die. What alarmed me was not that she briefly considered suicide as a remedy to her problems. I mean, we've all had thoughts of suicide at one time or another with no serious intention of carrying them out. But what told me that my mother was seriously, clinically depressed--not to mention alarming for purely selfish reasons--was the fact that she was willing to disregard the toddler seated next to her. Me!

She recounted this story while I was visiting her in Pennsylvania several years before her death and just four years before my father passed away. The subject came up matter-of-factly as we were talking about recognizing the difference between "feeling down" and full-fledged depression. At the time, my dad was declining rapidly from advanced Parkinson's Disease and frequent bouts of dementia. Her plate was full but her dedication to my father was admirable and selfless. It caused me to think about all of the times in her life when she was saddled with five children and struggling just to make it through each day. It also made me appreciate how so many of her generation regarded professional help as stigmatizing and markers of inadequacy. Professional help may have alleviated so much pain.

Shortly after I was diagnosed with a life-altering prognosis and began to feel the helplessness and despair that came with it, I was primed for my own bout with clinical depression. I feel extremely fortunate that I was able to work through this time with a qualified and understanding therapist. Any thoughts that may have prevented my mother from seeking such care were far from my own mind at the time.

As we now see the lingering, collective effects of COVID in our lives, I gently suggest to friends who are struggling that they shouldn't rule out therapy. Sometimes, professional help can literally mean the difference between life and death. I'm glad mom didn't choose death despite never seeking professional help. I'm also glad that I'm alive to tell this story. 

(my mother at home. November, 1962)

Thomas Boylan · Introeatingwords2.WAV

Thomas Boylan · Ourhiddendepression2.WAV

Perfect Friend

 There are people I know with a bevy of friends who, at least from appearances, seem to enjoy a closeness with individuals unrelated by blood. And I find such relationships enviable. I can now say, after nearly three score years, that envy may not be the appropriate word for my feelings. I may in fact be jealous of them. Someone once said that the difference between jealousy and envy was this: to envy someone's life or circumstances is to see it and wish it for themselves, to be jealous is to see their life or circumstances and basically say "if I can't have it, I don't want them to have it either." That's a pretty sad self revelation. I'm working on it. I know jealousy is a strong word and I certainly don't want to risk alienating the few acquaintances I have. Many people I know seem to enjoy a wide circle of what they might call "good friends" with a tighter circle of what they may call "true friends." For me, a "true friend" would amount to friend perfection. A true friend would be a perfect friend and that--well, it just never happened for me.

I've had a number of friends over the years and many of them have been loyal and good, to a point. My formative years were difficult and social interaction was limited by factors beyond my control. There were also what I can only describe now as instinctive behaviors that were expressed in the comfort of social isolation. As a child, I actually preferred to play for hours alone. In some cases, I think my imagination substituted for friends. If I couldn't manifest the perfect friend physically, I could  do so with a quite vivid imagination. 

My 20s and 30s were witness to a steady conveyer belt of friends who often did double-duty as lovers or fuck-buddies, both male and female, who further blurred my understanding of what true friendship might be. I sought in vain for the perfect friend not really knowing how to define what a perfect friend really was. By my fortieth year, at some point I laid out the definition of what qualified as "the perfect friend." I knew that no one in my past or present met these qualifications and it saddened me. It also forced me to look in the mirror and flip the script, asking whether or not I ever met any of these strict qualifications. I had to admit I didn't. In fact, I was a pretty sorry-ass friend all the way down the line. How could I ever expect anyone to meet up to my lofty ideals when I could barely qualify for the lowest of my own standards?

When I decided to care for my aging mother in the years before her death, something about what she said one day struck me as one of those "as true as it's gonna get" statements. She was 93 years-old and was the sole survivor of six siblings. She had lost all of her closest friends in the intervening years and she literally had no one left. Our discussion that day centered around her getting out to potentially make some new friends. She rolled her eyes, softly framed with wrinkles and wisdom, and laughed telling me, "It took years to cultivate the friendships I had. We were close based on shared history and common interests we discussed over years of sharing time together. It's not easy to start from scratch at this point." She had something there. 

I may be screwed. 

Thomas · Introeatingwords2.WAV

Thomas Boylan · Perfectfriend.WAV

Grownup

I always wanted to be a "grown-up" when I was a kid.

It was the 1970s and I felt like I was missing out on so much. Not only did I live in a small town away from all the action, I knew that the things I really wanted to do would be gone by the time I was "legal" and, hopefully, living in a city. Any city. I like to think I was a pretty astute observer as a young teenager. I turned 13 in 1977.

I spent a lot of time watching television. As much as I enjoyed the sitcoms of the 70s, I'd often find myself watching old black and white movies from the golden age of Hollywood. I became such a fan that I could match star name recognition with my mom--who actually lived through the era. Often, I'd watch these old films with a sense of nostalgia as well as loss. How could that be?  I mean, one can't be nostalgic for something they've never experienced right? The behaviors and mannerisms--as well as the beautiful clothing--were all lost to time. So...you would think I'd be dying to escape the tackiness of the 70s. I did recognize the outré art of the time. I hated the faux wood paneling, the thick dark carpeting, the avocado green appliances and the bulky living room furniture. Now I almost have a sense of nostalgia for all of that.

Thinking back on my adolescent years I feel nostalgia for all kinds of things. The town of my youth doesn't resemble what it was while I was growing up so going back to visit doesn't feel like a trip back in time anymore. I say "anymore" because, for many of the years I lived in Texas, a visit to the small Pennsylvania town of my youth was indeed a trip back in time. In fact, it was a place where time stood still. All of that changed in recent years as the same devastation that decimated large cities of the rust belt rippled out to rural communities as well. As my trips back to Pennsylvania increased in frequency as my parents aged, I couldn't help but notice how irreversible changes were taking place--none of them good. The newsstand closed. Small shops on the main street were boarded up or torn down. The only grocery store that remained actually closed for a few years as well, forcing residents to travel several miles just for food staples. I found that returning to my little town as an actual grown-up was quite depressing. Being "grown-up" wasn't all it was cracked up to be after all--even living in the city.

My grade school years were spent at a parochial school adjoining our Parish--Holy Rosary. At some point in the late 1980s, even that closed down and the empty halls where my behind was paddled more times than I care to remember were now ghostly images where memories would have to suffice out of necessity.

Being grown-up didn't turn out to be anything as I'd expected--well, at least not as my teenage mind imagined. But I suppose I had a few prescient ideas when I realize that I was in fact correct. Those things I wanted to do and see as a grown-up really didn't exist anymore.

Holy Rosary Grade School. 1978.

Listen to this story by following the link:

Thomas Boylan · Introeatingwords2.WAV

Thomas Boylan · Grownup.WAV

Quarantine Musings On Day 43

Today marks quarantine day # 43. With the exception of two outings--one on April 5 and the other yesterday--I haven't ventured more than one hundred feet from our little apartment. COVID-19, colloquially known as "Coronavirus", has changed life as we knew it. My fear is that the change will be permanent in some way or another. It's hard to imagine how that change could be positive.

Here in Georgia our governor has mandated that restaurants and theaters are allowed to open beginning today. Though many have opted to continue a suspension of in-restaurant dining, there are many that will resume with "social-distancing" orders to be followed. As much as I personally want things to get "back to normal" I can't help but think this could backfire with cases and deaths on the increase in this state.

I began my day on March 16 with bold aspirations. I was going to tackle all of my boxes with family photographs and continue the time-consuming task of digitizing them. I was going to do a lot of baking and cooking. I planned on journaling each day and writing regularly for my blog again. There were lots of classic movies on my DVR and I intended to view them on leisurely afternoons after reading numerous books that had accumulated on my bedside table or near my sofa. I was going to faithfully read the daily newspaper that still arrives on my doorstep each morning. There were so many good intentions. To my credit, I didn't squander all of my time. I mean, I actually did either start or complete a number of these things.

Less than a week into this new "abnormal" my husband began working from home. It's a two-bedroom place, our apartment. He typically travels quite frequently for work and, since I teach part-time, we go for stretches without seeing one another. Normally. He now must maintain communication with all of the South American countries he does business with. In Spanish. Out loud. Let's just say it's not an ideal situation for reading--even with my headphones on. Still, it's nice to be spending more time with him--and it beats being alone in isolation I'm sure.

There is a balcony. I've been able to take advantage of it on the nice days and I've filled the birdfeeders with a new selection of seeds designed to attract a larger variety of birds. The new mixture hasn't disappointed and it's so cool to see the huge variety of colors and hear the different songs.

I really can't complain. We aren't hurting. We have food in our bellies and a safe, comfortable place. We have wi-fi and smart phones and Zoom. We have clean water and the ability to take daily showers even if we haven't worked up a sweat. I check myself often when I want to complain because--really--I have very little to complain about. The fact that I recognize this may set me apart--perhaps just a little--from some of my likewise privileged counterparts--who may not have recognition of their blessings.

Am I scared? You bet. But I can't even begin to grasp the fear that some are feeling right now. For that, I'm grateful.

Easter Visit

I want to visit with you two for a bit so I'm virtually visiting your resting place. I can look at this photograph and be thankful I had the foresight to have you both pose for it.

Dad, you recently turned 95! I thought a lot about you on your birthday--although I think of you very often when something activates my memory. Even though we lost you when you were 87, I like to think about what you would be like at this age. What new wisdom would you have gained? What do you think about COVID-19 and our current political situation? You always had an opinion. I miss them--whether I agreed with them or not. I thank you for your unwavering unconditional love.

Mom, you are 97 today! Happy Birthday! You are part of my every day. Not a single one goes by where I don't think of you and grieve for you. Yes--even after 2 plus years. I watch the birds come to our birdfeeder and remember what you said about the cardinals. A male and female come faithfully every day and I like to think they are you and dad. Your prayers and your prayer journal comfort me daily. But God, how I miss our talks! There are still so many unanswered questions and family photos to identify. I'm glad we covered as much as we did when you were still with us but I can't hear you anymore--save the vain imaginings of what I think you'd say.

I'm okay. This staying indoors affords me the opportunity to do so much reading and writing. I can imagine you saying "this is your dream come true, you lazy bum." Of course, with a smile on your face. I know you are taking good care of dad and Eva. It must be great to have Aunt Kay, Aunt Bernice and Aunt Bow with you...and now René. Is there weed in heaven? If there is, I'm sure she's still smoking. Give her a hug for me. Give them all a hug for me. We can't hug anyone down here right now although personally, I've never been big on hugging. But you know that.

It's time for me to get back to my journal. I write about the memories of the last four years we had together while still fresh in my mind. It was an honor to be your caregiver.

I love and miss you both so much. I look forward to the day outside of time when we will meet again. I hope it's not too soon. I still have some traveling I'd like to do. Eduardo is treating me exceptionally well. I can see now why he became your "favorite."

Bye...for now. I hope you like the virtual flowers. I love you.

Thomas Boylan · Eastervisit.WAV

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)