Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word

 As a kid I didn't have any deep conversations with my dad. A good man and hard worker, dad was a passionate conversationalist--especially when he'd had a few beers. But those conversations were limited most often to other adults. He was of the generation that believed children were to be seen and not heard. He would definitely have a "conversation" with one of his children if he was displeased. I can remember the booming voice that could just have easily been God if he was pissed off. Maybe that's the reason I still don't like to think of my concept of God as a male/father figure. Who knows? Dad was a disciplinarian in voice only, however. I don't ever recall him laying a finger on me. For that I'm grateful. I had friends who were spanked regularly. For instance my childhood buddy, Richie. Pretty much a weekly occurrence with his strict father. 

Dad loved listening to music. The radio was always on in the car on short and long trips. He'd scan the stations and surprisingly settle very often on contemporary pop. His choices at home were more often records he and my mom had that reflected some of the great voices of their generation: Perry Como, Guy Lombardo, Lawrence Welk among many others. Mom had a particular fondness for Perry Como and a Polish crooner named Bobby Vinton--the "Polish Prince." But some of my clearest memories of dad and music were these car trips--very often with just he and my mom as I was the last of five children and when the others had left the nest, I was the remaining car companion. A few memories stand out. Some of them were from solitary short trips with my father like the times when he'd drive me to morning mass because I was an altar server and walking to the church was out of the question. Those were the few instances I recall where I actually got to hear my father speaking directly to me about music. 

The Canadian artist Gordon Lightfoot had a top 40 hit in 1976 titled "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" about an ill-fated Great Lakes freighter that sunk in Lake Superior during a ferocious storm in November of 1975. The entire crew of 29 men perished in that disaster and the song basically told the story. For whatever reason dad deemed it important, we sat in the driveway of our house upon return from some errand once the song came on and my father told me to listen to the words as it was a true story. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a relatively recent news event and my dad was a true news junkie or perhaps he really liked the song, being a bit of a storyteller himself. Whatever the reason, it was one of those rare instances where my father gave me his full attention and it left an impression. 

Other memories are a bit more subtle but one stands out in particular--again from 1976. It's easy to date these memories precisely because they are related to popular music. I wouldn't begin journaling until 1979. This memory evokes a bit more emotion however because I was at this tender age beginning to question my sexuality, even if I didn't fully understand it. Elton John had recently given an interview to Rolling Stone magazine and in the interview, he came out as bisexual. This news spread like wildfire since being openly gay or bi in the 1970s had an entirely different reaction than such news brings these days. Let's just say it wasn't celebrated. Contrary to what this type of news had done to countless other entertainers however, it didn't seem to hurt Elton's popularity. I suppose by then his music was so beloved that people could choose to overlook this "peculiarity." I strongly suspect that my father might have actually appreciated Elton John prior to this public revelation. Despite his flamboyance, his music attracted appreciation from multiple generations. An Elton John song came on the radio--not sure which one but it very easily could have been any that was then popular. My hunch is that it was Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word. That would have been the biggest hit that year post the Rolling Stone interview. What I remember most distinctly was my father's visceral disgust with Elton John as soon as the song came on. He made a statement along the lines of "that guy is full of crap." Years since, I've reflected on the fact that dad wasn't making a statement about the music. He was making a statement about the man. More particularly, how he felt about the man. I wonder to this day if it was because of the announcement in the interview. 

More comical pronouncements from dad didn't take the form of discussion about music--just opinion. For instance, remarking on the voice of Barbra Streisand--whose music he really appreciated--his comment went something like "That gal's got a voice but boy, that nose!" Dad could be pretty crass when describing the physical characteristics of folks. Years later, when I was living in Texas, I made a habit of bringing CDs when I traveled back and forth and my portable CD player always in tow. On one visit, I was surprised to find him listening to some of the CDs I brought. He really enjoyed the Natalie Cole grammy winning album from the early 90s Unforgettable and surprisingly Bonnie Raitt's breakthrough comeback album Nick of Time which included such songs as Have a Heart. To paraphrase his comment at the time, "That gal's not bad looking for her age and she has a voice." 

One of the nicest things about memories of my father that include music are the numerous road trips that we took with the radio always on and recognizing songs that were in heavy rotation at the time of those journeys. It has helped me to recall dates of trips in previous writings to recall songs that played incessantly on a road trip and simply date the song. There are many instances of pleasant memories in that regard. In years leading up to the time we lost him, I got closer and closer to my father--even as dementia robbed him of his storytelling glory days. There isn't a day when a song doesn't play that reminds me of him, whether I'm hearing it in real time or it's just playing in my head. And as far as Elton John is concerned, maybe my dad softened his opinion after he came to accept my being gay. I'll never know. 

Elton John's 1976 Rolling Stone cover.

1986: My Year As A Socialist

I finally attained full adulthood status in November of 1985 when I turned 21. For most of 1986 I was still "enjoying" all the exuberance of feeling like a teenager with all the rights and responsibilities that came with being "legal." As a young, out gay man at the start of the AIDS pandemic with a strong libido, it was a scary time--aside from the usual scariness that being 21 entails.

It was the first time I got an apartment in my name. Even though I took over a lease in progress from a co-worker who was moving, it still had my name on it. I was feeling pretty good. $350 a month, all bills paid. I wasn't alone as I had taken up with a 34 year-old guy who managed half the expenses. We had an understanding--with parameters set by me--that I was too young to to be involved in a committed, monogamous relationship so we slept together but we often had additional guests in our bed. His name was Theo. He was the head cook at a cafeteria where I was then working, at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Arlington, Texas. 

I wanted so much to be involved in something bigger than myself. I had big dreams. The reality was far from any achievement of big things or big things to come. Fact was--I dropped out of community college over a year before. I had a high school education, was working in a cafeteria and had no prospects regarding further education at the time. I got to know many of the blue-collar workers at this car factory. Even though it was the mid-1980s, this was still Texas...and my oftentimes orange hair and heavy eyeliner opened me to ridicule even though I was constantly telling myself I was new wave, not effeminate. Theo was an imposing black man who was generally working at the same time I was so I felt protected most of the time. Besides, the rednecks found amusements elsewhere so I was harassed very few times when it came right down to it. There was a lot of diversity in the plant, too. Aside from a large percentage of African-American men and women, there were Latinos and a few folks who would have been the 80s version of goths and geeks. There were also socialists. These workers proudly wore "FREE SOUTH AFRICA" t-shirts and buttons supporting unions and strikes. During the Reagan years, they weren't getting much traction but there were a few notable strikes going on. The socialists were never far from the front lines in those instances. They were on them. But...back to my libido...there was one guy who always came through my line named Alex. Alex was a young, swarthy Latino with a shock of jet-black hair and eyelashes for days. His body was taut and the way his FREE SOUTH AFRICA tee clung to it was quite impressive for this skinny punk ringing up his coffee and sandwich purchases. I was happy when Alex struck up brief conversations with me--especially when there was no line and we had a chance to talk. I asked him about his t-shirt and he went into an impressive list of all of the injustices the South African government had imposed on its citizens with the still intact system of apartheid. I could have cared less what he was talking about as I began swimming in those deep brown eyes framed by lashes for days.

Before I knew it, I was attending Socialist get-togethers in Dallas and spending less and less time with Theo. Despite the fact that Alex was, unfortunately, straight, I met lots of other new people. Young people. Older hippie types. I felt like I found a new tribe. They didn't just accept my being gay. They told me they were fighting for me too. The Socialist Workers were fighting for all our rights. And...they had a division just for people my age--under 30 members could become part of the Young Socialist Alliance. It sounded impressive. So I joined up. I joined the cafeteria workers union and started to wear my own FREE SOUTH AFRICA t-shirt. Workers of the world, unite! But...wait. There's more. Belief in God was really old-fashioned, out-of-style. It just wasn't cool to believe--not just in God but in any spirituality. That was the first thing that didn't sit well with me. Plus, there was pressure. They wanted me to start applying for assembly line jobs so that I could infiltrate other places, influence other workers. There was also a strict no drug use policy and I didn't like the idea that I'd have to give up weed or other stuff. But I wanted so much to be a part of something big. 

There's no dramatic ending to this story. I finally just got sick of attending all those meetings and feeling pressured to do things I didn't want to do. It wasn't before I became a poster-boy of sorts and was interviewed for the newspaper published by the organization. I realized that I didn't want to be socialist after all. Capitalism was okay. South Africa, Nicaragua and hundreds of other places I had never been to would all be okay. Governments would change and I would change. Still, I have fond memories of that year. I'm still comfortable saying that I tried it. It just wasn't for me. 

(Issue of "Young Socialist" which featured an interview on pg.2)

(Wearing my "FREE South Africa" tee shirt. Arlington, Texas. 1986)

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

The Reckoning

 [This personal blog has covered a variety of subjects over the years...and I've been careful not to concentrate too much on any one subject. I do this for purely selfish reasons so that I don't become bored with writing about one subject, over and over. The blog has been a truly condensed version of my physical journals--at least for the past few years. I have no interest in a larger public audience so it should be no surprise to anyone that the refinement of my writing style hasn't improved much over time. I suppose that somewhere in the deep recesses of my undiagnosed narcissism it would please me to know that someone out there has derived pleasure from my writing. But, I digress. I've mainly stayed away from politics. But, this is 2020, and the past few years have been hell for me and many of my fellow countrywomen and men. Interestingly, it has been a joyride for an uncomfortably large percentage of an additional number of my fellow countrywomen and men. I've thought long and hard about this and I've heard more than enough pundits to know that there are multiple theories about why we've come to this consequential moment in our history. I offer the following to bring some clarity to myself for why "Trumpism" is a "thing." Perhaps it can help someone else wrap their brain around this craziness as well.]

I spent my formative years in the tiny town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. I've written about this place many times. In fact, there are several blog entries you will find right here dealing with my reckonings of being raised in this hamlet...hamlet, yes, my quaint way of referring to a place where my fears and longings regarding the world outside its limits would be formed, regurgitated, confirmed and oftentimes debunked. Interestingly, there would be many additional--mainly--fears about what fate would hold in store for me if I remained there. In fact, it played an enormous role in my decision to attempt to runaway from the place at the tender age of fifteen. Another story. 

In 1977, my devoutly Roman Catholic mother became involved in a Charismatic Prayer Group at our home parish. She was a somewhat reluctant participant--urged on by one of her best female friends to explore this new aspect to spirituality. As she brought home various pieces of literature, I was intrigued. I consumed them with all the fire of an impassioned field preacher. It played well with my attraction to drama...and I needed it. At least I thought I did. I was well aware at this point that I wasn't like the "other" boys so this could be my ticket to change. At first, she was reluctant to take this already problematic thirteen year-old son to the weekly meetings with her but she eventually acquiesced. Perhaps, deep down, she actually thought it might do me some good. As for me...wow!! I couldn't have found a better outlet for my deep-seated self hatred than to find an entire group willing to lay their hands on me in fervent prayer (in tongues as well!) and surround me with a feeling of acceptance and love. I think it would be a mistake to say that this love wasn't genuine. I believe--to this day--that it was. There is so much power in communal prayer. To this day, it impresses me deeply.

There was, however, a much darker side to this involvement. As my weary mother participated partly out of a sense of duty to her friend, I shined! I began to "prophesy" and also "spoke in tongues" and I put both of those dramatic gifts in quotes because I truly possessed neither. It was an enormous act and I played it well. Sometimes, members of the group were so genuinely touched by my words they actually broke down in tears. The group dynamic was more important to me than anything. Once the fever of it all hit you, there was little you could do but be caught up in the "spirit." And, in this case, I do believe that a certain type of spirit was actually present. The whole concept of the Charismatic movement was that one could be "born again" even though the Catholic Church accepted "one baptism" for the "forgiveness of sins." Somehow, Charismatics found a way around this. I was gladly "born again" and soon felt that it was a stamp of honor...and also a stamp of ridicule. It became very easy to become the victim. After all, it was those others who hadn't been saved--made whole again--who were lost and confused. We must pray for them. As I entered high school, I found it easy to explain to myself that my lack of popularity and general awkwardness was the price I must pay for being different.

By 1980, my sophomore year at a private high school, I was so caught up in my religious fervor that I ran away from home. Although I came home later the same day, it took some reckoning to readjust to school and it certainly didn't make my life any easier. In April of that year, one of the Charismatic nuns that had taken me under her wing convinced my mom and I to attend a "Washington for Jesus" rally at the Nation's Capital. It was at this immense gathering of Evangelicals and Pentecostals that the true impact of large numbers of people expressing various degrees of the same fervor could really whip you into a frenzy. It was like the prayer meetings on a grand scale. I wasn't listening closely to one of the speakers--the Reverend Jerry Falwell--condemning women who had abortions as murderers. I particularly didn't pay attention to the condemnation of the "sin" of homosexuality. But when I got home from that rally, I did think about those things. I thought about them very deeply. 

It may seem simplistic to compare the fervor at a Trump rally to these youth experiences of mine but I choose to see my experience as an early "wake-up" call. I was caught up in something that made me feel better about feeling bad about who I was. It wasn't long after that April day in Washington, D.C. that I came to some terms with my identity. It would take a few more years for me to come out but I think this early reckoning did me some serious good. I couldn't blame myself or others for who I was. I didn't have to blame anyone. What a relief that was. I can only hope that Trump supporters can someday come to a similar reckoning.

Washington for Jesus March, 1980. (UPI)

Thomas Boylan · Introeatingwords2.WAV

Thomas Boylan · Thereckoning.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