What I Missed or Ignored

    I finished this book this book, Paper Girl, and I am glad I read it. It made me sad actually - probably because it was the author's honest account of growing up in a small town that was (and still is) wrought with deep seeded problems, prejudices, and beliefs about religion, schooling, politics, and who we, as a society, are and "should be". It's a story of failures and disappointments but it does offer a sense of hope for the tenacious few who may just find a way out of constricted communities by way of education, unscripted and unexpected support, and through one's own grit. This book provided insight into the lives of folks living in rural areas and gave me a better understanding of why our country has become so broken. 

    Beth Macy, the author, calls us a fractured America. I agree. I keep wondering if we will ever be able to patch up what has been torn apart. I'm not "big" on hope, but I hope. Check out the book . . . and vote!

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

 

 Something About A Memory On Veterans Day 2015 – 

And again on Veterans Day 2025

 

            I posted this memory story awhile back, but it seemed appropriate to print it again and to make it a part of today’s blog; after all, it is Veterans Day. The recollection recorded in my story below is still so real for me that I can place myself back in time to the exact moment when my brother and I had to tell our Daddy good-bye, while our mother stood by helplessly. 

Today, I have thought about all the men and women, who as our dad did, bravely have served our country. Countless courageous soldiers have fought in conflict after conflict. Brave also, though obviously in a different way, are those who have had to stay behind and wait. I understand these partings are numerous and unfortunately necessary, but they are also painful and so very, very sad.

Every time I see a soldier return home and greet his or her child or children for the first time in months or years, I cannot hold back the tears. My reaction never changes and I understand why. I experienced that awful pain. I suppose I am one of the lucky ones. My dad returned from both World War II (though I didn’t know him then) and Vietnam. Not all families have had that same fortune. For them, I am very, very sorry. 

In my world Veterans Day is so important, for it is a time to remember, a time to be grateful, and a time simply to say, “Thank you.”

 

 

 

THE MEMORY

 

For a ten year old girl, way back in the late 50s, life should have been filled with dolls, ballet, books, first bras, and the beginning dreams of boys. In my life, however, age ten presented me with my first experience of loss. It was the time that my dad said good-bye for eighteen months and more.

I knew he was leaving. I had heard the whispers and watched my mother’s intermittent tears, but I kept my distance from emotions I didn’t understand and was yet to endure. When I learned of his leaving, I became aloof. I watched. I listened, but I stifled my feelings. I can remember even scoffing at my mother when she cried. It somehow it seemed so weak. Not until the morning of my dad’s departure did I allow myself to feel, and when I did, the sensation caught me by surprise and I was submerged in a sadness that has never fully disappeared.

As surely it must, the day of his leaving arrived. My dad was going to Cambodia, Vietnam, places whose names I did not know then. I remember waking to a cool dawn. I heard the shuffle of bare feet in the hallway, the flush of a toilet, the running of water, and the familiar kitchen noises as my mom prepared breakfast. I lay in bed listening and breathing ever so lightly. In the stillness of my room, I begrudgingly allowed the early morning sounds to slip into my world. I finally pulled myself from bed and stood on the cold, hardwood floor of my bedroom preparing to say good-bye cursorily. I simply did not comprehend how incredibly ill prepared inwardly I was to let my dad go. I could not have imagined earlier the feeling I was soon to encounter.

At ten years old, I could be defiant. I could shield myself from emotion. I was strong, I knew. Even as I stared that morning into the dreary gray around me, I was certain I would not cry even though, as the minutes passed in my cold, shadowy room, tightness was beginning to grow in my throat and chest. I stepped from the chilly floor onto a softly matted throw rug and reached for the light switch. Instant, yellow brightness brought details from the shadows. Everything became clear, including my pale blue eyes still weak with sleep. I stared at my reflection in the oversized mirror. My red curls were tousled in disarray. My pink, baby doll pajamas were wrinkled. One slightly sunburned and freckled shoulder protruded above the ruffled sleeve. I looked at the blue walls and the orderly, flowered wallpaper reflected behind my bed. I suddenly hated it.

A quick scurry of hasty movements and the soft scrape of a chair against the kitchen linoleum alerted me to the moment I had been avoiding. I grabbed my terrycloth robe and threw it on hurriedly. I opened the bedroom door and there in the hallway, attired smartly in his dress blues, was my father. He reached for me abruptly without a word and as if on cue, I began to cry. I held to him tightly, my arms clutched around his neck; my cries were mute against his chest. I could feel tears coating my face and my father’s pale, blue shirt became moist against my cheek. I don’t remember anything else except my crying as I awkwardly gripped him. My body was tight as though to gain strength from its rigidity. Finally my father’s arms moved from around me but I could not let him go.

“I have to go now,” he said. I could hear the quivering voice above me.

“No!” I cried, and looked with fear into his blue eyes. They too were wet. He hugged me once again and I sobbed some more.

I don’t recall how long we stood in the hallway with my mother and brother helplessly watching. It must have been several minutes. Without realizing how or when though, I found myself standing suddenly alone in the semi-dark hallway outside my bedroom door. I turned slowly into my room, fell into the wrinkled covers and cried some more. I don’t know how much time passed before I got up that day, but when I did, I looked sickeningly around my room and I knew it had to change. I spent the day scraping wallpaper from my wall and as I watched the ordered flowers drop in wet curls as I scraped and pulled, I cried.

When I hear my mother tell the story about that day she simply says she’d never seen anyone so obsessed with anything. Nor had she seen so many tears. 

“You scraped and cried. You scraped and cried all day long,” she has told me over the years.

I remember that. The next day, I painted my room lavender. I realize now it was a necessary change for me, one that I could control, one that could not hurt me as the greater change, the loss of my father had.

When my dad came home after eighteen months he was home very briefly before he was sent away again, this time for a year. That parting was tearless. When I was thirteen he was home to stay, but I had changed by then. Thirteen had brought boys, lipstick, and cheerleading yells. I was no longer Daddy’s little girl. I would never again be his little girl, for I would never let him in to hurt me again.

Now, years later, I look back at my dad differently. The bitterness is gone. He is no longer the ogre who left me crying in the hallway. He is my dad, and although I may never give him the chance to hug me again as he did when I was ten, I do love him. Age ten began years of pain, but the feelings of abandonment have been resolved. I still think of a potential hug in a hallway somewhere, but when I do, it brings an incredible feeling of panic. I’m afraid it would let loose the sorrow and another flow of tears. And there’s no wallpaper to come down.

 

 

Note: Our beautiful mother died in early 2010 at the age of almost 96 and our dad, the veteran we honor today, passed away in 2014, four days short of turning 103. Our family misses them both.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

 

 

 An Open Message To My Students

         After being an educator for twenty-nine years, and teaching at the secondary level for twenty-seven years, I have instructed my fair share of students. I have taught the brightest of the bright, the slackers, the druggies, the jocks, the introverts, the absentees, the gang bangers (wannabes or otherwise), the spirit leaders, and immigrant kids from all over the world. While teaching was never an easy job, it was a rewarding one. It was my life. Folks often say that teaching isn’t a profession; it’s a lifestyle. They are correct.

            I have watched my high school students graduate, some choosing a trade, a job, or college. Some have chosen to travel or wander in hopes of figuring life out. Whatever route one has taken, it’s a personal choice and the directions my students have taken have depended on many things – money, family support, desire, tenacity, legal status, and plain old-fashioned hard work. I have had the privilege of staying in touch with many of my students throughout the years, and I must say I am very impressed by the productive adults they are. Many have families; others do not, well, not in the traditional sense – Mom, Dad, two kids, and a dog. Still, no matter what, I can see that my former students have forged families their ways and have places to call home. Many have found their voices and stand proud - gay, straight, queer, bi-sexual, transgender. A very few have made poor choices and have spent time in jail. I am assuming they learned something. Whatever “my kids” have chosen, however, it has been their choice. Theirs. They are as diverse as the universe, as colorful as a rainbow, and harbor all the feelings and emotions all of us do. They are humans, worthy of kindness, of respect, of support, of love.

            In the last week or so I have thought a great deal about my teaching days. I remember many teens who passed through my classes and touched my life, usually in a positive manner although a tiny fraction of negative interactions still sting. For those who have found success, I applaud you. I am happy for you. For the strugglers, I urge you never to give up. Keep moving forward. Dig down. Do it. For the visionaries, keep imagining a better world. We need you now more than ever; your idealism feeds the spirit. For dreamers and immigrants whose status is unclear, I encourage you to stay strong in the face of uncertainty. I think of you most these days because I know life at times has been a struggle. I wish the world could understand your integrity, your work ethic, your intelligence, your talents, your love of family, and your humility. I wish.

            If I had it to do all over again I’m not sure I’d become a teacher. Though I loved my job, the responsibilities were often too awesome, too burdensome, too challenging for words. I sought not to be the instructor but the guide, helping kids find their way. If I did that for a single one, or more than one, I suppose my lifestyle choice was not in vain. 

            And to all my students, I want to thank you for teaching me too. I have learned your dreams, your angst, your aspirations, your talents, your cultures, your humanity – all gifts you did not realize you were giving. So, thanks! 

 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

 

Life Happens

         

         (Author note: In this time of uncertainty, I must write what I feel. Bear with me.)

 

“So, life happens.” The teen’s statement, the title of her essay, though cliché as hell, struck me as profound in its simplicity. Perhaps the timing of my reading - nursing a loss and fearing the unknown - played a role.

“It does,” I responded. “It’s probably not a good idea to begin a sentence with so though,” I told my student. Always the instructor!

I didn’t tell her anything about life, however. Why would I? It certainly isn’t anything I understand. Oh, I know how I feel when I work in my garden, smelling the flowers and digging until I’m dirty; I know how I feel when I look into my dogs’ big brown eyes or watch a tiny hummingbird, its wings a blur, drawing nectar from a feeder. I know how I feel when I walk with my mate on a cool autumn morning when the air bites a little and the leaves spiral out of control right in front of me. I know how I feel when a friend checks in . . . just because. I know hugs and kisses and the toasting of wine. I know a flickering candle, a crackling fire, a kitten’s meow. I know sunshine, a breeze, and I know clouds, too . . . or do i? I’m not the first to muse this life marvel.  What I do know is clouds change right in front of us, in spite of us, and so does life. So, yes, life happens.  

            Unlike the transformation of air masses that often draw our attention, our admiration even, other life changes make us want to look away, to hide, to shutter the windows and not look out at all. “Seriously, I can’t look. I don’t want to see what happens.”

            Well, tough. If I, if we, are alive at all we must look to the future. Despite disappointment and loss that cut deeply into our souls, we must not stop determining our part in understanding that our outlooks are as important as our personal inner reflections. It’s difficult. I don’t want to! The child in me wants to run to my room and slam the door.

            But life happens. Growing older has brought countless changes in my life some good, some devastating. What has gotten me through the pain is understanding gratitude. And while it may sound sappy, I practice it every day.  I am fully aware of what I have and what I am thankful for – that I understand. Life’s contractions, however, are a different matter. I don’t enjoy being blindsided by the “stuff” of life that hurts; I am uncomfortable with the uncertainties that clearly lie ahead. I suppose I’m not alone. I know I am not. What’s true is that life gives us lemons sometimes; life doesn’t ask permission. No need to make lemonade though. We can control that option.

            Life can make us feel small; I can understand and accept that, but how we manage what lies ahead is a different matter. I have to believe humanity can right itself. We can’t give up no matter what fickle life tosses our way. We simply cannot. 

 

 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

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Honoring Fire Heroes

A portion of the Memoria wall.

I was given the opportunity to record an oral history for the California Fire Foundation regarding the California Firefighters Memorial. This wonderful organization maintains the memorial wall and surrounding park area in Sacramento, CA. It is a lovely setting that is dedicated to the memory of over 1500 California fire professionals. I wanted to share on my blog what I had to say.

 

       

        My name is Judith DeChesere-Boyle. My husband, Rick, and the rest of our family feel honored that my son, Alexander J. Stevenson’s name is engraved on the wall of the California Firefighters Memorial in Sacramento. Whenever we are in the area we feel a presence, one of love and support, just knowing he is honored there.

If Alex had known, he would have said, “Why all the fuss, Ma?” 

We certainly would reply, “Oh, Alex, you are so deserving of this honor.”

Alex's name is here along with his friends, Karen Shubin and Luis Magallanes.

Alex passed away on May 24, 2013, at the age of 39 of occupational-related brain cancer. For nine long years he fought to beat the beast, but in the end, he lost the battle. As a mom, I knew I had to do something to keep his memory alive. So, I wrote a memoir, Tumor Me, The Story of My Firefighter. We talked about it before he passed.

 

When this is all over,” I told Alex, “no matter what, I’m writing a memoir, a record of all we’ve been through together.”

            He looked at me a bit apprehensively but smiled anyway. He knew there would be no stopping his mom!

            “I’m going to call it Tumor Me,” I told him decisively.

“I think that title might get lost on a few people,” he answered glibly.

“Maybe, but I think it’s perfect. You’re always so upbeat, so funny, even with all you’ve faced. When I feel like crying, you make me laugh. Every day you have me chuckling. It’s a paradox, really. I don’t know how you do it.”

He grinned again, his azure eyes twinkling, an uncanny wisdom lying behind them.

 

I recall that conversation vividly, and in retrospect I suppose he was right. Some folks might be offended by the title, but I hope would humor me a bit. I had a story to tell, one with a beginning, a middle, and an end. 

Ours was a tale of trials, fears, unknowns, and desperation. Yet it was countered with hope, determination, bravery, and unparalleled optimism that only my son could have mustered.

And who was my son? He was a CAL FIRE firefighter, a Fire Apparatus Engineer, a Fire Inspector, a fighter, a friend, a confidant; he was responsible, trustworthy, funny, respected, and loved. He listened, he contributed, and he worked hard. Laughter was his sidekick, and everyone knew it. 

Who was Alex? He was a man, who, when the chips were down, had 4,482 hours of leave donated to him by his co-workers through CAL FIRE’s Catastrophic Leave Bank. It was an unequaled gesture of love and support from his “fire family”.

The words between the covers of my memoir tell our story. It’s a mom’s perspective and every bit is true.

It’s on Amazon and kindle. I would love to send a copy to your office as a way of thanking “the fire family” for always being by our side. And thank you for so beautifully maintaining the California Firefighters Memorial that respects the lives of so many heroes. It keeps their memories alive. And that means everything.

 

 

Receiving the flag with my son, Justin.

The memorial

 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Two Grandmas and A Mother

Addie, Honey, and me holding Alex

My grandmother Teresa was born in Italy and immigrated to the United States in the early 1900s. She didn’t have much time to enjoy her new adopted country because she passed away a year or so after giving birth to my dad in New Jersey. It was tuberculosis that took her life. I have no idea how old she was when she died, and I have only one grainy photo of her. I have been told I resemble her though, and that is a nice thought. I wish I had met her (and my grandfather Carmine too) but since I did not, I can only imagine what their lives were like in a place where they did not speak the language and at times were not treated with the respect they deserved. Immigration never has been easy.

 

My grandmother Addie was born in Kentucky, the bluegrass state, and lived there her entire life. She seldom traveled and if so, it was not far from home. That suited her just fine and I must say I take after her. I am a homebody at heart, too.

Addie never wore a bra. She did not own a girdle either as many women in the early and mid-1900s did. She scoffed at the damned things determined to be unconsticted by such contraptions. Instead, her undergarments were loose one-piece affairs that she stepped into, sliding the upper straps over her shoulders. And that was that! Her anatomy adapted as only one’s body will, and that worked for her. Still, she took pride in looking nice, wearing lovely dresses, hats, and gloves – garment mainstays throughout the forties, fifties, and sixties in the South.

            Sadly, Addie lost her first child to hydrocephalus, a condition that way back then had few treatment options. The baby was named Paul, and in all the years I knew my grandmother, Addie, she never ceased to mention him from time to time. The love and grief were that deep.

            Addie had a canary named Peachy. She treasured that little bird that blessed her life with song. She loved to garden (as do I) and was happy simply digging in the dirt. She never had a great deal of money, and with an unambitious husband, was left to fend for herself financially. She was a seamstress and had a large home with room enough to take in boarders. Random folks stayed and paid, and she fed them until it was time for them to move on.

            I cannot remember Addie’s hair not being gray. It was long, thick, and she wore it in a conservative bun . . . that was until I came along. Addie loved to have her hair combed and brushed out and who better to do it than her little curly, red-haired granddaughter. She allowed me to pull and comb for too many minutes to count, letting me tie her strands into pigtails or ponytails that I adorned with artificial flowers and bows. I can almost imagine standing behind her right now with a comb in my hand, she tolerant and kind to a little girl who wanted to show her love. It’s a sweet memory.

            Addie was devout, a churchgoer and a believer. When she lived with our family for a short time when she was older, I remember hearing her say her prayers at the breakfast table before drinking her coffee and munching on toast spread with apple butter. “Thank you, God, for another day.” I heard those words over and over and feel blessed to have heard them. And I won’t lie. I’ve been known to repeat the same sentence, even to this day.

            Though her Christianity was solid to her core, Addie was a woman to be reckoned with if a game of cards were played. Rook was her favorite and she played with a passion though she’d happily take on an opponent in Rummy or Canasta too. She also loved croquet and was a shark if there ever was one. She could beat pretty much any player who challenged her as she knocked wooden balls through wickets across the lawn. I have a photograph of Addie playing croquet. She is bent over, mallet in hand with a facial expression of grit and determination. Winning was important; besides it was fun.

            When I was a little girl we moved to England for a few years. When the movers came I was terrified that they would snatch up my doll and take her away. Addie saved the day. She, my dolly, and I sat on a rock in the far corner of the lawn and watched carefully until the moving truck was gone. The coast was clear. Addie, the protector, saved the day. Even today, if something goes wrong, I think about my grandmother and wonder, “What would Addie say? What would she do?” She’s still wired in somehow, and likely would appreciate knowing that. Maybe she does.

            Oh, and by the way, my brother and I always called Addie by her first name – not grandma or grandmother or nana – just Addie. I believe my brother, Jay, was the culprit who labeled her Addie, and I followed suit. We never missed a beat and I know she liked it that way.

            Addie had two children besides baby Paul as she called him – my mother, Nola Jean and my uncle, Alton, in that order. Both are gone now, but remembered with love, especially, my mom.

 

            My mother’s life was challenging at times, but my brother and I could not have had a more loving, caring, doting mother. She taught us to appreciate the beauty in nature – the trees, the clouds, the falling leaves, and the flowers. “Just look at that little face,” she’d say, peering down at a tiny pansy that she imagined was smiling back at her. She loved daffodils, marigolds, roses, and clematis; she admired maples and willows, the sun, and the snow. She fancied lady bugs – so sweet and adorable. She pampered our pets, particularly our German Shepherd, Star, and her overly fluffy kitty named Patty. Mother had a heart so big, so warm, so full of love that our house became a place for friends to hang out, sometimes to see my brother and me, sometimes simply to chat with Mother. My friends called her Mama Jean. She embraced the title and would puff up when she heard her nickname. (Later in life, when her grandchildren named her Honey, she was equally as pleased. The name Honey stuck until the day she died.)

            My mother, and my dad too, though not college-educated were avid readers who valued education and made sure we did too. Both Jay and I were good students (usually) who eventually graduated each from a different university and had good careers – he an architect, and me, a teacher. Our parents were proud, particularly our mother.

            Nola Jean had pluck! Though she was pious at times, and hell bent on doing what was right, she could surprise us. She adored her grandchildren – two on the west coast and three on the east coast, but it was the west coast duo (my children) that provided the setting for a most memorable moment. On a visit to California, the children and Honey were discussing the use of the “F” word. She had heard it once too often, it seems, and deemed it absolutely inappropriate. However, even with that, she surprised us. One day the family was ready to watch a movie, but Honey had made a pie that was still in the oven. 

“Hurry, Honey, the movie is starting,” one of the boys called.

            “Just a second, boys. I just have to get this fucking pie out before it burns!”

            The reaction was hilarious! The laughter at my mother’s comment lasted for some time . . . and her point was made. I will never forget it.

            When Nola Jean Baird DeChesere passed away in 2010, I was heartbroken. Not a day passes by that I don’t think of her and remember her kindness, her goodness, her resilience, her spunk. As with my grandmother, Addie, if ever I am floundering within the context of life itself, I think of my mother. “What would Honey say about this? What would she advise me to do?” And, if I don’t resist, an answer usually comes to me, as if we had just finished one of our heart-to-hearts so many years ago. Ah, how I wish I could have one today.

 

            With Mother’s Day coming soon, I felt compelled to write a bit about my grandmothers and my beloved mother. I have tried to be a decent mother myself, even having a few former students call me Mom a time or two. That always led to a chuckle. In the end, to my way of thinking, motherhood is a gift, a challenge, and at times has caused deep sorrow. I know other women can relate. And to all of them, Happy Mother’s Day. Enjoy your day.

 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com