The Blog Is Back In Action

I have neglected my blog for a good, long time. The reason for such a hiatus is simple: I have been wrapped up in completing my new novel that should be available on Amazon and Kindle soon.

The novel is about old folks. Really?While that subject matter may not sound super exciting, I believe the book offers more than an insight into wrinkles, sour smells, pain pills, grouchiness, incontinence, forgetfulness, misery, memories, and apprehension; it provides much more, and for good reason: history, a chronicled past counts.

Isn’t it so, that most people don’t give a second thought about their grandparents, the old fart in the house on the corner, the elderly woman huffing behind a walker, or the ancient who sits in the park eying whatever his weepy pupils can see? Don’t those who are in the throes of careers, college, love connections, and children wear blinders toward anyone over sixty-five? Oh, I am sure some will disagree: I love my nana; my grandpa is the best; the greeter at Wal-Mart makes me laugh, and what about old Doc Turner at the clinic downtown? He’s still kicking ass. We see them; we may even know them, but truly - be honest now - how much do we care?

In general, our society tends to put old people in their place(s) – convalescent homes, hospital rooms, back bedrooms, kitchen tables, residential communities, or simply the old, soft corner of the living room sofa. We provide chilled, old bodies with blanket throws, diapers, tattered paperbacks, a spot of tea, or a dram of whiskey. That shit will keep them content, won’t it?We leave the elderly alone to read the big print, to doze between memories, to watch television shows that shock or bore, or, when all else fails, to stare at nothing until rheumy eyes blur. To stop and check in, to manage a word, to touch a hand, to offer a hug takes too damned much energy. Doesn’t it?

I’ve been considering the notion of aging for some time . . . and thus the novel about seventy, eighty, and ninety-year-olds, all of whom are as alive, whether one wants to accept it or not, as the curly-haired kid down the block, the slick-haired, city, investment banker, or the harried, young mother of three. The old fellow may not move as quickly, but the old heart ticks away. He, like so many others like him, have lived lives, have had experiences many youngsters cannot imagine, have made mistakes, have cried real tears, and have relished sheer joy. The elderly - cherished or otherwise - have stories to tell, lessons to impart, and histories that must not be ignored. 

My book, then, entitled For The Love Of Grace, attempts to acknowledge just that. Here’s how the story begins:

If it had been up to Grace she might have thrown in the proverbial, damned towel years before, but she evidentially had not been afforded rights to final jurisdiction as to when the end might come, even though she possessed a very heady mind of her own; as a result, here she was, carrying on as if, indeed, there was a tomorrow. It’s not that she hadn’t considered the notion that the prerogative of ending it all, right then and there, was hers for the taking, but she had thought better of it. It would leave a mess. And, besides, she had never lusted for dubious attention. As a matter of fact, if the truth were known, the mere thought of such an impulse sent her mind reeling. For lost in a sea of memories, was a rather sordid chapter that she just as soon would have forgotten entirely if she could have. Unfortunately, with untimely, aggravating regularity recollection of the incident weaseled its way into her consciousness. That annoyance never had sat well, but what could she do? She could only visualize what had happened and then pack the memory away with all the others - and there was a litany of them - until next time. 

And now, here she was, eighty-eight and counting; eighty-eight and reminiscing; eighty-eight and regretting, grieving, and often enough, rejoicing or savoring the many morsels of her life. A non-stop scramble of thoughts, reflections, and considerations swirled like a dervish around in her weary mind. And though at times she grew tired of remembering, it gave her something to do. She had to wonder though. How in the devil did I come this far? And furthermore, for God’s sake, what’s apt to happen next?

My hope is, that when For The Love Of Graceis available, readers will check it out . . . and enjoy. What do you think?

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

            

Remembering Ruby

         Ruby passed away a little over a week ago. I believe she was five, maybe six. She was adorable. She was loved. Her young life was just beginning. So much was ahead; so much is left behind - a broken-hearted family, devastated friends, unrelenting tears, and questions that never fully can be answered. 

         Yes, she died of complications related to leukemia. We know that, but a bigger mystery torments us. Why Ruby? Why this lovely child who as her mother described, was a bundle of energy, always laughing, and absolutely full of life? Why her?

         It’s a question so many mothers and fathers (and grandma, in this case) have asked when other tragedies have befallen. Yet we ask still: Why? We wonder, we speculate, and we curse a fickle fate we cannot understand. I am left empty.

         A month ago when we (the German Shepherd Dog walkers) learned of Ruby’s illness, we were stunned, but hope had blossomed. The prognosis was good. Percentages were on her side. She would be well again. On a whim, we delivered her a stuffed GSD, some books, and our well wishes even though, to be honest, we didn’t really know Ruby well. We had only seen her around, usually with Grandma and brother in tow, always anxious to take a peek at those big dogs.The fact that Ruby was only a little kid acquaintance of ours did not matter though. Hearing that she was sick, on chemo, and knowing that her struggle was oh, so real, snagged our heartstrings. We cared. 

         And then there was today. Today. Today we walked our GSDs by the house as we always do, wondering, always wondering. How’s Ruby?

Her parents uncharacteristically were outside when we passed this morning so we took a chance. We hopefully asked, “How’s Ruby?” 

A pause.

The strongest mother and father I know on this day managed to find the words to tell us that their sweet Ruby had passed away. We were stricken. They were gracious. Words of condolence, of understanding, of sadness, of connection captured the moment and we will not soon forget. I cried all the way home (and I thought I had used up every tear I had). I am emotional still, as was my fellow GSD walker. My husband sighed when we were home. “This is so sad. I feel exhausted, like the wind has been taken out of my sails,” he said. I understood completely.

If I were a miracle worker I would take away the pain of loss this family feels, but I cannot. I can only empathize, and I did, trying to put words to the feelings I believe a person has when one loses a child. The days that follow a death such as Ruby’s are hollow, empty, and tormented beyond belief. It is as though one has been tossed into a twilight zone. Focus, reason, motivation, and enthusiasm are ripped away, at least for a while, in the face of a new reality. And it hurts. It will hurt for a long, long time, perhaps forever. On some level, however, that fact is acceptable because it is verifiable - the depth of one’s grief equates to the depth of one’s love. It’s an odd comfort we can offer ourselves. In the end, no matter what outsiders may impose, we are not meant to forget the intensity with which we loved our child. And we need not.  

Rest in peace, little Ruby. Your brief life was precious and a gift to us all. 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

Another Mother Joins Us

I learned today of the death of a friend’s child. I cried. And I remembered this poem I wrote in 2014. I wanted to share again.

The Sisterhood

Years before

You stood tall,

Proud,

Productive,

Prepared,

Just like the others.

You’re gone now,                                                        

Others too,

Leaving me,

Leaving us,

Alone,

And together,

In the sisterhood --   

Mothers without a son,

Or daughter,

Our babes born

And buried,

The hands of fate

Wringing.

Year one

Begins

Without you

You are honored,

Celebrated,

Loved.

“Why the fuss?”

I sense your spirit,

Smiling secretly.

Year one

Ends.

Sweet sisters share,

Too many to count,

Losers all.

Sad stories,

Hidden in their hearts,

Bubble anew,

As fresh as yesterday.

Year two                                                                                   

Begins

Without you

Once more.

Another day dawns.

“Get over it!”

Some say.

“Not easy,”

I counter.

The sisters know.

Years before

I stood aside,

Watching,

Waiting,

Wondering,

Just like the others.

But you’re gone now,

Others too,

Leaving me,

Leaving us,

Alone,

And together,

In the sisterhood --

Mothers without a son,

Or daughter,

Our babes buried,

The decree of destiny

Resonating.

In years to come

Where will we sisters be?

Managing?

Marker counting?

Making do?

The sisterhood stands by,

Together and apart,

While time, fickle and capricious,  

Elapses enough to ease

an angst that will not ever let go.                              

                                                                             By Judith DeChesere-Boyle, May 2014

                                                                             Remembering my son, Alex Stevenson

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

On Being Invisible

Leona Jean wasn’t sure of the exact date . . . the date it happened, but at some point along the line she became invisible. Oh, she still existed. She had a body that moved, a face that showed emotion, and a voice that made sound, but that didn’t appear to matter. She had transformed, it seemed, into an obscure, unseen entity, inconsequential to everyone - friend, family, or foe. And that reality was an awakening, indeed.

She was not undone by her essential elimination from the world of the living but it placed her in a quandary. She was perplexed and had no idea what to do about the fact that no one saw her. She was ninety-one now, older than the goddamned hills but she still breathed, she still had bodily functions and needs, and she still had feelings, though if the truth were known, she had stifled her emotions for quite a long time. It was safer that way. After all, who cared what an old woman thought, or felt for that matter. Weren’t her days numbered anyway?

Essentially having no one, Leona Jean began to sink into a world of her own making, one swathed in memories, some happy, some sad, and some horrid enough to still get her dander up if she thought about them long enough. Certainly, she had experienced love, from her late husband, her child, her parents, her pets – ah, the latter being her favorites because they had loved with unconditional fervor, never judging, always responsive, furry bundles of unadulterated affection. Oh my, there have been so many.

And she had felt sorrow, for dear Henry mostly, gone a decade now and the last person on Earth, it seemed, to recognize that she had counted for something. Sure do miss that old boy, bastard though he was sometimes. Henry had provided good things in his wife’s life in the form of stability, sweet kisses, raucous sex, and belly-quivering laughter. 

Quite to the contrary, however, were a few rotten folks who had infected her life. Though the betrayers, the liars, the leeches, and the bums were only remotely sprinkled throughout, they were difficult to forget, some stubbornly and sporadically rearing their ugly heads as if only to mock her. If Leona were to put a finger on the people she most vividly recalled, each with stomach-churning ire, it was the betrayers, warped, self-centered dunderheads who considered only themselves. Prime examples, that would not give her peace, were Leona’s philandering, first husband, the ungrateful, self-indulgent daughter who had forgotten her mother’s nurturing care, and a deceitful employee, the embezzler, remorseless and cruel. This malicious trifecta actually gave Leona pause. I surely was invisible to them even then.Why, she wondered, would someone purposefully carve a wound in her soul? What kind of person would do that? She could only ponder.

It’s of no consequence, is it? I’m safe now, forgotten by all of them, a disregarded memory, most likely, as if I never existed at all. And perhaps that is how it should be, especially for someone like me . . . for I have become invisible. No one can see.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

Writer’s Block – Dealing With It

Writer’s block sucks. I know. I know. So does the vernacular, but I’m sorry, the description fits. It does. It sucks. I have no idea how that old devil writer’s block sneaks into my otherwise established routine from time to time, but it does. Its interference in my life does not make me happy. And I have to wonder at its power. How is it that WB’s invisible, sinister claws can pull me away from what usually is a must – putting words on paper . . . every day?

It is frustrating. After days of getting the words out, filling the pages, creating, creating, suddenly, the momentum stops. Dead. What caused it? Was it that trip to shop at Costco? Was it my garden calling? Was it my cold? (I have felt just awful!) Ah, it was the weekend at Tahoe, the walk with the dogs to the meadow, the breathing in of fresh air, the camaraderie with good friends. That was it. Yes. No, for I’m back from Tahoe. The cold is gone, Costco has been shopped, the memory of Tahoe is filed away, and still I wait . . . still I wait to stop finding excuses not to flip open that lap top and resume my story. 

This morning, domestic details kept me busy. I don’t particularly love cleaning the house, but I’m a Virgo. I like things neat and tidy. And, of course, laundry had piled up again. And there were other things. I walked my dogs three miles. I came home for lunch. I checked my emails. I perused Facebook. I played a game or two of Words With Friends. All of that takes time. Time!

Why then, one might ask, are you in the middle of a blog when you have writer’s block? I do not know how I got here. I had intended to work on my novel, but for some reason felt the need to rant about writer’s block, that insidious, aggravating, intangible phenomenon that, in all sincerity, has me feeling a bit out of sorts . . . and that really sucks! 

I know most people could not possibly understand my angst, but I feel it, and I must wear it like an itchy jacket. I’m an introvert. I like alone time. I cherish it actually. I like to fill my time, however, doing something constructive. I detest idleness. So, that is why, dealing with writer’s block is so difficult. I suppose the time has come to put mind over matter. Maybe today is a new beginning. Perhaps - maybe, maybe, maybe - I have put writer’s block back in its place with this little tirade. We’ll see tomorrow, but what I’m thinking now is that it’s time for writer’s block to move aside one more time and for me to take control of its space. Procrastination be damned! Time to move on.

www.jdechesre-boyle.com

What Do You Think? Would You Read This?

I am working on a fifth novel - only about 12,000 words into it - and thought I would write something very different from what I have written in the past. I’m not sure what will happen with the characters in this book. Each time I write, my characters seem to have minds of their own and drive me to develop the story as I go. These fictional beings have incredible powers of suggestion! This new book begins with a character named Grace.

 I would love to know what anyone out there thinks about the beginning. Do you think you’d want to read further into the book?

If it had been up to Grace she might have thrown in the proverbial, goddamned towel years before, but she evidentially had not been afforded rights to final jurisdiction as to when the end might come, even though she possessed a very heady mind of her own; as a result, here she was, carrying on as if, indeed, there was a tomorrow. It’s not that she hadn’t considered the notion that the prerogative of ending it all, right then and there, was hers for the taking, but she had thought better of it. It would leave a mess. And, besides, she had never lusted for dubious attention. As a matter of fact, if the truth were known, the mere thought of such an impulse sent her mind reeling. For lost in a sea of memories, was a rather sordid chapter that she just as soon would have forgotten entirely if she could have. Unfortunately, with untimely, aggravating regularity recollection of the incident weaseled its way into her consciousness. That annoyance never had sat well, but what could she do? She could only visualize what had happened and then pack the memory away with all the others - and there was a litany of them - until next time. 

And now, here she was, eighty-eight and counting; eighty-eight and reminiscing; eighty-eight and regretting, grieving, and often enough, rejoicing or savoring the many morsels of her life. A non-stop scramble of thoughts, reflections, and considerations swirled like a dervish around in her weary mind. And though at times she grew tired of remembering, it gave her something to do. She had to wonder though. How in the devil did I come this far? And furthermore, for God’s sake, what’s apt to happen next?

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

A Little Bit About Katelyn

       The name Katelyn was a mindless choice when I began this piece. I have known very few females named Katelyn and this character sketch is completely fictitious. I simply wanted to do a little writing practice – away from my book-in-progress-at-the-moment and apart from venting my angst about an anxious and unsettling world as I have done in a few of my more recent blogs. I actually have taken quite a long “blog break” but have challenged myself as of this week to crank out at least two a week. This will be blog number 264.

It was not unusual for Katelyn to wake up tired and cranky. She actually was used to it and to feel differently would have been a crushing blow because she loved to wallow in a world of negativity. One might ask why, of course, but she would not have been able to explain. The fact of the matter was it was her reality. The one thing in her life she could control was her outlook on the world around her, but to that end, she couldn’t seem to get her point of view out of the cellar. 

The day always began with a systematic check on her physical wellbeing. Well, I guess I’m alive. How do feel? What hurts? Where? And why? Her thoughts might persist for minutes, but eventually she would slide from bed and march into the bathroom to assess what she saw in the mirror. It was never good. Even though she had flawless skin and long, silky, brown hair, the rest, in her estimation, was a disaster. My eyes are too small, my nose is too pointy, and my mouth is too wide. None of that was true, but she held it as so . . . and so it came to be, at least for her.

After a scalding hot shower, Katelyn would wander to her closet to select something to wear. No one is going to care for one second what I’m wearing anyway. Her wardrobe consisted of blouses, pants, and skirts, mostly in shades of gray or brown. Everything else was navy blue, white, or black. Other colors - the bright, pastel or flashy ones - she insisted, hurt her eyes. When she had thrown on whatever she had yanked from the closet she walked from her bedroom, down a dark hallway, to a small kitchen with one tiny window, the shade drawn, of course. Breakfast was always the same – a piece of dry toast, a boiled egg, and a cup of black coffee. No sugar.

Then it was off to her little cubicle at a savings and loan company where she worked as an accounting clerk. Accounts Payable to be exact. After walking two blocks from her apartment, she hopped the streetcar, stepping off just short of a nondescript-looking office building that housed several businesses all in one. Once inside her partitioned workspace, she sorted through stacks of bills marking some for immediate payment and leaving others for another day. Why should I care? What are they going to do? Come after me?She always left work promptly at five o’clock, retracing her route home . . . in the opposite direction, of course. It was the same routine day after day after day. Until the one day it wasn’t. 

Someone followed her home.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com