More Thoughts And Prayers - Really?

         Reflections On Another School Shooting

            This is the truth. For the past crazy year, every morning when I walk out into the kitchen and family room to take care of our two German shepherds, I pick up my charging cell phone to check the news and say to myself, “What kind of shit is happening in the world this morning?” 

            I’m never disappointed . . . and I say that facetiously. Natural disasters and random, bizarre accidents aside, something insane constantly is occurring around the world – in foreign countries, in our own government, and in plain, old, average communities in our United States. Today was no different.  

            No sooner had I drunk my cup of coffee, than it happened – an alert on my phone announcing a school shooting in Santa Fe. At first I thought it was Santa Fe, NM, but then found out the town was in Texas. No matter. It still meant probable injuries, maybe a death or two. (Are we becoming so accustomed to events such as this mass murder that the news doesn’t faze us?) By the time the morning was over, I learned that nine students and a teacher had been killed; another ten people had been shot. Twenty people. Twenty people (and their loved ones) who, I would assume, thought they were beginning another average day, had their lives changed forever. 

            So, what is going to be done about yet another tragedy in our country? Are we going to send a hefty batch of thoughts and prayers? Sure. We’ll do that. Is that all we’ll do though? Probably it is . . . and that is an additional disaster, a pitifully sad state of affairs. Politicians will again bluster their outrage, sputter about mental illness, rant about the unfairness of bullying, sidestep the issue of more responsible gun control, and cozy up to special interests who want to maintain the status quo. It’s a fact. 

            Aside from that, however, are those pesky thoughts and prayers. Offer them. Give them. Believe in them if necessary, but know they will not bring dead children back to their parents. They will not do that. Anyone who has lost a child for any reason, whether in a barrage of bullets in a school shooting, on a battlefield, in an accident, or to illness such as cancer - anyone like that - knows the stark reality of absolute loss. Trust me. I know this is true because I am one of those parents.

 “Ah,” one might say. “He’ll always be with you in your heart, in sweet memories, in unforgettable recollections.” 

Yeah. Right. True. Such a comment does hold some veracity; it does, but it falls short to those of us who have lost a child. The void is forever. And for the parents of the students who died today, for those people, I am so, so sad . . . and a little bit angry. Today will begin a new reality for them. Sure, most of them will “get through”; they will carry on, but it will never, ever, be the same. Life, in an instant, has been altered. 

In reality, perhaps that is true for all of us. To some degree maybe all of our lives shifted a bit today for despite all the thoughts and prayers, the tragedy that occurred this morning at a high school in the state of Texas cannot be removed from our consciousness; it cannot, unless, of course, we are spiritually dead already. 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com    

Live and Let Live – 

         A Character Sketch 

From the moment that Cecelia had first noticed her own refection in the small, makeup mirror on Mama’s bedside table, she understood. She was cockeyed, plain as day. Though she was six at the time when she finally took a good, long look, she could tell things weren’t quite right. One eye was bigger than the other – the blue one on the right was larger than the hazel one on the left. Both were lined with thick, chocolate-colored eyelashes, and that was nice enough, though the lashes on the right curled up into themselves while the left ones were pencil straight. And her nose? It was small and well aligned until the very end where it turned up a touch more than slightly. She could look right into her nostrils and she stared initially for minutes wondering just what was up there hiding in the dark. 

Her mouth was another issue. When it was closed, she held it rosebud tight, but when she opened it, it gaped open, drawing up on the left as though tugged by an unseen puppet master. If she stuck out her tongue, that in her assessment was amazingly normal, it curled into a perfect U. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. The straw to her Sippy cup always had fit her mouth to perfection. 

Her teeth had no intention of cooperating in any ordinary manner either. They erupted through swollen gums much too slowly and in crooked disarray until she was twelve. Temporary braces had helped, but an annoying retainer had become Cecelia’s partner for life. The moment she abandoned it, every tooth developed a mind of its own.

Cecelia’s first look at herself certainly had not been the last. For years afterwards, she had been drawn to mirrors, to window reflections, to any looking glass she could find. She simply could not understand why she, unlike anyone else in the family, had been created in such a misaligned manner. Why look at my ears. One lies flat against my head like a gnarly, old growth of some kind and the other pokes out . . . and a little too far to my way of thinking. Well, at least my hair covers them.

Her hair. That was another issue altogether. It grew it seemed, in fits and starts, at times taking months for a nest of unmanageable curls to appear; at other times, it grew inches in a month, the locks falling into wild, tangled, waves. Oftentimes, Cecelia simply pulled the mess back and tied it in a ponytail at the nape of her neck with a ribbon of some kind . . . always making sure the ears were hidden though. 

Cecelia’s muddled proportions did not stop with the features of her head, however. Her arms were not even, the left being at least half an inch longer than the right; her right hand was thicker and fleshier than the left; and her feet were not the same size either . . . at least a half size difference in length according to the grouchy, shoe salesman at Macys down at the mall. Well, what am I supposed to do? Buy two pairs of the exact shoes? 

By the time she was sixteen, after ten years of marking the discrepancies of her body, Cecelia gave up – not with life, but with judging herself. I am who I am. Folks can take me or leave me.And her outlook worked. Despite the fact that Cecelia’s features were a bit askew, everyone who knew her overlooked them just as she had learned to do for her personality was one to be emulated. She bore life on an even keel. Oh, she had normal ups and downs but overall her disposition was one that was balanced and calm, a complete contrast to her awkwardly put-together figure and visage . . . and that was a paradoxical juxtaposition all to itself. 

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Excuses, Excuses

         I suppose everyone has excuses for not accomplishing what they should at times. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to most folks, but for me, not completing tasks I have committed to doing is bothersome. The following is what’s been going on for me.

I have been neglecting my blog. It’s a fact. Why? I have many reasons, most of which don’t hold up . . . not for someone who loves to write. It’s not that I haven’t been writing. I have. I’m working on a new novel, but even that has being going in fits and starts. In the past, I have been at my computer for several hours early in the morning or all afternoon. I love becoming totally engrossed in creating a character or imagining a scene. Lately, it has been harder, and thus the excuses.

First. Okay. So, I have a new German Shepard puppy, Molly, but she is seven months old now. She is much less demanding. She can fend for herself or play with her big half-brother, Jake. That excuse is wearing thin.

Second, my husband has been around a great deal lately . . . not that that’s a bad thing; it’s simply a distraction or a disruption. “Let’s go walk the dogs.” “We need to plant the garden.” “I want to check out MSNBC.” “We should make a Costco run.” “The Warriors (or the Giants) are on in a few minutes.” Needless to say, I have found it difficult to carve out enough non-interrupted time to concentrate the way I like.

Third, I have been reading like a fiend. Seriously. I have been drawn to a number of non-fiction books about politics and about the world we live in currently. I read Fire and Fury by Michael Wolff, Russian Roulette by Michael Isikoff and David Corn, What Happened by Hillary Clinton, and A Higher Loyalty by James Comey. Fascism by Madeline Albright is on the stack in front of me. And The Soul of America by Jon Meacham is due to arrive today. I even read a children’s book, A Day in the Life of Marlon Bundo written by Marlon Bundo and Jill Twiss (illustrated by EG Keller) and presented by the one and only, John Oliver. This little book is a gem! I read Still Me by Jojo Moyes, The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, Camino Island by John Grisham, and Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. Right now, I am smack in the middle of The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah. Plus something “juicy” always captures my reading interest on Facebook when I tune in for a few minutes each day. 

Fourth, and this is a weak one . . . I’ve been pulling weeds. It’s spring. Everything is growing like crazy. Those pesky weeds beckon my Virgo spirit and I want to clean up, so I pick and pull until my fingernails are dirty and broken (even with gardening gloves) and my allergies are giving me fits. The sun is lovely though and I sweat through another session, satisfied that at least another section of the property looks tolerable.

Fifth – Words with Friends. Silly, isn’t it? I like playing though, win or lose. It’s another means of staying connected to friends and can be strategically interesting. 

Finally, and this is probably the most meaty excuse for neglecting my blog - I am distracted by the news, most of which I find disconcerting. Perhaps I think too much, but I would be happier if our country was not so divided, not so angry, and certainly not so volatile. Every morning I wake up, stumble into the family room and kitchen to take care of the dogs and, of course, check my phone that has been charging all night. “What crazy shit am I going to read about now?” It’s the same question each morning. If it’s not a natural disaster somewhere that grabs my attention, I learn that an insane or misguided person is up to no good. “Why don’t you blog about those things?” one might ask. Believe me, I think about it, but I don’t want to come off as a pontificator, as if my opinions are right or more correct than those of others. On my blog, I have tried to stay away from controversial issues that can be off-putting or seem judgmental though a few times I haven’t been able to help myself.  

I know I can always write a creative piece, a scene or character sketch and blog that, but, really . . . who actually cares? Those blogs are writing practice. Occasionally, a reader will respond, but in reality, I believe readers ignore them. It’s too long. It’s not important to me. It’s not relevant. It’s not interesting. I do not have time.

So, here it is, for what it’s worth – my first blog in two months (though it is number 259). My goal is to be better organized and self-directed and in the future - two blogs a week. No more excuses. 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

Stuck and Alone

I began this little vignette with one word – a girl’s name. Agnes. I had no idea when I began writing where this piece would take me. As it turns out, I created a female who is baffled by her life. Though it hasn’t quite turned out as she might have planned, she has decided to take it just as it is. 

Agnes had no idea why she had no answers, but she realized a little too late, that she did not. She had been searching her whole life for a purpose, for a reason to be, for a means to make a difference, for the perfect relationship, for one of those loves that make magical movies. All of it, every bit, had evaded her and now that she was on the verge of forty, she felt as if she were an empty vessel. Even her feelings had betrayed her. She had none . . . or so it seemed. She was not happy; nor was she sad. She did not expect anything, did not look forward, and did not look back. The only good thing, she supposed was that she was here, breathing, taking in air, in and out, in and out.

How does one reach her fortieth year feeling unaccomplished, unappreciated, unloved, undone? Agnes had to wonder, but that was about all she could do.

            Maybe it’s my name. Why in the world did my parents name me Agnes? Agnes. Ag-nes . . . the pure and holy one. She had looked up the meaning once. “Who in this day and age,” she had asked herself, “is going to employ, befriend, or love an Agnes? Maybe if I’d been a Jennifer, a Shelley, a Madison, a Rachel, Alisha, Emily, Deb, Chloe, anything other than Agnes, my life would be different.

            Maybe it’s my face. I’m ordinary. The fact was that Agnes was Agnes - brown hair, honey-brown eyes, paler than olive skin, a straight nose, a mouth . . . one that seldom smiled. She was of average height, normal weight, and was far from ugly, but not beautiful either. She did not stand out in any way. She was convinced she had gone through life unnoticed. Completely unnoticed . . . pathetically unseen.

            Maybe it’s my intellect. Agnes was smart, but not too smart. She had graduated from high school and junior college with every grade being a B or C. It didn’t matter the subject – one she liked or one she hated - she always earned, or, at least, was given a B or C . . . nothing more and nothing less.

            Maybe it’s my personality. Not one person disliked Agnes. How could they? No one had ever been close to her because, whether consciously or subconsciously, she had kept others at bay. Better to be safe than sorry. Her reasoning had become her bond - an enemy and a friend.

            And so it was. Agnes would spend her fortieth birthday on her own. Her parents had died, her sister lived miles away, and her only acquaintances were distant as well, both in proximity and in relationship too. It’s all right, Agnes. Being alone would be an advantage in itself. No one would listen, no one would hear, and she wouldn’t have to answer to anyone.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

A New Start

So, here’s what’s up. In the past few days, I have begun a new novel. I have only a little over 2000 words in print so far, and the passage below is the very first, short section. In this book, I hope to explore the notion of aging. When one reaches really old age, what does one consider? My main character is eighty-eight year-old, Grace. Through her telling and flashbacks, I am hoping others can understand, and in essence, “live” her life. I would very much appreciate comments.

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?

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Tumor Me – A Second Time Around

In 2014, I published a memoir about my son, Alex’s nine-year struggle with job-related brain cancer. He died on May 24, 2013 and I was determined to tell his story the best I could . . . and I did with love, my “gut”, and, yes, my emotions. I cried many times as I wrote and that was good for me because it permitted me to process my pain and sadness.

            The first edition of Tumor Me, The Story Of My Firefighter was not perfect although it was proofread and edited by several people. And although I was satisfied with the result, after reading the book several more times, I knew I could do better. Over the course of the last six months, I did just that – rewrote it. Almost every page had a change or two – a word here, a passage there, an addition, or a deletion.

A few folks have asked me if rewriting the memoir was difficult because, in essence, I was reliving those years from Alex’s diagnosis, through the fight and ultimate decline, to the end. While tears fell more than a few times, the process of rewriting actually was quite comforting for I was able to relive our many and varied experiences one more time.

 Brain cancer is an incredibly ugly disease; many dreadful moments spanned those long, nine years while Alex fought for his life . . . and I remember. Yet, through writing, and rewriting, I was able to re-experience the good times too . . . and there were many - when Alex and I talked for hours, sharing thoughts and feelings, or when we laughed heartily about myriad, random things that struck us as funny. As I actually wrote in the memoir, in an odd way I was lucky because I was allowed to be as close to my son during his last few years of life as any mother possibly could be. For that, I am forever thankful. Furthermore, as I rewrote my memoir, I was filled once again with deep gratitude for the countless instances of support from friends who cared.

The second edition of Tumor Me, The Story Of My Firefighter (2018) was made available on Amazon.com and on Kindle yesterday. I look forward to hearing how readers respond. The back cover text, that hopefully gives a potential reader insight, follows here:

In this book, the second edition of Tumor Me, The Story of My Firefighter, the saga has been honed, the details sharpened, and nuances surrounding the gritty struggle of a young firefighter’s nine-year battle with occupational brain cancer laid bare. Though this tale is one of trials, fears, unknowns, and desperation, it is countered by hope, determination, bravery, optimism, and humor - doses of laughter that tempered the tears.

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

This memoir chronicles our experiences, Alex’s story, from beginning to end. The narrative is told from a mom’s perspective and every bit is true.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

What’s Going On?

The Everglades - South Florida

            And What Are We Going To Do About It?

Tragedies have highlighted 2017 for way too many people. The word rough is an understatement as we have witnessed or experienced hurricanes, earthquakes, tornados, floods, mudslides, and fires, fires, and more fires. Loss of life and property has been unprecedented. Natural disasters aside, what about all the random shootings, the killing of innocents by crazed killers? A quick Google search informed me that 2017 was the deadliest year ever with 307 mass shootings (four or more people shot or killed in a single incident) as of November 6, 2017. Most recent in our minds are the massacres at the First Baptist Church in Sutherland Springs, Texas and, of course, at the Mandalay Bay Casino in Las Vegas. Pure mayhem such as this leaves us speechless and numb.

            I don’t mean to sound naïve. I know these events pale in comparison to skirmishes in wars that seem unending.

            STOP!

            I began writing this blog about two weeks ago, but set it aside because it seemed too depressing. “Why write about all the bad things that have occurred recently?” I asked myself.

            And then, this week, Valentine’s Day, February 14^th, 2018 arrived. Who wasn’t shocked, saddened, and horrified by the shootings at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida? Seventeen lives were lost and at least fourteen more young people were injured. Actually that’s a misstatement. Many more people were injured, it not physically, they were hurt mentally and emotionally, perhaps scarred for life. It makes me sick.

            I was an educator for 27+ years, mostly teaching high school. During that time our school had fire drills, earthquake drills, and, yes, even, a few code red drills toward the end of my teaching career. The latter had become a necessity that mirrored the stark incidents of violence that had inched their way into our daily lives. Throughout my time teaching high school kids, I can recall three incidents that involved a student possessing (or potentially having) a gun at school. I won’t go into detail, but those incidents were unnerving. I also recall being on lockdown when some loony was wielding a weapon at a nearby apartment development. Many of my kids were frightened, especially those who lived in the complex and had loved ones there. We were spared any major disturbance, but I remember feeling a definite responsibility for the students in my classroom. Though they may not have looked it, they were only children.

            With that in mind, I cannot imagine the trauma endured by the educators and students in Parkland, Florida on February 14^th, just days ago. It’s unfathomable to me. In my heart and mind, I have tried to imagine their pain. I know everybody and their brother will offer their thoughts and prayers and that’s all right, I guess, but it simply is not enough. We need action now. We must demand it of our Congress.

The Second Amendment of our United States Constitution reads as follows: "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed." That being the case, however, I cannot believe our founding fathers foresaw deranged adults and teenagers with AR-15 automatic rifles mowing people down. I like to think our forefathers would be appalled by the senseless massacres that are occurring over and over and over. Let me be clear. I seriously support the second amendment but surely we need laws to prevent the purchase of military style weapons that end up in the hands of mentally ill people.

And let’s also be clear about this: This issue is not about mental illness (though that should be addressed as well) but about the need to limit the types of weapons that are not used for sport, are not needed for personal protection, but are made to fire rapidly for only one reason: to kill. It’s disgusting. We can do better.

An addendum:

            I was wondering just who Marjory Stoneman Douglas was, so I googled River of Grass (1947) professing that the Everglades are a treasure, not a swamp.her. She was born on April 7, 1890 and died on May 14, 1998. She was an American journalist, a writer, a feminist, and an environmentalist. She is best known for her staunch defense of the Everglades against efforts to drain it and use the land for development. She wrote a book entitled

            Marjory Stoneman Douglas must have been an outstanding individual. I have to imagine, though, that she would be devastated, like many of us are, by the slaughter that occurred at the modern, American high school that bears her name.

           

Marjory Stoneman Douglas in old age.

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