Beyond the Byline: Staying connected for 57 years and counting

WILKES-BARRE — Exactly 57 years ago yesterday — May 10, 1968 — my mom passed away.

There hasn’t been a day since that I have not thought about her or applied some of the endless lessons she taught me.

And as every Mother’s Day approaches and arrives, it still tears me apart.

Add to that my dad passing in November 1995, and I can honestly tell you that losing both parents and not having any siblings brings a cloud of loneliness over one’s self.

And it stays — forever.

But I can also say that my parents inspired me when I was young and since their passing, I have relied on them to keep me focused on my life, my family, my friends and my community.

My parents — Elizabeth Kraszewski O’Boyle and William O’Boyle, Sr. — taught me so much.

Mom and dad each had a disability, so I had a very early appreciation of the abilities of people with disabilities.

Dad worked all his life and, co-founded the Plymouth Little League and he was active in many organizations — veteran-related and community-related.

Mom was the same way. She did so much for others and had genuine compassion for people in need.

My Mom and Dad taught me:

• To appreciate people — all people — regardless of race, ethnicity or religion. They saw the good in people and always accented the positive. They taught me to help where you can — to strive to make a difference — even if it seems small to you, it’s much bigger to the people you are helping.

• To value family and friends — to treat others as you would want to be treated. See people for who they are and what they bring to the table. Never judge anyone on the color of their skin, their ethnicity or their social status. Listen and you will learn. When you hear what others are saying, you can help them.

• They taught me about love, compassion, community, family, friendship, acceptance, fairness, tolerance, patriotism and faith.

• They taught me the importance of being supportive and respectful. My parents were always there for me — in the stands at my baseball games, my basketball games and at all the practices. They watched, but they never complained. They never questioned any of my coaches. They always taught me to respect my teachers, coaches, teammates, opponents and, well, everybody.

• And I learned about love from my mom and dad. I knew they had a special relationship from the beginning — they each had a bad leg and neither were in any way hindered by their disability.

But it was when my mom became sick that I saw love up close. I saw the expressions on their faces, the holding of hands, the tears. I saw the devotion of nightly visits to the hospital and weekend trips to Philadelphia to be at Mom’s side. I listened when they talked.

I heard the conversations of two people in love.

Staying connected

I’ve never been blessed with the kind of hair you see on movie stars. It would take some time to get my hair to look acceptable, to say the least.

And when I couldn’t get it right — which was most days — my mom would use her brush. Now, she had a glorious head of hair. It shined from her brushing it over and over. Her magical brush was a pink sort of plastic brush that worked absolute wonders — even on my wiry hair.

Many years later, on one of those dark, dismal days following her death, as I was packing up her stuff, I came across my mom’s hair brush. I remember looking at it and staring at it and recalling all those precious times that she had used it to brush her hair and mine.

Even then at age 17, I recalled thinking just how very few those times were, and I remember trying to deal with the reality that those memories were all I had now, with no chance of new memories to be made.

I took the brush and put it in my room. It is the one personal possession that still connects me to my mom.

Sadly, the brush is not what it once was. The handle broke off years ago. Many of the plastic bristles are gone as well.

But this brush still has, in my mind, my mom’s DNA — and mine — all through it.

So for 57 years, instead of hugs and kisses from a living mother, I have had the loving caresses of that brush. When I use that brush, my mom is with me — and those memories come alive.

This was her brush. She used it every day and night. She held it. She ran it through her hair. She used it to get me ready for school each day.

My mom knew how to do it all, as most mothers do, without complaining. They cherish being a mom.

So cherish them back.

And I will remember my mom by running that tattered brush though my thinning hair and I will imagine her hugs, her smile and her soul.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Reach Bill O’Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle.