The Wonder of You

By Annie Fernandez and Raymond Burchyins

Imagine waking up each day with an identity, a home, and a purpose in life. Now imagine that in the space of a short, impersonal judicial hearing, your identity as a father, husband, neighbor, and breadwinner are torn away, and you are left to wander among the wreckage of your life.

As chaos surrounds you, you become painfully aware that you now have to begin all over. Friendships need to be developed. Relationships with your children need to be reset and redrawn. The new everyday normal is anything but. Your spirit needs to heal, to be recharged. Trust, hope, and the willingness to open oneself to a second chance at love and fulfillment must find their way through the hurt.

Follow the narrator as he details his struggle with divorce, loss, and the tug of his heart; straining to open itself to a new and loving relationship against the fear of loss again. Journey into his past, and see how the lessons he learned early in life have impacted him in ways he could never have imagined. Take a front-row seat as one man finds a sure path to happiness and a fulfilling life within the framework of a mended family fence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Mar 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504328319

Annie Fernandez

Raymond Burchyns, graduate of John Carroll University, is currently retired and lives with his wife of twenty-eight years in southern Maine. Through the years, he held the following professional titles: elementary school teacher, IRS field officer, and business owner. He has two children and five grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2015 Raymond Burchyns.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2830-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2832-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2831-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903714

Balboa Press rev. date: 03/06/2015

CONTENTS

Dedication

A Special Note Of Thanks

Foreword

Chapter One: In Neglect

Chapter Two: Kick Him

Chapter Three: Miracle

Chapter Four: Little Surfer

Chapter Five: Think

Chapter Six: True Love

Chapter Seven: Kids

Chapter Eight: All You Need

Chapter Nine: Sixty Four

Chapter Ten: God’s Word

Epilogue: Every Day Girl

Biographies

DEDICATION

T his book is dedicated to all those who have walked with me in life and who have contributed so greatly to the success of my journey. A special dedication is made to the following:

To my wife, Priscilla, my hundred pounds of clay, who makes my time here so cheerful, light, fun, and ever so special. Thank you forever.

To my children who have put up with me all of their time here on earth. Forgive me this latest indigestion.

To Brooklyn Prep for giving me the skills essential to leading a successful life. The gift of a superior education to all who were fortunate enough to attend will live far beyond 1972.

To all the men of the Prep and especially to the Class of 1964, perhaps the last graduating class to make it out the door before the world fell apart. The recollections of those four years are the roses which give me warm memories in my December.

And most especially to Pvt. Brian Gibbons, Pvt. George Olsen and Captain Frank Egan, casualties of war whose sacrifices gave us all the chance to fly. You taught us perhaps the greatest lesson of all—give until there is no more to give so that others may pay it forward. I hope we have all lived honorably enough to have earned the trust you left us. Requiescatis in pace.

A SPECIAL NOTE OF THANKS

T o Dr. Jackie Nguyen, whose incredible medical skills and marvelous talent preserved and enhanced my sight, thus enabling me to have the vision to complete this book. The work you do enriches the lives of all your patients. No amount of thanks can ever repay the debt of gratitude we all owe you.

FOREWORD

T his book grew out of a toast I offered at my oldest daughter’s wedding not so very long ago. She had passed through the trauma of a sad divorce and emerged on the other side safely. She found a wonderful fellow; they fell in love, and completed one another.

When I rose to offer the toast I wanted to convey how tenacious love is, especially if you just let it take hold of your life. I thought back over the years of my marriage to my wife, Priscilla, and simply wanted them to know that if they held on to each other, made each day interesting, warm, funny, and a matter of togetherness there would be no way they could be other than wildly happy and hugely successful.

While I spoke images of my marriage seemed to take over and form the words. I wanted them to know that marriage is not hard work, not really, as long as there are willing hands to make the work light. From experience I knew that there would be times, in my case, many, many, and one more many, times when foolishness would overcome the best of intentions causing smiles to tighten. Tighten, but never disappear.

Foolishness, in my case, occurred with static regularity. Priscilla came to refer to them as my antics, although, to be fair, sometimes I was just an unwilling participant in whatever silliness went careening down life’s highway. I wanted them to know that a smile and a kind and gentle understanding frame of mind was a cure all to the ills occasioned by unexpected bends, turns and valleys which would sometimes disrupt their happy trip.

I pointed out some of those burps which popped out of me from time to time. They remembered each of them without much prompting. Of course they would. I was their version of Ralph Kramden and Priscilla was the ever patient Alice. They watched as kids, and still watch, as I am led to safety from each rooftop, metaphorically speaking, I find myself leaning over, Priscilla’s strong hand tightly clutching whichever of my ears was closest at hand.

They smiled at the remembrance of my failing to listen to Priscilla when she reminded me to get gas before I left with my youngest, driving from the Hartford, Connecticut area back to Nashua, New Hampshire with my daughter, in the full bloom of Chicken Pox, lying in the back seat of the car. I told her not to be concerned as the gauge showed half full. Of course I was looking at the temperature gauge which was registering normal. Twenty miles on our way, the gas gave out. My daughter could only shake her head—she had been there with me before.

They laughed at the picture of me standing in the middle of a very popular restaurant, my pants about my ankles. Worse yet, I have reached the age between jockey underwear and depends. I believe it is referred to as the commando mode of dress. In any event Priscilla finds it, well, unattractive.

I had been on a serious weight loss program and had lost well over fifty pounds. The pants were loose. I didn’t want to buy new clothes as I was still losing, actually shedding is more the term to be used here, and so chose suspenders to hold up the pants. But I forgot to wear them around my shoulders with the result that, as I walked toward the table, my pants fell to the floor.

The folks at the bar were amused, the waitress was professional although she did give me the once over with an appreciative nod of the head, and Priscilla, well she, like Peter at Passover, denied me thrice after telling me that the cock had little to crow about as far as she was concerned. We had dinner but not much in the way of conversation. And she insisted that I take out a loan at the credit union to cover the tip she demanded I leave.

While writing this book I had another collision with silliness though this event was wholly not my fault. Unlike most writers I cannot sit and write an outline; nor can I write out, or type out, a working manuscript. I retreat to quiet places and let my mind create the story, line by line. I commit it to memory and then spend more quiet time revising what I have committed to memory.

This process finds me softly talking to myself, rolling over sentence structure and fleshing out the thoughts I am trying to convey. In one instance a few months ago I happened to be in a country diner. Priscilla dropped me there to have breakfast while she went about some errands, preferring to make me the proprietor of the diner’s problem, rather than have me shuffling along behind her dropping unsubtle hints about how lousy shopping is.

In any event, I finished breakfast and decided to sit on a bench in the foyer and edit my book. And so began my multi car pile-up. First a young couple, seeing me sitting there purportedly talking to myself, took pity on what they supposed was a lonely old man who needed a meal. I was offered five dollars which I could use for said meal. I politely declined but they pressed the issue. I took out my wallet and showed them I had enough money on me to eat a second breakfast if the spirit moved me. They backed away, somehow disappointed that I foiled their good deed for the day.

I settled back and restarted the edit when accosted by two young fellows who referred to me as old timer and asked if I needed a lift home. I didn’t care for their New Hampshire cheeriness or the old timer reference so I decided to play with them. I nodded sadly and when they asked me where I lived I replied, Brooklyn, on Wyckoff Street. They must not have had the time to drive me there because they quickly retreated, whispering to each other as they walked away.

Settling back to editing, I noticed two middle-aged bitties standing in the restaurant, one speaking earnestly into her cell phone. In short order a police car arrived. The police officer, a nice young boy, approached me, dripping with insincerity. He asked me what I was doing and I told him. He wanted to help. I thanked him but told him I had to write the book myself.

Now unknown to me at the time there was a nursing home a short distance away. Thanks to the bitties the police officer had the idea that somehow I had walked away from my spot in the warehouse they call an assisted living facility. I explained that Priscilla had left me here while grazing at the local shops and would soon be back. He wasn’t buying it. Finally I called Priscilla, explained the problem and she came to the rescue, head shaking and smile shrinking just a mite.

I started to tell the police officer I told you so and to mention to the bitties the value of an investment in some vibrating dildos as a means of satisfying their sterile existences as opposed to gossiping on cell phones when Priscilla put her index finger in my face, meaning I should be quiet and get in the car.

So this has been our ride: burps, bumps, lots of laughter, and wonderful memories. The tale I tell is true. The only thing lacking is more of my antics—Priscilla insisted that the more graphic images be edited out and I agreed. But believe me, my hundred pounds of clay made life and love a matter of gusto. Read on and enjoy.

Chap1.jpg

CHAPTER ONE: IN NEGLECT

They leave us now to the way we took…

T he words quoted above are from a poem called In Neglect written by America’s premier craftsman of poetry, Robert Frost. They reflect his attitude about his choice to take his own path in life, most especially in the choice of a life’s partner. Against the strong objections of family and friends, Frost chose to follow his heart, a choice he never regretted.

And, so with me. I had been looking for my perfect fit, my 100 pounds of clay. Fortunately I found her but not without some difficulty, about which more later. But for the moment let us begin at the end.

It was a beautiful, sunny day that found me wandering aimlessly. The legal system had set my sails and cast my fate to the winds. I wasn’t navigating all that well and aimlessness had become de rigeur, so to speak. Suddenly from nowhere a lightning bolt struck me squarely in the ass. As the smoke cleared I found myself rubbing the affected spot vigorously. My mind had not entirely cleared when I heard a rumbling sound and then a powerful voice addressed me: Yo, knucklehead, when are you going to stop by my shop and pick up that hundred pounds of clay I sculpted for you. Or do I have to find another way to get your attention?

I looked around, thinking that someone was playing an unusually good trick on me. Then, as my mind cleared completely, I knew that this was no earthly gambit; I knew with a certainty that what I was dealing with was supernatural. Even so somehow I realized that the spirit moving within me was not evil. It had to be heavenly and that being the case my Jesuit training kicked in immediately—best obey the Lord’s command for your arms are far too short to box with God— had been drummed into my psyche by Fr. Dan Corbett in religion class at Brooklyn Prep. And so I trotted off to see what the Lord had made for me.

When I entered the workshop my heart caught in my throat. Magnificence surrounded me surely but the most heart stopping was this beautiful woman. Her smile was warm enough to melt even the most jaded and hard hearted of men; her voice was sweet, her eyes a deep, haunting brown; her skin was translucent and her figure—well, it’s best to let the rest of the world go by, so to speak. I was astounded but managed to squeak out, WOW! Looking back I don’t think she was measurably impressed by my command of the English language. In any event she walked over to me, held out her hand and led me out the door and so began our life’s journey.

As we began life together I discovered that she loved many of the same things I did. I had always loved the beach—the combination of sun, sand and surf somehow for me made heaven seem real. I was filled with a joyous wonder to find out that my hundred pounds of clay was actually my little surfer girl. Her love of the beach exceeded even mine. For the first several years of our life together we spent nearly every summer weekend at one beach or another. We would get up early, prepare a sumptuous picnic lunch and scram for the beach. Our New England coastline offered a pirate’s treasure chest of choices. The cool Maine waters would find us, mouths agape, just staring at the craggy cliffs being kissed by the Atlantic Ocean; in New Hampshire we would wander along sandy beaches bracketed by the small communities dappled along the beach road. Massachusetts gave us Cape Cod where we would stroll thru scenic towns after spending a day in the warm waters. Every time we went to a beach my heart would jump at the sight of my little surfer girl in her bathing suit just lighting up the whole scene.

We discovered the special beauty of Rhode Island. From Federal Hill in Providence to the mansion walk in Newport, Rhode Island became a destination point for us. I did not think my little surfer girl could have made any day more special than any other until we discovered Moonstone Beach. Named for its shape and the many large stones and dunes which gave it its special ambiance, Moonstone Beach also had one other attraction—it was a clothes optional beach. Now this may be somewhat off center to many but the reality was much different. The folks who spent time at Moonstone were a very diverse group—families to singles, artists to lovers of volleyball– this beach offered a sense of peace and tranquility to the more than 5,000 who spent weekends there.

And so one day we went to Moonstone. My little surfer girl sat on the sand, her body bronzing in the sun. I would look at her and not see her per se but rather the beauty of the Great Author’s hand. I felt no sense of discomfort or any sense of shame—just joy in the moment and gratitude to God for giving me this, one of His greatest blessings.

And when the sun became uncomfortable my littler surfer girl would get up, take my hand and together we would race into the water. Her joyful laughter would mix with the sound of surf crashing on the shore. The combination was a symphony Beethoven would have written had he been alive to experience the moment.

We floated in the water and slowly we reached out and held one another. As we came closer together her arms wrapped around my neck and her legs gently encircled me. All around us our fellow swimmers bleached out of our conscious sense; the sounds of laughter from the folks on the beach faded gradually and the sailboats seemed to drift away. There was only the two of us. The waves slowly rocked us and then the heavens exploded in a burst of happiness and contentment. Time was suspended for both of us. As things came back into focus I saw God’s knowing smile. And I knew how great indeed He is. I promised myself I would never forget just how precious a gift I had been given.

Our life together continued to unfold. The beach gave way to the inexorable tug of routine: work, children’s activities, community involvement, tag sales, and general family matters. Through all of the busy turmoil my hundred pounds of clay handled things flawlessly. Indeed she morphed once again—from my little surfer girl into Alice Kramden to my Ralph. Many were the times that I managed to tie Gordian knots which required her skill to undo. It wasn’t intentional—I just seemed to subscribe to the ready, fire, aim theory of solving problems—a theory which never worked out well for me. But she was always there to undo whatever the damage might have been, and with a smile—although as the years and incidents passed her smile did begin to tighten.

At home I would sit in my easy chair and she would wait on my every need. I didn’t ask or even expect her to be so accommodating—it was natural on her part. And because it was so natural on her part I slowly drifted into the self-indulgent mode and became unfairly demanding. In fact I even found a small silver bell which I decided to ring whenever I needed her attention.

Women are odd in some ways, as I found out.