Thomas G. Jacobs, Boardman, Ohio
Born on August 25, 1945, in Youngstown, Ohio, Tom was the son of the late Clyde and Nancy (Evans) Jacobs.
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He was a 1963 graduate of South High School, he was a proud lifelong resident of the Mahoning Valley.
Tom dedicated over 25 years of service as an investigator for the State of Ohio. Known for his integrity and professionalism, he brought dedication and care to his work.
Deeply involved in his community, Tom was an active Mason and a member of numerous Masonic and affiliated organizations throughout the Tri-County area. He was a member of Leetonia Lodge #401 F&AM, Negley Lodge #565 F&AM, the Scottish Rite Valley of Youngstown, the York Rite Bodies, the Al Koran Shrine, the Youngstown Shrine Club and Aut Mori Grotto. He also enjoyed camaraderie and culture as a member of the Youngstown Saxon Club.
Tom is survived by his loving wife of 32 years, the former Shirley Ann James, whom he married on October 16, 1993; two stepsons, Steven J. (Kimberly) Chester of King George, Virginia and Stuart John Chester of Warren, Ohio; his brother, John R. Jacobs of Cypress, Texas and several nephews.
Family and friends may call on Wednesday, July 2, 2025, from 5:00 – 6:00 p.m., at Davis-Becker Funeral Home, 8536 Market Street in Boardman. The Negley Lodge #565 F&AM will conduct a Masonic service at 6:00 p.m., followed by a funeral service. Military Honors will be rendered on Thursday, July 3, 2025, at 12:15 p.m., at Ohio Western Reserve National Cemetery, 10175 Rawiga Road, Seville, Ohio.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests that material tributes take the form of contributions to Angels for Animals, 4750 W. South Range Road, Canfield, OH 44406, in memory of Tom.
Please visit www.beckerobits.com to share memories and condolences with the family.
To send flowers to the family or plant a tree in memory of Thomas 'Tom' G. Jacobs, please visit our floral store.Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
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19-07-2025
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The author's parents in 1947. In the middle of a plate of enchiladas and salad, the phone rings. I sigh — it's been days since I've had the time or appetite to enjoy a meal. My husband, Tom, is busy at the kitchen counter, so I reach for the phone, and my brother says, 'They're both gone.' It's 2 p.m. on Dec. 18, 1994, and with those three words, I am orphaned. After several years of suffering physical and mental anguish, my mother could take no more, and my father, who people later said couldn't bear the thought of life without his bride of 46 years, went along for the final ride, ending both their lives in their garage. On that day, as Tom and I made the 90-minute drive from our home in Massachusetts to the small farm in Connecticut where I was brought up, I looked to the sky, hoping for some kind of a sign — of peace, or comfort or simply of resolution. In the cloud formation above me I imagined two figures, waving goodbye. 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He then asked point blank, 'What was the reason for your parents' sudden death?' I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and suddenly was aware of a way to place their final wish out of jeopardy. I blurted out 'mental illness.' 'Ah,' said the rabbi. 'For that reason, burial in our cemetery is granted.' The next day's graveside ceremony had me again looking toward the sky, but this time no cloud reached down to comfort me. Instead, the air fell cold on shoulders that were suddenly burdened by a weight that still, after all these years, has lightened, but never completely lifted. Over the next few months, a redefined 'normal' made its way into my life, but with it came a sense of vulnerability that remains hard to shake. I went back to work within a week. At the time, I was a general assignment newspaper reporter, trained to 'get the story, get out, and get writing.' Increasingly, I found myself lingering over interviews with those people who had been brushed or crushed by tragedy: the father of a drowning victim, a beloved high school teacher diagnosed with a brain tumor, the family evicted from their home by a heartless landlord. I somehow found solace in those I came to refer to as 'my people' — others who had been hard hit by a catastrophic circumstance. Soon that desire to cocoon myself in others' misery morphed into something else: fear. Fear of today. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of anything that might go wrong. If my husband was more than 10 minutes late getting home from work, I imagined he had been in an accident. If our cat had a slight cough, I was convinced it was congestive heart failure. If my brother said he was feeling blue, I worried he would go down the same path our parents did. The author in 2023. Oddly enough, I was the only person I didn't fret over. 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But in a world where the worst exists, so too does the best. I'm satisfied with settling for the middle ground. If you or someone you know needs help, call or text 988 or chat for mental health support. Additionally, you can find local mental health and crisis resources at Outside of the U.S., please visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention. Sharon Nery is the former editor-in-chief of a business journal and was a reporter for a metropolitan daily newspaper in Massachusetts. She has been a columnist, restaurant and music reviewer, and is presently lead writer for a public relations agency in the greater Boston area. She is a federally certified ombudsman and does per diem work as a resident companion at an assisted living community. This article originally appeared on HuffPost in January 2024. Also in Goodful: Also in Goodful: Also in Goodful:
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