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Thomas G. Jacobs, Boardman, Ohio

Thomas G. Jacobs, Boardman, Ohio

Yahoo13-06-2025
BOARDMAN, Ohio (MyValleyTributes) – Thomas Grant 'Tom' Jacobs, 79, passed away unexpectedly at his home on Tuesday, June 3, 2025.
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 This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
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My Parents Both Died By Suicide — On The Same Day. I Haven't Been The Same Since.
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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. That was the first of many signs I have received over the now 29 years since my mother and father died by suicide at ages 72 and 73, respectively. My view on things in general had always leaned toward 'just the facts,' but in the space of 24 hours I began to look beyond the surface and open my eyes to what I could not or would not normally see. The days that followed were a haze of sorrow-driven activity, but some of what transpired remains clear. My father had taken care of all final arrangements, leaving detailed instructions on where to go and who to contact. While not highly religious, my parents wanted to be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and so my brother, husband and I met with the congregation rabbi the day following the deaths, unaware that suicide was considered taboo in the Jewish religion. As such, my parents could not rest in hallowed burial grounds, something the rabbi made us well aware of moments after we were seated. 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. In fact, I wished something would go wrong with my health or job — it sounds ludicrous, but I convinced myself that a health or employment problem of mine would go toward my family's tragedy quota and prevent other loved ones from harm. I also believed it might atone for my inability to prevent my parents' deaths. I can't count the number of times I have said, 'I should have...' and although my guilt will never completely subside, it has diminished over the past 29 years, replaced by a steadfast awareness of my parents' continued presence. Every October, around my father's birthday, either I or my husband find a new or rusty nail on our front door steps. A coincidence, perhaps, but I look at it as something more. When cleaning out their house, Tom and I had joked about the neat rows of mayonnaise jars that lined a bookcase in my parents' basement, filled with both new and old nails — a true testament to my father's frugality! I consider the annual discovery a love letter from my dad. And each day, before I leave for work, I hold a little fashion show in front of the mirror that used to hang in my parents' bedroom. My taste in clothing is similar to my mother's, and I view this daily exercise as an opportunity to connect with the woman who — for all I know — may be gazing back at me through the looking glass. I have also arrived at the unorthodox notion that my father (whose appetite was legendary among family members!) might take otherworldly enjoyment from the food I prepare during the holidays. For that reason, I always include one or two of his favorite dishes ― not only as a homage to the man who could polish off three of my homemade cinnamon rolls with ease, but also because maybe, just maybe, he can still taste and relish from his perch out there wherever he now is. Dec. 18, 1994, brought about other, more concrete changes in my life. I have reconnected with relatives, some of whom I had lost contact with for 20 or more years. It's bittersweet how losing family members can open the doors to the embracing arms of other family members. And for many years now I have been a volunteer ombudsman at a local nursing facility, working as an advocate for residents. A form of penance for an act I couldn't prevent? Perhaps, but regardless, for each time I am successful in bringing about a positive change for an elderly individual, I imagine my parents applauding from up above as they watch their now 68-year-old daughter doing a 'mitzvah.' The event that transpired on that cold, clear early winter day in 1994 has changed my life in so many ways — some for the good, others for the not so good. I'm kinder to others. I cherish the smallest of pleasures. I listen better. I cry more easily. I have trouble sleeping. I can't bear to be in an idling car. I wear vulnerability like a scent. I too often imagine the worse, for I know the worse can happen... because it did. 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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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It's bittersweet how losing family members can open the doors to the embracing arms of other family members. And for many years now I have been a volunteer ombudsman at a local nursing facility, working as an advocate for residents. A form of penance for an act I couldn't prevent? Perhaps, but regardless, for each time I am successful in bringing about a positive change for an elderly individual, I imagine my parents applauding from up above as they watch their now 68-year-old daughter doing a 'mitzvah.' The event that transpired on that cold, clear early winter day in 1994 has changed my life in so many ways — some for the good, others for the not so good. I'm kinder to others. I cherish the smallest of pleasures. I listen better. I cry more easily. I have trouble sleeping. I can't bear to be in an idling car. I wear vulnerability like a scent. I too often imagine the worse, for I know the worse can happen... because it did. 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