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They say they come back for the kielbasa, but guys like me, well, it’s about so much more.

Don’t get me wrong, the kielbasa at the 13th annual Plymouth Kielbasa Festival is always great. Especially with horseradish — not with ketchup like our intern, Alyssa, eats it. When she dipped her fresh kielbasa in ketchup Friday, I had to say something.

I told her she better not let anybody see what she was doing, so we walked to the shade of the Dan Flood Apartment complex and I turned my back as she devoured her ketchup-laced fresh kielbasa. I couldn’t watch.

Then Alyssa wanted pierogi. I agreed to get some, but only if she promised not to dip them in ketchup.

As we walked up and down Main Street, I travelled back in time — seeing the still-remaining buildings as they were when I was a kid and even seeing the buildings that have been taken down and what each of them held.

There was Joe’s Pizza, the start-up of the Grotto Pizza empire. And there were Mitchell Plessett’s Men’s Store, Oscar Hacker’s Market, Cas Matus’ newsstand and pool hall, Al Wasley’s Jewelry Store, Home Furniture, Shawnee TV, Golden Quality Ice Cream, Rea & Derick Drug Store, Ben Franklin 5 & 10, Fainberg’s Furniture, Brodmarkle’s Store, Dwyer’s Lunch, Weil’s Women’s Wear, Zagorsky’s Bar, Clem Rogers’ American Motors, Plymouth Poultry, Bill Goldstein’s Hardware, Kuni’s Bar, Octagon Bar Pizza, Master Market, Shawnee Theater and many more.

Memories of each rushed through my head, taking me back to the days of a busy downtown that had plenty to offer and plenty of people to patronize. It was Downtown USA — Main Street America. This was a hometown, with good people, neighborhood schools, plenty of churches, school spirit, red and black school colors, “Shawnee Against the World,” cool cars with engines revving, parking meters to lean on, Friday night football, Saturday night fun, quiet Sundays, neighborhoods with unlocked doors and friendly faces.

All in a town where everybody knew your name.

I remember 1966 — the town was celebrating its centennial. Men grew facial hair and women wore bonnets. And the Plymouth High School basketball team won the District 2 title. It was a big deal back then. Our team was honored by the Plymouth Lettermen’s Club with a ceremony in the Shawnee Theater. The place was packed. We were hometown heroes.

It was school spirit and hometown pride all rolled into one. It’s those roots that keep me coming back to events like the Kielbasa Festival. It’s what keeps me walking up and down Main Street, anxiously awaiting the next person I know from back then, but lost touch with over the decades.

It’s sort of therapeutic to return to where I learned most everything I needed to know to navigate life’s journey. It’s where I made my first friends, where I had my first kiss, where I heard the crowd cheer for the first time. It’s where I learned the value of family and friendship, of loyalty and faith.

Like the saying goes — you may be able to take the kid out of Plymouth, but you can never take the Plymouth out of the kid. That certainly is the case with me. Plymouth is where I grew up and learned about life — and death. Where I learned about success and failure. About love and heartbreak. About the difference between right and wrong. About trust and doubt. About how it takes a village to raise a child.

As we get older, sometimes all we have left of our childhoods are memories. Many of the people who shaped us are gone. Many of the institutions in which we learned are also gone. Much of our support system, sadly, is gone, too.

We have learned to live. We have learned to succeed. We have learned to disappoint and be disappointed.

But for two days in August, I can return to the homeland — to the place I call the center of the universe — and look at buildings, faces and spaces and remember where I came from and who guided me from there to here, back to there again.

That’s why I love the Kielbasa Festival. That’s why I walk Main Street and think, “This is my hometown.”

O’Boyle
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By Bill O’Boyle

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Reach Bill O’Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle, or email at [email protected].