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WILKES-BARRE — I recall the day I got up early and had a little breakfast with my mom. It was summer and school was out. Dad was at work.

After breakfast, I went outside to see who was around. A few of my pals were gathering on the corner of Reynolds and Second streets. We tossed a rubber ball around and began the process of deciding what we were going to do on this fine, sunny, early summer day.

We decided to take a walk up Reynolds Street, down by the creek that ran along the backyards of our houses. We followed the creek up the mountain, stopping at each of three dams where we would toss flat stones across to see who could skip the stones the most. Sometimes we would look for fish swimming in the clear water.

We would go all the way up and then circle around until we came upon the big shovel that was moving mounds of dirt. Strip mining was big in those days. Little did we know the environmental damage that was being done. Heck, we just thought it was really cool to watch that big shovel move all that dirt.

By now, it was getting close to lunchtime. We would retreat to our houses where our moms would prepare a delicious gourmet meal of sandwiches and soup. We might stick around and watch an episode of Leave It To Beaver, or Ozzie and Harriet before we would return to the street to see what the afternoon brought.

If we had enough kids — six or eight usually worked best — we would get up a game of stocking ball. We would use a ball fashioned out of old socks, sewn closed by our moms. We would use wooden bats and play a game in the street. We never could hit the ball all that far because it was kind of heavy. But we played a competitive game or two or three, never having an argument that would require in today’s world a “video review.”

Sometimes we would seek the shade of my backyard for a game of Wiffle Ball. A ball hit on the lower roof was a double, on the top roof a triple and over the roof a home run. We would pretend we were major leaguers, and we would bat lefty if the player was lefthanded and righty if he was a righty. We could throw some mean breaking balls with those Wiffle Balls with their solid bottoms and open-grooved tops.

Now, it was dinner time. Dad was home, and we would sit around the table and have a nutritious meal prepared by our moms — the best cooks in the world. Dad would say, “So what did you do today?” I would tell him as much as I felt he should know, leaving out the swimming in the Second Dam and the Wiffle Ball in the backyard because he knew I had a Little League game at 6 p.m.

After dinner, I would put on my Little League uniform and jump in Dad’s car and head to Wadhams Street for my game. It was a busy place — kids were everywhere and parents filled the bleachers. My mom and my Aunt Betty (Dad’s sister) were working the refreshment stand with their friends — most with kids on the teams.

The Plymouth Little League field was spectacular — it was like a miniature Yankee Stadium. A wooden fence surrounded the diamond and advertising signs were painted on each section. The field sat behind Huber Field, home of the Plymouth High School Shawnee Indians football team. Far beyond the left field fence was Bill Seras’ Candy Store. They made their own candy there, and it was delicious.

After the game, we could grab a slice of pizza or a hot dog and a soda at the refreshment stand. We would hang around a bit until our dads and moms cleaned up the field and the stand area and then we would head for home.

Back on Reynolds Street, we would change into shorts and a T-shirt and sit on our front porches. Sometimes we would get a Mister Softee or a neighbor would make a run to Golden Quality for CMPs. As darkness approached, we would sometimes play hide and seek, or we would huddle on the porch and listen to the radio broadcast of the Phillies.

At some point, the day would end and after a bath, off to bed we would go.

This was growing up in the neighborhood with a bunch of friends and neighbors who looked out for each other. These were the good old days for sure.

I recall this day because it was like that just about every day.

Bill O’Boyle
https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/web1_Oboyle_Bill-2-1-6.jpg.optimal.jpgBill O’Boyle

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].