Sunday, June 21, 2015

The LuLac Edition #2960, June 21st, 2015

During the last 9 years since I’ve been doing LuLac, you read stories about my dad, my godfather, my uncles and other dads on Father's Day. This year after much thought (not the slapping of the forehead, holy crap what am I gonna write this week kind of thought) I came up with an idea. The past few weeks I’ve been cleaning up a lot of stuff from the house I grew up at 37 Dewitt Street in Pittston since my sister and her husband sold the house. I don’t know if it was a Yonki or Pribula trait but my sister and I saved everything. Birthday cards, old newspapers and of course there was a box of old 45rpms. (By the way the entire box will be for sale at the Friends of the Library Book Sale for the Osterhout Library this week.) Going through the records (as if I didn’t have every song of that era on my USB ports) I saw an obscure record by an artist named Cami Lawrence. It was a 45 that I bought in a 10 pack from McGrory’s at the Midway Shopping Center. You’d get 10 for a buck, 8 of them were clunkers and two were hits but,  I digress. The record was called “The Kids On My Street”. I’m not sure it even charted. But sitting in church the next morning, I had the idea of profiling the dads who lived in my neighborhood. When I started to make the list I was shocked by how many dads I actually interacted with in my childhood.
This is all the more significant since society has changed so much. Time Magazine reported that the proportion of households in the U.S. made up of married couples with kids has dropped by half since 1970, according to the most recent data from the Census Bureau. They now make up only 20% of households. So only 20% of today’s children have a two parent family. All the more reason to salute the dads of Dewitt Street on this Father’s Day. Not to slight anyone, I’m going in alphabetical order.


Adam was an older gentleman by the time I became aware of things. I went to school with his Daughter Cathy and I’m sure to this day she recalls what an annoyance I was. But what I remember about Adam was how in the summertime he’d relax on his porch (everybody had porch back then) in his green work clothes. He’d sit back, adjust a radio he carried out with him and tuned in WPTS Radio. Patiently waiting for the rock and roll to subside, Adam was a faithful listener to The Pan Josef Polka Show. He’d crank that radio up and if his porch had struts, it would be moving up and down like one of those cars out of a Cheech and Chong movie. There was sheer enjoyment on his face as he just hung out. I learned from Adam Buranich the sheer joy and madness of  polkas and that Pittston had its own radio station. We all know where that led to for me.


I didn’t actually grow up with Owen but he married my sister and was a dad in that house at 37 Dewitt Street. Owen and my sister had a son Troy who they raised in that home. Owen rarely got angry except when the Dallas Cowboys lost. Unlike fans who drank to excess, Owen paced the rooms of the house railing as his ‘Boys went through a dry streak. Having watched every significant football game in that house since 1963 with my father and uncles, I found it amusing that perhaps their spirits were bedeviling him. Who knows maybe they were because Owen’s child became a Bengals fan. What I learned from Owen Barnett was that no matter how passionate you are about a team, you let your own children or friends decide who they will root for. Or get upset over.


Joe Cadden lived on Union Street but I count him as a Dewitt Street Dad. My reasoning is that he worked with my mom at Consolidated Cigar and always was on Dewitt Street looking for his daughters Linda, Joann and Colleen. They’d jump rope and Linda was a wicked hitter when it came to wiffle ball. Herding them back home, we’d see them them Sundays at St. Mary’s Help of Christians Church. By the way, the Cadden girls always cleaned up nice. For whatever reasons on Saturday afternoon our parents sent us to Confession at Father Maloney's church. What I learned from Joe Cadden was even if you were in the next block, you’d keep an eye on your kids. Especially Saturdays when you had to get dressed for Confession. 


Mr. Chedrick lived on Cliff but would give me a ride home from kindergarten once in a while with his son John and Bruce Prandy. He drove a black cherry Dodge but because he was involved with the Ambulance he had this two way radio on his dashboard. It was exciting to see him get a call. Years later he worked as projectionist and gave me tips on how radio towers needed to be logged. Being a budding radio guy myself, I learned from John Chedrick the importance of keeping accurate power stats for radio stations. That helped me pass Element 9 for my Third Class Broadcast license.


John Delaney and Joe Cadden had something in common. Daughters. I’d see Mr. Delaney drive his Powder Blue 4 door car home from work and survey Dewitt and then Cliff Street to keep track of his girls Mary Ellen and Margie. Mr. Delaney worked at the Swanee Paper mill. I remember him always wearing a white tee shirt in the summer months on the drive home from work. The Delaney’s lived on Cliff but the back yard jutted out onto Dewitt. He’d pull that big car onto Dewitt after his shift. He always had a determined look, almost focused look on his face when he was parking that car. But when he got out of the vehicle, he always had a smile on his face. It was like all the worries and cares of that Swanee plant melted away from him like butter on a hot summer day when he reached his home base. Mr. Delaney taught me that whatever the hell happened at work, forget about it. There were more important things in life.


Frank lived at the end of Cliff Street with his wife Tillie. Frank had a little corner grocery store. You could buy milk, candy, smokes. It was the forerunner of the modern convenience store. Frank talked broken English and had quite the Italian accent. It flowed, it wasn’t choppy.
Frank was very kind to little kids like me trying to stretch a nickel into a dime’s worth of candy in the store. He was helped out by his sons Rudy and Danny as well as his daughter Rita and of course Tillie. Once in a while you'd see Leo Moran who was dating Rita and later married her. The store had a big Sealtest Ice Cream sign that you could see from the top of Union Street. One day a lovesick teenage boy who I shall not name (wasn’t me, I was only 9) bought an entire half gallon of Sealtest Butter Pecan. This is when a half gallon was a half gallon! Catty corner from the store there was a big green bench. After selling the kid the Ice Cream, Frank was surprised to see the boy eating it with a spoon. Frank shook his head and said, “Crazy boy, he’ll get very, very very sick. Not my fault though, I no sell it to him if I know he was going to do this. You watch, he get very, very very sick”. I watched and the lad did get very, very sick. What I learned from Frank Forlenza was that no matter how love sick I became (and God knows there were many, many times) I didn’t drown my sorrows in Sealtest or anything else.


For the 1960s on Dewitt Street Andy Gurman had the perfect nickname but our parents told us they’d beat the tar out of us if we called him Andy Griffith. He worked at Atlas Chain, and had two teen age daughters that were sought after by half of the teen boy population in Pittston. His mother in law Mrs. Lucas also lived with the family.
What I primarily remember about Andy Gurman was his car. It was a big four door blue green blend Sedan. Might have been a Pontiac. On the weekends he would clean that behemoth so well you could do surgery on the floor mats. I’d see his daughter Diane put her lipstick on looking down at the trunk. That’s how shiny it was. Andy and his wife moved to Duryea in the late 70s buying a house on Phoenix Street. Andy had that car when he moved to Dewitt Street in 1962 or thereabouts. I was married for at least ten years and in the 90s that car was in his driveway at his home in Duryea. What I learned from Andy Gurman was if you took care of your things, your things would take care of you.


My relationship with Ted Haddock had three stages. We had a driveway that we owned but everyone turned around in it. When I was 5 Ted would turn around in the driveway, whistle and say, “Hey kid, c’mon I’m gonna take you to Kissilyn. I had no idea at the time what it was (it was a home for youth in trouble in Hazelton) but I knew it was bad. When I was 11 and playing ball in the streets (badly I might add) Ted would turn around in the driveway, whistle and say, “Hey kid, the Yankees just called. Get in shape”. I’d respond, “But I’m an Indians fan”. Ted would just shake his head and drive away! When I was in high school and doing things on the old WPTS Radio, he’d turn around in the driveway and say, “Hey radio man” and then drive off. You may wonder why those things were memorable. Here’s why.
When Ted was saying them to me, he was always driving a glorious convertible. The model might change through the years but mostly he was a Cadillac man. One particular stunning car was a lavender bodied car with a white top. The fins on the back stood tall. It was an incredible vehicle. I truly believe that I drive a convertible today because of Efrem Zemblist Junior on “77 Sunset Strip” and Ted Haddock.
Ted was in the service and after returning home won a lottery treasury ticket. The money was enough to buy a coal truck. He went into the Construction business with his in law Joe Zinkavich. They built a business that endured long after Ted’s untimely death.
As a matter of fact when I was a radio rep for Rock 107 in the late 90s his grandson was my client. Ted was a softball player having grown up in Avoca and later managed teams there. I know he loved baseball because he had a game on the TV (The Haddocks had the first color TV on the block) all the time. I saw him in work clothes most of the time but when he went to family and church events he wore a suit. His wife Kate (still alive and on Dewitt) son Mike and daughter Marge enjoyed trips to Florida and other parts of the country. Mike went into the Construction business and Marge was a nurse in in the Harrisburg area. I learned two things from Ted Haddock, if you need a suit, buy a blue one and make sure the white shirt is spotless. I learned that by example watching him at Yonki family gatherings at 83 Cliff. The other was if you had to buy a car, pay for it and drive it, make it a convertible. I did! If there is a heaven and Ted and I are there together, I'm going to turn my convertible around in his driveway! 


What I remember most about Mr. Harmanos is the pipe he smoked as well as the mustache he sported. He never said much but always had a look of bemusement on his face. As a child to me he seemed as if he belonged on Dewitt Street his whole life. But did he have a back story!
He came to America from the Czechoslovakia Military in the early 1900's. Getting passage on a ocean liner, he arrived in New York to join his brother Martin. He settled in Ashley and sent for his first wife to be. She died shortly after arriving from diabetes, He was going to give up his apartment when a friend told him to go to New York and look for a lady that lived in the same town he did in Czechoslovakia. So he went and knocked on the door of her employer where she was a maid. Almost immediately he asked her to marry him. Then and there she packed her bags and went home with him. Just like that. She was the mother of all the kids that grew up on Cliff. 7 all told until she died at childbirth with offspring number eight. Her name was Catherine Merga and he watched her die in the hospital. I was told that my grandmother (on the Yonki side) Mary helped with the younger children left behind. He stayed single until all the kids were in their 20's and then married a lady that we all knew as bobba. When she died, Mr. Harmanos lived with Kate Haddock. Mr. Harmanos survived his son in law Ted. I never knew much about Mr. Harmanos until just now. But what I learned from him and his journey is this, everyone has a story. My thanks to his grand daughter Marge Haddock Michalski for helping me fill in the blanks.


Glen Holschuh and his wife Romaine lived next door to us on the second floor of a big old green house. They had two children, Glen and Donna. Glen worked at a newspaper during the night. He slept during the day. He was a very nice man who drove a two toned black and white two door sedan with fins. What I learned from Glen Holschuh was that there were all kind of jobs. Ones that required the delivery of our newspaper. I used to play with Glen Junior and when his dad was sleeping we were told not to be loud. We learned self control and respect for others. When I did overnights at WVIA FM and was going to college, I too slept in the day. Karma was good to me because the children of a new generation were pretty tame. So being good paid off in that respect. What I remembered about Glen Holschuh was that in order to do a good night’s work, you needed a good day’s sleep.


My first memory of Al Kridlo was as the driver of the Kaier’s Beer truck. In those days you’d have beer delivered to your house. The Kridlo’s lived directly across from my grandfather’s home at 83 Cliff. I went to school with his son Al, and daughters Debbie, Rene and Lynn. What really piqued my interest about Mr. Kridlo was when he was running for Pittston City Council. Having been a political nerd since I saw JFK on North Main in 1960 (my sister missed it because she was baby sitting for the aforementioned Glen Holschuh and his wife) it was just fascinating to have a guy down the street in government. His posters were red, white and blue.
At my graduation party we got into a discussion about campaigns. We actually dissected three Presidential elections and both of us concluded we were smarter than the campaign managers who ran Bill Scranton, Barry Goldwater and Hubert Humphrey’s campaigns into the ground. What I learned from Al Kridlo that day was that politics was not only a game of issues but strategies and moves. I also learned that we should have started a consulting firm.


My first memory of Roy Knowles was the sound of his guitar. He had a band or little combo and they’d practice in the backyard. Many a night as I sat in bed I'd hear the strains of "Sleepwalk" coming from Roy's group. Roy was a tall friendly man who always had a quick smile and hello for everybody. On the day he got married he strode up the street in a tux. I think he might have been going to Arthur Prandy’s house. Through the year’s we’d see each other occasionally and speak about old memories of the Junction. Toward the end of his life Roy built a house directly across from where he grew up. It was on Dewitt. His sons took up music too. One day around 2005 I was visiting my mother. As I was leaving her house I heard the strings of a guitar. It was playing “Sleepwalk”. This time Roy’s son was playing it. What I learned from Roy was that if the song was good and you played it the right way, another generation would latch right on to it.


Bill McCawley lived in a double block on the left side next door to us. His wife Stella and my mom were friends. Stella and the Muroski sisters Bertha and Marie were constants at my house. It would not be uncommon for those four to be doing some kind of canning and cooking project in our kitchen at all hours of the night. Bill moved his family to Lake Carey around 1961. We’d visit and Bill would attempt to teach me how to fish. To this day I don’t see the point of fishing but I think I can bait a hook if I had a gun to my head. Bill’s idea of a snack was a vine ripened fresh tomato from his garden. On Dewitt and at the Lake in August he’d savor it like it was caviar. It wasn’t until later on in life that I grew to acquire that same taste for an August tomato. But what I learned from Bill McCawley was how gracious and welcoming he was to his friends from the old neighborhood. Whether it was a boat ride on the lake, a cold drink on the dock or time to talk to what had to be an annoying 7 year old, Bill always made me feel welcome. You learn volumes from that.


In the neighborhood he was known as “Big Mike”. Some people called him Mike Milko. He first had a house on the corner of Union and Cliff but then he and his wife moved in with his mother who was up in age in a house on Cliff Street. As a matter of fact, it was fifty years ago last month that his mother died. Mike and Bertha’s backyard faced Dewitt Street. Like many in the neighborhood he grew a glorious garden. I was very careful to make certain that my baseballs stayed on the street and not in his garden. I remember Mike telling my father that one thing he’d never do was fly on a plane. Well he did. Many times. Mike and Bertha had two sons, Mike Junior became a prominent bail bondsman in Luzerne County and Jackie wound up working for McDonnel Douglas in Missouri. Mike got on a plane to visit his son for every important family occasion out there. What I learned from Mike was that nothing was ever written in stone, especially when it came to family.


In the 60s people still called him by his childhood nickname “Chubby”. His wife was Dinah and she doted over me. Actually she almost spoiled me. But Chubby was the guy who would talk to me about his beloved Pittsburgh Pirates. He was at the 1960 World Series and brought me back a pin. On hot summer nights in his backyard after watering the lawn, my dad and Chubby would school me on baseball. They were fans and pooh poohed my favorite players. (I’m doing the same thing with some of my younger co workers today!) Chubby loved a good cigar and a pipe. He said both kept the bugs away. After his son relocated to Minnesota with his family, like his brother Mike he made the trip for visits to Sonny (Joe Junior), Joesph III, Mark and Betty his daughter in law. He also was my Confirmation sponsor in 1964. In addition to baseball Chubby and I also had another thing in common. His first grade nun at St. John the Baptist when he was a first grader was my first grade nun in 1960-61. I learned a lot from him but the most interesting was the fact that those nuns at St. John the Baptist were pretty damn durable.


The very first memory I have of Arthur Prandy was when I was a very small child. It was the Fourth of July and Arthur was in the street with his son Barry preparing to light a small fire cracker. It was a pittance compared to the arsenals some people have in their yards these days. Arthur instructed his son on how to place it, light it and then move away. This was very important to kids from the Junction because many parents instilled in many of us the legend of little Tommy (if you were Irish the surname was Flannagan, if you were of European descent it was Badinsky) who put a fire cracker in his brother’s back pocket and blew his ass off. That’s now called an urban legend but in the Junction at least for me it was real.
Arthur was the type of guy who was always teaching, always instructing. A Veteran of World War II he met his wife Joyce shortly after he began his service during the war. Bringing her to Dewitt Street, he worked in the Pittston Post Office and became its Postmaster. He was well regarded and after retirement embarked on a series of projects. Arthur was always doing something. Plus with him, there was always a use for something that had to be the hallmark of all those Depression era children.
The very first Diet Soda was Tab and in order to appeal to the female market Tab was put in a bottle that was shaped like a vase. Where the logo was you saw beveled glass that was rough. Off came the Tab imprint and on came the paint. Arthur made vases out of those bottles.
We always looked forward to the return visits from the Prandy family from England. It was a different perspective for all of us. Then there was the visits from Joyce’s family which were pretty good too. Art’s children Barry and Joyce Ann had a cousin Stephanie who visited. All I remember was her accent, her red hair and my father having to come and drag me away from the Prandy’s when she visited. Like many of the men on Dewitt Street Arthur was a great neighbor. I never realized what an emotional investment he had in his neighbors until the day he sat in our kitchen weeping after my father died. I learned a few things from Arthur Prandy. There is always a use for something others will toss away, never be afraid to show your emotions and always keep moving. I’m happy to report that as of today he still is in transit on Dewitt Street.


John Prandy was Arthur’s brother. He was the father of my kindergarten classmate Bruce Prandy. John was a welder at the tank plant in Berwick when the war broke out. He was exempt from service because of where he was working at that time. Later, he retired from Trane Corporation where he worked as millwright. In that position there were various times he’d work the night shifts. But I’m not sure I ever saw him sleep. This guy was always doing something like lending his talented skills as a carpenter to any task. My father always had a task in mind for John.
Had my father grown up in another era and with more education I’m sure he could have been a Project Manager somewhere. The drill was that Jake would outline what he wanted and John would build it along with the help of my uncle Andy Dziak. John had a hand in the downstairs bathroom remodeling, a revamped basement, plans for a garage, as well as carpeting. If 37 Dewitt was the house that Steve expanded, John Prandy had a huge hand in the execution of those plans.
On another note John Prandy was a very different father than many of us were used to. If you were crossing a line, he’d quietly explain why you were wrong. If you didn’t get it… were not yelled at or chased. Nope. You got the look. It was a combination of “Don’t ever”, and “I’m so strong I can squash you like a bug!”. It always worked.
John and his wife Thelma lost their son Jackie to cancer. Jackie was an undercover agent for the Pa. State Police on the drug task force in Western Pa. Jack died on in November of 1988 of asbestos which he was exposed to when he was a Seabee in the Navy back in the 60s. John's middle son Bob is in Maryland and Bruce checks in on his mother on Cliff Street every day. John died in 2003. When Bruce and I get together we marvel at how the hell our fathers did so much. When the family who bought my childhood home decide to add their own touches to their dwelling, they’ll retrace the hammer, nails, craftsmanship and sweat of John Prandy. What John Prandy primarily taught me though was sometimes you get more mileage out of a confrontational situation by not saying anything. Proving the point that less can be more.


During the early 60s hands down the most popular guy in the neighborhood was Charlie Simalchik. The reason was because Charlie drove this red and white Ice Cram truck bearing the name Charlie. Everyone incorrectly assumed it was his ice cream we were eating but in fact it was his brother Al’s concern. You can have your Ben and Jerry, Good Humor and Hagendaz, for many Junction kids to this day the best Ice Cream came from that truck. There were incredible red creamsicles. Then there were the twin ice pops that were bursting with flavors like Grape, Root Beer, Lime, and Blue Raspberry. When Charlie stopped driving that truck you’d swear there was a week of mourning on Dewitt Street. Charlie moved on to work in the flooring industry in Plains and when I was in High School he’d give me a ride to school at St. John the Evangelist. On those rides we would talk about many subject but the ones I remember were about death. When Adam Buranich died, Charlie expounded on the man’s life and how tough it was on the survivors. Just two years earlier in 1967 Charles not only lost his father but his mother within a span of 36 hours. I remember that wake as being surreal for me. When Charlie started his own business on Main Street in the Junction my ride ended but not our chats. Charlie was the Owner/Operator of Towne Craft Upholstery until he retired in 1990. His home was on Cliff Street but like many of those houses, the backyards bled onto Dewitt. He’d drive his car, park it and engage anyone on our front porch in conversation. Charlie married in 1975 and he and Rita had a son named Chuck. Chuck was involved in Republican politics in the city of Pittston when he was younger along with Art Boubouinne. They ran for office a few times sharing their beliefs. I know Charlie was proud because he told my mother that it was a gutsy thing for the young duo to undertake in a Democratic stronghold like Pittston.
Like any Dewitt dad Charlie was always on the lookout for an errant baseball or aberrant behavior. Even though the days of the spry Ice Cream man are long gone, like his neighbor Art Prandy, Charlie is still on the move. Slowed a bit Charlie attends event involving his old neighbors. Unfortunately most of those have been wakes. What I learned from Charlie Simalchik though was the art of conversation. When I hopped in that truck I never knew what subject we’d land on for that 8 minute ride to Kennedy Blvd. Charlie proved that anyone could talk but a select few could only converse.


George Winslow died in 1967. He was the first of the Dewitt Street dads I had interactions with to pass on. He had a beautiful garden which sometimes had its issues from me next door as my baseballs sailed over the fence and in between his plants. Fearing destruction (Mr. Winslow had heard the words to me from my father concerning all things breakable, “Don’t touch that!!”) he showed me where to walk when the ball landed in his plants.
Mr. Winslow had a Kelly green sloped back Chevrolet and then upgraded to a ’58 Belair. I tell you about George’s cars because whenever it rained, morning, noon, night, overnight, he’d leave his house and drive somewhere. Again this is Junction legend but the reason why he did is because at some point a thunderbolt went through the living room of his house. This was way before my time and no one could ever confirm it. But he was a kindly old widower who waited eagerly for the afternoon paper and read it through and through on his front porch. Even at a young age my memories of George are clear. George Winslow taught me how to respect everyone's property and the quirks in others we will encounter in life.


John Yonki was my grandfather and lived at 83 Cliff. In retirement he’d stroll up every day to our house and visit. In the great kitchen remodeling of the fall of 1962 smack dab in the middle of the World Series (I always wondered why the women in my family always did big projects around the World Series) we had a breakfast bar installed along with bistro stools. He’d sit back and talk Slovak to my parents on that stool as if he was having a beer at Nick’s or Dructor’s on Main Street.
The nuns at SJB gave us lessons in the Slovak language and with what they taught me and what I picked up, I could actually have a conversation with him in his native tongue. I used just 9 words but he was thrilled. Pevo was “beer”, “Church”was kostel ,  “money”, peniaze, "hat“ klobúk, "school“ was, Školský, "priest“ was knaz, "lady“ was dama, "sister“ was sestra and “non sense“ was nezmysel. He also had a variation on the last one called "shy kee biki“. No idea what it meant but it was sure fun to hear.
He never called me by my real name, always called me "Joey" because he lost his first son in 1952 whose name was Joseph but nicknamed Zeke. His wife Mary died at the age of 51 and he never remarried. He always centered on his family and Lord knows in his aging they all centered on him. Like many elders at that time in that neighborhood his family made the trip to his house for the holidays. Another son John died in 1976. He survived my father by 6 weeks. I watched him stand at the open coffins of two of his three sons and that taught me that a parent surviving their children is one of the most unfair things any human can go through. There are never enough words, English or Slovak, nine or ninety, to ever explain that.


Our mailman lived on our street. Georgie Zapko would happily walk the streets of the Junction with a quip or a joke. In the summer he was a picture in a U.S. Post Office pith helmet. He’d delighted the kids in the neighborhood with his imitations of Yogi Bear. He had a son Ronnie who was deaf and was an attendee of the Scranton School for the Deaf. Ron did everything other kids did, serving as an altar boy at St. Michael’s Greek Catholic Church as well as working with me at Detato’s Supermarket in Pittston. I also grew with Donna, Denise and Richie Zapko. Later, George moved to another part of the Junction but you’d see his name in the papers for the immense amount of blood that he donated to the American Red Cross. I’m not sure I would ever be happy lugging a sack of mail around in the summertime and I’m sure there were days when Georgie wasn’t too thrilled either. But George Zapko taught me that it is more productive to be happy at your work. It makes you grateful for the job and makes the day go faster.
To the dads of Dewitt Street……………Thank you for everything you taught me. The lessons I learned from all of you........I still carry with me to this very day.


At 6:50 AM, Anonymous Junction said...

Kudos Dave to the fine excerpts of all the great men from years gone by of our great neighborhood. Thanks for the ride down memory lane, Especially being that it is Fathers Day. To all our dads who have died I thank them all for being the great men that shaped us into what we are today.
Also to the present dads around us. May they follow in theses great men's footsteps. That they may continue on in the same manner as these fine men of the Junction. I just know that they are all looking down on us and patty each other on the backs and saying what a fine job they did at what they all had in common."Being a great father to us all.
Thanks Dad. Love n miss you.

At 5:43 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

As always great writing. This is where your blog outshines others, past, present and future.

And now we know where the pursuit of redheads began. Had Art Prandy been stationed in Japan instead of England...ah the possibilities!

At 5:56 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Junction well said. The most telling piece in this entire article is the 20% of kids in the United States have two parents.

At 9:42 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I grew up in Jersey City. The kid who got his ass blown off by a firecracker in the back pocket was Steinberg.
When we moved to the Heights in the mid 60s the kid's name was Walski.
I think that was a national urban legend!
As always Dave, right on target with the day and the sentiments.

At 10:07 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Love this blog site and the way you bring people I don't even know to life. Brilliant.

At 10:17 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Al Kridlo was a great guy. I also loved his brother Billy. Tricky was the nickname I believe. Nice guys, good family.

At 6:15 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Having grown up in NEPA in the mid 50's, late 60's, the genuine, sincere and down-to-earth folks you so aptly describe could of course be said of most "main street" folks in NEPA, as well as America during that time period.

We were blessed to have had the experience!

I also agree with the writer above, whereas your well written, slice-of-life narratives separate your blog from the rest in a very meaningful and welcomed fashion!

Keep up the good work!

At 8:36 AM, Anonymous Chuck Simalchik said...

Great work and great memories Dave. Such a nice tribute to a lot of good men. I remember many of them personally, and certainly all of them through stories as I grew up. So nice to read about all of them. As we all know, whether you still live there or have moved away, we will always be one big, happy family up on the hill!!!

Chuck Simalchik


Post a Comment

<< Home