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I'll say this about pandemics. They give you lots of times to think.
We're kind of forcing things now. We're out and about when we need to be, but most nights when that garage door closes behind us, the car stays put. Post-work wardrobes are sweat pants and hoodies. For those of us lucky enough to work from home, that's our office attire as well. Evenings are for sitting and worrying and Netflix binges and scrolling through smartphones and pretending that everything is OK even though the world is on fire. Out of self-preservation we dive back into the past, when things were simpler, and the rough edges had all been sanded down.
For me, that means going back to Dunmore.
I moved all the way to Archbald......which for a Dunmore kid might as well be the dark side of the moon. I have a wonderful wife and 2 great kids and we have a nice home in a nice neighborhood. I've been out of Dunmore almost as long as I was in it, but even now when somebody asks "where are you from?"...as an Irish-Catholic loaded up with guilt, I never want to offend either locale so I panic and say "Scranton".
But deep down, Dunmore knows. It's always been her.
The only thing that gets a Dunmore boy out of the borough is falling in love with somebody who doesn't live there. But my parents were still alive, and just about every Saturday we'd be back visiting with the kids. I still felt connected. Webster Avenue was like stepping back in time. Everybody knew everybody. Neighbors were truly neighbors. People still sat on their front porches. They knew when you were sick and they cared when you died.
There's something about feeling tethered to the place you were born. It becomes the only place where you don't feel like an outsider. The only place where when you let go, you know you won't drown. I knew every crack in every sidewalk. I knew what was around the corner before I got there. Home to my schools and my church and my bar and Schautz field, the greatest place to watch a baseball game in the history of baseball games. Home to Migsy burgers and Monroe park, where I first learned the trick to drinking beer in sub-zero temperatures (always wear a glove on your drinking hand, and clear out a spot in the snow where you are standing). Home to Cal-Ideas and the Candy Kitchen and King Joe's and Frank's and Pagnotti's drug store, where Mrs. P always made you say please before she'd do your bidding. Sneaking into Dunmore football games through the cemetery fence that for all I know is still busted, and then descending on Burger King to see and be seen. Bonfires and tapped kegs at "the crick". Falling in and out of love so fast you needed a scorecard. Dunmore was my world. My friends at school who didn't live in Dunmore always came to us. We never went to them. The place had a glow about it, even if you didn't live there.
And when I lost my Dad, and then my Mom a few years later...things didn't feel quite the same anymore. We had to sell the house. Strangers live there now. If I need to be in Dunmore for any reason, I intentionally boycott the 1500 block of Webster Avenue. Driving past our house now makes me feel like an online troll.
I feel disassociated. Which I guess brings us back to Covid, because that makes us feel the same way. That human touch is what kept us from being swept away, and it hasn't been there lately. We're all flailing. We all need a hand to hold onto. And it hasn't been there. The memories of it ain't enough.
But I still miss her. I miss the friends I had and the times we shared and the dreams that we had to be drunk in order to share with each other, but that's just a guy thing. I miss playing wiffle ball on the road and running over to the outdoor courts at Dunmore High School to play hoops after school and skipping down the S-turn with my girl and a boom box, dancing to John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band's "Tough All Over", topped off by flat bellies filled with beer and the gift of not being burdened with being a grown-up.
I miss my Mom and my Dad and the house on Webster Ave.
I miss that we’re not as nice to each other as we used to be.
In a bit..
—tf
Dunmore
So true. My dad lived at 746 N Webster but told everyone he was from Hyde Park cause the welsh in him didn't like the fancy. My wife's family was from 1507 madison dunmore but never forgot they were born in North Scranton and lived over the old flower shop in hard times. I lived in Clark's summit but wanted people to know I was from Lake winola. So I married that Dunmore Remick girl and live at lake winola full time. NEPA.
I was just recently going through some old boxes and found a Buddy Clarks shirt I bought in the 90's while visiting an old Navy buddy that lived in Dunmore. That has led me to trying to reconnect with my old friend. I haven't had any luck with the exception of this article. From what you wrote it seems like yall are the same age. If you know a Tom Kreis (he and his whole family hung out at BC's) could you pleae have him reach out to me. ppotts15@gmail.com
PS: Your article was spot on from what I remember.