Old Stomping Grounds

     I just ran across a picture of main street, Honesdale, Pa circa 1965.  It was obviously around Christmastime.  The tipoff was the plastic Christmas trees hanging from the lamp posts.  Also the fact that the streets were snow covered, something that hasn't been seen much this year.  Winters used to be cold with many days zero or below and snowfall averaging around 45 inches a year.  That is something I don't miss.  The south goes into a panic whenever we have 4 inches every couple of years.  

     One thing that stood out was what wasn't there anymore.  So many of the businesses that had been around for decades are no longer there.  Katz's was the Macy's of Honesdale, the big department store.  I still remember when they had a conveyor system to transport cash to some office hidden from view.  The store smelled stale and musty but that was the place to go to buy clothing that wasn't in style and transactions handled by little old blue haired ladies.  They also had a successful factory making underwear but as imports rose from the Far East, domestic manufacturing of textiles fell until the manufacturing sector throughout all of Northeast Pennsylvania was no more.

     I worked one summer before entering my senior year in high school at Murray and Company.  It was the place you would buy everything from appliances to farm equipment.  It had been successful since I can remember, until it too fell victim of it's own success and residents realized they could venture a few miles out of town and find the same items cheaper.  The building still has, to the best of my knowledge, painted lettering on the rear as was done on most large brick buildings of the day.

     Others are gone as far as I knew.  Sullum's Clothing Store was the place to go for work clothes.  They expanded to include some "contemporary" fashion..Their merchandising left much to be desired as clothing was hung where ever it would fit.  I bought a couple of leisure suits there just before I moved to Europe and also ran into the sister of an old girlfriend who was working there before heading to Penn State.  She had been like a sister to me, and it was very hard to turn and walk away.  So many unasked questions.

     Missing from the picture were other landmarks:  Newberry's, W. T. Grant, and down the road apiece, the old Chroma Tube plant where I also worked for awhile. It was one of only two decent paying manufacturing employers.  I was making $1.90 an hour, a grand paycheck for the area in 1968.  Thankfully I got appendicitis which made me change career fields..Couldn't lift picture tubes with a gash in your side, no matter how good a job they did of stitching me up.

     Also missing were the Chevy and Chrysler dealerships, both falling victim of poor auto sales.  Owl Chrysler Plymouth dated back to when cars were called horseless carriages.  The showroom was barely big enough for one car, the rest were stored upstairs and brought down by elevator.  The used car portion was maybe 5 cars wide and 6 deep.  The Chevy dealership had also been there forever and it wasn't exactly the best place to showcase the new Impala.  Owl moved to the outskirts of town and built a great new facility only to fold.

     Missing too were the two drive-ins.  We'd take our best girl to either the Maple or the other one who's name escapes me.  The Maple was the best and was usually packed on a Saturday night.  On July 4th and Labor day, they would have an all nighter.  The other was a buck a car load and you'd be amazed how many kids you could fit in the trunk.  It was situated in a field, and after it closed, mother nature reclaimed the land. I don't remember ever watching a movie from beginning to end.

     It's very sad to see the little things I held on to as a youth gone forever.  Not that I want to buy musty Katz underwear or another leisure suit.  It's just that those businesses were symbols of a time when life was simple. We did have our war, a horrific one called Viet-Nam.  But until dozens from the area, myself included, raised their hand, promising to protect and defend the Constitution, we brought it a little closer to home and made it more relevant.  We were swearing to protect and defend our own little corner of the world, in our case, Main Street, Honesdale, Pa.  

     

   

Saturday, February 18, 1967..The Day Life Changed

     We all have that moment in time when life as we knew it changes.  Mine was a Saturday night dance at Waymart High School that I learned about from a two line ad in the Wayne Independent classifieds.  I believe it was a Valentines Dance that was rescheduled due to a snowstorm the week before.  I hadn't really planned to go, I just thought it was interesting as my high school never had dances due to something that happened before my time.
    I had planned to spend that night as I did most Saturday nights, go to Tony's, the local teen hangout and check out the action, maybe take in a movie, then get home before my drivers license turned into a pumpkin at midnight.  As I was heading into town, I saw an old friend I hadn't seen in a year driving toward me, so we both pulled into the bowling alley parking lot and we decided to do something together.  I mentioned that I had seen an ad about the dance at Waymart and we decided that was something to do.  I left my car there as he had a beautiful '63 Thunderbird Convertible and was more fun to ride in than my '61 Plymouth 4 door sedan.
     While I was hanging up my coat, my eyes locked onto the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.  Her eyes pierced the very soul, her smile could melt the polar icecaps, and I knew then and there that there was such a thing as love at first sight.  It was one of those rare feelings that even after a few minutes, I felt I had known her all my life.
     I remember that the snow had brought the typical February deep freeze and the temperatures were close to zero, but even in just my shirt sleeves, I didn't feel the cold as we went outside so I could have a cigarette and talk without the sound of a bass drum pounding through the small auditorium.  We made plans to go out the following Saturday, and said goodnight.
     I had met up with another friend at the dance, and that turned out to be the day his life changed, although it took a bit longer.
     The next two and a half years we were inseparable but as often happens, we drifted apart and one day we had the last goodbye.  I walked away quietly, maybe too quietly.  I never took goodbyes well and still don't.
It was the hardest thing I had ever done, but I knew it was best for her.  That began a sharp turn on the road of life that took me places I never thought I would go, to accomplish things that I never knew I was capable of.  I got to see some of the most beautiful places that God created.  The cathedrals that man created for God.  I got to walk the same streets walked by Shakespeare, Goethe, and Michaelangelo.  Even had the thrill of sitting in a Tokyo nightclub listining to a Japanese band butcher "The Gleen, Gleen Glass of Home"
     All that because of a dance I didn't plan to go to, a girl I doubt I would ever meet, and the need to run from ghosts that haunted every street we used to travel, the places we'd go, the things we'd planned. The white picket fence, the 2.5 kids, working the same uninspiring job until I retired.  The lyrics "Big Dreams In A Small Town" pretty much fits the dilemma.
     Memories are like old toys stored in the attic.  You take them out and play with them for awhile and then put them away for another time.  I have so many wonderful memories of that time, maybe more so than any other period of my life, possibly because, as we all know, life happens and we don't have as much time to savor the great moments.  You check off your hopes and dreams as the years go by until you reach the point where the only hope you have is being able to remember your own name, or which of the 20 pills you need to take to survive.  Thankfully I'm a long way from there, but dreams do run dry.
     I don't know how many times February 18th fell on a Saturday in the past 45 years.  I can say not very many, probably as few as 3.  But it is a bitter sweet anniversary where what is and what could have been, clash head on and either outcome would have been OK.  I've seen all I wanted to see, but there were many times as I stood on the banks of the Thames and looked at the Houses of Parliament, or gazed in wonder at the beauty and majesty of the Alps, or stood in St. Marks square in Venice, or climbed to the top of the spire of the cathedral in Strasbourg, that she could have shared it too.  It was an amazing time in my life and also sometimes very empty.  And a time of great conflict with myself.
     So, when Saturday, February 18 passes, I'll once again put my toys back in the attic, maybe forever as this will be the last time, in my lifetime, that the 18th falls on a Saturday.
   

Remembering Mike Syrylo

He can turn the tide

And calm the angry sea

He alone decides

who writes a symphony

He lights every star

That makes the darkness bright

He keeps watch all through

Each long and lonely night

     It’s been 5 years since Mike Syrylo Passed away. He was very religious man who was strong in his faith and convictions. He was part of my fondest memories for so long that I couldn’t foresee a day when he wasn’t of this earth. Immortality isn’t living forever..its staying in your memory until the last grain of sand in the hourglass of life falls, and you join them in the afterlife. Mike was one of those people. He was one of those people who have made a powerful impact on your life without even knowing it.

     Over the years I have known thousands of people, great and small, rich and poor. To most people, Mike Syrylo probably fell somewhere in the middle on both counts. I don’t know why, exactly, he was that important. It is probably as simple as him being the one constant in an ever changing world, or at least the piece of real estate that I called "my youth". Small town America used to be a place to enjoy peace and serenity, a place where, for better or worse, everybody knew everybody and would look out for each other. That’s the place I come from, and while I lived there, I didn’t notice the erosion of that idealic Norman Rockwell America, as more "city folk" were moving in and slowly changing that quiet and serene little town with a bunch of relatively well behaved teenagers cruising up and down main street, trying to catch the girl, and if you caught her, not knowing what to do with her. That was where I came from, and that’s where Mike lived all his life. He was the epitome of what was good with those times. When I left, it was to find fame and fortune. No regrets, never look back, turn my collar to the wind, and search for my own identity, my own destiny, because there was no destiny to be found in that place I called home. It took over a quarter of a million air-miles and 13 years to come back to where the journey began. And in those few times that I would find myself back home for a few days, the changes in my "Small Town" became more and more apparent, there was always Mike. He never changed. And he always welcomed me like the prodigal son. And many times he helped me overcome challenges I was having trouble facing alone. And he never even knew the impact, and I never got the chance to thank him.

     I always made it a point to stop by whenever I was between countries, because, although I loved facing the challenges that lay before me, the uncertainty of the changes was very real and very intimidating, to put it mildly. Unless you have picked up all your belongings and moved thousands of miles from home, to a new culture, a new world with exciting possibilities, it’s hard to explain. I had probably the best job Uncle Sam had to offer, but I had to work hard to prove I was worthy of one of those 3 airshifts everybody coveted, and I had about two weeks to do it. So I knew where I wanted to be. The trick was how to get there quickly. I always succeeded beyond my wildest expectations but the downtime at home was difficult at best. The worst was in the fall of 1974. I had taken a month to come home, meet old friends and get prepared for the next chapter in my life. Except old friends were gone, and the town no longer had teenagers cruising up and down mainstreet. The feeling of belonging I had had just 5 years before was gone. I even went to "The Nutshell", a dive of a dance hall where I used to go when I was young. I knew I no longer belonged when the bouncer and the owner came up to me while I was minding my own business and asked me if I was an undercover narc.

     But there was Mike. I made a pest out of myself, sad to say, because there was nobody left I could talk to. And that includes my own parents. My mother was usually in the hospital or drug rehab whenever I came home, and my father would toss me his car keys and I wouldn’t see him until the wee small hours, if I saw him at all. He was fighting his own demons. I wasn’t thrilled at driving around in his ‘72 Dodge Monaco, but my car was on the ocean somewhere. Not exactly a chickmobile, but then again, I wasn’t in a chick mood.

     I saw Mike rarely. Most of the time I was out of the country for 3 years or more at a time, and I would stop in to say hello while passing through. I tried not to overstay my welcome. And I always wondered why I was treated so well, as I had forfeited the right to drop in unannounced years earlier. Mike would always run to the refrigerator to get a beer even before I had a chance to sit down, we’d talk and I’d go, and when my wanderlust brought me back home, whether it be 3 years or 5 years, in my eyes he never got older, and there was always that cold beer.

     My biggest regret was not inviting Mike to come to Europe on vacation. I lived there a total of 6 years and the first of many cathedrals I visited was Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Strasbourg, one of the most magnificent structures in all of Europe, even eclipsing Notre Dame in Paris. The first thing I thought when I saw it was “I wish Mike and Helen could see this.”. There were others I would have loved to show them: Hohe Domkirche St. Peter und Maria, translated the High Cathedral of St. Peter and Mary in Cologne, which was hit by 70 allied bombs in World War Two but was rebuilt using the same stones. Or Der Hohe Dom zu Mainz, the 1000 year old Cathedral of Mainz, also heavily damaged during the war. It was only 30 minutes from my home. Mike was one of the 15 million men who made great sacrifice liberating Europe, and it would have been nice to show him that from the horror of war came a beautiful and peaceful nation. But that didn’t happen as I wasn’t sure if my offer would be accepted, and I didn’t want to put them in an awkward situation. In retrospect, I should have made the offer and sent the plane tickets.

     When I finally realized I had done enough traveling and wanted to stay in one place for awhile, I moved back to the very area I had tried so hard to escape. The changes by that time were profound. Wherever I was on the air in Europe, I would often speak with pride of Scranton, a city with many good memories, and a city I believed in. When I returned for good, it was a depressed city that was on the verge of dying. It was in the middle of Jimmy Carter’s economic mess that Ronald Reagan was trying to clean up, and the resulting recession hit the area hard. The unemployment rate was staggering and people who had a house couldn’t afford to keep the taxes, and people who wanted a house couldn’t afford to buy them because of staggering interest rates.. And I came home to that? I had given up a career where I was on the fast track for THIS. My father said it was the dumbest thing I had ever done and for a time I thought he may be right. Again a visit with Mike helped me focus on what avenue to take. I was going for a job with PennDot in Harrisburg, I was not somebody who would be happy sitting behind a desk writing press releases. I quickly realized that definitely wasn’t me.

     When I moved back to the area, I was a total unknown. It took time but by the time all was said and done, I had one of the most recognizable voices in Northeast Pennsylvania radio, and that brought a lot of television freelance projects as well. And during those 20 years, I had many days where I just wasn’t in the groove, didn’t want to be there, felt like crap..the usual feelings you have with any job. The only problem was, tens of thousands of people would know you were having a crappy day. If you sat behind a desk and shuffle paper, nobody knows how you feel, much less care. But when the very survival of your employer depends on you being at your game at all times, that is a different story. Your "customers" have many choices, and my having a bad day could have serious consequences for me and my employer. But I found a simple phrase that would get me out of my funk.."Mike and Helen may be listening". I knew that probably wasn’t true as I wasn’t playing Polkas, but then again.. maybe…It worked wonders many, many times. And some of those times there was such a turnaround that I achieved something I had set as my goal, but seldom achieved..Perfection.

     When my daughter was born, I had to take her to meet him. I told him I wanted him to meet my new "girlfriend" and he had that "what did the cat drag home this time" look. I still remember he and Helen holding her and me hoping my rugrat wouldn’t dump a load in her Pampers. There were other times, equally memorable, where I was searching for direction at a crossroads where just sitting at the kitchen table made the decisons at hand more clear. As I said, I don’t know what it was, or how it came to be, but at times, Mike was my rudder in the storm, and for that I will be eternally grateful. My only hope is that my days on earth were good enough that I will find Mike, a kitchen table and a cold beer in the next life. To me, that would be the perfect definition of Heaven.

     I never told Mike on any of those occasions, why he had been such a strong influence in my life. And it was as simple as I just plain enjoyed his company. He was the father figure I didn’t have. When I was still living in the area, the weekend was a time for a loud, happy family get-togethers, as the memory of the work week fell by the wayside. Everybody converged on Mike’s house, and by the time Saturday or Sunday night rolled around, Mike and his brothers, though somewhat tipsy, (sometimes more than somewhat), would play some of the worst Polka music on the face of the planet. As a musician of sorts, I found Polkas broke every rule of writing and playing music. But they grew on you. I was invited to join in the "merry music making" for the lack of a better phrase, and early on I was given a stack of sheet music to learn. I took one look and took it to school for my music teacher to look at. If I could hear how it was supposed to sound, I could probably play it, although badly..He took one look and said "I’ll get back to you on that". He never did, the music was lost and a budding Polka musician’s career was over before it began.

     I hadn’t seen Mike or Helen for a number of years. Warmer climates called and I left without saying goodbye, as I knew it would be the last farewell. One day, an old friend I was corresponding with told me Mike wasn’t feeling well. Something I can’t explain made me call. His number was one that I remembered so well that I didn’t need to look it up. That is quite odd as I have to stop and think to dial my own number. Helen answered and said Mike was in the hospital but she said he was doing O.K. Two weeks later I learned that he had passed away and the sadness I felt was numbing. I was glad I lived 700 miles away because I would have faced a dilemna. Should I go to the viewing and funeral and see him as he was now, or not go, and remember how he was then. I was seriously thinking of flying in for the funeral, but common sense prevailed and I chose the latter, but a part of me wishes I could have paid my final respects.

     When it comes to my memories of Mike Syrylo, it is very difficult to express what is in my heart. Mike Syrylo was one of the millions who created an America I knew, loved, and helped, in my own small way, defend. His place on this earth was too small. His time here was a short 88 years. But he touched my soul and every time I returned, I wanted to be a better person than when I left. Everybody should have known him. If they had, their world, like mine, would be a much better place. RIP dear friend. You are still fondly remembered.