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Remember When

  • Chicken gravy works wonders

  • Sometimes, a bicycle will whizzer right on by

    One hot summer afternoon, our mailman showed up on the porch with the Fall and Winter catalog from Sears, Roebuck and Co.The best part of its arrival was that the honor of tearing off the brown wrapping belonged to me.I ripped the covering off, opened it and held it close to my face to smell the pages that were crammed full of all kinds of good stuff.Then, a sign straight from heaven gates descended down to our kitchen table.Bless Pete, it was a bona fide miracle; the pages fell open to the bicycle section.There in color – wa

  • I need to find Mr. Parr

    The one thing about walking down Main Street is that you don’t have to stick to one sidewalk.Sure, there’s a courthouse (west) side, but there’s another side, too.

  • Fishing never the best part

    I recall reading somewhere that fishing is now a sport. That’s not necessarily the case.It can’t be very sporting for the fish unless he is as big as Jaws.As boys, we didn’t have to worry about size, too much and we sure didn’t have to worry about the limit. To me, this fishing was never the fun part. Getting ready to go, was.I didn’t have to worry about running down to the nearby bait shop, either.

  • Growing up sure is lots of fun

    Me and Billy Pipkins were lucky. We managed to make it back behind friendly lines unscathed after a fierce battle with a German infantry division encamped over in the Red Hills.When it comes to espionage, timing is everything.Speaking of timing, it was after five o’clock and we had to get home for supper.We marched passed Charlie Cook’s house and the Wilson Brothers Bus Lines garage in formation and made our way toward the railroad crossing on Market Street.Good thing I found these genuine U.S.

  • A friendly nod works wonders

    I recently read a newspaper article about this fella who sits on his front porch in all kinds of weather and just waves to motorists.I liked the story; it was a good, but it was a bit unusual these days and times.Why?Cause folks don’t normally speak to strangers.Sometimes, that doesn’t make much sense; they will remain strangers unless no one makes a casual effort to speak or at least nod their head in acknowledgment.You know, I’ve been told more than once told that I sorta go overboard on the “howdy”

  • I still can't remember her name

    Long before Goodwill Industries came along, Saturday mornings were famous for the unofficial rummage sale in downtown Lancaster.Things were considerably different in a lot of ways back then, but some things never change.Britches still get too tight on growing boys. I was reminded of that recently after donating some clothes to Goodwill.I just can’t figure it out. A lot of my pants seem to be shrinking since my retirement. Must be all that hot water we use.

  • I'm still partial to gorillas

    Try as I may, I just can’t put my fingers on King Solomon’s words in Proverbs that describe just how sweet it is to recover something that you lost.Seeing how I’ve never been at a loss of words, that notion isn’t going to leave me speechless.I’ll paraphrase it.“Oh, behold the joys of 9 to 5.”Most plowboys (and girls) my age worked 40 years or more before hanging up the old plowshare (or it was hung up for us).More than once during those 14,600 days at the grindstone, I dreamed of retiring t

  • Flaming Coffins avoided the mill

    About a month had passed since that 10-pound bomb came crashing down on Mr. Ben’s front steps.You may recall, it was only pretend – a sack flour to signify that Mr. Ben was burning his lights during a blackout drill. Hey, the prospect of a Luftwaffe Heinkel “Flaming Coffin” dropping its bomb payload over Chesterfield Avenue didn’t set well with anybody in the neighborhood and Mr Ben wasn’t helping our chances.But Mr. Ben didn’t much cotton very much to all of these wartime rules and regulations.

  • Miss McCarty stole my heart

    Gosh, I knew going from Chesterfield Avenue Grammar School across town to Lancaster High School would be a great adventure, but I didn’t know it would be so intimidating.We eighth grade boys were “required” (by tradition) to “run the belt line.”First, we were afforded a couple of days of acclimation to learn our way around the campus to find our homerooms.Those two days were filled with all sorts of scary threats coming from male upper classmen, like “Boy, you’ll be able to tell where I hit you” and &ldquo