It was the summer of 1970. I was just shy of 17. Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” was blasting from transistor radios all around the Bungalow pool. Everything was new and possible. Sometimes it seems like a dream from a different lifetime. Yet, I remember the first time I saw him like it was yesterday. He stood there proudly with that compact, muscular build and that smooth, tawny skin. He was totally popular with all the other girls and even many of the guys*. Okay, I must admit he was a little on the simple side, but you can’t have everything and I was in love for the first time. The only problem was he belonged to another. And “that” woman was my mother. Before, this gets too “Maury Povich “, let me start again. Continue reading
I grew up in a small coal-mining town in Northeastern Pennsylvania during the 1950s and 60s. As the daughter of the High School football coach, I learned quickly that if anthracite coal was king, football was indeed his most revered son.
The town of Tamaqua lies sheltered in Continue reading
My husband rarely remembers his dreams. This morning was the exception. The dream went something along these lines. He was returning to his office when he suddenly looked down and realized he wasn’t wearing any pants. Panicked, he couldn’t fathom where they were, how he had lost them, or what he was going to do next. You get the drift. A classic anxiety dream most likely brought about by the existence of some pressing concern at work. Continue reading