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
I am wordy when I write. I will try to make this post honest and to the point, just like the men it’s meant to honor.
This past Monday, I attended a viewing for Mr. Harry Fetterman in Tamaqua, the small town in the anthracite coal region of Northeastern PA where I grew up. Harry was a beloved teacher and football coach. He was my dad’s oldest and dearest friend. Harry and my dad, Dick Jones, knew each other as boys; they both enlisted in the Navy right after high school during World War II (Harry actually left Tamaqua High a semester early in 1943*). Continue reading