Throwing, we are.
Recognize that tiny building on the backside?
Wasn't that once a hotel or something?
With the Supremes sans Diana Ross shooting down modern-day eugenics, the lefties are foaming at the mouth all over again. I suppose the flash mob riots and looting are already being planned by the DNC myrmidons.
Wilkes-Barre is still renaming everything after the late Reverand Rabble Rouser. So, now it's racist to say I met my wife at Coal Street Park? Sure as hell is.
And since Wilkes-Barre is listed in the dictionary under perfection, the city held a rainbow rally on Public Square (soon to be named King Square) for lack of anything pressing to do.
Remember when city council was comprised of adults?
And who's jerkin' who with this saving the earth hoodwinking? You need a lithium battery-powered lawnmower and light-emitting diodes but drive a gargantuan pickup truck that passes as an Iowa class dreadnaught? Wake up, dummies. Check your displacement!
With Vlad the Destroyer blockading the ports of Ukraine, a worldwide shortage of sunflower seeds is sure to follow. No matter, we'll beat people at the supermarket if need be. If you need lessons on administering beatings, they give free lessons up at Sprawl-Mart when the trailer park escapees get their checks.
And when and where did this burn pit nonsense come from? Arse 1: What do you want to do tonight? Arse 2: Oh, burn wood in the back yard, of course. Why the silly question? Latino Arse: Burn household trash in the back yard.
Despite the local ordinances banning their use, keep on splashing the accelerants all around. Watching arses burn makes it somehow tolerable.
No sense calling 911. Wouldn't want to wake them.
Note the drainage pooled on the Plains side of the river opposite the Forty Fort cemetery.
Pay close attention at the four minute mark as we paddle through it.
So after being spirited away, after being returned to Wilkes-Barre, and after being whisked away to Bridgeport, Connecticut for my third birthday, there was still more geographical tumult to follow.
It didn't take too, too long to learn my stepdad yearned to return to his family farm in Maine. During the 1960s we had visited the rural homestead a few times whereby I was reminded that I might be remaining there in perpetuity if and when he found suitable employment. He never did find anything even close to his lucrative job back in CT. So here I sit in Culm County, PA.
When his father passed away in 1967, it seemed as if the big move was finally afoot. Or something. I dunno, I was a kid. I will confess to loving the setting. Never forgot it. The virgin forest, the unpaved roads, the WWI cemetery, the spring water, the hand pump in the kitchen sink, the outhouse and most especially the collapsed bridge.
Thing is, while I knew we were in Maine, I never actually knew where. And after my mom was gone, I would never know. Seemed like it. And that always gnawed at me...where did I almost grow up at?
When I snuck onto the internet in 1996, I figured I could go all Detective Google and find that bridge. How hard could it be to find a collapsed bridge in Maine anyway? Trust me, it was hard. Harder than I would have believed going in.
Still unpacking after the big move out of Wilkes-Barre, I came across a cardboard box filled with mostly ancient letters that my mom had saved. Lo and behold, there sat this letter from Readfield, Maine, from people who's names I did not recognize. Car 4! Detective Google! The cold case again!
After much Googling, I had a eureka moment. Finally! After all these years. Google maps provided me with this.
The old bridge is submerged. What we see is a newer expanse.
So I went and got me a phone number and spent an hour talking to the lady that bought that farmhouse and raised her kids there. We are now Facebook friends sharing photos and such. Spring Hill Road, Readfield, Maine. I did it. The cloak is no more.
Thanks again, Mom and Dad and Dad and Dad. Thanks for the oft-confusing journey.
One of my most enduring memories as a youth is wandering down to the bridge with a .22 long-rifle in hand. Oh, and the maple-flavored chewing gum.
Sorry about all of that.
The therapists at John Heinz were as incredibly talented as I am hammer-headed. With that said, a big comeback was my plan from the getgo. I said big, not quick. Here I am five years removed, and I just now feel like typing again. Bad news for the lot of you, but I see it as good.
As for lingering deficits, the muscle memory in my fret hand is all but gone. No more guitar torture. I'm ranging around just fine. The doctors would not allow me to return to my job. Too physical, say they. I have added an electric hub motor on the front tire of my beloved Hummer, so the bikeabouts will soon resume.
The unexpected health emergency put the brakes on my long-sought meeting with my father and that has pained me since I now know his exact whereabouts in Alsea, Oregon. Yeah, that's Oregon, as in 2900 miles away. I"m working on the logistics and the like for the trip. By the way, they like the pronunciation to amount to ore-gun not gone. Nobody's gone.
I now reside in Plains Township. No, we don't miss the drugs, the shootings and all of the other nasty forms of reverse-gentrification that diversity provides us. Quiet works. Yeah, white flight is a workable plan afterall. Hell, I don't even listen to the police scanner anymore.
I would have never believed the end of the world could be so completely entertaining. Save for Putin and Biden, you people are hilarious. Without Sue and Rush, WILK is over for me. Wilkes-Barre is also over, although, not only for me. Thanks to the aforementioned diversity, the cities are losing their tax bases. And when the money goes away, so go the cities.
The core group of five grandchildren have accepted two expansion franchises: Kroy (6) and Koury (3). Like that? Koury Cour? In the past year we've had two finish high school and another finish kindergarten. Gettin' crowded, but I love it. My only regret about having children is that I had too few.
On a brief aside, when I was being placed in the ambulance five years ago, the EMT asked "aren't you the guy with the blog?" Yup, i'm THAT effin' guy. Somehow, I didn't get the cyanide drip. Now I'm just another brain-damaged guy with a blog.
Trump in '24!