Everyone in the Wyoming Valley in northeastern Pennsylvania enjoys the levee. Herman and Muriel exercise there daily.
They ride their bicycles along the path, where distance is measured by the quarter mile.
“Isn’t that a perfect view of the Susquehanna?”, she asked.
Her husband nodded assent, busily taking pictures of the perfect landscape, with its rolling verdant hills.
“It’s so nice to live a simple lifestyle,” she reminded him. “Like modern Luddites.”
Eventually they drove off, in their gas-guzzler, to Angelo’s Pizzeria in the Midway Shopping Center, for pizza and calzones.
“We’re simple,” he intoned. “But not fanatically so.”
Peter Abbey provided this week’s photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers. Rochelle Wisoff~Fields leads us weekly. It’s her fourth anniversary as our fearless leader.
It’s Independence Day in Hilldale.
As always the cousins gather on Danny’s front stoop to hear Lanfranco and Gary play the accordion.
“Is it just me” Mary Ellen complains, “Or do those songs get sadder each year lately?”
The Ronald points out something interesting.
“Our parents have all died,” he reminds her,”and we’ve reached the second plateau.”
He goes on to explain, “The children and teenagers are having the time of their lives with that music, as we once did. The torch has been passed and we’re stuck with it.”
“But we still have Jitty Joe’s Ice Cream,” she gushes.
Thank you to Vijaya Sundaram for this week’s photo prompt, and to Rochelle Wisoff~Fields who guiddes us weekly through Friday Fictioneers.
“Hey Melvin,” Stanley blurted out. Youse know anything about wasps or what?”
“You mean like our neighbors the Hollingsworths?” his friend answered. “Not much, why?”
Stanley gave Melvin his “Youse stupid or what?!” look and dragged him out of sight of the insects.
He asked him if he wanted to attend this year’s Pittston Tomato Festival.
“It’s from today to Sunday man! We just gotta go!!” was the only possible answer.
They then drove over the Fort Jenkins Bridge into the annual extravaganza.
“I know it’s Woodstock’s anniversary,” Stanley bragged. But man oh man nothing can possibly touch this!”
Rochelle Wisoff~Fields leads us weekly in Friday Fictioneers, a story based upon a picture. This week’s photograph was supplied by Janet Webb.
While visiting family in northeastern Pennsylvania, Reginald and Rachel took a walk on the local boardwalk.
“Isn’t this such a nice change from Long Beach’s boardwalk, honey?” Rachel pointed out.
“If we were there now,” her husband reminded her,”we’d be surrounded by teenagers with surfboards, Hasidic Jews in traditional black garb, and maniacs on bicycles.”
“It’s the perfect cure for our claustrophobia,”she couldn’t help noticing.
For countless hours they stayed there, enjoying the absolute silence and privacy, occasionally passing comments about the enigmatic triangle on the horizon.
“Too bad we don’t have one of those in New York”, she complained.
Adam Ickes provided our weekly photo prompt. Rochelle Wisoff~Fields is our Friday Fictioneers fearless leader.
Raymond De Souza, K.M., of EWTN, is on my Facebook friend list. Unfortunately I found out, by way of a post of his this afternoon, that there is big trouble afoot in the Scranton Diocese. My parents were both from northeastern Pennsylvania, and I lived, for around seven and a half years, in the Borough of Wyoming. I was a parishioner at Our Lady of Sorrows (now St. Monica’s) in West Wyoming. I have always been rather fond of northeastern Pennsylvania so I was quite disappointed to find out that St. Peter’s Cathedral, the mother church of the diocese, on November 23, 2015, hosted an interfaith service during which the Moslem god, Allah, was invoked.
Besides that, and other Moslem references, a woman was allowed to read the Gospel.
Considering how controversial Islam has always been, this service must have raised quite a large number of eyebrows. According to all I’ve been reading about the service, and the comments on Mr. De Souza’s page, Bishop Joseph Bambera may have quite a difficult time explaining the decision to allow such an event.
Northeastern Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains are perfect for hunting and fishing in the spring. That’s why Tom, Jim, Burt, Jerry, and Wally decided to go there on their annual trip.
At 4:00 a.m. on Saturday, they arrived at their favorite spot, just off Route 115 in Bear Creek Township.
They unloaded all their equipment, food and beer, and everything else they needed from Tom’s truck.
After a long, quiet first morning, Wally reminded them, “We desperately need our licenses, boys. Pa.’s fresh water fishermen require a license. Where are they?”
There was dead silence for an unbearable length of time. Eyes rolled sorrowfully.
Thank you to Piya Singh for this week’s photo and to Rochelle Wisoff~Fields for guiding us weekly at Friday Fictioneers.
It was a crisp bright Saturday morning one long ago Fourth of July weekend quite a few years ago. I was visiting Uncle Frankie in West Wyoming. As he occasionally does, he was telling me quite a lot of long stories about life before World War II. From out of nowhere, the phone rang. It was my cousin Vinnie, in Hilldale. He explained that he desperately wanted me to take him to Jitty Joe’s, in Moosic, for ice cream. Everyone knows theirs is the best. Since I really wanted to get the ice cream I was getting so overwhelmingly frustrated at Uncle Frankie’s story telling. Conveniently he only lives around two and a half miles away from Hilldale so it would only take me a few minutes to get there to pick up Vinnie. Moosic is about twenty five minutes from there though, and we desperately needed ice cream so once we started to go, we’d really had to fly like crazy. It’s always been quite an addiction for us. Eventually my raconteur uncle ran out of anecdotes about all our long-deceased, and mostly long-forgotten kin. I took advantage of his having run out of steam, and reminded him that Vinnie and I desperately needed ice cream so he let me go. With absolutely no remaining time whatsoever to lose, I ran out his front door, down to my car, and drove as fast as possible to Hilldale to pick up Vinnie. From there, we drove at about eighty miles per hour, on River Road and Route 81, until we finally arrived at our destination. It was worth it.
“Relax, weisenheimer!” she insisted. “We’ll find a hotel soon enough!”
Sheldn fell asleep. Myrna, anxious to prove a point, kept going. Eventually they ended up on Route 40 by the West Virginia borderline.
“Um, honey,” she started to explain.
“Now what’s going on?” he asked.
As soon as he noticed the folksy rural setting he knew they were in trouble.
“Oh well,” he uttered. “At least I have my banjo and vittles.”