WILKES-BARRE — During these very trying times of self-isolation and social-distancing, I choose to take little trips down my memory lane and more times than not, I end up in Plymouth — Old Shawnee as it’s known.
I’m sure you all have your own memory lane to travel and I encourage you to travel it from time to time as we cope with COVID-19 and its restrictions.
So Friday night, after watching “The Blacklist,” I started to think about my hometown and some of the places and people I encountered way back when. I ended up at what was the epicenter of my youth — C. Matus News.
This is where most young boys grew up and became young men who could, among other things, learn their way around a pool table or a pinball machine. We could also find our favorite magazine, candy bar and soft drink.
When things got slow inside, we stood out front, leaned on the parking meters and watched the world go by.
Weekends were the best at Matus’ News — the owner, Cas “Boykie” Matus was a character for sure. But he was cool — he liked everybody and he tolerated our immaturity — to a point.
Anyway, on Saturdays, there was always 9-ball game or a Harrigan game. Low stakes, but everybody wanted to win. There were a few pool sharks who liked to prey on we of marginal skills, but we still played and it was fun.
Saturday evenings after church at St. Vincent’s, we would gather at Boykie’s and play 8-ball — winner stays on the table as challengers tried to dethrone the champ. There was one guy who never lost — we were sure to see to that.
Robert “Bobby” Stempowski, a Down syndrome young man, loved to shoot pool. And when Bobby took a cue in hand, it was magic. No matter who challenged him, Bobby always won — I am pretty sure he was undefeated.
And after every victory, Bobby would raise his cue stick over his head in celebration and he would smile from ear to ear. It’s a scene that was repeated time after time and I never got tired of watching it.
But back then, I doubt any of us knew the good we were doing for Bobby and ourselves. But I know now that those guys in the pool hall knew how to treat people and that is a memory I will always cherish.
Some others, not so much. Like just about everybody back then, being under 21 was a struggle. Not for the social aspects, but for the search for some beer or alcohol to drink like the older guys did.
Problem was, we really weren’t very good at it. Many evenings began with Stegmaier quarts, Red’s Subs and card games that progressed to Sandy Beach dances to breakfasts at Elby’s to late-night barfing. Not proud moments, but learning experiences they were.
We also learned the great art of negotiation. We would pay higher prices for beer and alcohol because we had to buy it from somebody else — you all know who — who wanted a slight profit.
Names are withheld to protect everybody.
But Boykie’s place was the gathering spot. We all knew to show up there to meet our pals and plan our evening. It was basically the same routine weekend after weekend.
Unless we were heading out of town — to go down the shore. Ah yes, the shore. The sandy beaches of New Jersey. This is where our maturation process accelerated at a rapid pace.
Atlantic City was our first stop, later we moved down the shoreline to Wildwood. So many great memories there — the beach, the girls, the Boardwalk, the bars, the girls, the pool, the girls and more.
Weekend trips to the shore were always fun. Many stories that can’t be repeated, again to protect all.
And in the colder months, we would take a different trip — north to, Kirkwood, N.Y., Marty’s where the drinking age was 18. We would pile in the car and head up to get a table at Marty’s and we would see just about everybody we knew from Wilkes-Barre.
These were good times. One Saturday night, as we left Marty’s, my friend noticed a sign that said “Interstate 81 opening Monday.” Orange cones blocked the entrance. My friends reasoned that if I-81 was opening Monday, it should be good to travel on now, so we did.
We moved the cones and off we went — the first to travel I-81 and, perhaps, the first to do so after a night of drinking.
We made it home, having to move the orange cones at the exit.
Memories, for now, are all we got until we can start making more in the post-coronavirus days ahead.
