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‘Downton Abbey’ fans salute show one last time

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<p>PLYMOUTH &#8212; If a picture is worth a thousand words, then the picture recently sent to me on Facebook is worth a million memories.</p><p>Jean Roman, whose mother was a close friend of my mom&#8217;s, sent the picture.</p><p>My home sweet home &#8212; 210 Reynolds St. &#8212; is in the background. If you enlarge the pic, you can see my mom and I sitting on our porch. It&#8217;s the only picture I have of me with my mother, who died in May 1968, at the age of 42.</p><p>That alone choked me up. I can&#8217;t tell you the emotion that welled up in me at the mere realization it was the two of us sitting on our porch. We had done that so many times over the years. But most all of the pictures I had of my mom and our family were washed away during the Agnes Flood in 1972.</p><p>The pictures may be gone, but the memories remain.</p><p>Seeing this picture , however, stopped me in my tracks. I sat and stared at it for some time. Everywhere I looked, memories rushed back more vivid than I could ever have recalled.</p><p>There was my mom&#8217;s friend, Marie, and her two sons. They&#8217;re standing in Marie&#8217;s parents&#8217; yard &#8212; actually it&#8217;s a grass driveway that had to be mowed regularly. I used to tease Marie&#8217;s brother, Walter, about having to mow the driveway.</p><p>Marie and her sons are looking toward Romans&#8217; back yard. Not far away was a large black cherry tree that Walter and I used to climb, find a supportive limb to sit on, and pick ripe cherries and eat them.</p><p>Further back in the yard were a couple of chestnut trees that produced chestnuts we often roasted on an open fire.</p><p>To the right of Marie is the home of Alex (Ecky) and Mary Kraynack, who were as close to being my grandparents as anyone. I never knew my biological grandparents, so Ecky and Mrs. K. were always there for me. In their front yard that faces Second Street sits the 12th Ward World War II Memorial that recently was replaced with a bronze replica. My dad, his brother and my mom&#8217;s brothers are all listed on it.</p><p>Beyond Marie, our big maple tree stands in front of our house. When in full bloom, that tree provided great shade on the hottest of days. Our cherry tree is at the left. We used to get great red and yellow cherries from that tree &#8212; and down our side yard, my mom&#8217;s two lilac trees would emit the sweetest of smells.</p><p>In front of the Roman house was a wall. Walter and I and Chris Balita, Mike Shusta and Steve Mikloski used to play &#8220;up-against,&#8221; where we would take a rubber ball and try to bounce it off the edge of the wall for a sure home run. And then there were those stocking ball games. My mom, despite painful arthritic fingers, would stitch old socks to form a ball. We used wooden bats and played games into the evening hours.</p><p>On that front porch, to the left, I sat and watched Jim Bunning pitch a perfect game for the Phillies. My dad let me take our portable black-and-white TV outside. We ran extension cords to plug it in, violating a few borough codes, I&#8217;m sure. It was also a place for games like Strat-O-Matic and for jam sessions &#8212; me on guitar and Wayne Bevan singing.</p><p>This was our neighborhood. It&#8217;s where my pals and I learned just about everything we needed to learn. And we did it under the watchful eyes of our parents.</p><p>If this could somehow be a &#8220;scratch and sniff,&#8221; I&#8217;m sure I would smell the fresh-cut grass of the driveway, perhaps the odor of kielbasa cooking on the stove or horseradish being grated on our back porch, the exhaust of my dad&#8217;s car backing up, or my mom&#8217;s Jean Nate perfume.</p><p>It was just like my mom, sitting there on our porch &#8212; with her son, not ever thinking that our days together would be cut way too short.</p><p>Those memories will never leave me. I cherish them &#8212; always have and always will.</p><p>And now I have this picture.</p><style>
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<div class="neCaption">Bill O&#8217;Boyle </div></div><div class="metaInfo"><photo0>https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/web1_Oboyle_Bill-2-1-5.jpg</photo0><caption0>Bill O&#8217;Boyle </caption0><photoCredit0></photoCredit0></div><div class="neFile"><img class="neImage" src="https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/web1_12805965_10209097652498654_6217519149017562715_n-2.jpg">
<div class="neCaption">The house I grew up in at 210 Reynolds St., Plymouth, can be seen in the background. In the 1958 photo is Marie Roman Dowkus, one of my mom&#8217;s best friends, with her two sons, Petey and Joey. They&#8217;re standing in the Romans&#8217; driveway. If you enlarge the photo, you can see my mom and me sitting on our front porch. </div></div><div class="metaInfo"><photo1>https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/web1_12805965_10209097652498654_6217519149017562715_n-2.jpg</photo1><caption1>The house I grew up in at 210 Reynolds St., Plymouth, can be seen in the background. In the 1958 photo is Marie Roman Dowkus, one of my mom&#8217;s best friends, with her two sons, Petey and Joey. They&#8217;re standing in the Romans&#8217; driveway. If you enlarge the photo, you can see my mom and me sitting on our front porch. </caption1><photoCredit1></photoCredit1></div></div>
<div class="metaInfo"><bylineMeta><p>By Bill O&#8217;Boyle</p><p>boboyle@www.timesleader.com</p></bylineMeta></div><div class="metaInfo"><shirttailMeta><p>Reach Bill O&#8217;Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle.</p></shirttailMeta></div>

Beyond the Byline: This picture is worth a million memories