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Lottery Numbers for the week of June 12

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WVIA keeps ‘Pennsylvania Polka’ alive

<p>PLYMOUTH &#8212; The memory is so clear, I laugh whenever I think about it.</p><p>My dad walked in the door one day after work with the shoe attached to his wooden leg facing backwards.</p><p>My mom and I were sitting in the living room. Before I could say anything, or even notice the prosthetic malfunction, my quick-witted mother offered a comment.</p><p>&#8220;Hey Bill, are you coming or going?&#8221;</p><p>Dad laughed. I laughed. Mom laughed. It was funny.</p><p>But that moment was typical of how my father handled his disability. Never &#8212; and I mean never &#8212; did I hear him complain about the loss of his leg. For most of his life, he didn&#8217;t discuss what happened to him in World War II.</p><p>It wasn&#8217;t until he was near death he finally told me the story &#8212; how he ran off a landing vessel, hit a beach in Northern France, ran up a hill and stepped on a landmine. He woke up in an Army MASH unit where he was told he had lost his right leg.</p><p>He returned home to Plymouth where he couldn&#8217;t wait to buy a car, get a job and get on with his life. He met my mom, Elizabeth, who wore a brace on her left leg as a result of contracting polio.</p><p>These two were a matched set, for sure. Neither ever complained about their &#8220;disabilities&#8221; and lived their lives to the fullest.</p><p>Last week, I sat on Marie Shevock&#8217;s front porch in Plymouth with her and Dolores Driscoll, who rode to work every day with my dad when they worked at Leslie Fay.</p><p>Mrs. Driscoll told me a few stories about my dad and offered a few comments &#8212; like the fact that my dad never &#8220;gossiped&#8221; about anybody. That he wouldn&#8217;t say anything bad about anybody. That he made her laugh.</p><p>I&#8217;ve heard this before about my dad. I&#8217;ve been told he had no enemies &#8212; everybody loved and respected him.</p><p>I sure did. Having had to put up with me after the death of my mom was enough to earn him a special place in heaven, for sure.</p><p>When I played baseball or basketball, my dad never missed a practice or a game. He was always there &#8212; for me. I remember pitching to him in our yard. I could throw a baseball pretty darn hard back then. My dad never flinched &#8212; even when I knocked him down with a fastball.</p><p>My dad hung a baseball from a tree limb in our yard. He measured it to where it would be about waist high on me. He would sit and watch as I swung time and again to develop a level swing at the ball.</p><p>One day at Little League practice, I booted every ground ball that came to me. My dad and his friend, Tony &#8220;Stush&#8221; Gayson, tied a cinder block to my left leg &#8212; the leg I kept booting the grounders with &#8212; and soon, I learned to keep my left leg back and field the ball. As my dad would say, &#8220;keep your arse down.&#8221;</p><p>It&#8217;s funny how you remember things like that.</p><p>My dad was a co-founder of Plymouth Little League in 1950. He served as president every year, except for the four years I played in the league.</p><p>That was my dad. He didn&#8217;t want any appearance of favoritism. He also wanted me to earn my way on the team, into the lineup and beyond.</p><p>Those are the things I remember about my dad. He was fair. He was kind. He was honorable. He was loving. He was compassionate. He was stern. He was hard working. He was a volunteer. He was selfless. He was a patriot. He was a war hero. He was a gentleman. He was fun. He was tolerant &#8212; to a point.</p><p>I wish I could have a beer with him, maybe a sardine sandwich or a chunk of pepperoni. Or some scrapple or oyster stew.</p><p>After my mom died, I got to know my dad perhaps better than I otherwise would have. I learned so much from him about how to be a good human being. As far as examples, my dad was the best.</p><p>Although he never questioned the land mine incident, I often wondered why he had to be the one to step on it. After thinking about it for a while, I got the answer.</p><p>He could handle it.</p><p>Happy Father&#8217;s Day, dad. From your son, who knows all you went through and who appreciates how you lived your life.</p><p>Thanks for being all you could be.</p><style>
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<div class="neCaption">Bill O&#8217;Boyle Sr. </div></div><div class="metaInfo"><photo0>https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/web1_Bill-O-Boyle-Sr.jpg</photo0><caption0>Bill O&#8217;Boyle Sr. </caption0><photoCredit0></photoCredit0></div><div class="neFile"><img class="neImage" src="https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/web1_Oboyle_Bill-2-1-2.jpg">
<div class="neCaption">O&#8217;Boyle </div></div><div class="metaInfo"><photo1>https://www.timesleader.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/web1_Oboyle_Bill-2-1-2.jpg</photo1><caption1>O&#8217;Boyle </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, or email at boboyle@www.timesleader.com.</p></shirttailMeta></div>

Beyond the Byline: A sardine sandwich and a beer with Dad would be great