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Luzerne County reaches agreement with Airbnb over hotel tax collection

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Mele’s Musings: Moderation over deprivation as 50s take their toll on body

<p>As always, when I am in Canada, my allergies disappear.</p><p>Not once did I have a watery eye, or a sniffle, or anything like I always do here in the good old US of A.</p><p>And my sleep was sound as well &#8212; I often found myself dreaming of wonderful days when things were, well, far more wonderful than they are now.</p><p>One of those dreams took me back to the 1960s &#8212; to a time I would not mind revisiting. When those geeky scientists finally invent that way-back machine, I&#8217;m punching my ticket for Plymouth, PA, circa the decade of the 60s.</p><p>But for now, I will have to bank on my dreams to relive those glorious days when people smiled at each other, said hello through unlocked screen doors, did favors for one another, cheered for each others&#8217; children and found great joy in places like Melody Park, North Lake, Sylvan Lake, Lake Silkworth and Harveys Lake.</p><p>In my recent Canadian dream, it was a Saturday morning. Mom and dad were busy packing up things to take to the Plymouth Little League annual outing at Melody Park.</p><p>Mom was making sandwiches and potato salad and getting everything together in a basket to haul it all in the car. Dad was getting bathing suits, towels, a few beers on ice and checking the car over for the trip.</p><p>Once the car was loaded, off we went, out the Dallas Highway to that turn just before the Ranch Wagon. About seven miles down Demunds Road, we would turn onto a dirt road and Melody Park would appear.</p><p>It was a grand site &#8212; sheltered pavilions, a large swimming hole, basketball courts of clay, a big grassy baseball field, swings, teeter totters and kids everywhere.</p><p>We would park the car next to the pavilion and unload everything. The early arrivals were already setting up, getting tablecloths on the wooden tables and charcoal grills were already flaming, providing the best hot dogs and hamburgs you would ever taste.</p><p>This was all vividly depicted in my dream. I swear, for a brief time, I was there at Melody Park again.</p><p>As soon as I got there I wanted to run to meet my buddies. We would play basketball, baseball and swim. I&#8217;ll never forget the first time I saw my dad swim. It was at Melody Park. Remember that my dad had his right leg amputated above the knee after he stepped on a land mine during World War II.</p><p>I can still see him &#8212; he came out of the dressing room and he hopped on one leg over to the diving board, dove into the water and swam &#8212; gliding through the water, hardly making a ripple. It was remarkable. I stood there staring, as did most of the kids from the Little League, not to mention the adults under the pavilion.</p><p>After our swim, we would grab something to eat, and then the games would begin. The best one was the egg-tossing contest. Kids would stand facing each other, and one was given a raw egg. The contest began with handing the egg to your partner, then both would take a step back. After each toss, another step back and you kept going. As the distance widened, eggs would be dropped or smashed in one&#8217;s hand. The contest would go until the last two egg-catchers were standing. The trick was to cup your hands and get under the egg and catch it as you pulled your hands back.</p><p>As teams were eliminated, the kids would jump in the water to wash the egg off their hands, faces or feet. One thing for sure, it was fun.</p><p>In the late afternoon, the adults would play cards &#8212; the men played poker, and the women played pinochle. Kids would go play baseball or basketball or go for a walk in the woods. There was always something to do.</p><p>So when I returned from Canada and thought about this dream, I had to take a ride out to Melody Park. It&#8217;s not much of a park now. The old swimming hole is all but gone. The pavilions aren&#8217;t there either. The area where the basketball court was &#8212; site of the egg-throwing contest &#8212; is also grown in, as is the old baseball field.</p><p>The land is all that&#8217;s left, really, and that&#8217;s sad.</p><p>But the memories, recalled vividly in my Canadian dream, will always be there.</p><p>Thank God I&#8217;ll never be allergic to nostalgia.</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/2017/06/web1_Columnshot-1-.jpg</photo0><caption0>Bill O&#8217;Boyle </caption0><photoCredit0></photoCredit0></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: Tossing eggs at Melody Park