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Look Back: The lost Borough of Dorranceton

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48 new cases of COVID-19 confirmed in Luzerne County; 654 statewide

WILKES-BARRE &mdash; Driving in my neighborhood the other day, I slowed as I passed my old home &mdash;the place where I grew up and lived for 18 years.
				When I look at the length of my life, the first 18 years, for me, were the formative years. Thanks to my mom and dad and the neighborhood.
				In this small bungalow home, we had a parlor, a living room, a kitchen, a pantry, three bedrooms and a bathroom.
				There was an apartment in the basement that my parents rented out.
				My room was just off the living room. It was not that big. I had a bed, a dresser, a chest of drawers and a closet. And there were two windows that were always open during nice weather. My mom had two lilac trees in our side yard &mdash; a purple and a white &mdash; and the aroma was so welcoming.
				The Beach Boys wrote a song, &ldquo;In My Room.&rdquo;
				&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to
				In my room, in my room
				In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears
				In my room, in my room
				Do my dreaming and my scheming
				Lie awake and pray
				Do my crying and my sighing
				Laugh at yesterday
				Now it&rsquo;s dark and I&rsquo;m alone
				But I won&rsquo;t be afraid
				In my room, in my room.&rdquo;
				That really tells the story of my room, heck, any kids room back then.
				Our room was our sanctuary. It was where we went to be us &mdash; do our homework, study, read books &#8211; mostly comic books &#8211; practice guitar, sort baseball cards, listen to records, wait for Santa Claus.
				It was also where my mom would serve me ice cream for breakfast because she knew that was the only incentive for me to wake up and get ready for school.
				Yeah, I was spoiled.
				But my room, like other kids&rsquo; rooms, was not a place to bring your friends. We stayed on the front porch to play our games, or in the parlor, our front room, so to speak.
				Our room was our room. It was for us, not for visitors.
				These were simpler times, but they were special times as well. I would enjoy reading Archie and the Gang comics, or reading the backs of those Topps baseball cards.
				I can remember sitting on my bed and practicing my guitar. I was given exercises to develop calluses on my finger tips to allow for pressing down the strings to the frets without pain.
				I would devote at least one hour every day to practicing the guitar. I never got to the point of a great guitar player, but I did learn and I had fun.
				Now that I think about it, I can&rsquo;t remember what any of my friends&rsquo; rooms looked like. We just didn&rsquo;t share our personal space with one another.
				But we all knew we each had a room, but as far as what was in it, what it looked like or what color the walls were painted we didn&rsquo;t know and didn&rsquo;t ask.
				But our room was where we went to when the day was done, or when it was raining, or when we just wanted some down time. And we each had things to do in our rooms.
				So as I slowed down on Reynolds Street, I stared at the windows that were part of my room &mdash;windows I had only looked out of, never into.
				I could smell the lilacs and I could see our old Cherry tree. I could see my dad playing catch with me in the side yard as my mom hung clothes on the line.
				And I was glad I couldn&rsquo;t hear myself practicing my guitar.

Beyond the Byline: Remembering life ‘in my room’