We did it. Mom and I have been talking about visiting her home town of Honedale Pa for at least two years now. Wednesday morning she arrived at 9:30 and off we went in her bright red Buick. I think Mom is finally ready to start doing a little more than her annual trips to town for groceries and doctor appointments as long as I'm the one who drives. No problem there! Get me the freak out of here! So we drove into Scranton to visit my Aunt Ro, who, recently broke her leg while walking her dog. Her knee is now held together with pins and her ankle with screws. But she's now good to go! Luckily for Ro she has many friends and family for support. She's mended nicely and for the age of 75, still of whirlwind in all her Auntie Ro-ness! Aunt Ro toured us all over Scranton and I now see and think of this city with new eyes. I love being in any city as long as I don't have to drive in one. We saw many lovely, old mansions built back in the mining days with the emergence of the Delaware, Lackawana and Western Railroads back in the 1850's and 60's. We had a great buffet lunch at the impressive Lackawana Train Station built in 1905 by Kenneth Murchison. The station was officially dedicated on November 11th 1908 and I learned that 12 passenger trains arrived at the station daily, one being the infamous Phoebe Snow! Hmmm! I'll have to google that one!
So, Mom and I ended up in a lovely, clean Best Western for the night where we lounged in a hot tub and did some swimming in the pool. The next morning, up early on a rainy, gray Scranton day we hopped on Rt 6 and made our way to Honesdale. The last time I visited Honesdale, my Oma was alive and lived in an upstairs apartment just over the bridge after selling her large home on Ridge Street. This was over 37 years ago. I was 14 or 15. Honesdale had changed as all cities do over time. The two way main street was now one way and Church Street being one way the other way. We found our way up to Ridge Street, and as we were driving through her old stomping grounds, Mom, in a flurry of excitement, was wealth of information, remembering stories of her childhood. I have memories of my own. I was two when my grandfather Nick died on the floor near the stove. I remember the pear trees and playing house under them. I remember hikes up to the woods in the back yard past Grandpa Nick's perfectly weeded and flourishing vegetable garden. I remember Mom's old play house and most of all I remember Oma singing dutch songs in her full apron's. She was always stirring oatmeal or getting something out of the fridgedaire. Cups were always in saucers and there was always at least of stick of butter in the mashed potatoes next to a Oma chicken dinner. Nancy and I always found our Easter baskets hidden behind the great stuffed chairs and there was always hard candy in a cut glass candy bowl on the coffee table. To stand in the cellar and breathe in the musty smell of the cellar mixed with the smell of freshly jarred pears was like a smell no other that I will never forget. And her pantry. I loved to hang out in her pantry. The side room near Oma's bed room was most certainly haunted. And there was a strange lady that lived upstairs. When she came home from where ever she was, she would come through the front door and wearily clomp up the stairs. I would be standing below and could see how her stockings were held up with those stocking clips. Oma had mabeline mascara in a little red box with a tiny brush and after Grandpa Nick died, there was a tall, white haired boyfriend named Bart. Oma was quite a beautiful lady even in her old age. One of my last conversations with my Oma was in our house on Foote Hill Road. I was a young inquisitive teenager and wanted to know more about Grandpa Nick. ( I had just learned that Oma was actually married to Nick's brother who got killed in some kind of trolly car accident.) So I asked Oma to tell me about Grandpa Nick. She started out in English, as sweet as any Grandmother could, telling me a few things about Nick and as she went on reminiscing, Her English turned into Dutch and she ended up cursing the man! It was quite funny. She must of been a hard woman to live with.
As we pulled on to Ridge Street. Wouldn't you know it! The ONE day we chose to come and hopefully conjure up many sweet memories, there were at least five paving trucks getting ready to fix the street. RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER HOUSE! We ended up driving up around past the new school and the housing development that was once my mother's back yard and were able to swing around to the other end of the street. Once there, I put the car in park by the orange road cones and we walked up to the house. There the house sat with everything so strangely different. Like a long, neglected lost friend. The back yard looked much smaller. The front porch was enclosed and the old hand pump in the side yard was gone. There we were. Oma's house. In the back yard I could see a plastic swing set. So the house was still with children. I must say the neighborhood really didn't change all that much and wasn't in bad shape. The old slate sidewalks were still there although quite heaved in every direction. The old Number 4 Fire Station…still there. I turned back one last time to look at this house where I learned to hook crotchet rugs and drink tea in a tea cups and thought, yeah the house needs some work. Maybe not so much work, but some tender loving care that could only come from my Oma.
