I REMEMBER WHEN 2026: Summer Fun

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­Lewistown, PA—3

I REMEMBER WHEN

The annual summer dream: What a great day for baseball TOM LAUB

Lifestyles editor

tlaub@lewistownsentinel.com Summertime. School is out. The sun is shining.

What a great day for baseball. Let’s play two.

I was eight-years-old when I made an “unofficial” appearance in a Lewistown National Little League baseball game.

My Dad was manager of the Police Pals and since I was a year shy of regulation age, he appointed me batboy. In my confusion, I thought it would lead to bigger things, like maybe becoming “Batman.” Sorry, son, different kind of bats.

We were playing the league champions, Sacred Heart. They had a huge

lead, double-digits to nothing. There was no mercy rule in those days so the game moved on, despite the outcome no longer in doubt. My Dad okayed it with the opposing manager and the home plate umpire to put me in the game. My first-ever at-bat.

The Sacred Heart pitcher was a neighbor and friend. He tried to guide a pitch into my zone so I could take a swing but the ball bounced and hit me on the leg. I was awarded first base.

Once on the bag, I was not going to let my chance slip away. In Little League, a runner cannot leave the base before the pitch reaches the batter. Not familiar with the rule book, I took off for second. Little League uniforms in the late The 1969 Police Pals.

1960s were different from the comfortable and stylish uniforms worn today. We wore baggy wool jerseys and pants, and mine being a few sizes too big did not help produce maximum speed. I went into my Charlie Brown slide, winding up on my back halfway between first and second with my Babe Ruth-style baggy pants filled with dirt. I was ordered back to first base where I stayed put until the final out of the ballgame and the end of my comic-relief stint of the season.

Baseball would be a large part of my summers when I was younger, from Little League (as a regulation-age player) to Junior and Senior Babe Ruth to Twilight Submitted photo League play. Ernie Banks See Baseball / Page 4

4—Lewistown, PA

Friday, June 26, 2026

The Sentinel

I REMEMBER WHEN

Baseball

Continued from Page 3

had it right. Nothing better than playing ball on a summer day (or night).

There were two unwritten rules if you played baseball. Do not go swimming the day of a game and do not play wiffle ball. Swimming, we were told, would tire you and wiffle ball would ruin your timing.

During the Little League years, I stayed away from the pool for the most part, but I could not resist wiffle ball in the backyard. Afterall, we had our own neighborhood league. But it did slow my bat for baseball.

When I wasn’t playing baseball, I was thinking baseball. Major League Baseball. Televised games were not as common in the 1960s. Radio was the focus.

I can remember listening to Phillies baseball with my Dad throughout the years. The voices of

By Saam, Bill Campbell, Richie Ashburn, Harry Kalas and Andy Musser were part of the summer soundtrack that brought the games into our home.

Their voices still resonate today.

For a youngster, having a chance to see a Major League game in person was a true thrill. Connie Mack Stadium in Philadelphia was the venue for my first three Phillies games. The old stadium, formerly Shibe Park, was, like most of the era, no frills. The Phillies, following the collapse of 1964, were a middle-of-the-pack team in the National League. By 1967, the roster included Richie (Dick) Allen, Johnny Callison, Tony Taylor, Chris Short and Jim Bunning to name a few. By the early 1970s, the club moved to Veterans Stadium, and fans were introduced to Mike Schmidt, Steve Carlton, Greg Luzinski, Willie

Submitted photo

The 1968 Police Pals.

Montanez and Larry Bowa.

Trips to Philadelphia became more common with my Dad and others. There were many great memories at the Vet, including a chance face-to-face meeting with broadcaster and former Phillies centerfielder Richie Ashburn. Eventually, the team moved to its current home, Citizens Bank Park, and new memories were created with my family’s younger generation.

The carefree summer months were a departure from the everyday school regimen. Staying up late

to watch the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, cookouts, summer drives in the country, days at 5th Ward playground, a day at the pool (not on game day) in Burnham, and later, Rec Park in Lewistown. Before Hurricane Agnes in 1972, Kish Park was a true amusement park with a roller coaster, ferris wheel, handcars, bumper cars, fun-in-the-dark, cups and saucers, an arcade, a train and even a small zoo. Later, Hersheypark became a yearly tradition with my family. It was an all-day event. Breakfast at Bob

Evans. The tram ride to the park. Chocolate World.

Roller coasters, all of them.

I could ride the Great Bear all day long, and one last time on the Comet before the gates closed.

The best part of summer is reliving and remembering the moments. The heat and humidity is forgotten, but the smiles, laughter and people remain: sitting along the banks of local streams while trout fishing with my Dad, laughing with coworkers at summer jobs and sharing moments during family reunions all

seem like yesterday, even after decades.

The carefree days would eventually fade into autumn’s twilight and win-

ter’s chill. But, there was always anticipation for another summer, another season and another ballgame.

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­Lewistown, PA—5

The Sentinel

I REMEMBER WHEN

Where summer lived: Camping at Poe Valley BRIAN CARSON

Sentinel correspondent

bcarson@lewistownsentinel.com

Before we ever reached Poe Valley, summer vacation began at Ron’s Fruit Market.

That was where the week really opened.

The car felt packed to the roof, even if it probably wasn’t. Sleeping bags, clothes, coolers, towels, flashlights, a lantern, food in grocery bags, things my mother said we needed, and things my grandfather said we wouldn’t. I don’t remember every item that went into the car. I remember how the trip felt before we got there.

It felt like escape.

The regular world had been folded up and left behind. School was gone.

Bedtime lost some of its power. Shoes got dirtier.

Hair stayed wet longer. The clock still existed, but it no longer ran the place.

At Ron’s Fruit Market, I got my supplies.

Creepy.

Eerie.

Famous Monsters of Filmland.

Those were the magazines that mattered. Other people looked at fruit, candy, snacks, ice, or whatever else families grabbed on the way to camp.

I went looking for monsters.

The covers seemed to glow from the rack. Strange faces, haunted castles, graveyards and creatures with bad teeth and worse intentions stared back at me. Uncle Creepy and Cousin Eerie hosted those pages like grinning guides to the strange and awful.

They promised a darker world than the one outside the car window, and I loved them for it. I could take them into the woods and let

them work on my imagination for a week.

I carried them to the car like cargo that mattered, stacked on my lap for the rest of the drive. Poe Valley hadn’t even come into view yet, and the week was already good.

By the time the road bent toward Poe Valley, it narrowed and climbed; the trees closing in on both sides; the light going green and cool.

Poe Valley State Park sits in a fold of the Bald Eagle Mountains in Centre County, the kind of place that feels both close and remote.

A week at Poe Valley felt enormous when I was a kid.

Seven days could stretch like a whole summer. Maybe childhood does that to time. Maybe the woods do.

Maybe a campsite, once you’ve claimed it, becomes its own little country.

We would get there and start making camp. Adults knew how to do things that seemed like magic then. They could turn a bare patch of ground into a place to sleep. They knew where things went. They could make a fire behave.

They could hang a lantern, and suddenly the trees had walls.

My grandfather always seemed to know which job needed done next. My mother had the practiced patience of someone trying to keep a vacation from turning into a weeklong search for whatever somebody forgot.

The tent had its own smell. Canvas, damp earth, sleeping bags, and the faint odor of last year’s campout lived in there together. At night, the tent felt huge and close at the same time.

Every movement made a sound. Every zipper sounded too loud. Every shadow had a job.

In daylight, Poe Valley belonged to the lake, the woods, and the small adventures we found without anyone organizing them.

We swam. That was one of the great privileges of the week. Swimming filled the long middle hours; the water cold enough to chase the August heat out of you in about ten seconds. We stayed in until our fingers wrinkled and our eyes burned. We came out of the water hungry enough to eat almost anything. Wet towels gathered sand, grass, and dirt. Bathing suits never dried all the way. The sun did what it could. We went back in anyway.

We looked for salamanders, and that felt like serious work. You had to know where to look. You had to turn over the right rock or nose around the right damp place. A salamander seemed like a secret the earth had kept under cover. Small, slick, and ancient-looking, it gave a kid the feeling that the woods had trusted him with something.

We walked in the woods.

That sounds simple now, almost too simple to mention, but it mattered. The path could bend and make the campsite disappear.

The trees closed around you. The air changed.

Leaves moved above you.

Twigs snapped under your feet. Somewhere, water moved over stones. You could feel brave in those woods, then less brave, then brave again because someone you loved walked nearby.

Those days needed little decoration.

A lake. A trail. A salamander. A sandwich eaten outdoors. That was plenty.

Then evening came, and everything changed.

The campfire became the center of the world.

Someone would get it going, and we would sit around it as if people had done that since the first family got tired and cold and scared of the dark.

The fire gave us light, warmth, and something to stare into. It cracked, shifted and threw sparks into the trees. It changed every face around it. Older, kinder, stranger.

We roasted marshmallows. Some people have patience for a golden marshmallow. I’m sure there’s virtue in that. I usually wanted mine finished before good sense had a chance to speak.

Burnt sugar, smoke, and sticky fingers were part of the bargain. A marshmallow pulled from a stick at a campsite tasted better than anything cooked properly at home.

Then came the stories.

Ghost stories belonged to the night at Poe Valley.

They needed the dark, the trees and the firelight.

They needed a little wind in the leaves and a little quiet between sentences.

Tell a ghost story in a liv-

ing room in the middle of the afternoon, and it might limp along. At camp, it had legs.

Sometimes other campers joined us. I loved that.

People who had been strangers earlier in the day drifted toward the fire, drawn by the story, the glow, or the old human need to sit near others when night filled the woods. They would stand for a minute, then sit. Someone would make room. Someone would poke the fire. Someone would lower his voice.

I had those monster magazines in my head by then.

Creepy, Eerie and Famous Monsters of Filmland had already done their work.

So had Uncle Creepy and Cousin Eerie.

The woods did the rest.

A branch scrape became something with claws. A bird call became a warning. A dark gap between trees became a doorway.

That was the wonder of it.

Poe Valley gave me a safe place to be scared. The adults were there. My fam-

ily was there. The fire was there. Still, the night had enough mystery to make a boy sit closer and listen harder.

Family camping also had a way of making comedy out of darkness.

One night, inside the tent, my mother sat on my grandfather’s head.

I can still see the scene the way old memories show themselves, in flashes. The tent was dark. People were trying to settle in. Someone shifted. Someone reached for a place to sit. Then came the realization that my mother had sat down on the wrong spot, and the wrong spot happened to be my grandfather’s head. By the time the lantern came on, the damage was done, and the laughing had started.

There are many kinds of laughter. This was tent laughter. The kind that starts in one person and spreads because everyone knows the situation has become too ridiculous for dignity. The kind made worse because you’re trying not See Camping / Page 6

6—Lewistown, PA

Friday, June 26, 2026

The Sentinel

I REMEMBER WHEN

Camping Continued from Page 5

to wake the campground.

The kind that makes sleeping bags shake.

My grandfather, I imagine, did not find it as funny in the first second as everyone else did. That only made it better. Families live on stories like that.

They may forget what they had for supper. They may forget the weather. They will never forget the night someone sat on Grandpa’s head.

It doesn’t improve with age so much as it deepens, the way small moments do when they attach themselves to people you love.

That memory keeps the whole thing honest for me.

Memory can turn those vacations into a perfect postcard. Childhood lets us do that. Time sands off the rough edges. We forget the rain, the mosquitoes, the damp clothes, the arguments, the work, and the things that broke or got left behind. Maybe all of that happened. It probably did.

Camping has never been as effortless as memory makes it seem.

You don’t know while you’re living it what you’ll carry thirty or forty years later. You don’t know that the magazines on your lap, the salamanders by the creek, and the sound of the fire at night are settling into you for good.

The feeling remains.

A week at Poe Valley gave us a place apart from the usual world. We had water to swim in, woods to explore, stones to turn over, stories to hear, and a fire to gather around. We had enough darkness to make the light matter.

I think now about what my mother and grandfather may have carried into those weeks that I never noticed. Adults bring worries with them even

on vacation. Bills don’t vanish because a tent goes up. Work waits. Sickness waits. Life waits.

For a week, they helped build something that felt free to a child.

That is one of the quiet kindnesses of family. The adults do the hauling, packing, and worrying, and the child remembers the magic. The child remembers the fruit market. The monster magazines. The lake.

The salamanders. The fire.

The child remembers laughter in the tent.

I’ve been to plenty of places since then. I’ve seen bigger water than Poe Valley. I’ve stayed in places more comfortable than a campsite. I’ve had vacations with better beds, better food and fewer mosquitoes.

Still, when someone says summer vacation, my mind goes first to that road, that stop, that week.

I see Ron’s Fruit Market.

I see the magazine rack.

I see those glorious monsters waiting for me.

I see Poe Valley opening up at the end of the ride.

I see us at night, gathered by the fire, faces lit orange, marshmallows turning black, ghost stories moving from person to person while the dark leaned in from the trees.

For a boy with monster magazines and a week in the woods, it was enough.

More than enough.

It was summer.

Many memories growing up in Lewistown RICHARD AURAND Lewistown

(Written by Diane Aurand Hooks) My name is Richard Aurand. I am 93-years-old.

I was born in Lewistown and I have lived here all my life.

I grew up in the Lewistown Heights on Edgewater Avenue. My parents moved there in 1933 when I was three-months-old.

I’ve seen a lot of changes in Lewistown in 93 years of life. In the Lewistown Heights, where I grew up, most of my friends did not have indoor plumbing or running water. I was lucky to grow up with both.

In 1956, the Heights still had no street lights or paved roads. Most of it was fields. I had to walk down the hill to Walnut Street to get our mail because our mailbox had to be on the

street near the bridge and creek.

In downtown Lewistown, I remember many of the streets being made of brick. Many of the streets such as Pannebaker, Logan, Shaw and Market went two directions instead of one.

I remember when there were four movie theaters at once in downtown Lewistown. The Pastime Theater on Market Street played western movies.

You only got to see half of the movie and had to come back the next week to see the other half. I remember the Rialto Theater, also on Market Street, had two floors and I could sit in the balcony. The Embassy was on Main Street and it also had two floors and a balcony. The Miller Theater came later on. I got an allowance of 10¢ a week and the movie cost 5¢, so that left me with 5¢ for candy.

I remember when you

had to get your car inspected twice a year instead of once. I remember when doctors made house calls.

My mother had a chiropractor who came to our house to treat her back.

I remember when the cheapest price for gas was 24¢ a gallon.

I remember both the milkman and the breadman making deliveries to my house. There were two bakeries: Beaver’s Bakery in Burnham and Letterman’s Bakery on Valley Street in Lewistown.

There was a religious group of baseball players called the House of David that visited Lewistown.

They were famous for traveling all over the U.S. playing baseball and doing tricks. Their signature look was whiskers and beards. When they came to town, they brought their own lights and played in the former Dixon Field, which was later named

ground was built on the top of 4th and 5th Avenue.

At the Burnham Fire House, they started having festivals and that was something to look forward to — food always, and usually a band would play.

You weren’t afraid to walk the streets back then.

The YMCA was here and they had activities and meetings.

Everyday, the whistle from Baldwin-Lima-Hamilton (SSW) would blow for all the 7, 3 and 11 shifts.

There were lots of stores and a few restaurants, and we all walked to school.

Many fond memories of Burnham.

Rec Park. There used to be a grandstand in the park where people would watch games.

I remember the brick buildings on the south side of Lewistown that were built by Temples. They housed a bowling alley and a roller skating rink. You could get to both for free from a bus that left Monument Square.

I remember when Red’s Diner was in a small trolley car along the creek before they moved to the current location.

I remember Pleasant Acres West being a field that grew local produce.

You could go there and pick produce for so much a pound. We picked it for the cannery.

I remember when there was a set of large, white wooden letters on top of the hill behind the Lewistown Heights: “Buy A Buick.” You could see it from anywhere.

Summer memories of Burnham Get it all!

LINDA KOCHENDERFER Burnham

Summers in Burnham were very nice back in the 60s, 70s and 80s. Just about every house had a garden and maybe a fruit tree.

Kids played on the streets and eventually, a play-

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I REMEMBER WHEN

A summer drive in the country RUTH EDDY

Sentinel publisher When Tom Laub asked the staff at The Sentinel if they wanted to write about a favorite summer memory, my mind quickly went to my childhood and it was very difficult to choose just one. I have tried to pare it down, but apparently, based upon our submissions for our ‘I Remember When’ publication, everyone else had a problem choosing just one.

Let me tell you about the

first thing I thought of. I grew up in Lewistown and I fondly remember trips to get corn from local farms.

We often frequented farms near the industrial park near the current Walmart.

On the way back from the farm, we typically took Middle Road where there is a small hill. My mother would drive a little faster than normal and we would giggle with glee as we drove over the hump.

Our stomachs would feel like they were dropping.

To my brother and I, it was like a little roller coaster

ride. Many years later, my mother would take my son over the same little bump and he had the same joyous laugh. It was a simple pleasure etched into my memory…my mother, brother and I riding in the car with the windows down, the radio playing, enjoying the day and the time together as we rode over the hump that was as good as a ride at an amusement park and something that I will never forget. The corn we ate later was an added bonus to the summer day.

A summer memory: Reunion of hearts ALEXIS GRUBBKRUGER Pasadena, Maryland

(Originally from Carlisle) When I think of summer time memories and traditions, I think of where and when my husband and I met. My husband, Johnathon, and I met at Knoebels Amusement Park in Elysburg, Pa. It was a summer time tradition since I was little for my dad and me to camp at Knoebels for a week. It was also a tradition for Johnathon and his parents to do the same.

Even though we probably crossed paths numerous times over the years there, we finally met in 2017 standing under the overhang roof of the bumper cars when a Rick K. and the Allnighters concert was cancelled at the band stand due to a rain storm. We always say “and the rest was history.” We like to call it our little fairytale love story because to us that is exactly how it feels. We always dreamed of meeting our other half at Knoebels and at a Rick K. show there. For it to have actually happened, is amazing

Submitted photo

Alexis and Johnathon Grubbkruger and their son at Knoebels Amusement Park in Elysburg. and we know we have God to thank for that. Now it is our own family tradition for us to go together with our son to Knoebels every

summer. It feels like a family reunion every time because it is where our story began.

­Lewistown, PA—7

8—Lewistown, PA

Friday, June 26, 2026

The Sentinel

I REMEMBER WHEN

A return to the State Museum for summer thrills GREG WILLIAMS

Sentinel reporter I remember when I was in elementary school, during those few years my parents and I lived in Mechanicsburg, that the highlight of my summers wasn’t the pool or the playground or even the long, lazy evenings chasing fireflies.

It was the Pennsylvania State Museum of History in Harrisburg. To a kid who loved stories, old things and the feeling of stepping into another world, that museum was a universe unto itself.

My parents signed me up for the museum’s summer kids programs — monthlong classes that felt like a secret club for curious children. We weren’t just visitors. We were explorers. Our instructors would take us behind the scenes, through doors marked “Staff Only,” into rooms where the lights were dim and the air smelled faintly of dust, old paper and time.

I didn’t know it then, but

A large statue of William Penn guarded the entrance to the museum. those were the museum’s archives, the quiet heart of the building where history slept.

Some of those rooms thrilled me. Others ter-

rified me. I was always scared of the Native American exhibits — not because of anything in the museum itself, but because I had watched too many

1950s Lone Ranger episodes where “evil Indians” lurked behind every rock, waiting to scalp Clayton Moore. Childhood fears don’t always make sense, but they feel real enough when you’re standing in a dim hallway staring at a mannequin in full tribal regalia. I’d cling a little closer to the group, pretending I wasn’t nervous, pretending I wasn’t imagining the figure turning its head.

Still, I loved those classes. I loved the feeling of being trusted with something special. I loved the way the instructors spoke to us like we were capable of understanding big things — history, culture, the weight of objects that had survived long before we were born.

I remember I was devastated because I was sick and couldn’t attend the final class – although I don’t remember what it was The covered wagon seemed so much larger in person than on television shows of about. My mom got me into the time.

Photos Courtesy of PENNSYLVANIA STATE MUSEUM

another class so I wouldn’t miss the finale.

I also enjoyed stopping by the museum gift shop each time and buying a confederate or union soldier. And there was riding the magnificent escalator up to the second level.

Sometimes, we ate lunch in the museum cafeteria.

That escalator wasn’t just an escalator — it was a ride. It carried you upward behind a gigantic statue of William Penn, his bronze presence towering

like a guardian of Pennsylvania’s past, and in front of a sweeping mural that stretched across the wall like a storybook come to life. The whole ascent felt ceremonial, as if the museum were slowly revealing its secrets one floor at a time. Even now, decades later, I can picture the way the mural’s colors glowed under the lights and how Penn’s silhouette seemed to follow you as you rose.

See Museum / Page 9

INS URANCE AGE NCY

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­Lewistown, PA—9

I REMEMBER WHEN

Museum

Continued from Page 8

And then there was the Planetarium on the third floor — another favorite — where visitors of all ages could explore the universe through space and time.

The room would go completely dark and suddenly Earth’s night sky appeared above us, followed by tours of the Solar System, distant planets, stars, nebulae, galaxies and even the farthest edge of the observable universe. For a kid sitting in a padded seat on a summer afternoon, it felt like the cosmos had opened just for us.

Or my parents (Dad was more patient than Mom) would take me back through the museum to look at an exhibit again.

Dad would also be open to stopping at the old Kiddie City toy store in Camp Hill.

Another treasured stop in my past.

I would forgo purchasing an American soldier to grab a Mego superhero instead. They were a measly $4 back in the day. The shelves were filled with Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and so many others. I remember only needing a few more, but we moved to Maine at the start of my fourth-grade year and I never finished my collection.

That move felt abrupt in the way childhood moves often do — one moment you’re standing in a familiar aisle debating between Shazam and Aquaman, and the next you’re in a different state, a different school, a different life. I didn’t have the words for it then, but looking back, I can see how those small rituals — the museum visits, the gift shop soldiers, the Kiddie City superheroes — were anchors. They were the things that made the world feel steady.

Years later, I did stop by the museum. It was under renovation, so parts of it were closed, but visiting did bring back a lot of memories.

Walking through the building as an adult was like stepping into a dream where everything is familiar but slightly rearranged.

The echoes in the hallways sounded the same. The smell — that mix of cool air, old exhibits and faint cafeteria food — was exactly as I remembered.

Even the way the light filtered through the upper windows felt unchanged.

But the spaces themselves had shifted. Some exhibits were gone. Others were modernized. The escalator still rose behind William Penn, but the mural looked smaller somehow, as if my childhood eyes had stretched it wider.

I found myself slowing down in places where I used to rush, and rushing through places where I once lingered. That’s the strange thing about returning to childhood landmarks — you’re not just revisiting a place, you’re revisiting the person you were when you first walked through it.

I thought about those behind-the-scenes rooms, the ones that once felt forbidden and thrilling. I wondered whether the kids in today’s programs still get to see them, whether they still feel that same jolt of excitement when a staff-only door swings open.

I wondered if any of them are scared of the Native American exhibits the way I was, or if they’re braver, or if they’ve grown up with different stories that make the mannequins less frightening.

Mostly, though, I thought about my parents — about my mom finding a way to get me into another class when I was sick, and my dad patiently walking me through the same exhibits again and again. I didn’t re-

The Ecology Hall offered displays of different birds. alize then how much effort that took, how much time they gave up so I could stare at dinosaur bones or Civil War dioramas for the 10th time. Childhood is full of gifts you don’t recognize until much later.

The museum itself was one of those gifts. It taught me to love history, to appreciate the quiet power of objects that have survived long before us. It taught me that learning can feel like adventure, that curiosity is something worth following, that the world is bigger and older and more interesting than any one place we live.

And even though the museum has changed, and I have changed, the memories remain — vivid, warm, and stitched into the fabric of who I became. Every time I think of that escalator rising behind William Penn and in front of that mural, I’m right back there: a kid with a plastic soldier in his pocket, a head full of stories and a whole world opening up in front of him.

••• Greg Williams is a reporter and Weekend Editor for The Sentinel. A Mifflin County native, he has been writing for The Sentinel since 1991.

Photo Courtesy of PENNSYLVANIA STATE MUSEUM

10—Lewistown, PA

Friday, June 26, 2026

The Sentinel

I REMEMBER WHEN

Busy, fun-filled days of an active youthful summer KARI SWEIGART

Sentinel correspondent I was awakened with warm, golden hour rays of eastern sunrise shining through white linen curtains, gently ruffled by the morning breeze that carried the scent of honeysuckle and blackberries.

The dirt and grass-stained soles of my feet slid into my metallic silver jelly sandals, creating lasting criss-crossed diamond indentations over the tops of them. I adorned my neck, wrists and ankles with rainbow candy jewelry, and a fresh, multi-faceted grape Ring Pop on my tiny finger. I filled my pockets with packs of Fun Dip and Pop Rocks, along with Polly Pocket and a pack of Chiclets. I pulled my hair into a banana clip and applied fresh pink polka dots of Calamine Lotion to my skin, then off I went to fetch my breakfast: KoolAid (the “red kind”), strawberry Pop-Tarts and Count Chocula cereal.

Outside, the Pennsylvania air was already humid.

A thin white layer of fog crept over the glistening dew-covered lawn from the creek bed. Waiting for my brothers to awaken, I

crouched down, pulling fat, wriggling worms from the mud to use as tackle later, in case we couldn’t find a can of corn. Early morning bees worked over the clovers and tiny white moths flitted o’ertop the thistles.

The night before, the smell of petrichor permeated the air, and the sky hosted a plethora of grey monochromatic cumulonimbus clouds. Heat lightning crackled statically through the atmosphere, and raindrops trickled like a river down the rainspouts.

If there were storms on the horizon this morning, we would have to play inside. This meant sliding and climbing Chutes and Ladders, trudging through Molasses Swamp and Gumdrop Mountain in Candyland, and popping dice with the plastic dome in Trouble. We’d turn the cogs in Downfall, build empires in Risk and knock Sorry! pieces off the board.

We’d play tiddlywinks and pick-up-sticks, Lincoln Logs and fingerpaints.

Three-course meals would be made with Play-Doh, and civil wars would be started over Uno Draw Fours. We would build card castles and run through endless games of Go Fish, Old Maid and Skip-bo.

I’d gather my Jem dolls

and Barbies, along with her Corvette and Jeep that pulled a boat, as well as her horse, and trailer, and imagined all the places that we could travel to.

I’d invite the gal pals over to call up boyfriends on Dream Phone and go shopping in Mall Madness. We’d play hand-clapping games like Miss Mary Mack, and Miss Susie Had A Steamboat. Dance routines were performed to songs we recorded onto blank cassette tapes from the radio, as the hours and the rain passed by.

After the midday meal of Lunchables, Cheetos, Funyuns, Fruit Roll-ups, Snack Packs and Capri Sun, we’d finally head outside. All the neighborhood kids met at the spigot and we filled our Super Soakers and water guns with the hose, while also drinking from it and we placed fresh rolls and caps into our cap guns.

We bounced a rubber ball and collected jacks on the hot sidewalk, which we lined with hopscotch grids and sidewalk chalk art. We caught caterpillars and ladybugs, and created ecosystems inside Mason jars with grass and sticks.

We tied long ropes to trees and played Double-Dutch, chanting as we weaved and

hopped between them, ever so careful not to step on a crack (or it would break your mother’s back).

On particularly scorching days, the yellow runway of the Slip ’N Slide was spread down steep hill sides and we frolicked through lawn sprinklers.

Badminton marathons commenced until our feet were muddy, our hair and clothing stuck to our sweaty bodies and our skin was a patchwork of bug bites and sun. We cooled off in the creek while casting out a few lines, skipped rocks, caught crayfish and minnows and dared each other to go into “the deep end,” all while keeping a steadfast eye out for snapping turtles.

Summer evenings meant baseball games. Pooling all of our change, we stocked up on Chic-O-Sticks, Snickers bars and purple and red Swedish fish. Inside the little shack between the dugouts, we took turns announcing who was on deck and who was in the hole.

As we chewed wads of watermelon Bubblicious gum, blowing bubbles as big as our heads, we shared our Bazooka Joe comics. We changed the innings and tallied the score and the sun began to set over the lit-up scoreboard. Sunflow-

Decoration Day was always a day to remember JUNE GRAY

Mifflintown In our area of Philadelphia, Decoration Day (Memorial Day) was special to the people who lived there, everyone from baby to grandpa.

Everyone was decked out in red, white and blue. Every house had the flag colors, some from crepe paper.

There was even red, white and blue in the spokes of

bicycles. The colors were put on every wagon and little children couldn’t wait to get in. Some houses had a flag on a pole. My house had a smaller flag over the railing and we thought it was the best-dressed house in the country.

Big, small and in-between children came. Fire trucks and ambulances rolled down the highway.

People marched in their best Sunday clothes. We

were so proud of our Dad. He was a sailor. We cheered all the men and women who served but were so blessed to be home. My Dad had a real short leave and had to be at the railroad station because he had to go back.

Everyone marched up the avenue. Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, service men in all branches stopped at the gravel path that led to the cemetery. We were

hushed as we walked in on the gravel. The service was special. Even as a child, I knew what was being said.

“We have a great country and please help us appreciate that we live here.

God bless America.”

We all sang some favorite songs and listened to the prayers. Then there was a 21-gun salute and Taps.

A holy day in my memory.

er seed shells surrounded us like empty clams on a beach. If team Rotary beat team VFW, we indulged in a celebratory pint of blue Little Hugs drinks and puffed away on chalky candy cigarettes, blowing invisible sugar ringlets through the fence and across home plate.

We rode our bikes home, ramping curbs and popping wheelies through town. Silky corn husks littered the porch, and a large glass jar of amber-hued heirloom Kentucky Colonel Mint sun tea sat brewing. Through the kitchen window, we heard Mom boiling ears of corn on the stove and slicing tomatoes for sandwiches, cucumbers and onions for cucumber salad. Dad stood over the sink, hand-grinding ice and salt for homemade ice cream. Rainbow sprinkles, chopped peanuts and jars of cherries, pineapple sauce and Hershey’s syrup sat nearby on the counter.

A ring of angel food cake and a green paper bushel of fresh, hand-picked strawberries sat on top of the deep freezer.

We set the table and placed ice cubes inside empty Welch’s jam jars that were painted with the likes of Tom and Jerry, Snoopy and the Muppet Babies.

We said Grace, blessed the food and thanked God and our parents for all the hard work that they did to provide us with it. We ate together as a family, respectfully passing each other mayonnaise, bread, salt, pepper, sugar. We didn’t watch T.V. and we didn’t have cellphones or tablets to distract us. We shared stories about our day and laughed, our hearts and bellies full.

After everyone helped clean up, we all went out to sit a spell on the porch or in the yard. The sky turned from indigo to black and the stars shown like hyper white paint traversed across an endless easel.

Side by side on the porch swing, Dad with his loose tobacco pipe and Mom content with reading a book from the light of citronella candles, my brothers and I set out to catch lightning bugs, play flashlight tag and hide-and-go-seek in the dark. All was quiet, but for the gentle roar of the creek, a wailing pair of loons floating underneath the bridge, and the intermittent zap of the insect zapper, casting sudden neon purple shadows through the night.

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­Lewistown, PA—11

The Sentinel

I REMEMBER WHEN

Food, fellowship and the natural snacks of summer LYDIA W. COX Lewistown

My summer memories are not from the Mifflin or Juniata Counties. I didn’t know these counties existed until my family moved here when I was approaching my mid-forties some 30plus years ago.

The family I grew up in didn’t have any favorite or regular activities or traditions and only twice took a vacation that was more than a one day trip to another part of Pennsylvania. Only two of 12 cousins lived in Pennsylvania.

As the oldest child of my parents, I had occasions to meet more cousins that lived far away than my four siblings had, but only a few times in my lifetime.

Both of my parents were the youngest child in their family of origin, so most of my cousins were pre-teens or older by the time I came along, and at that age, even if my parents took a two to four hour trip one way to visit, those cousins were of an age to be heavily involved with sports, summer jobs or friends their own age rather than little kids they barely knew.

As a result, I don’t have fond memories of family reunions or repeated summer fun with cousins either. But I do recall one activity I enjoyed that was repeated several times over about three summers.

Two months after I turned 12, my parents moved our family of six to a nearby community within the same county, just outside Philadelphia.

It was one week before Christmas, and just two weeks before my youngest brother’s arrival made us a family of seven. I had one week in my new junior high before Christmas break, to try to meet new

classmates and get acclimated to new teachers, navigate to new classrooms in a new building. As a parent myself who moved just six weeks after my fourth child arrived, I now have a more compassionate understanding of the changes my parents and siblings were navigating, but at the time, I felt very lost and alone. Those feelings were still pretty much with me as that summer rolled around, but I had met two neighbor girls that were my age and rode the same bus to school.

My new home was more in the country, with a nearby golf course and farmers’ fields, some of which were being excavated for new homes. Our house was set in a wooded lot, with a small stream running from the 1700’s spring house across the street, under our street and into the woods behind our home.

As spring broke through the cold, icy winter, my oldest siblings and I began exploring the woods behind our home, and critters that resided in the creek. We learned that other children in the neighborhood were well acquainted not only with the wooded lot, but the delights it harbored for spring and summer snacking.

There were red and black wild cherry trees to climb and pick from, or to push thin branches lower for a companion to do the picking. There were sassafras seedlings that provided root beer flavored roots to chew on. There were wild raspberries and tiny wild strawberries. (The best place to fill a bucket with those was a half mile up the road around an old blue water tower.) As we wandered around mounds of dirt dug up for another new house in the development across the street,

we found huge carrots, turnips, onions and later, abandoned corn stalks still bearing ears of corn. About mid-summer, one of the neighbor kids introduced us to a driveway lined with a dozen or so varieties of apples. There were at least two of each kind of apple, one on each side of the curving driveway up to the former stone barn that had belonged to the 1700’s mansion and springhouse across the street from our home. The inhabitants of the barn-house had small children and busy lives that didn’t allow time for picking or doing anything with the apples, so they were delighted to have neighbor children climb trees and pick as many apples as we wanted. Every few weeks there was a different variety ready to try.

As fall approached, another neighbor had three kinds of pear trees that supplemented the apples.

He was not as generous with us, but if he was in a good mood and we asked nicely before picking, we could sometimes each have one or two pears.

Perhaps there were yet other prizes to find and consume, but there is only one more I clearly remember, that we didn’t gain access to until a year, maybe two, later. Another neighbor had a daughter about two years younger than me and the crew I’d gotten to know. As she reached near junior high age, her parents began to allow her to roam our haunts with us. She had three mulberry trees in her front yard, which became another stop in our seasonal hunt for treats. It was through spending time with her that I learned her family was Jewish, and because of that, her family was not allowed to join the local pool, or enter certain oth-

er establishments. She had reached an age where her parents knew they needed to allow her to make friends with non-Jewish youth and interact with neighbors. I was invited to go along to swim at a pool that was almost exclusively visited by Jewish people. It took us 45 minutes or so to get there.

None of the other private or community pools would allow them to join because of their faith. I also was introduced to some different foods as I was invited to stay for dinner sometimes.

So my “Remember When,” is tied to food, and fellowship, but not in the

sense of picnics and barbecues. Rather, as part of a pack of neighborhood youth roaming an area mostly within the equivalent of a few blocks to a quarter mile, in search of summer snacks. By the time I was about to enter high school (10th grade in that area then) most of us were finding other interests, but by then I had a three-year-old brother, and eight-year-old brother, with whom I could appear to be giving “science lessons” on occasion that just happened to result in fruits of the seasons.

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I REMEMBER WHEN

I Remember: August nights with family at the Vet MATT BOLICH

Sentinel advertising director As long as I can recall, we were a ‘Phillies family.’

My dad was a big sports fan, and Philadelphia Phillies baseball and Kentucky basketball were his two main teams to follow. My earliest sports memory is watching the 1980 Phillies World Series parade on TV. My sports “soundtrack” was punctuated by the home run calls of Phillies play-by-play broadcaster Harry Kalas and the dry humor of Richie “Whitey” Ashburn, both on the radio and television.

We lived in Northcentral Pennsylvania, so going to Phillies games regularly wasn’t possible, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t have one meaningful trip to Veterans Stadium (affectionately known as “The Vet”) annually. My mom was from Reading and my dad grew up in Chester County, so each August was reserved for a weeklong visit to both sets of my grandparents and the dreaded “back-to-school” shopping at the Reading Outlets. There was a lot of trying on blue jeans and shirts begrudgingly for me and my siblings but there was something to look forward to nonetheless- driving to Philly to see a ballgame.

My dad would look at the schedule in the newspaper or the annual Phillies yearbook and we’d discuss what team we wanted to see. Every August, the Phillies would have a homestand at Veterans Stadium with National League West teams visiting. I have fond memories of seeing great MLB stars from the 1980’s like Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn of the Padres, the Giants’ first baseman Will Clark or Cy Young award-winning

pitcher Mike Scott of the Houston Astros.

Part of the magic was the leadup to traveling to the “big city.” What route would we take? How long would we be stuck on the Schuylkill Expressway?

Should we buy a “Club” to put on our car’s steering wheel to deter thieves?

Since we grew up very modestly, my dad wasn’t going to buy us a bunch of overpriced concessions at the game. So we’d go shopping for snacks to take to the stadium since fans were allowed to bring food and coolers into the Vet. Here we come, Acme candy aisle!

For years, you could get tickets in the fabled 700 level of the Vet (the yellow seats) for four bucks and that was the only option our family ever opted to purchase. No club level or 100 level for this family.

Yes, it was the “nosebleed” section, but it never failed to feel special and incredibly fun. Sometimes, we’d get tickets for a twi-night doubleheader and get to see two games for one pricetalk about value. Usually just me and dad went to those games, since my mom and sister had no interest in getting to the Vet around 3 p.m. and staying ‘til the middle of the night when the final out of Game Two was recorded.

Since we were cheap, we also didn’t pay for parking in the Stadium parking lot.

That was for wealthy fools who wanted to be stuck in gridlock after the game. My dad would opt for on-street parking along Broad Street fun. We’d have to walk at a very brisk pace for blocks and blocks, dodging panhandlers and aggressive pretzel vendors, plus the occasional furious German Shepherd patrolling the fenced areas of the Philadelphia Naval Yard.

Submitted photo

Pictured are two of the Philadelphia Phillies souvenir programs saved by the author’s family from games attended over the years. The 1979 program (left) features Hall-of-Famer Steve Carlton and the 1992 program had a cover story on pitcher Curt Schilling.

We learned a valuable lesson at one August game, when we naively left our Igloo cooler and grocery bags at our seats while we went to the bathroom prior to the opening pitch. I guess that unattended red and white cooler was like a beacon, as said Igloo and all our precious snacks were gone when we came back, pilfered by an opportunistic “fan” who got to enjoy all our Doritos, Twizzlers, Tastykakes and meat sticks. My dad looked like someone had stolen his puppy when we realized what happened.

Looking back, even though we didn’t have the best seats, the posh parking and concessions, or even competitive teams in that era, I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

I don’t have my dad with me anymore, but I still have that memory of him and 10-year old me driving down the Blue Route toward Philly as we listened

to KYW 1060 AM for weather and traffic updates, stopping at Wawa on the way for a chocolate milk. I still remember going into the Vet on that overcast, dreary Sunday early afternoon, only to hear over the public address system that the game had been postponed due to rain. I can still en-

vision us glumly walking back down Broad Street to the car, disappointed to miss the game. We plopped in the car, and he looked over and said, “Well… we’ll just pick out another game.” And a smile came across my face at that moment then, and now.

••• Matt Bolich is the advertising director at The Sentinel since 2007 and a life-long fan of the Phillies, Eagles and 76ers. He will always choose the Phillies’ powder blues over any other jersey design.

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­Lewistown, PA—13

I REMEMBER WHEN

Sweet summer days of the early sixties at Greenwood MARGARET KODISH ZOOK Reedsville

In the past couple of years I have found myself returning to Greenwood Furnace State Park and sharing my childhood memories with my adult children. I also have brought visiting friends there to hike the different trails and it was a perfect place to take my brother, Buddy, during Covid times to eat a picnic lunch and just sit and take in the scenery. What keeps drawing me back to Greenwood is the natural beauty and the remembrance of those summer days in the early sixties when my family would pack up picnic supplies and head over the mountain to enjoy a simple afternoon swimming and hiking and eating the most

delicious hamburgers and fried potatoes made over the charcoal grill.

Dad was unemployed in the early sixties so there wasn’t money for real vacations. The summer Sundays at Greenwood were our times away from home. Driving the route through Big Valley, passing through Belleville and making that turn to the mountain road was full of anticipation. The majority of the time our family of six would load into the car for the outing and sometimes we had our next door neighbors trailing along in their car. Mom and Rena were coffee drinking best friends and Rena’s daughters, Vicki and Valerie, were best friends with my sister, Kathy, and me. Once there we claimed a grill and picnic table and then crossed the road to stake

out our spot in the grassy area with our towels and blanket. I think my mother must have disliked the sandy beach because I don’t recall ever situating our gear in the sand.

The cold mountain water of the swimming area never failed to take away your breath. It was best to just run and plunge in. Greenwood was where I learned to swim. I recall my father lifting me up and throwing me towards the deeper water near the buoys that marked the swimming area. I first doggie paddled my way back to him and eventually he taught me the freestyle stroke that I favor today. Dad excelled at swimming underwater.

He would look to see where we were in the water and then take a deep breath and swim underwater towards us to swim between

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our legs. He tapped our leg to let us know he was ready to swim through. There was the one time he inadvertently swam towards a woman that wasn’t one of us and she shrieked in surprise when he tapped her legs.

Hiking the trail on the other side of the swimming area and standing to watch the water sluice over the stone dam was always part of the day as well as exploring the shallows to find tadpoles. The beauty of the woods, the taste of burgers on the grill, the shock of the cold mountain water, hearing the laughter of family and friends and the smell of suntan lotion all remind me of those simSubmitted photo ple summer days at Greenwood.

From left, Rena, the author’s Mom (Helen) and Buddy on the blanket at Greenwood.

14—Lewistown, PA

Friday, June 26, 2026

The Sentinel

I REMEMBER WHEN

Summer family memories: Camping along the river DEB PRIEST

Yeagertown When I was growing up in Granville, we often went to the river to swim and/or cool down. One man would take his soap along and “take a bath.”

Things changed, of course, as people started renting spots at the river.

So my dad rented a spot for quite a few years in the 80s and 90s. So I remember a lot more years spending

time at the river. My three brothers and I spent time at the river with our kids.

Dad had a camper set up there and there was a fire ring set up and we would often cook hotdogs and marshmallows with sticks over the fire. Some of us would fish there. Dad had a flat bottom boat that was used for fishing. We had intertubes and would either just float. Sometimes we Submitted photos would float down the river From left, the author’s mother, Marian Cherry, Stanley Rothrock, and Brian Priest, on intertubes relaxing in the river. for a ways.

Above: From left, the author’s grandsons, Michael and Mark Priest, with their Pappy, James Cherry Sr., coming back from fishing.

Below: Brian Priest in the 1980s, cooking a hotdog or marshmallow over the fire ring.

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