Today I’m celebrating a birthday and so are you—if you’ve been reading me from the start. Ten years ago, in January 2010, I published my first Paris-Pottsville Connection. Back in December 2009 I stopped by the office of the Republican Herald on Mahantongo Street in Pottsville to meet with the then editor. I exposed my idea. He told me he’d give me a chance but in his opinion, it couldn’t be done.
No, it couldn’t be done. Readers in Schuylkill County would not be interested in what I had to say about France or connections between the anthracite region of Pennsylvania and the City of Light.
Ten years later, I’ve discovered—and I hope you have too—that there’s lots to say, the list of subjects seems endless, about Pottsville, France and other places in the world. No matter where you go, people are people, for better or for worse, and our common humanity and the joys and pains we share make life interesting everywhere.
I miss Pottsville and often think about the town. I also have my very personal connections, my sister Susan Hahner and her husband Bob, their daughter Sarah, her husband Darren DeArment and their little daughter Philomena. My sister Jane Graup and her family live in southern Schuylkill. Through them all, I keep a finger on the pulse of the region. Thanks to the Republican Herald, I keep up with what’s going on.
On recent visits, I’ve walked the Bartram Trail with my friend Father Bob Reiley. With my sister’s dog I’ve wandered along the banks of the Landingville Dam and the old Schuylkill Canal tow path. With Father Bob, I’ve also climbed to the top of Sharp Mountain to take in a panoramic view, north and south, of the rolling crests of the Appalachians, coal land to the north, agricultural valleys to the south. And I’ve admired that special winter beauty of Schuylkill County. I love the contrast of white birch trees with their red-tipped branches shivering against black culm banks.
In the summer, I think you’d have to travel to a tropical rain forest to find a place as lush. Oh, that high humidity! Trees drip with green and mist creates an aura over hills and valleys. The mosquitos love it, so do midges. I remember when I was a kid, we used to walk around with a stick of punk in our mouths, waving our heads from side to side to keep the bugs away.
It’s easy to feel nostalgic about the “good ol’ days,” back when Pottsville had a “real” downtown and its sidewalks were packed with shoppers. One of my games to ward off insomnia is to fill all the store fronts with the shops that existed when I was a child: Matt’s Kiddie Shop, Dimmerling’s for men, the Grace Shop for women, Mortimer’s Jewelers, Mister S, Knapp’s Leather Goods, Gittleman’s Shoes—I could go on and on.
I am an old-timer now and I have lots of memories. I even seem to remember the Mansion House, which once stood at Centre and Howard, across from the Episcopal Church. It was torn down to expand Sears Roebuck Department Store. Today it is a parking lot whose asphalt monotony is relieved by a bronze statue of Pottsville’s own John O’Hara, looking eternally dapper in the shade of a sycamore tree and some shrubs.
I wonder if I truly remember the Mansion House or has a photo seen in a book or in the Republican Herald (Schuylkill County Memories) tricked my memory? I love old hotels with second floor balconies. The Manion House had one. That’s where guests sat and rocked above the hubbub of all the goings-on on Centre Street.
My mother told me about all the excitement the day the circus came to town, arriving by train at the Reading Terminal on the Boulevard. The entire troupe would then march up Market Street, the broad feet of elephants stirring up the dust, giraffes straining their necks to grab a few leaves from trees along Garfield Square, lions and tigers roaring in their cages, excited children lining the route all the way. In the 21st century we’ve become kinder to animals (though not necessarily to humans) and many animal acts have been eliminated from circuses. Yet, remembering my mother’s stories, I wish I’d been at the parade.
I also remember my Alma Mater and the teachers who marked me. Anyone who went to PAHS back in my day remembers Mr. Robert Koslosky, our beloved art teacher. And all my English teachers counted for me. I was in the first class taught by Ms. Sherrill Silberling, who made English literature come to life. Only a year ago, I reconnected with my freshman English teacher, Ms. Phyllis Mass. She was more than a teacher to me. The year I was in her class, my father died. She stepped in and took care of me. In January 2019, we met after forty years and now I have a friend for life.
Dear, dear Pottsville. In large part I write these articles because I want to remain connected to you. I hope I have, and I hope faithful readers will continue reading in the years to come.
This month I’m writing my article early. When you read this, I will be in Bangladesh and believe it or not, there too I will be pursuing a Pottsville connection, visiting dear friends whom my sister Susan and my niece Sarah know. When I first arrived in Paris in 1991, I taught at a bilingual school. In January a new girl arrived in my class. Her name was Sarah, she was eleven years old, and she had just about the wisest eyes I’ve ever seen. I immediately became interested in her and we became friends.
At that time, Sarah’s father was the Bangladesh ambassador to France. Later he became ambassador to the United States. My sister and niece joined me on visits to Sarah’s home in Washington D.C. and we were treated like royalty, served delicious curries and other specialties of Bangladesh—and of the United States too, including a moist, delicious carrot cake.
Next month I’ll be writing about this Pottsville connection with Dhaka, Bangladesh. For the moment, I say “Happy Birthday” to you, to me, and may there be many more.
