By Richard Mabey Jr.

There is in each and every one of us, deep within the core of our hearts, the gentle whispering call of a time gone by, of places that are but now ghostly ethers. But deep in the fiber and marrow of bone, residing in the heart’s deepest chamber, held dearly to our inner being, is the dearest memories of childhood and youth. And, who we are and what we stand for, was formed with the help of a hundred and one people. For myself, my two dear friends from my old neighborhood, my brothers in spirit, gave to me the gift of encouragement when I was so deeply questioning my talents and abilities.

George Yost lived directly across the street from me, when I lived on old Route 202 in Lincoln Park. And, Joseph Manicone, lived to the left hand side of George, diagonally across the street from me. To say that the three of us were neighbors, doesn’t really quite define it. To say that we were friends, still does not really fully convey it. For the most part, we were like brothers. In fact, I think that we were closer than a lot of biological brothers are.

We fell in love with the same neighborhood girls. But never allowed it to divide to us. We were blessed with a certain degree of intelligence, yet still struggled through some of our classes, and struggled with some of the stricter teachers we had. We weren’t poor, but we were by no means wealthy. We grew up in Christian homes, with hard working fathers and loving mothers. 

The lay of the land, the unique geographical qualities of our little corner of the world, played an important role in our growing up. To the south lied the monumental Hook Mountain. To the north lied the sloping valley, the acres and acres of wooded land, the sacred path that led to the old Morris Canal and then across the canal, stretched out to the east and to the west, the long line of railroad tracks. Then, across the railroad tracks, stood the hundreds of proud apple trees, gleaming and shining with the harvest of red and yellow apples, calling up to reach up and take hold and bite into. 

Atop Hook Mountain, just a bit to the east, was the vastly wonderful Lilly Pond. And there, just off of the western shore of the Lilly Pond, was the mysterious Adams Log Cabin. It was an abandoned cabin that was said to be haunted. And, as kids we developed a certain respectful awareness that Old Man Adams’ cabin may well have been haunted. We just weren’t taking any chances.

Summer days were filled with the joy and splendor of playing baseball upon Earl’s Meadow, which was a very large open field that lied on the right-hand side, at the end of Mabey Lane. It was so named Earl’s Meadow because it was the open field upon which my Great Uncle Earl had planned on building a home, when he returned from France, fighting in World War I. Sadly, Great Uncle Earl was killed in battle.

We were the leaders of the rest of the neighborhood boys. It was not something that we consciously sought. It was more like something that was granted unto us by Divine Wisdom. Whenever we would start to play baseball in Earl’s Meadow, a dozen or more boys our age would magically appear. Some coming from across the woods from Clover Lane and Long View Drive. Some would come from the woods, from their homes that were aligned with the Towaco ribbon of Route 202. And still other boys would come forth from the forest, from the little village of migrant farm workers that once abounded along the westerly section of the old Morris Canal in the area of the remains of Incline Plane Ten East.

During the days of Summer, George, Joey, and myself would often ride our bicycles down to Moe’s Sweet Shop. We used to have wired baskets in the front of our bikes. We would fill them with old soda bottles that we found in the woods. Moe would give you two cents for every soda bottle. Back then just about every soda company charged a two-cent deposit on every bottle of their bubbly refreshment. 

We would cash in the old soda bottles and buy Milky Ways, Three Musketeers and Baby Ruth candy bars. Outside of Moe’s Sweet Shop, we would use our pen knives to cut each different candy bar into thirds, so that we would all have a feast of three different candy bars to delight our palates. 

We built tree forts in our backyards. We even built tree forts in the woods. We used to have all-day marathons of playing our favorite game boards of Monopoly and Risk. We read comic books beneath the shade of the maple, elm, and oak. We collected baseball cards. We always debated whether the ink that got stuck onto the slab of bubble gum, that came inside the waxed wrapper of the baseball cards, was dreadfully harmful to your digestive system. 

We flipped baseball cards against the concrete foundations of the lower outside wall of the basement of our homes. We put the baseball cards, that we had as doubles, inside the spokes of the back wheel of our bicycles. We would hold them in place with clothespins. We had this joyous love of life, we relished each and every day of Summer. Deep in the crevices of our hearts, we knew that someday it was all going to fade away, that time was going to steal our magical childhood and youth. 

The three of us still do keep in touch with emails and telephone calls. There is a bond of brotherhood that still ties us together. Roughly 60 years have passed since our days of being free spirited boys, filled with adventure, wonder, and magic. Yet, they still live on in our hearts and minds. In all so many ways, we were closer than a lot of biological brothers are.  

Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@hotmail.com. Please put on the subject line: My Life Publications.