Jul. 26—WILKES-BARRE — On a recent drive through the homeland — Plymouth, Pa. — I turned down Gaylord Avenue, and halfway down, I saw it — a Mister Softee truck.
The familiar music of my childhood was playing, and the purr of the generator keeping all the ice cream cold was pouring out of it.
And I wasn’t even in the Way Back Machine, yet I was transported back to the early 1960s, and I nearly stopped to get a milkshake.
And just a week later, the Mister Softee sojourn continued at The Cafe in Plains Township, where I found myself sitting across from Michael “Mickey” Waligorski, whose family had the first Mister Softee franchise in the area.
Waligorski was gathering with his classmates of the Plymouth High School Class of 1959 — a really fun group.
Waligorski told us about his father, who secured the rights to Mister Softee franchises in Pennsylvania and most of New York state. I still remember hearing Mister Softee’s music playing from blocks away, giving us kids enough time to convince our parents to give us money for a treat.
The Waligorskis secured their Mister Softee franchise in 1958, with multiple family members operating franchises and trucks across several generations.
When I talked with Waligorski, I told him about how my mother’s heart was filled with compassion for a mentally challenged kid who lived next door. His name was Chuckie.
Every summer day in our neighborhood, the Mister Softee ice cream truck would drive through, dispensing ice cream, milkshakes, sundaes, and smiles to kids in need of their daily sugar fixes. Every day, I would ask my mom for money to get a Mister Softee treat — my favorite was a chocolate milkshake.
My mother would always comply, but always with a condition — I first had to ask Chuckie what he wanted and get it for him. And I did — Chuckie would request his usual — a vanilla cone. Once I delivered that to Chuckie, then my mother gave me the necessary financing for my treat.
But it was a lesson learned, as was the case so many times with my mom. She taught me just about everything — to be kind to people, to respect people’s feelings, to listen, to help, to care. And to love her cooking — oh, how I long for her red vegetable soup with homemade noodles.
These were summer days, and school was out. I would go outside to see who was around. A few of my pals would be gathering on the corner of Reynolds and Second streets.
Sometimes, we would take a walk up Reynolds Street and head down to the creek that ran along the backyards of our houses.
We would go all the way up and then circle around until we came upon the big shovel that was moving mounds of dirt. Strip mining was big in those days. Little did we know the environmental damage that was being done.
We would return to our houses where our moms would prepare a delicious gourmet meal of sandwiches and soup for lunch. We might stick around and watch an episode of Leave It To Beaver, or Ozzie and Harriet before we would return to the street.
We would get up a game of stocking ball, using a “ball” fashioned out of old socks, sewn closed by my mom. We would use wooden bats and play a game in the street.
Sometimes we would seek the shade of my backyard for a game of Wiffle Ball. A ball hit on the lower roof was a double, on the top roof a triple and over the roof a home run.
Now, it was dinner time. Dad was home, and we would sit around the table and have a nutritious meal prepared by my mom — the best cook in the world. Dad would say, “So what did you do today?” I would leave out the Wiffle Ball in the backyard because he knew I had a Little League game at 6 p.m.
After dinner, I would put on my Little League uniform and jump in Dad’s car and head to Wadham Street for my game. My mom and my Aunt Betty (Dad’s sister) were working the refreshment stand with their friends — most with kids on the teams.
The Plymouth Little League field was spectacular — a wooden fence surrounded the diamond and advertising signs were painted on each section. The field sat behind Huber Field, home of the Plymouth High School Shawnee Indians football team.
These were the good old days for sure.
And Mister Softee was always there.
Reach Bill O’Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle.