WILKES-BARRE — One of the most memorable trips of my life was to Oklahoma in 1997.
I had reasons for wanting to go there — my childhood hero, Mickey Mantle, grew up in Commerce, OK, and I always wanted to visit his hometown.
So in 1997, I decided to visit my friend Leeland Alexander and his wife, Diane, in Tulsa, but the trip became much more than Tulsa.
I met Leeland when we were in the first — and only — class of Leadership USA. It was a great program, but lack of funding led to its non-perpetuation.
Anyway, Leeland invited me out to Tulsa, and I decided to make the trip.
We decided to head to Oklahoma City, where on April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh committed his evil act — a truck bomb ripped through the Murrah Building, killing 168 people, including many children.
Leeland and I visited the Murrah Building site, and the first thing we noticed was “the tree” — now known as “The Survivor Tree.” It stood green and proud amid broken windows, fallen walls, and emptiness — all caused by that bomb — evil Timothy McVeigh’s bomb.
The tree still stands across the street from where the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building once stood until McVeigh pulled a Ryder truck in front, set the timer on the bomb, and walked away to his getaway car.
And what he did is impossible to comprehend, much less understand, until you visit the site in Oklahoma City. Only then do you really know the extent of McVeigh’s evilness.
For two blocks to the left, the right, and across the street, there was devastation. Sidewalks and structures held the scars of that April, 19, 1995, blast. Some 25 buildings were lost along with those 168 innocent lives.
What remained was nothing, really. Boarded-up windows, smashed glass, fallen bricks and mortar, shattered families, and a devastated morale of a once-proud city.
And that American elm tree — “The Survivor Tree.”
With all the devastation and damage in every direction, the tree somehow miraculously survived.
Why the tree lived through the blast is hard to explain. The tree has become the symbol of what McVeigh could not kill — the survivors, the families, the country, and the memories of the victims themselves.
Leeland and I were on a mission — we wanted to visit Commerce, Mickey Mantle’s hometown.
First, we found “Mutt Mantle Field,” the Commerce Little League field named after Mickey’s dad, and where Mickey played.
Then we visited Mickey’s childhood home on Quincy Street. A young boy was on the front porch, and I asked him if this was the home where legendary New York Yankee Mickey Mantle grew up.
“Yes, sir,” said the boy. “Would you like to come inside?”
We asked if the boy’s parents were at home, and he said his daddy was, so he went and got his father, and we were invited in to see the house.
We actually stood in Mickey’s bedroom, and I decided to say a prayer — Mickey had died two years prior.
“It’s my room now,” the boy said.
This really was a day I will never forget.
Some years later, while driving through my old neighborhood, I stopped at 210 Reynolds St. and knocked on the door.
My cousin, Donna, lives there now, and she invited me in. And so, I entered my past.
The house was still the same — yes, the house had been remodeled and looked absolutely great, but the dimensions of each room remain the same.
When I walked through the front door, I stood in what we always referred to as “the front room.” We had a couch, a chair, a console record player/radio, and windows on two walls.
Next was the living room — I could feel the emotion building as I recalled the turquoise recliner that my mom sat in every day, watching TV with Dad and me. I could hear her laugh again. I could also see our couch where Dad and I would sit. I could see the Admiral black and white TV in the corner with rabbit ears on top.
On we went to the kitchen, where I envisioned our big coal stove, our refrigerator, and our kitchen table. This is where Mom would serve the most delicious meals, and it was also where we all would make kielbasa, pierogi, and more.
The bathroom is still in the same place, but much more modern than when we were there. Mom also had her washing machine in there next to the bathtub. I remembered Dad shaving in the mirror and then splashing Old Spice on his face.
Our spare room off the kitchen served two purposes back in my day. When I was very young, my mom’s brother, Uncle Chet Bodzio, stayed in that room. I learned so much from him.
After Uncle Chet moved out, the room became my rec room, with a pool table, a platform with a slot car track on it, and a basketball arena.
The final two stops were my Mom and Dad’s room and then my old room.
When I entered my room, I immediately recalled smelling the fragrant lilac trees that grew outside. I also remembered my closet, where I saved the pants I wore when I ran to see John F. Kennedy as his motorcade drove through Plymouth.
Quite a trip down Memory Lane.