A Transplant in Bedford

I was about 4 when my family moved to Bedford; far too young to have a sense of a “hometown” for myself. Because of this, my suburban Harrisburg first home has become a footnote in my life and Bedford became my adopted hometown. It’s where my memories begin, where my personality developed, where I learned all of the basics that have become the man that I am today.

In many ways, Bedford is every bit the stereotypical small town, but I have only learned this from others. To me, Bedford combines everything I wanted to get away from as a child and almost everything I desire as an adult and a parent. Others, however, gave me a different image of this town.

The crowd with which my parents socialized were, for the most part, transients. The men usually were mid- to high-level executives with Hedstrom or Kennametal or Standard Register who brought their families to Bedford from other corporate offices across the country. Sometimes they stayed for a few months or a few years. I never got close with any of their children because you just never knew when they’d leave town. I never treated them like strangers, but I didn’t embrace them either.

As a transplant, I was never made to feel like an outsider by anyone. My best friend’s mother once told me that, because she moved into town as an adult, she felt like a foreigner. Even though she lived in Bedford for more than 20 years and raised her kids there, she never quite thought of herself as begin at home.

Maybe it was the fact that my father was part of the social network of town as soon as we moved to Bedford because of his job. Maybe it was because my parents were outgoing and social people who attended dances and joined bridge clubs and met some very friendly and connected people.

My friend’s mother, once the kids were grown with families of their own, moved away. It seemed sad that she never felt like she fit in but would be better off had she returned to her “hometown.”

Until the day my mother moved from Bedford nearly 23 years after moving to town, I was a resident of Bedford. Oh, I might have “lived” in Camp Hill or Manayunk or Norristown, but my driver’s license said “Bedford, Pennsylvania.” My mechanic was at East End Texaco. My job references had “623” phone numbers. My dentist, the woman who cut my hair, and my insurance agent all lived in Bedford. I had taken to Bedford and felt that Bedford had taken to me.

A few years after she left, Bedford accepted my friend’s mother back to town. It should have happened three decades earlier, but I’m glad it finally happened at all. You can take the person out of Bedford, but, like the saying goes, you can’t take the Bedford out the person.