There’s nothing like the Christmas season in a small town. It’s a large part of what makes me nostalgic for the Bedford of my youth. The sights, the sounds, the feelings all combine to make the season special and hard to duplicate.
My extended family lived many hours away from Bedford, so we spent very few Christmas mornings in town. But aside from Christmas Eve and Christmas day, we were rarely out of town for the month of December.
With Hallmark stores displaying the holiday ornaments as early as June and advertisements pushing their holiday sales in September and October, it may seem that Christmas preparation takes up half of the year prior to that special late December day. But, for me, the season always began right after Thanksgiving.
The people I’ve met from all over find it odd that we would have the Monday after Thanksgiving off from school. I’d explain that it’s just one of those holidays primarily celebrated in rural areas. As a non-hunter, I appreciated the hunters who forced our school district to make the “First Day of Buck” and the “First Day of Doe” seasons into official holidays. Having two four-day week leading up to Christmas vacation was never something that I took for granted.
Even if it weren’t for the day off from school, you always knew Christmas was on its way when the lights were illuminated on Evitts Mountain. Our house sat near the base of the mountain and faced uphill. Walking out our front door any December evening, we could clearly see Santa and his reindeer or the word “NOEL” lit up in brilliant incandescent light.
Arriving downtown on Richard or Juliana Streets, we were greeted by with more lighted figures hanging from the light posts. Bells and snowflakes provided a festiveness with or without snow falling or people walking along the sidewalks.
As the years pass, it always seems that snow was falling “back in my day.” Salt ground into the streets and snow pushed into mounds provided the white aura to the whole town. Our “white Christmas” was always there; at least it is in memories. There were those oddly warm Christmases with us playing outside in shorts, but those times seem obscured by the big fluffy flakes landing on the tongues of tightly bundled children shuffling along the streets in their winter boots.
It was on those sidewalks along Juliana and Pitt Streets that the real feeling of Christmas emerged. Women wrapped in long coats with knitted scarves and hats ducking in and out of stores as they shopped for just the right presents always gave friendly greetings as they pass. Men dutifully cleared the driveways and sidewalks so that Chip Engle and Lola Felton and Dave Koury could offer their wares. Bill England and Dick Letrent were waiting at the pharmacist’s counter for those of us who didn’t handle the cold weather as well as most. And the snow continued to fall.
My earliest memory of solo Christmas shopping has me scouring the selection at Murphy’s for just the right record to fit my friends’ tastes. With a school child’s meager budget, I was forced into the “cut-out” bin where leftover records were on sale for two or three dollars each. As proud as I was of the effort that went into those choices, the end result was a more thoughtful gift than I provide as an adult today, even if they don’t remember what the gift was.
Today, going to the mall or shopping online misses most of the fun. We run into far few people we know at the mall and when was the last time you saw someone you knew at Amazon.com? Never one to appreciate getting clothes for Christmas, I’d take an entire holiday of shirts and pants to experience Christmas shopping in downtown Bedford again. And to see the lights on Evitts Mountain again would be worth trading all of my toys for another pair of boring khakis.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Fall Foliage Festival
In my youth, there were three dates that were always marked on my calendar. The Northern Appalachian Craft Festival in the spring meant watching the legendary bed races. The Great Bedford Fair had me spending much of the week either on the midway or manning the 4-H building. And after the start of school darkened my life, the lights began to brighten again with the Fall Foliage Festival.
Each of these activities drew my friends and I like moths to a candle as we rode our bikes downtown. As young boys, we weren’t too impressed by the handiwork of the talented craftspeople lining Juliana and Penn Streets. A little more of interest to us was the delicious food and drinks like the pulled pork sandwiches and fresh apple cider…oh, and the smells that go along with them that hung like a mouth-watering cloud across the Square.
For a car buff like me, the biggest draw has always been the Fall Foliage Festival’s antique car parade. My neighbor Dr. Gordon always led the parade carrying Miss Pennsylvania in the back of his Ford Model T. And with the Bedford Elks basically in my backyard, walking down to see the cars before the parade was probably the highlight of every year into high school.
Over the years, I met dozens of car owners and even hitched rides in the parade a number of times. Sometimes the cars were owned by friends like Dr Gordon’s Packard (driven by my father), sometimes they were people my folks knew like Bob Foor and his classic rumble seat Ford (with me seated between his daughters), and sometimes they were people I met just that morning like the Keggs and their beautiful ’57 Studebaker Golden Hawk. No matter who was there and whether or not I was in the parade, the cars were great and the people were friendly.
After I left Bedford, I still returned almost every year for the Festival and usually during the antique car parade weekend. But as the years have passed, I’ve come to notice that fewer and fewer locals show up to enjoy the activities. Granted, Fall Foliage pulls in thousands of people who would not otherwise visit our little burg, but the small inconvenience of the crowds is outweighed by the chance to run into someone you haven’t seen in ages. And seeing locals has become more important to me than the parade that I still hold dear.
Usually the only people we meet downtown are the few people we’ve previously planned to see. Our core group of friends knows that we’ll be in for the Festival, but the serendipity of seeing a former teacher or neighbor or classmate always brings out the kid in us like finding a surprise gift under the tree at Christmas. I fear that the locals may have lost excitement for the Festival that I once had as a kid.
My love of the Fall Foliage Festival (and Bedford in general) reemerged a few years ago when we were staying at the newly-opened Bedford Springs. Meeting some visitors one October afternoon, the couple asked me, as a former local, what there was to see and do in Bedford. I was shocked that they had come to Bedford during Fall Foliage and didn’t know about the event! I immediately directed them into town. “You can’t miss it,” I explained.
Yet, many of my former neighbors miss it every year. Oh, they might stop by for a moment or two after church on Sunday morning, before the big crowds arrive, but it’s seeing the people that is a big part of the experience. Hopefully this year, you’ll take the time in the middle of a Saturday and walk downtown. Reconnect with some people you haven’t seen in a while. Maybe even meet someone new. Perhaps even getting to ride with them in their 1957 Studebaker. It could happen.
Each of these activities drew my friends and I like moths to a candle as we rode our bikes downtown. As young boys, we weren’t too impressed by the handiwork of the talented craftspeople lining Juliana and Penn Streets. A little more of interest to us was the delicious food and drinks like the pulled pork sandwiches and fresh apple cider…oh, and the smells that go along with them that hung like a mouth-watering cloud across the Square.
For a car buff like me, the biggest draw has always been the Fall Foliage Festival’s antique car parade. My neighbor Dr. Gordon always led the parade carrying Miss Pennsylvania in the back of his Ford Model T. And with the Bedford Elks basically in my backyard, walking down to see the cars before the parade was probably the highlight of every year into high school.
Over the years, I met dozens of car owners and even hitched rides in the parade a number of times. Sometimes the cars were owned by friends like Dr Gordon’s Packard (driven by my father), sometimes they were people my folks knew like Bob Foor and his classic rumble seat Ford (with me seated between his daughters), and sometimes they were people I met just that morning like the Keggs and their beautiful ’57 Studebaker Golden Hawk. No matter who was there and whether or not I was in the parade, the cars were great and the people were friendly.
After I left Bedford, I still returned almost every year for the Festival and usually during the antique car parade weekend. But as the years have passed, I’ve come to notice that fewer and fewer locals show up to enjoy the activities. Granted, Fall Foliage pulls in thousands of people who would not otherwise visit our little burg, but the small inconvenience of the crowds is outweighed by the chance to run into someone you haven’t seen in ages. And seeing locals has become more important to me than the parade that I still hold dear.
Usually the only people we meet downtown are the few people we’ve previously planned to see. Our core group of friends knows that we’ll be in for the Festival, but the serendipity of seeing a former teacher or neighbor or classmate always brings out the kid in us like finding a surprise gift under the tree at Christmas. I fear that the locals may have lost excitement for the Festival that I once had as a kid.
My love of the Fall Foliage Festival (and Bedford in general) reemerged a few years ago when we were staying at the newly-opened Bedford Springs. Meeting some visitors one October afternoon, the couple asked me, as a former local, what there was to see and do in Bedford. I was shocked that they had come to Bedford during Fall Foliage and didn’t know about the event! I immediately directed them into town. “You can’t miss it,” I explained.
Yet, many of my former neighbors miss it every year. Oh, they might stop by for a moment or two after church on Sunday morning, before the big crowds arrive, but it’s seeing the people that is a big part of the experience. Hopefully this year, you’ll take the time in the middle of a Saturday and walk downtown. Reconnect with some people you haven’t seen in a while. Maybe even meet someone new. Perhaps even getting to ride with them in their 1957 Studebaker. It could happen.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Behind Every Good Man…
Almost twenty years ago in these pages, I eulogized my father. He was a great man, loved by many, and feared by many others (primarily, his children and the boys who dared date his daughter).
When we lose such great people, a good number of great people are left behind to carry on. These people do not get the credit for their on-going efforts until their untimely passing, which is sad. My father died of cancer at the ripe old age of 59, only eight months after he retired from 37 years of service to the Pennsylvania State Police and 29 years of marriage to my mother.
This story starts with my mother. Well, my mother and all of the women left behind by the passing of a “good man.”
My mother (along with my father) raised two kids and helped raise dozens others. Following the death of my father, Mom put our house up for sale and, two years later when it actually sold, she moved to be closer to her family. Her family included her 91-year-old mother who had lost her husband a decade earlier.
These two widows starting me thinking about all of the widows that I know, and all of the children who miss their fathers.
Of my Bedford friends alone, we have lost Dr. Charles Griffiths, Donald Anderson, Rodrick Himmler, David Koury, Blaine Barron, and Martin McGowan. All of them left behind a great woman or five. Sure, there were guys left behind, but as “men” we’re not really allowed to grieve or even really notice the passing of loved ones. So it’s the women who are left to pick up the pieces, take care of everyone, and move on with their lives.
Each of these men played a prominent role in my life and yet I don’t think I ever really took stock of what I lost. I played the male role of making sure that the people directly related to the lost loved one had their needs filled and that the family knew that they could count on me if they needed anything further.
As “men,” we assume that everyone near and dear to us knows how important they are. We don’t tell them that we love them or that we appreciate what they’ve done for us, and then they’re gone. All that’s left for us to do after that is to hug the remaining family, ask “is there anything I can do for you,” make an appearance at the funeral, and return to life as normal.
But no more. The recent passing of James Petrarca was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Karen Petrarca, her four children, their spouses, their children, and anyone else who knew Jim are on notice that his passing is a loss to all of us.
Jim and Karen made me feel like family. He provided a truck for me to move to college. He bought a car from me during my brief and unsuccessful attempt as a car salesman. He proudly showed off his post-retirement project cars when I’d come to visit. He and Karen even graciously provided my wife and me with a place to stay last year even though Jim was sick. They’ve been more than friends…they’ve been extended family.
Why should you care to read about the loss of this one man? Because you should take up the same cause as I have. You should make sure that everyone in your life…family, friends, anyone of significance to you…knows just how you feel. Little things like a heartfelt hug the next time you see them. Let your loved ones actually know that you love them…in so many words. You’ll never know when that will be the last time you speak.
I can still recall the September evening when I walked out of Bedford County Memorial Hospital in 1992 when the last words spoken from my father were “I love you.” And I know I never properly said goodbye to any of the other men mentioned here. That ends now. Join me in letting the “good men” and “great women” in our lives understand what they mean to us! When they’re gone, you’ll wish you had.
When we lose such great people, a good number of great people are left behind to carry on. These people do not get the credit for their on-going efforts until their untimely passing, which is sad. My father died of cancer at the ripe old age of 59, only eight months after he retired from 37 years of service to the Pennsylvania State Police and 29 years of marriage to my mother.
This story starts with my mother. Well, my mother and all of the women left behind by the passing of a “good man.”
My mother (along with my father) raised two kids and helped raise dozens others. Following the death of my father, Mom put our house up for sale and, two years later when it actually sold, she moved to be closer to her family. Her family included her 91-year-old mother who had lost her husband a decade earlier.
These two widows starting me thinking about all of the widows that I know, and all of the children who miss their fathers.
Of my Bedford friends alone, we have lost Dr. Charles Griffiths, Donald Anderson, Rodrick Himmler, David Koury, Blaine Barron, and Martin McGowan. All of them left behind a great woman or five. Sure, there were guys left behind, but as “men” we’re not really allowed to grieve or even really notice the passing of loved ones. So it’s the women who are left to pick up the pieces, take care of everyone, and move on with their lives.
Each of these men played a prominent role in my life and yet I don’t think I ever really took stock of what I lost. I played the male role of making sure that the people directly related to the lost loved one had their needs filled and that the family knew that they could count on me if they needed anything further.
As “men,” we assume that everyone near and dear to us knows how important they are. We don’t tell them that we love them or that we appreciate what they’ve done for us, and then they’re gone. All that’s left for us to do after that is to hug the remaining family, ask “is there anything I can do for you,” make an appearance at the funeral, and return to life as normal.
But no more. The recent passing of James Petrarca was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Karen Petrarca, her four children, their spouses, their children, and anyone else who knew Jim are on notice that his passing is a loss to all of us.
Jim and Karen made me feel like family. He provided a truck for me to move to college. He bought a car from me during my brief and unsuccessful attempt as a car salesman. He proudly showed off his post-retirement project cars when I’d come to visit. He and Karen even graciously provided my wife and me with a place to stay last year even though Jim was sick. They’ve been more than friends…they’ve been extended family.
Why should you care to read about the loss of this one man? Because you should take up the same cause as I have. You should make sure that everyone in your life…family, friends, anyone of significance to you…knows just how you feel. Little things like a heartfelt hug the next time you see them. Let your loved ones actually know that you love them…in so many words. You’ll never know when that will be the last time you speak.
I can still recall the September evening when I walked out of Bedford County Memorial Hospital in 1992 when the last words spoken from my father were “I love you.” And I know I never properly said goodbye to any of the other men mentioned here. That ends now. Join me in letting the “good men” and “great women” in our lives understand what they mean to us! When they’re gone, you’ll wish you had.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Background
I spent 20 years trying to get out of this place
I was looking for something I couldn't replace
I was running away from the only thing I've ever known
Like a blind dog without a bone
Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home” sums up the idea for many of us ex-Bedfordians. From early on, we all decided that there had to be something outside the borders of Bedford County. Like most of my classmates, we couldn’t wait to graduate and get out of town.
Those of us who “escaped” usually felt bad for the ones we left behind. It felt like we were getting out of jail but our buddies hadn’t received the same pardon. Sure, we could go back and visit but it was still like returning out of pity. That’s the way it looked initially.
In my case, the seeds of my envy of those “left behind” started when I was in college. While attending Altoona Campus of Penn State (along with 9 or 10 other members of my graduating class), we found Altoona just as boring for the under-21 crowd as we remembered Bedford. So what did we do to entertain ourselves and our new friends? We took road trips…to Bedford.
Yes, car loads of college kids would drive down to Bedford from “the big city” to find entertainment. Whether it was to visit our old teachers during the day or to surreptitiously pop into the Friday night dances at the Roll Arena, we found Bedford more interesting than the much larger city of Altoona.
So after graduation from college, I moved…back home with Mom and Dad. I took a few jobs including selling cars and painting parts for Hedstrom. But I still clamored to get out of town. The final escape would arrive about a year after leaving Penn State. My connections to my hometown were never completely severed. Even with the death of my father. Even with my sister and my mother each moving out of town. Somehow, Bedford has always been “home” for me.
And many of my childhood friends feel similarly. I have classmates who went to great universities and lived in big cities. Most of them have made new homes elsewhere but a substantial number of them have returned. The trappings of 24-hour cities and corporate coffeehouses on every corner appeal to many but many more see the benefits of knowing your neighbor…and your neighbor knowing you.
A famous book was titled “It Takes a Village” and Bedford could have been the model for that village. My parents were the strongest influences on me growing up, but there were dozens of other residents of Bedford who did their part, big and small, to help raise me.
Bedford is small town Pennsylvania. It is small town America. For good and bad. I hope to relay many of my personal stories as well as the stories of others who grew up or raised their family in and around Bedford County. In these stories, we can all see parts of ourselves. The memories may be important, but it’s what we’ve learned and how we’ve passed the lessons on to others that became invaluable.
I was looking for something I couldn't replace
I was running away from the only thing I've ever known
Like a blind dog without a bone
Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home” sums up the idea for many of us ex-Bedfordians. From early on, we all decided that there had to be something outside the borders of Bedford County. Like most of my classmates, we couldn’t wait to graduate and get out of town.
Those of us who “escaped” usually felt bad for the ones we left behind. It felt like we were getting out of jail but our buddies hadn’t received the same pardon. Sure, we could go back and visit but it was still like returning out of pity. That’s the way it looked initially.
In my case, the seeds of my envy of those “left behind” started when I was in college. While attending Altoona Campus of Penn State (along with 9 or 10 other members of my graduating class), we found Altoona just as boring for the under-21 crowd as we remembered Bedford. So what did we do to entertain ourselves and our new friends? We took road trips…to Bedford.
Yes, car loads of college kids would drive down to Bedford from “the big city” to find entertainment. Whether it was to visit our old teachers during the day or to surreptitiously pop into the Friday night dances at the Roll Arena, we found Bedford more interesting than the much larger city of Altoona.
So after graduation from college, I moved…back home with Mom and Dad. I took a few jobs including selling cars and painting parts for Hedstrom. But I still clamored to get out of town. The final escape would arrive about a year after leaving Penn State. My connections to my hometown were never completely severed. Even with the death of my father. Even with my sister and my mother each moving out of town. Somehow, Bedford has always been “home” for me.
And many of my childhood friends feel similarly. I have classmates who went to great universities and lived in big cities. Most of them have made new homes elsewhere but a substantial number of them have returned. The trappings of 24-hour cities and corporate coffeehouses on every corner appeal to many but many more see the benefits of knowing your neighbor…and your neighbor knowing you.
A famous book was titled “It Takes a Village” and Bedford could have been the model for that village. My parents were the strongest influences on me growing up, but there were dozens of other residents of Bedford who did their part, big and small, to help raise me.
Bedford is small town Pennsylvania. It is small town America. For good and bad. I hope to relay many of my personal stories as well as the stories of others who grew up or raised their family in and around Bedford County. In these stories, we can all see parts of ourselves. The memories may be important, but it’s what we’ve learned and how we’ve passed the lessons on to others that became invaluable.
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