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I want to put a blurb in our home web page about you bailing out and coming west during 3-mile island fiasco. Where were you living then, how long did you wait, etc? Did you stay here or where, etc. Dad Dad, Our home was just 16 mi. NE of the atomic power plant at Three Mile Island. Uh- I just saw part of a report about how bad it REALLY was and we were NEVER told. All that was on the radio 24 hours a day was dumb muzak, and no reports AT ALL about the emergency. That's really why we left - because Ray's mother back in Adamsville (8 mi. from Ohio line) was hearing a great deal more about our situation than we were! She heard about a bubble that was getting bigger - I have no idea if that was accurate - but we decided to leave after the second radiation release - maybe the second or third day? I can't recall exactly but I do know that I was on call at Harrisburg Hospital on surgical rotation both days of radiation releases. And all of the surgical residents were sending their families out of the area. As I was a med student and not really "staff" and not essential in any way, I felt I could take off, so we did. We drove straight north for a long time before veering west, trying to distance ourselves from it as quickly as possible. I think we stayed at Lofink's but Ray might remember better than I do. Love, Beck |
 | Bob and Amish boys relaxing |
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This "estate" is comprised of 6� acres with about a half acre of lawn surrounding the house and the remainder composed of old orchard and abandoned pasture. At one time we gardened about one-tenth of an acre. Tree seedlings were planted about the property , most of them thirty years ago. Nature abhors a vacuum which includes the very air above the planting sites. Look at those soft white pines and those straggly Scotch ones reaching for the sky. Look at those sharp-needled red pines and those lacey Larch pointing up from thirty feet up and still going. And those chipmunks must surely enjoy the black walnuts and Chinese chestnuts left to them by default each fall. Not needing much care and almost guaranteed of not getting much, the tasty blueberries are shared with hungry robins. Groundhogs and rabbits feed on the fresh-cropped lawn grasses. Wily whitetails are seldom spotted on this land but they must sample some of the new sapling growth when on their ghost trails. The cycle of life keeps turning. | |
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Urie D. and Dena Byler and family bought the 70 acres of land surrounding our plot.in the late 60s. Urie. who was basically a carpenter, designed and built their new house 400 feet from Orchard Road. One day, Barb, Amy & I went to Youngstown on a medical or shopping trip. A storm whipped up on our way home in the afternoon, By the time we arrived, the weather damage was apparent. A big limb from the maple tree had been ripped off and swiped the front porch. About twenty courses of bricks had been sliced off the side chimney and been impaled in the ground below. We believed we had been dealt real damage until we looked back at Byler's place and saw a giant pile of pick-up-sticks which had been the start of our neighbor's barn. This was their barn raising day when their Amish friends from all around had come to help build. They had the frame about completed and were almost ready to add roof and siding when the storm hit. All hands had run to the house to join the ladies who had been preparing food all day. Maybe it was well that so many crowded in the house, for they said that the wind almost moved it from its foundation. About thirty buggies were parked all over the farmstead area, but none seemed to have been toppled. Some of the horses, most of which had been hitched in the milking section, had been slightly injured by falling timbers. No sooner had the whirlwind passed when an inventory of unusable stock was taken. The list of needed replacements was brought to our house where an order was phoned in to the lumber company. The material was delivered early the next day and without a hiccup, the crew proceeded to complete the rural structure. A few years after moving in, we noticed that the former pasture looked rather scruffy. Wasn't there some economic way to keep the weeds down without resorting to mowing? It wasn't too much later that we had a scruffy goat to match the vegetation. Mr. Goat was staked under the old apple trees and we watched for esthetic improvements. After a week or so it was apparent that neither Mr. Goat nor his environs were looking better. In fact, our Son of Capricorn was losing sizeable patches of his coat. Bill, the vet, diagnosed the case as mange and supplied us with the appropriate salve to administer. The next Sunday , brother Ray and his family came up from Pittsburgh to visit us country folk. Nothing would do but to show brother the latest addition to our livestock. Ray was eagerly accompanied to the tall grass section to meet our four-hooved friend. And there in the abundant herbage lay Mr. Goat, dead as the proverbial doornail. After shock came laughter and after laughter came the work of providing our departed patient a decent burial. That grassy realm never was subdued but now supplies blackberries from the overgrowth. |
A 1790's STOCK EXCHANGE ?
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During the days following the Revolutionary War the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania gave parcels of land to those who had been in the military service. These plots were called "Donation Lands". An ancestor of Mr. W had established a local farm on such land. One day a former officer of the revolutionary army arrived from Philadelphia and asked the pioneer farmer to help him locate his property. The plot amounted to about 200 acres of mostly wooded country which adjoined the settler's farm. So the farmer did accompany the veteran soldier in inspecting his holdings. In doing so, the two became quite friendly. In going over the wild land, the men evidently used horses. The officer was very impressed by the fine riding horse of the agriculturist. As the officer was about to return to the east, he offered to trade his 200 acres for the steed. The farmer did not accept the offer. He stated that he truly needed that horse to carry him to Pittsburgh once or twice a year to get salt and other supplies for his use. Such was the relative value of things in those olden days. ARROW Another local story is told in this newspaper article from The Herald, Sharon, Pa., Tuesday, June 29, 1976: 'Hell's Hollow' named for Indian legend An old Indian legend that has left an unusual name for a Mercer County area is one of the few, if not the only, "ghost story" left by that race. It concerns "Hell's Hollow", a narrow gulch-like ravine, about a mile and half west of Mercer, on the old Sharon road leading off of present Route 62. It is in East Lackawannock Township. There is nothing particularly striking about this place itself, but it is interesting chiefly for the singular tradition that attaches to it. This tale was, that in the early times an Indian was killed by his pale-face brother and that ever since the shade (spirit) of the former, troubled and restive, has been unable to find peace in its happy hunting grounds. It returns each night to the scene of its taking off, where, in storm and tempest, its deep groans and wailing lamentations sound loud above the echo of the howling winds. Although the Indian isn't identified in either of two Mercer County histories, chances are he is Mohawk, the kleptomaniac who stole one of the early settler's horses. He, too, is referred to as "Lo" when he returned to a white man's farm after a year to pay a debt he owed for a puppy. One of the histories refers to the murdered Indian as "Lo". The superstitious, for many years, shunned the area because they believed Lo's spirit lingered lovingly around the spot where he was killed. On dark and stormy nights especially, the uneasy spirit flits around and makes hideous noises with his lamentations in the tongue of those who inhabit the happy hunting grounds. The New Old Order Amish After living among the Amish for several years, you get to know that they are much like any other group of people. Some observations: Not all of the younger folk stay with the order. Several years back, one youth was enticed by the trappings of the modern world. It might be that he eschewed the heavy farm work, so one summer he "turned English" and went to work driving truck. Things breezed along fine until one day in the dead of winter, he got his first haircut to conform to his new life pattern. After losing his longish locks for the first time since birth, he was heard to loudly complain that his ears had never been so frozen! As our Amish neighbors' kids were growing up, our phone was "borrowed" to call the pizza shop five miles away to have an order delivered. To use most of a day for their enjoyable endeavor, some Amishman have been known to hire taxis to take them to Shenango Lake, possibly 15 miles from their farms. After being left off, the cab drivers would be advised when and where to pick them up after their FISHING TRIP! Last week I noticed an Amish boy, about 10 years old, trying out a pair of skis in his barnyard. Lifting one arm attached to a ski pole (so to speak), he waved to me as I drove by, evidently quite happy in his lone pursuit. Relatedly, it was a few years earlier that my Amish farmer-neighbor stopped by to have me look up the availability and cost of snowshoes on the internet! On Sunday mornings, while driving to church, I sometimes see small groups of young Amish boys walking, always facing traffic, beside the road. They also are heading for religious services. As I near the group, I throw the 'truckers signal' of pumping my arm forcefully up and down, as if pulling apples from a tree. When I am spied doing this, some of the kids immediately respond in like manner with big grins on their faces. Great fun! |
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