On the Edge of “The Cliff”

Growing up in a small town brings many memories for people who write books about it. Sherwood Anderson did that in his collection of short stories concerning life in a small town: Winesburg, Ohio. I might do that some day.

But just now I want to talk about Tyrone, Pennsylvania, where I grew up. There’s a place — now called “the bluffs” — a limestone projection that separated “downtown” Tyrone from Stony Point (a good point). Living on Hamilton Ave., my sisters and brothers called it “the cliff.” In those days, the cliff was visible in its majesty of limestone from the intersection of 15th St. and Columbia Ave. (with Rossmans’ Drugstore across the street and an iron fence on 15th St. that surrounded a large home of someone who wanted to be protected, I thought).

To the Edge

My brother, Ronny, and I always wanted to see what it would look like if we walked to the “edge of the cliff.” Well, one summer we did that. My mother would send us out and remind us to be sure to come home in time for “dinner.” In those days, dinners were what we now call “lunch,” and “supper” was what we now call “dinner.”

So one summer day, my brother and I walked up the hill behind our parents’ house and found the “path” — yes, there was always a path — behind a very big house belonging to someone called J. K. Johnson. I think now it was where the Newlin family had lived. (The Johnsons gave us apples at Halloween.)

After we made our way up the long, stone walk toward the house, we continued around to the back and followed the path toward the cliff. When we got to the edge, we stood there and held hands. I have no memory of how long we stood there, but we suddenly looked down and saw our father, Winfield Scott Boal, commonly known as “Bill Boal, mayor of Stony Point” — but he was our daddy.

We yelled and waved to him. He was on his way home from work on the Pennsylvania Railroad, working as a conductor on a freight train. He looked, and without a return yell or a wave, began to walk toward us. A small creek — “crick” as we used to say — was not full of water then. He climbed and held onto branches of trees or whatever was there to propel him.

We watched and waited until he finally made it up. Dad took us both by his hands and walked us back toward the pathway down past the area where houses now exist — John Dollar’s, Jack Hiller’s, Bob Brower’s — and past our garage and garden and onto a slippery sidewalk to our back porch and into our kitchen.

I have no idea where our mother was at that moment. But Dad sat us down at the kitchen table and made us put our hands into his. He said, “I love you both very much, and I want you to promise me that you’ll never go there again.” I knew my parents loved us, although those kinds of sentiments were never spoken in those days. But we both promised. I never did go back until many years later when I was married and had children. We took them there and I told them the story. And when we got to the edge of the cliff, I held them tight.

Now, I live in a state where there are no “cliffs,” but when I return to Tyrone and drive up 15th St., I glance up at that place. The limestone face, now covered with greenery, isn’t visible as it once was.

I have a special memory of that day. Sometimes when I’m experiencing a bad day and think I’m on the “edge of a cliff,” I remember that if I am, there always will be someone to take my hand and make me promise “not to go there ever again.”