Some say “you can’t go back” but I’m not so sure. Even though many of my memories of people and places have faded I can still bring some of them back to the surface if I try really hard. Ray Trenary, Rich Lazeration, Jim Cowher, Elmer Green, and I left this place we called home in September of 1958. Little did we realize then that we were departing for good.
I don’t get back to my hometown very often but when I do, I make it a point to traverse streets, alleys, and byways of my youth. It doesn’t take very long for a walking séance to attract a few spirits of yesteryear. In many instances I have to probe deeply into the pages of my mind’s album to see what used to be. Gone are places like the high school on Lincoln Avenue, Adams, Washington, and Logan schools. Can’t get a cold bottle of pop from Sam Donoway’s store anymore but I think you may be able to still smell the aroma of popcorn from Rudy’s. Listen carefully as you pass the site of the old AME Church on 14th and you may hear congregational ghosts still raising voices in song and praise. Many stores that plied their wares on both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue are gone but the ghosts of the past beckon me and won’t allow destruction of my town’s history. The golden mile from the train station to the paper mill may look different but tracks at one end are still actively carrying rolling stock and at the other end paper continues to roll out from the mill daily.
Mrs. Antokol’s maple, Mr. Antokol’s pine tar
There are sections of town that haven’t changed much. Strolling the red brick sidewalks of Bald Eagle Avenue, I can still see many of the houses that I knew from years ago. At the Cottage Street intersection, I see that Mr. and Mrs. Antokol’s home is still there, though the barn is gone. I remember Mrs. Antokol making a raisin fruit cracker-like cookie for certain Jewish holidays. The raisin “filling” sandwiched between two unleavened crackers was sweet, smooth and delightful especially when served with a glass of punch or a tart lemon drink. As I sat on her porch swing, she’d go on and on about her family and how much they enjoyed living on this street. While she really loved Tyrone, she missed having a synagogue to attend. On many Fridays prior to a high holiday she would board a train to Altoona carrying the food for the Rabbi’s blessing. Her faith was inspirational to those who knew her.
In front of her house stood a large, graceful maple tree straddling the curb with half of the trunk pushing up bricks in the sidewalk and the other half protruding well beyond the curb into the street awaiting the next “bump” by an encroaching automobile. The few cars that called this street home were drawn like a magnet to that maple and chunks of bark and wood chips could usually be seen surrounding the base. Regularly treating that tree, Mr. Antokol became the neighborhood tree surgeon. Using a mixture of cement and water he carefully filled the holes in the damaged trunk. Within a week or so the hardened cement patches were ready to be covered with a coating of pine tar. He often explained that it was important to fix this tree God gave him. “Give the patch a week to cure, cover it with tar — will be fine.” And it was.
Mr. Havens, the air-raid warden
The Havens lived on the other side of the street — had a car but no tree. I think he worked for the town. Occasionally a town truck would make its presence known on the street near their house. One of the trucks I really liked was a dump truck. The tailgate had a square opening with a sliding door. Adjacent was a metal seat for a workman responsible for spreading ashes on icy streets in the dead of winter. To me, one of the best jobs in town had to be sitting in that seat, truck bed tilted a little, using a flat-nosed shovel to pull ashes through the square opening to scatter on the passing street.
Even though I didn’t know what work Mr. Havens did for the town, I can remember recalling stories of his duties as an air raid warden during the war. Local lore had it that our railroad tracks heading toward Altoona and the Horseshoe curve were high value enemy targets. When the air raid horn sounded Mr. Havens donned his white helmet, looped the brown satchel over his left shoulder, and draped the chain with whistle around his neck. Patrolling the streets and nearby alleys he looked not to the sky but to the windows assuring blackout drapes were drawn tight. Laying on the floor of the second floor an inquisitive boy or girl would peek through the drapes to see if he were really there. A shrill whistle and a call to “get down” was witness to his presence. The flicker glow of a candle or the glow of a lamp betrayed the darkness. All clear would finally sound and people gathered on the street outside to see if it was real or just a test.
Mrs. Chaney’s cinnamon toast and Mrs. Reed’s bakery
Next to us was the person who introduced me to cinnamon toast. Mrs. Chaney lived at 1354 and while she didn’t have a front porch, she did have a swing on a small side porch that faced our house. As a matter of fact, when she sat on the swing, she could look directly into the window of Aunt Gert’s kitchen. I don’t remember her being much of a cook or baker (she did make great bread). Aunt Gert, who was always a great cook, shared many of her secrets in their daily talks through the open window. One day, I was in the kitchen waiting to “lick the bowl” from a batch of Aunt Gert’s fudge brownies when Mrs. Chaney got off her swing, walked to the window and handed me a slice of warm homemade bread slathered with melted butter and covered with a mix of cinnamon and sugar. Life was never the same after that. Sitting on her swing eating cinnamon toast and drinking chocolate milk was really special. If the Pirates were playing, we listened to the radio through the window.
This part of the street had people that cared about me and about each other. In addition to the Keefers, Fitzpatricks, and the Burleys we had Mrs. Reed, a widow who lived at 1362. To help her maintain a sense of independence she began her home bakery business. She baked special items on assigned days: bread on Monday, sticky buns Tuesday, cookies on Wednesday, etc. What started as a small special-order operation became so popular that a second stove had to be added to her kitchen. Cookie day was a favorite since she was known to make a “mistake” every now and then and some cookies that were too small or broken had to be thrown away or given to a dirty-faced neighbor kid.
Another favorite person in our neighborhood was John Colt. He and his wife lived at 1360 next to Mrs. (Gertie) Reed. I liked Mr. Colt because of his job. Working at Rotherts’ Furniture on 10th Street, he used to give me and other kids on the block advance notice of the Christmas model train display in back of the store.
Bald Eagle Avenue was about as diverse as could be imagined. We didn’t know if anyone was rich nor did we know of anyone was poor — while “mind your own business” was preached, “we’re always there for you” was the doctrine. People from many walks of life lived in this melting pot including our town leader, Burgess Hagerman at 1264 near the spillway of the dry run. Nearby was the Sealfon junk yard where kids could exchange tin, scrap iron, and old newspapers for the 17 cents needed for admission to the El Patio Theater.
1352, my grandfather’s house
In the midst of this neighborhood you can still see the home in which I was born. Built by my grandfather, Michael Long, 1352 Bald Eagle Avenue was constructed when he left the German settlement near the crest of the Janesville Pike around 1875. The house still stands and looks much the same as it did in the 40s. Grand-pap and his bride Mary Hickey Long set up housekeeping here and raised their family of eight, two girls and six boys; my father was the youngest. A smithy and iron smelter by trade, grand-pap had a pig iron facility in Ironsville near Nealmont. Behind the house, he built a blacksmith shop in his barn on the alley behind the house adjacent to the crescent near the Little Bald Eagle creek. It was in this shop that his sons Ed, Charlie, and Delbert learned how to shape black iron using anvil and forge. Over time all the brothers left to pursue other opportunities — Paul became a chauffeur, Ed and Walter went to the paper mill, Charlie went to opportunities on the Philipsburg mountain, Bob became a baseball player, while Delbert (Deb) joined his father in the shop. Another forge and anvil increased the output of this father/son duo.
In 1917 tragedy struck when my grandmother died. Life changed for Grand-pap was devastated by the loss of the love of his life but he kept working at the forge next to his youngest son. Life moved on and this small home that once held one loving family with eight children was now split to house two separate families, one on each floor. In August 1921, mom and dad married and took control of the second floor while Aunt Gert and Uncle Ross occupied the first floor. Grand-pap’s memory lapses kept him in a world removed from reality. Living with my father and his new bride he remained an important part of the family until his death in 1930.
At 11:30 AM on a wintry February morning in 1940, I made my entry into the world in the back second floor bedroom at 1352. Aunt Gert had summoned Dr. Daugherty from his office. Together the two of them aided mom in welcoming Tyrone’s newest citizen. When I arrived, my oldest siblings, Deb and Pat, were at school, dad was working first shift at the Juniata shops and my brother, Ken was home for lunch from St. Matthew School so he was the first to see me. He was so excited that he sat outside on the cold steps to escort the others into the house as they arrived announcing, “look what’s in the bundle.” Mom, Dad, me and my siblings lived on the second floor of this house with Aunt Gert and Uncle Ross remaining on the lower level. So many people, so little space.
My brother, Deb was the first to leave, joining the Army at the start of WWII. Patty, Ken, and I remained in the house until we moved to our own house on 12th Street in 1943.
The morning train to Olmsted
The Bald Eagle Avenue neighborhood was always special. Since Aunt Gert and Uncle Ross still lived there, we visited regularly. We were still neighbors, just a little farther away. Mrs. Antokol invited me to have homemade raisin pastries around the Jewish holidays; Mrs. Chaney made cinnamon toast for me still using home baked bread; Gerty Reed made sticky buns (with raisins) every Thursday so I just followed my nose; Mr. Colt continued to let me know when the Christmas display at Rotherts was going up every year. When I have reason to return to the place I call home, I always try to visit those areas that were so much a part of my formation.
A train whistle awakened me from my reverie. Elmer and Ray nudged me to look down the tracks and we saw the engine clear the Thomastown crossing and ease to a halt adjacent to our brick platform. As the locomotive slowly passed, we were thinking only of our futures and began to forget the past. Excitedly our hearts pounded as we shook dust of our town’s streets from our shoes and climbed aboard a morning train to Olmsted AFB near Harrisburg. Suddenly the train jerked, and we were underway to new adventures. Never realizing that we were leaving our hometown, never to return.
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