Hemlock Lane on Bailey Run

The A-frame home on Hemlock Lane was on the side of one of the steep Pennsylvania hills (Allegheny Mountains) in Potter County, in the northern middle part of Pennsylvania. The New York line borders it to the north, the border being roughly fifty miles from where the home stood. The closest towns of relative size (more than fifty people) were Austin to the north, Emporium to the west, and Sinnamahoming to the south. Historically, the area was known for its lumber industry, though there were some families who had carved out a living in the region through farming, carpentry, and the like. As a whole, the area had always been one of the most rural areas in Pennsylvania. This continues to be the trend even today. In 2022, the county encompassed 1,081 square miles, with a whopping population of just over 16,000 residents. It's a rural area, to say the least. 

I am unsure how my grandfather originally found the area where he would eventually build the home for his later years. Grandpa and Marg had lived in Waterloo, New York, for many years, grandfather retiring as an electrical engineer and Marg a registered nurse. A step-aunt and step-uncle also lived up there, J.P. and Kathy, who were Marg’s children. Their home up there in New York was located north of Watkins Glen between Seneca and Cayuga lakes. The ground was broken in the mid-nineteen eighties for where the home in Potter County would be, and by the nineties, Grandpa and Marg were living there full-time. 

My first introduction to it was during a time when my family had come back to Pennsylvania during the summer from Missouri. My grandfather came to see us, and I returned to New York with him. That would be the last time that I saw my aunt Kathy as she would succumb to diabetes at an extremely young age. After spending a day in Waterloo, Grandpa and I went south into Pennsylvania, where the land was cleared for the home's foundation. To get there, it took highways and byways, eventually turning onto Route 872. The road slowly wound its way through the Pennsylvania hills and eventually followed the valley next to the Sinnemahoning Creek. The woods were dense, and if one drove in the fall, they would see every color a tree might produce. The road, at times, opened up to where you could see aways and then would become narrow again with the twists and turns. The trees lining the sides as if ushers, directing us. As time passed, we followed the twisting road until we came to the Wharton General Store. The establishment had been there for a long time (if you were to visit today, you would still find it open). We stopped as I was becoming fidgety like most young boys my age. My grandfather told me we only had a couple more miles to go. Of course, a few miles in my mind’s eye equaled the equivalent of a thousand hours, and darn it, I had to pee! After shaking the dew off the lily, we climbed back into the pickup truck and continued on. We pulled back out onto the road and traveled, following along the Sinnemahoning. After a period of time, the road turned sharply to the left. We slowed down and turned right onto a narrow dirt road that led away from the main. The narrowing road had been cut into the side of the hill. As Grandpa drove back, the side of the hill was merely a couple of feet away. There was a steep dropoff on the other side of the road. Below was Bailey Run, a small creek that fed into the larger Sinnemahoning. We snaked our way further back down the road until we came to a lane that went up the side of the hill. We pulled in, and at that point, my poor heart could no longer handle it. If we did not turn around, we would fall over the edge. The real question that popped into my head was, ‘How are we going to turn around?’ ‘Grandpa, you gotta be careful. We are gonna fall over the edge.’ I continually told him. He gave that barrel-chested chuckle that always seemed to come from his belly. After much insistence on my part and reassurances on his, we turned the pickup truck around without issue and headed back up the narrow dirt roadway. I continuously looked out the window at the steep drop-off that was now on my side. I then came to the conclusion that I preferred looking out at the hillside versus the drop-off. Eventually, we returned to the main road, and after a deep sigh of relief, I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. 

We made our way south to an area called Medix Run. My great uncle Gerald owned a camp where my grandfather often spent time. After I woke up, Grandpa let me know where we were heading. He warned me that I would have to stick close to him because of all the rattlesnakes and mountain lions. Boy, oh boy, did my poor mind run with all of that. What was he trying to do to me? But at last, that’s a story for another time. 

The years passed, and my family and I went from Missouri to Arizona and then back to Pennsylvania. After finding a place to live in Pennsylvania and settling down, we would take a yearly trip to see Grandpa and Marg in Potter County. 

After driving on winding roads, we would get there, pulling up the lane and parking the car. As we pulled up, Grandpa would come out and greet us. Around the corner of the front patio, he would come. His attire typically consisted of a button-down shirt draped over his barrel-chested frame, loose-fitting pants with suspenders to keep from any slippage, and, most usually, he would wear boots he had slipped on. The laces would hang out the sides on the lips of the boots. A bucket hat covered his bald head; thinking back, I can understand where I inherited my style of dress. I would jump out of the car, run around it, and hug him. I absolutely loved seeing him. There were not a lot of chances to spend time with him, usually only once or twice a year; that was it. After greetings, we would all start to make our way into the A-frame. The home had been designed to be efficient for two people. Entering, you would pass through two window paned doors. To the left was the kitchen. The stove sat next to the wall, and then there was a counter space to the right of the stove. Above them were cupboards. Opposite the stove and counter stood the fridge in the corner. Next to it was more counter space between the fridge and the front door. A window had been put in the wall between the fridge and stove so that one could peer outside. To the right of the kitchen stood the dining table. Windows lined the wall on that side of the room. As you moved further into the house, chairs and a couch divided the living room area from the kitchen and table where people ate. In the far right corner sat a potbelly wood-burning stove usually used as the heat source, though they had a propane tank outside the house. To the left of the living room area was the bathroom. You could make a right as you walked back towards the front of the house, past the couch. You would walk alongside the counter and stove to the left, then turn right and up the stairs that curled upwards to the second floor. Of course, at that point, everyone, at least all of us kids, made the very conscious decision to tread lightly and quickly up the stairs. You see, there was a beast that lived under the stairs. The beast, a Himalayan cat named Sherpa, lived under those stairs, and she lived up to the name beast. She particularly enjoyed waiting for someone, especially young children, to go up or down the stairs. She would wait until the person was on the middle step and then strike with her paw, followed by hisses and growls. Sherpa had been my aunt Kathy’s cat, and my grandfather and Marg adopted her after Kathy's passing. The second floor was an open concept. As you reached the top stair, to the left were two beds against the two walls. In the middle of the back wall was a door to go out if needed. If you turned right and walked past the stairway, there were two beds to the right and one to the left. They faced the front of the house. At the front were giant windows that filled the wall, allowing sunlight into the room. A sliding door in the center led to a deck that you could sit on and observe the area. When out on the deck, one could look down and see glimpses of Bailey Run. The home also had a loft with a set of stairs leading to it. This is where my brother and I would sleep at night.

On the mornings of the second day, I would climb down from the loft and slowly make my way downstairs. Grandpa would always be there. ‘Good morning,’ He would greet me. Most times, he would be standing next to the stove. ‘How does oatmeal with fresh blueberries sound to you?’ he would ask. Of course, it was more of a statement than a question. It was always blueberry oatmeal for breakfast and sometimes a side of bacon. The days often consisted of us kids running up and down the hill between the house and Bailey Run. I would usually grab one of Grandpa’s fishing rods if I hadn’t brought mine, and I would end up at the stream fishing. There was an old ‘bridge’ that had been built over it. The day then would consist of fishing from the bridge. I would work my way back and forth on the bridge, from one side to the other. Then I would end up on the banks next to the stream. To be fair, I am not sure how many fish were in the stream, but I was gonna catch the ones in there. Occasionally I would get my line into the water when I wasn’t snagged on a tree limb or in the weeds. And so the day would go. Lunch would usually consist of cold cuts and bread. The afternoon would follow it with more fishing. This inevitably would turn into snagging the fishing line once more in some of the weeds that were out of reach. I would then take my shoes and socks off and head to where it was snagged. As I stepped into the water, I would exhale loudly, reacting to the cold water touching my skin. I would slowly step in and go to where the line was. After untangling the line, it was predestined that something would catch my eye, and I would become distracted. I would gaze down into the crystal clear water, peering at the random-shaped rocks that dotted the bottom of the stream bed. Slowly I would reach into the water, the cold water making its way up my arm and shirt sleeves. My fingers would encircle a rock, and slowly, I would turn it over. A cloud of dirt would drift up from where the rock had rested. Suddenly, something would shoot out of the cloud, a crawdad. It would shoot back and drift down to the creek bottom. I would lunge at it, baptizing myself in the water. ‘Oh, it's cold!’ I would sputter out as I thrashed around quickly and tried to regain my footing. Of course there usually wasn’t anyone around to hear me. Before long, I would be chasing a minnow and then another crawdad. And so the afternoon would go.

The time would fly by, and before long, Mom or Dad would call my name to come up for dinner. I would grab the fishing gear and slog my way back up the hill to my parent's chagrin, where I would have to piecemeal an outfit together. Grandpa always insisted on having a dinner of steaks the second night. This consisted of him starting a fire in the driveway. He would place a grill grate on the fire to cook the steaks. One must also understand that my grandfather was not extremely patient, so the steaks would go on whether the fire was ready or not. This most often resulted in charred black steaks that still mooed inside. The dessert after dinner usually consisted of a cobbler that Marg had made and ice cream. After dinner, we would sit around the table and listen as Grandpa told stories of growing up in the hills of Clarion County or generalized stories of his time in Europe. My grandfather very much had the gift of storytelling. And so I would sit in one of the chairs imagining the stories being told, taking place on the old homestead, or being in a strange foreign land I had been taught to call Europe. Before long, I would begin yawning and be told it was time to go to bed. ‘I am not tired,’ I would respond, even though my eyes were only half open. Slowly and begrudgingly, I would go into the bathroom and brush my teeth. I would then make my way up to the loft. Of course, I would try to get a running start and jump to clear the steps, thus avoiding the monster that peered out from behind those steps. With the good graces of fate, I would safely make it up to the second floor. I was drawn to the front room sliding door connecting to the deck. One could step out onto it at night and look down at the open hillside encircled by trees below the house. Like clockwork, you would begin to see little specks of light in the air. One would light up and then disappear. Ten other specks of light would take its place. The rhythmic dance of fireflies would put on a continuous finale. Before long, I would be in the loft under blankets, my brother next to me. The sliding door was left open below us, with just the screen door separating us from the outside. As my eyes slowly closed, my ears listened as Bayley Run made the relaxing melody from the water flowing by. 

Thus, each year went by. Eventually, Grandpa and Marg opened up more ground near the house and built a two-stall garage with an upstairs. In a lot of ways that house on Hemlock Lane remained the same, but it was I who was changing. It is funny how, as each of us grows in age, the places that always seemed larger than life suddenly begin to shrink, and before long, they become ordinary. You realize that they are much smaller than before. 

Accordingly, the years gave way, passing by like the melody of Bayley Run. The monster under the stairs, Sherpa, sadly met her demise, most likeky at the teeth of a hungry coyote. It was the only time in my life that Grandpa vowed to get a gun and sow revenge. We buried Grandpa in June of 2001. 

In the years after that, I only traveled back to Hemlock Lane one other time. It was in December of 2017. By then, I had married and lived in Denver, Colorado. My wife, Deb, and I had decided to drive back to Pennsylvania the week between Christmas and New Year's. Marg’s birthday was on New Year, so we decided with my parents to travel up to Potter County to get Marg and take her out for her birthday. We were to travel to New York to meet up with my aunt and uncle and have lunch to celebrate Marg. 

We drove up those winding roads that led to Bailey Run. The snow had settled in like a heavy down blanket on both sides of the road. The tree limbs hanging low over the road under the weight of the blanket. We came to that bend in the road and turned onto that narrow dirt road. As we drove back, I peered out and glanced at the occasional lane that had been carved out in recent years and led to newer buildings. Eventually, we turned into the lane and slowly drove up. We parked, and I turned off the car. Opening the car, I stepped out and stood there. The quietness of the moment greeted me. Snow had begun to fall. Deb and my parents made their way around the front corner of the porch to go in. I turned and quietly walked in the opposite direction towards the garage. As I walked, I listened. Off in the distance, a crow called out in the cold air. I could hear Bailey Run down below, though it was as if its melody had put itself to sleep, and a muffled hum reached my ears from under the ice instead. I stopped in front of the garage. Time seemed to peel away like the paint on the side of the garage. I could see Grandpa come around the porch's corner and stand by the house. The bucket hat pulled down over his head. The button-down shirt covered his barrel chest. Those suspenders holding up his pants and the boots he had slipped on. A smile on his face. The sound of his chuckle reached my ears. 

‘So all things pass away, but they were beautiful days.’- Teddy Roosevelt