Carry Me Back . . .

by Robert Blair Craig

It seems that one is always wishing one's life away. It goes way back long before "Carry Me Back To Old Virginia" was penned. Even the prophets of the Bibles wished they were -- way back, sometimes.

Each of us longingly reflect on yester-year at times. It isn't necessarily because we are tired of where we are at the time, but we do it. As the leaves turn in color in the aging process creeping across the span of our lives we can't help but remember -- or should I say, some are blessed to have this gift and can't help but remember those by-gone-days.

Dixonville Pennsylvania brings before me some great, great images that shall never be pushed aside by the avalanche of present day dangers and fears -- even those days when mom would warn us when we would go out to play in the snow: "Don't eat the snow!" Mom would say, "There is danger that it may be contaminated with radiation!" What is radiation?", Ken and I would ask. "The government has tested a bomb in the desert of (somewhere that seemed so very far away)." Oh, yes. There were those times. Those of you that remember, don’t they seem so enticing compared with our fears of today?

Dixonville. In the article, "Home Made Bread," I reflected on some of the things we recall of home . . . but, I didn't touch a great deal on the memories of the town itself. I have talked about it some here and there -- like in the article when I recalled my grand-father, Harry Blair Fleming, setting on the front porch and telling me about how he used to float logs down Dixon's Run. Yes, if you look on the earliest maps of Indiana County, you will be able to find Dixon's Run -- long before there was ever a Dixonville, Barr Slope or Clymer. It must have been a grand stream. However, today, it is hardly a trickle. You may be surprised to know that it was the Hospital at Dixonville, PA, that the survivors of one of the worst mining accidents at Sample Run (Near Clymer, PA) occurred. It is recorded that those victims were taken to Dixonville.

Memories of Dixonville would have to include a lot of things. Some of them I shall try and record here -- who knows for who. It shall do my heart good just to do the recalling of them. As my recollections (a word dad, Robert Le Roy Craig used quite often) begin to roll one of the first things that I see is how good the sledding was in the winter. Our home was built on the side of a real steep hill . . . about a 45% steep. Every winter in the 1940s brought much snow and so it is fitting that this would be one of the first thoughts to flow. Along with the snow, of course, was the cold. Ice would freeze over Dixon's Run and that made for great skating. Oh, no, there were no ice skates -- only the flats of our boots. We would run along the bank and hit the ice at a run and slide it seemed forever. Dixon's Run provided much of our entertainment both summer and winter. In the summer time we would work hours digging sawed and placing these square patches of grass to make an embankment to back up the stream. This was our swimming hole. There was a bank above it and we were able to run and jump into a rather deep pool of water. There was never a life guard, no one to hold detailed swimming classes, and as far as I remember no pollution and no one was ever injured. How did we accomplish that? -- Oh, I just remembered, I did get a fish hook in my lip one time and mom had to carry me to Clymer to see Doctor Evans to get it taken out. (Or was it Kenny . . . Or both of us?) Had that have happened today we would have needed to see the local psycharisist to help us through the trama! That was about as bad as it got back then.

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The only time it seemed that the cold was really cold is when it was time to leave the house for school. Notice that I didn't say, "Time to catch the bus!" It wasn't far, but we did walk to school. Today, the same distance would be supplanted by hopping on the school buss and riding 20 miles just to get across the street. The cold had much to do with the fall purchasing of school clothes. Mom would brake out the old Sears & Roebuck Catalogue and we would walk ever so gingerly through the book picking out the necessities of survival for the winter to come. The clothes would always include buckle boots -- you remember, those black boots that had the metal buckles up the front. Also, warm socks, a good coat, hat and always a rain-coat. I can't even imagine a grade school student making the journey to school as we did. Today, mom would drive us in the S.U.V! Back then, dad had the only transportation and he'd have left for his job long before light.

When summer came we began very early to learn that there were chores for us to do. There was no free ride, no television, no game-boys, and very seldom did we have permission to visit our friends. I don't ever recall being, or even wanting to, sleep-over at a friend's house. I was rather happy at home thank you -- even though I did have chores to do. One of the chores was the clipping of grass from around the edge of the house and the stone steps that led from the house down to the 'Out-House.' I will never forget the hand clippers. It took for ever just to clip the grass. This had to be done every week and there were no weed-eaters. I was also taught how to safely use the cycle. That was a utensil used to cut grass where the hand mower couldn't reach. Dad would usually cut most of the grass with that machine. I notice that there is a few greens that are acquiring these ancient tools of the past to keep from polluting the air. That push mower was driven by man-power. You pushed it, which in turn cause the blade to rotate and thus cut the grass. It did a good job and we used it years and years. I think that push mower outlasted me. In later years we adapted it to fit in front of a garden tractor (another story) and we mowed about an acre of land with it. You couldn't ware it out. It just went right on working and working -- it would ware you out.

The house at Dixonville, as I said before, stood on a rather steep side of a hill. Below the house was a plot of ground about 20ft. by 40ft. It was used for years as our garden. I recall dad spading the ground with a shovel. He would do this by incerting the spade into the ground close to the bottom of the hill and lift the dirt and turn it over. Some of the dirt would roll back down the slope. As he would get close to the top he'd have to lift the shovel of dirt and quickly turn it and then hold the shovel on top of the freshly turned soil so as to keep it from running down the hill. One of the conveniences of this garden was that when we had to weed it we didn't have to lean over too far -- when one stood at one row and weeded up-hill it was easier to reach. We also learned what a hoe was used for. Before the Harkens family burned out next door, down the hill, and dad bought the land adjoining the property the house was on, dad was allowed to farm a truck patch on the old Clyde McMillen farm above Dixonville. It was then that he bought the garden tractor I spoke of earlier.

The garden tractor wasn't much compared to our Roto-Tillers of today. It was an obtrusive looking machine that was on two wheels that were about 2 foot top to bottom and placed beneath the gasolene powered motor. That was a novelty in those days. I can recall earlier when a local farmer would bring his team of horses by, knock on our door and ask if we wanted our garden plowed. Our new garden tractor was build a lot like the old hand-operated tiller (forgot what they used to be called) -- only with a motor. The little plow attached to the under-carriage of the tiller and it also came with a cultivator. The cultivator consisted of an iron frame from which there was a number of smaller spike looking tools that loosened the ground. Dad started the truck-patch at McMillen's farm as a second job. Money was tight and the vegetable we grew there were sold to help provide income. Mom also canned a lot. There was a closet in the basement that easily held a couple hundred quart jars of vegetables, fruits and even canned deer meet. We had no freezer so often our meals in the winter were of these home preserved fruits, jellies, vegetables & meats.

We even made 'Sour-Kraut.' We had this huge crock and as soon as the cabbage would be harvested mom would take them and shred the cabbage and I would place it in the crock and with a wooden stomper keep punching down on the mess until it was packed into the bottom. That crock held a bunch of cabbage! I never churned butter, but surmise it would have been a bit easier than helping mom make sower kraut. Salt was frequently pored over the cabbage as it was stomped and when the whole process -- the stomping part -- was finished, a special plate was placed over the top and a large crystal hunk of glass weight would be placed on it. Then it was placed into the large closet with the canned vegetables. Mom would keep checking on the Kraut until it had completely rotted -- ripened for those of you that are squeamish about such. When the cabbage had completely "mellowed" it was then taken out and placed into jars and canned. The canning process was done using a huge 20 gal. boiler. The jars would be placed on top of little wooden rails dad had made for the purpose on the bottom of the boiler. When the bottom was filled to capacity, another wooden rail was placed on those jars and then the boiler would be filled to the top. After it was filled to capacity it would be placed on the wood stove to cook until the cans sealed. I don't recall mom ever having a theromometer or recipie. It took a bit of learning, but I did eventually grow into Kraut.

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Before I forget, we had another modern convenience during our earliest years at Dixonville. We had an Ice-Box! Occasionally dad would bring home a block of ice from the ice-house in Indiana and we would have cold milk. When money was short and the ice would melt there was always the pipe hole at the shady side of the house. It was a ceramic piece of drain pipe that was buried vertically in the ground. It was just large and deep enough to hold two quart jars of milk. After dad acquired the property next door he built a root cellar and often we were able to have rather fresh vegetables and apples long into the winter. One day he drove the truck home from work and on the back was one of those "new-fangeled" (as he would say) electric ice boxes. It was a Frigidaire (built by Frigidaire) and it was really weired looking. It looked a bit like the Ice Box it replaced except it had a round looking affair on the top that made it look like something out of this world.

As time moved along and after dad had worked at Beuheights of Indiana for a time, the Pyrovax Gas Company, he brought home a gas stove and then a hot plate. I remember the hot plate in that it took the place of the wood stove for cooking in the basement. That large boiler for canning fit on it and that became the norm for mom's canning and washing of clothes.

Speaking of Mondays and the washing of the clothes. You ladies think you have it rough? Early Monday morning -- school or not -- water had to be pumped up in front of the house and carried by buckets down to the boiler, the Maytag Washer & the large rinse tub. That was about 20 or so galleons of water. I think each bucket held 2 and one half gallons -- at least. These had to be filled for mom's wash day. It would, after that chore was accomplished, be off to school in the winter and out to play in the summer. It usually took the day for mom to wash all our clothes. After they were washed she would carry them out on the side of the hill and hang each piece on the close-line that ran along the embankment. There was nothing cleaner to the smell than that of clothes that were washed in the Matag and hung outside to dry.

Oh, the memories!

A day came when the 'out-house' became full and it had to be moved. It was too far away for a local plumber to pump it out so dad had to move it instead. This was done by moving the little building (a two wholer') to another location temporarily. After it was moved dad would dig another pit about 5 or 6 foot deep and use a wheel barrow to move the dirt over and use it to cover over the old hole. Then the out-house would be placed on its new home foundation -- back ready for service. Oh, yes, the stones would then have to be redirected so as to provide a way to its front door. I used to enjoy sitting in it and reading -- wishing through the Sears Roebuck that was nailed to the wall. It was not unusual for one to have to walk down two sets of staircases, out the bottom door, down the 15 or so flat-stone steps (winter and summer) to visit the outhouse. In the winter it was usually a short hurried trip -- things had to be rushed . . .

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On one's journey to the outhouse there was always a reminder to "be good!" To get there one had to pass the weeping willow tree. The old willow tree was where we kids had to go to cut off the branches when we were to be punished when we deserved it. I don't know why it was, but mom always wanted 12 branches of a stout sort to be cut. She seldom used more than two or three in the whipping, but they spoke a language that lasted a rather long time. It didn't have to be done often -- but it was certainly memorable. I don't ever remember her whipping me when I didn't deserve it and I show no damage today from the exercise. Gosh, I hated that tree. It was a very good day when dad found out that its roots were getting into the septic tank and it had to be cut down! What a happy day that was! Another thing that was never said, "You better do 'so-and-so' or . . . " It was just something was done when it became necessary and threats were not made. There were times when we would be told, "Just wait until your dad gets home." That was always bad news. It was never a threat, but a promise. When dad had to punish us the fact that he had to do it hurt more than the whipping he gave. I don't know what it was. Mom seemed to provoke both Ken and I. We didn't want to provoke dad.

Back to the home itself. It was more than a house -- it was a home in every sense of the word. But it was really an amazing building. The road that ran from Barr Slope, through Dixonville and up toward Purchase line ran directly in front of our house. At the back of the house, away from the road, there was nearly four stories -- that is, if one considers a crawl space under the basement level and the attic above the 3^rd story. Ken & my bedroom was at the back side of the upper story and when one looked out the window all of Dixonville ran out on the valley below. However, on the same level, when one looked out the window toward the road, the road was nearly level with the top story of the house. The house had a 2 sided porch that ran the entire front and right side of the house. It was the coolest place in town on a hot muggy summer day. The bottom story/floor consisted of a two room area at the back of the house.

Those two rooms were early-on rented out to Mary & Steve Kostrick when they got married. When our next door neighbor moved, they bought that house and remained neighbors for many years. This photo was taken in the early 1950's of Steve and Mary Kostrick's children. Kathy, Joey & Jimmy. Notice LeRoy's 48 Chivy in the background.
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Back to the basement floor. Besides the two finished rooms at the back basement of the house there was a large room at the front. It had an earthen floor and was the place where in another article I went to great length to describe the building of a coal furnace. Dad used that area as a work shop and many things were stored there.

Mom was organized in every way. She seemed to work on a time-clock. Everything was done in order and she kept a sparkling house at all times. One of the frightful things she did on a regular basis was washing the windows all around the house. I think it especially worth while to describe how it was that she cleaned those windows at the back-side of house. She would raise the sash/window, sit on the sill, and with cloths wash each window. Now that seems quite innocent and simple. But when you consider the height, you change your mind. There she was, sitting on the window sash with her back-side out of the window. She hung on with one hand and washed the window with the other. It was so high I wouldn't have even considered it.

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I didn't have a bicycle for many years but when I became old enough mom and dad allowed me to take a paper route. It consisted of delivering the Pittsburgh Post Gazette and the Johnstown Democrat newspapers in Dixonville and Idamare. What a chore that turned out to be. Not only was it difficult to remember where each customer lived, and the entire route was about 3 miles and had to be walked until I could earn enough to buy a bicycle, but two different papers. Dad told me that the Pittsburgh paper was for the Republicans and the Johnstown paper for the Democrats. He told me to try and associate a picture of a elephant on the front door of every customer that was to get the Pittsburgh paper and a donkey on the door of the Johnstown paper. That worked rather well but it was a pain-in-the-neck and I made at least one mistake every morning. I had to be up before light and deliver my papers before the school buss arrived to take me off to Commodore High School. Commodore was about 4 miles as the crow flies and during Track & Field and Foot-Ball seasons I would sometimes run to and from school -- cross country -- to help stay in shape.

Dixonville was predominately Roman Catholic and we were one of the very few Protestant families living there. In today's world that would seem not to be an issue. However, in the late 1940 through the early 1950s it was definitely a huge issue. I got into more scrapes and scuffles over being a protestant that one can even imagine today. Shortly after we brought home my new bicycle I'd earned from delivering papers I had ridden, or should I say pushed, up to dad's garden truck patch on the McMillen Farm. I spent the afternoon hoeing weeds from the rows of vegetables in the garden. The afternoon wore on and I started my return home. The return trip made the up-hill trip worth while. It must have been about two and a half miles up Prosperity Hill, past the Clyde Baker Chicken Farm, up another long hill before getting to the truck-patch. As you can imagine, going home was all down hill -- brakes most of the way. Near the end of my ride down the steepest part of the hill I had to pass the house where Steve Zeranski lived, a devout Roman Catholic, and he was outside waiting for me. He had a stick and when I came by he stuck it in the spokes of my bike. As you can imagine I went head over heals. I must have been a wimp. It seemed that they were on my back all the time. I hated the buss stop. Most of the time, besides my books for home-work, I carried a lunch bucket with a thermos. More than once dad had to get a new thermos for me after the Zeranski boys would hassle me at 'the buss stop!' I hated it. I never fought back -- was taught to turn the other cheek. They were both about my same age -- but somewhat stouter than I. This went on for more than a year during my freshman and sophomore years. However, I began to develop physically by then and as I became involved in sports activities and shot up to six foot three and one half inches, nearly two hundred pounds they became my pals. I am glad I never retaliated or fought back. Dad always told me it takes two to fight . . . but they proved it only takes one to be a bully and there was two of them. Now, I can look back and see that another thing dad said was true, "A child does things as the Zaranskies did, it takes a man to resist acting like them." (Something like that)

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The Tomato Patch: One of the things dad liked more than just about anything else to eat was 'Tomatoes.' When he planted tomatoes it was a huge harvest of the fruit. After he obtained the property between our home and the Simko's it provided a rather large garden right next to home. We no longer needed to go all the way up to the McMillen Farm to grow a garden. This was good and bad. I would no longer need to ware myself out climbing that long hill and suffer the consequences of not being able to avoid the Zaranskies on the way back. However, there was no longer an excuse for allowing weeds to grow -- right next door. The ground was rocky but quite fertile and dad's experience in preparing it for planting made for the nicest garden in town.

The last I recall of the garden was Halloween on year -- when the kids took up riding up and down the road, stopping and loading up with several tomatoes, throwing them at the house (the Catholic/Protestant thing) and driving off at a high rate of speed. He took it once two many times and one evening as it was turning dark he took the 20 gage shot-gun and slipped up on the hill overlooking the house and set in wait. It wasn't long that he was rewarded for his preparation for the nightly activities of the Halloween trick or treaters.

Earlier he had emptied several 20 gauge cartridges of the led shot and replaced it with a finely crushed mixture of rock-salt. That night, after these pranksters had exited the back of the truck and ran down into dad's garden, dad raised the gun and shot in their general direction. You never seen such a fuss, howling, and running in your life. The truck took off without them and they were left to fleeing up the road, out of sight, never to return. I happened to notice that one of the Zeranski boys had difficulty sitting on the buss seat the next morning. Had this happened today dad would have been sued and lost everything he had -- likely including his freedom. Ken and I were not completely innocent. One night as a prank on Halloween we took kite string, a large tack and attached a pebble on one end, tacked one length of string to the porch ceiling of a neighbor's house, tied the longer length half so that we could pull the pebble toward us. We stretched the kite string out and up across the road on the hill above. When we pulled on the string it pulled the pebble up toward the roof of the house. When we left it go we could get it to "tap-tap-tap" and then pull it back up again. We got the greatest kick out of that -- that is, until we were discovered and they told dad. Some of the larger boys of that day would take the occasion of Helloween to overturn out-houses -- or taking a bar of sope and writing things on car windows.

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Another thing we did was climb that huge hill above the house and roll huge flat stones down the hill. One almost hit a car one day and we had sense enough to quit that. Yes, kids are the same, yesterday, today and forever . . . but, we never smoked pot, took drugs, listened to filthy music . . . My favorite song as a kid went something like, "That doggie in the window in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania." How bland for our time. Can you just imagine some of the filth that is being fed directly into the heads of our kids wearing those private earphones. Ever wonder why kids have to listen to their music (wrap) with headphones on? They know our reaction if we were to hear it. Pure filth.

On of my more lingering memories is that one cold winter day, following our Christmas visit, leaving to return back to Virginia, -- taking this picture of mom and dad as they waved good-by from the porch of the house we called home. This was to be my father's last Christmas at home. Dad (Robert LeRoy Craig) died December 29, 1968 at the Indiana Hospital after suffering a massive heart attack. . .

Mom (Hannah Jemima Fleming Craig)was killed just north of Marion Center in a severe automobille accident -- July 21, 1982. Both mom and dad are burried at the Greenwood Cemetery, Indiana, PA. They were married June 22, 1933.

It isn't poetic. It is perfectly lacking of any grammatik order -- there are spelling errors -- but, it was and is Dixonville, PA.

Feb 23, 2003

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