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Volume 9 Issue 9
The Rescue
By Brendan O’Meara Seventy years ago in Roseville, four-year-old Alene York fell down a well…
6 Laughing All the Way to the Stage
By Linda Roller Live from the small screen, comics and singers come to Billtown.
24 How Fabulous Were the 1890s? By Joyce M. Tice Let us count the ways.
29 The State of the States
By Holly Howell All those years ago, Prohibition was repealed—more or less…
35
Cover by Tucker Worthington; Cover photo courtesy of The History Center on Main Street. (This page, from top): by Elizabeth Young; Courtesy of VoicePlay; Courtesy of The History Center on Main Street; by Wes Lobdelll. 3
16
Barbour Rock By Jeremy Bechtel There’s this little place I know on the edge of time and space...
17
When Life Hands You Wood By Dave Milano Let the chips fall where they may.
23
Mother Earth By Gayle Morrow There’s a mouse in the house.
39
Lamb on the Menu? It’s Rare By Cornelius O’Donnell Or so says our writer, who can never get enough.
w w w. m o u n ta i n h o m e m ag . co m
Editors & Publishers Teresa Banik Capuzzo Michael Capuzzo Associate Publishers Dawn Bilder George Bochetto, Esq. D e s i g n & P h o t o g r ap h y Elizabeth Young, Editor Tucker Worthington, Cover Design Contributing Writers Angela Cannon-Crothers, Patricia Brown Davis, Alison Fromme, Holly Howell, George Jansson, McKennaugh Kelley, Roger Kingsley, Adam Mahonske, Cindy Davis Meixel, Fred Metarko, Dave Milano, Gayle Morrow, Cornelius O’Donnell, Roger Neumann, Gregg Rinkus, Linda Roller, Kathleen Thompson, Joyce M. Tice C o n t r i b u t i n g P h o t o g r ap h e r s Mia Lisa Anderson, Bill Crowell, Bruce Dart, Ann Kamzelski, Ken Meyer, Tina Tolins, Sarah Wagaman, Curt Weinhold, Terry Wild S a l e s R ep r e s e n t a t i v e s Brian Earle Michael Banik Linda Roller Administrative Assistant Amy Packard T h e B ea g l e Cosmo (1996-2014) Yogi (Assistant)
ABOUT US: Mountain Home is the award-winning regional magazine of PA and NY with more than 100,000 readers. The magazine has been published monthly, since 2005, by Beagle Media, LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, 16901, and online at www.mountainhomego.com. Copyright © 2010 Beagle Media, LLC. All rights reserved. E-mail story ideas to editorial@mountainhomemag.com, or call (570) 724-3838. TO ADVERTISE: E-mail info@mountainhomemag.com, or call us at (570) 724-3838. AWARDS: Mountain Home has won 63 international and statewide journalism awards from the Pennsylvania NewsMedia Association and the International Regional Magazine Association for excellence in writing, photography, and design. DISTRIBUTION: Mountain Home is available “Free as the Wind” at hundreds of locations in Tioga, Potter, Bradford, Lycoming, Union, and Clinton counties in PA and Steuben, Chemung, Schuyler, Yates, Seneca, Tioga, and Ontario counties in NY. SUBSCRIPTIONS: For a one-year subscription (12 issues), send $24.95, payable to Beagle Media LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, PA 16901 or visit www.mountainhomego.com.
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The History Center on Main Street
Sisters Harris: (top to bottom) Alene, Annie, and Linda (scowling because she wanted to be at the top of the ladder); (facing page) Alene Harris.
The History Center on Main Street
The
Rescue
Seventy years ago in Roseville, four-year-old Alene York fell down a well…
By Brendan O’Meara
A
top a whisper-quiet drive, up Pumpkin Hill Road in Roseville, rests a farmhouse with a bell operated by the pull of a rope. It echoes over the green expanse of the surrounding land, over the cornfields, over the chicken coup, and down thirty feet into the earth. The year was 1968, and Alene and Roger York walked around this property, a shell of a house not wired for electricity or running water. It had no insulation, but it was a beautiful home with an unbeatable view of the hills. Two “old maids,” as it was said, lived in this house before the Yorks. They had a telephone to keep in tune with the village gossip lest they be kept in the shadows. For drinking water they walked outside to a dug well and lowered a bucket down fifteen to twenty feet into the earth and up came fresh, cold water. Alene took one look at that well and had other plans for it. Before addressing the electrical wiring, before outfitting the house with modern plumbing, before filling the walls with insulation, before all of that, she planned on filling up that well. All the way to the top. Because history, as you know, can repeat itself, and she’d be damned if this history repeated itself on her watch to someone who was once as small as she was. See The Rescue on page 8
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The Rescue continued from page 7
Scott Walker, 570-295-1083 8
Ida McClure had a hitch in her step, the kind brought on by polio. She limped around her Roseville house tending to the ringer washer for laundry or baking bread for her husband who lorded over their cattle out in the fields. Draped in her housedress she would, at times, notice someone coming up the driveway, someone looking to buy cattle. She would limp out to the car, past the boarded-up well, and toot the horn. This signaled for Bill, her husband, to come in from the field and broker a deal for one or several of his cattle. Ida would limp back into the house to attack the day’s chores. A world away on Monday, May 15, 1944, Dwight D. Eisenhower and Winston Churchill, among others, charted plans for an invasion of Omaha Beach on the western shores of France. It would be tough, bloody, costly, but it was necessary and heroes would be made. Meanwhile, 14,000 Hungarian Jews were deported to Auschwitz. Back home Ida McClure was asked by the Harrises if she wouldn’t mind watching their two daughters, Annie and Alene, since their father Tom’s twoweek furlough was over. He was in the Navy so it was back to work, because who knew when the war would end? Louise, the girls’ mother, needed to drive him to the train station in Elmira, and needed Ida to watch the girls. The girls loved visiting Ida since she let them help in the kitchen, whether it was baking bread or maybe, just maybe, if they were lucky, she’d make her famous chocolate pudding. The girls arrived and Ida put the laundry through the ringer. She took the damp clothes and limped out to the line to hang them up. Annie, five years old, and Alene, four, ran around to the front yard to play. On the ground were planks covering the opening to the hand-dug well. The girls had no reason to think the boards unsturdy. Just a few months prior, Annie stood atop those same boards in her Sunday best, her hair braided
The Valley (Sayre, Athens, & Waverly)
Courtesy of Alene York
WELCOME TO
Before the fall: Annie on the well cover, months before Alene’s plunge.
in two ropes hanging by her head. They hadn’t thought much about what was under it. Ida, meanwhile, her dark hair tightly pulled back, her eyes framed by a smart pair of glasses rested on a button nose, hung up the wet clothes, the girls out of her sight. Alene ran to the boards atop the well’s opening, about three feet wide, and jumped on the boards. They bent and creaked. Annie ran around while Alene kept jumping on the boards, feeling how her weight bent them just so much. Alene jumped more and the boards snapped and she fell straight down, twenty feet down the narrow opening. She crashed the cold water with a violent splash. Alene surfaced for air with flecks of wood and dirt and weeds in her white-blonde hair. She found a pipe oil-slick with moisture and grabbed hold. She tried to climb, but slipped down and back into the water. A twenty-foot climb stood above her. The well telescoped the sky. She could see one slice of the sky above and then she saw Annie’s black silhouette looking down on her from on high. “Hang on to the pipe and I’ll get Ida!” Annie yelled. Annie ran to the door and banged it hard, rattling the glass. The glass agitated with every pound. “Ida! Ida!” Annie yelled. “Alene fell into the well!” Ida shook loose from her laundry and left the ringer washer with its high-pitch whirr running all day. She hobbled her polio-broken body to the well with Annie and they both See The Rescue on page 11
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The Rescue continued from page 9
peered down. Alene still clutched onto the pipe. “Hang on, Alene!” said Ida. Alene could only see their black figures still against the sky. Ida limped over to their car in the front lawn and tooted the horn for her husband to come in from the fields. Then she made for the house and reached for the phone. She cranked the ringer and put the receiver to her ear. She phoned a neighbor, Fritz White, and told him to come with a rope. Ida then moved to the barn as quickly as she could to see if she could find rope there to lower down to Alene. She couldn’t find a rope in the barn, and her husband still hadn’t responded to her summoning. Fritz White hadn’t arrived either. Ida’s options ran thin. Alene was losing her grip on the pipe. She didn’t know how to swim; she didn’t know how to tread water. Ida checked down the well and saw Alene slip down the pipe and go under and pop back up like a fishing lure. Ida looked down one more time, twenty feet down into the black. Alene called up to her, “Ida, come down and get me.” And so she did. Ida, forty-three years old, a tiny woman with no rope, climbed down the well. She tucked her legs up to her chest and leaned her back against the surface and slowly and methodically made the descent. Foot by foot, she grinded against the fieldstone lining of the well, paying special attention not to slip or knock any stones loose. A four-year-old of very small stature clung to the pipe below her. Alene couldn’t take the impact of a rock falling from that height; she couldn’t take the impact of a woman twice her size falling on her. So Alene waited as she watched Ida worm her way down twenty feet till she could feel the cool air buffering the water’s surface. Ida reached Alene and Alene figured she’d try and help Ida with the climb. “You just hang on. Put your arms around my neck and put your feet and legs around,” Ida said. “I will do the climbing. You just hang on to me and I will do the climbing.” Ida looked up as Alene koala-ed on her back. Ida grabbed hold of the pipe and dug her feet into the wall. She looked up to the slice of sky and made the climb. Foot by foot she crept up the pipe with water dripping off Alene’s slight but strong little body, hanging on. Ida was within sight of the rim when Bill returned from the field. Ida reached the surface and Bill grabbed Alene, relieving Ida of this weight. Bill then grabbed Ida and pulled her out of the well. Ida McClure, drawn and exhausted, fainted. • Ida came to and took a heavy quilt and tightly wrapped it around Alene. Alene rocked in her chair, back and forth, singing, “Jesus loves me. Jesus loves me.” Fritz White, the farmer Ida had called for a rope, ambled See The Rescue on page 12
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The rescuer: Ida McLure (right) with husband Bill and family in later years. The Rescue continued from page 11
up to her house with a pitchfork, but no rope. It was too late anyway. Ida had already made the climb and pulled Alene out of the well. Ida placed a call to the girls’ parents, to see if they had left yet. They hadn’t. “Leave a couple minutes early,” Ida said. “Is everything okay?” they asked. “ Ye a h , e v e r y t h i n g’s o k a y.” Everything’s okay now, she must have thought. Alene looked out of the house and saw her father and Bill looking at the well. Bill knew where there was an old gravestone that could work as a cover. He grabbed a chain and hooked the gravestone to his tractor. He hauled it over to the well. Tom was in his Navy uniform, ready to head to the train station. Before he left he helped Bill situate that gravestone. Before the gravestone was in place, Tom squatted down and looked over the edge, down into the well, where his daughter had hung onto the pipe, where Ida put Alene on her back and made the climb.
• Alene never felt afraid while it was happening. She never realized the weight of the moment. She fell. She was wet. She told Ida to come get her. Ida came and got her. Alene might be at the grocery store with her mother and somebody would approach them and say, “Oh, is this the little girl that fell in the well?” Alene would cross her arms on her stomach, perhaps getting butterflies, and would start rocking back and forth like she had with the heavy quilt on her shoulders, her hair still wet from the well. • Around 1980, Roseville hosted an Old Home Day and a local talent show. The theme that year was to highlight things that had happened in the past. “One of the skits was our story, and Ida was there,” Alene says. Alene had tried over the years to award Ida with a Carnegie Medal for her heroism that day on May 15, 1944. She petitioned for Ida to get the recognition she deserved. She was
Elizabeth Young
Gone but not forgotten: a filled well on Alene’s farm.
every bit the hero the soldiers were overseas. Ida deserved to feel the weight of a medal around her neck signifying the weight she carried from below the earth. Maybe if there wasn’t a war overseas Ida would have been recognized for her hometown heroism. Instead it would have to come from Alene herself. Alene had a gold medal made with their names on it and the date, and they awarded it to Ida. Not too long after the Old Home Day and the skit reenacting the rescue, Ida suffered a stroke and died. She was seventy-seven. She was buried with her medal in the Roseville Cemetery. A year later, in 1982, her husband Bill was laid beside her.
• The Crums lived next to the American Truck Stop restaurant. Twenty-four years ago, a seven-yearold boy, Erik Crum, disappeared. Erik went out to play after dinner and never returned. He couldn’t have gone too far, yet nobody could find him, this T-ball loving, Nintendo-playing child. Nobody knew, or was aware, of the old well behind the American Truck Stop restaurant next to their house. Several days later Erik was found at the bottom of the well. Nobody knew the danger more than Alene. She had had the well on her property filled. She once looked across the street to her neighbor’s land See The Rescue on page 14
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Elizabeth Young
Flash forward: Annie (left), and Alene today at Alene’s farm in Roseville. The Rescue continued from page 13
and saw another well. The man said he had it filled. Alene knew the boy’s grandmother and she wrote her a letter. Alene remembers the boy’s funeral was on May 15th. “I’m celebrating my life on the day of him being buried,” she wrote. Twenty-four years later, it still brings tears to her eyes. • Alene recalls much of her story with tear-glazed eyes. Her grandchildren play in her house, no longer a shell, long ago wired for electricity and piped with running water. The dirt has settled four feet down the well, but it has a fresh wall around it. A squirrel would have a hard time falling down there. Alene’s kitchen smells of baked bread, just as Ida’s would have when 14
she babysat the girls back in the 1940s. Alene’s grandson reads and writes letters. Her granddaughter Lena empties the toy box and plays the piano. She is four years old with blonde, wavy hair. She is the same age Alene was when she fell. “How would Lena react?” asks Alene. “I was thinking that.” Alene’s memory of her day in the well is still high-definition sharp. It hasn’t dulled over the years. She thinks of Ida all the time. She used to visit Ida from time to time on her way back from work just to stay in touch. If it wasn’t for Ida maybe Alene wouldn’t be here seventy years later. Had Annie been running around elsewhere, she may have missed Alene’s fall and thought nothing of it. Maybe Alene ran around back? Oh, she’ll turn up.
Alene went on to marry and have three children of her own. Her two grandchildren eating steaming-fresh baked bread with butter smeared to a thin skin wouldn’t be here were it not for Ida McClure. There was never any doubt that Ida would go down into the well. Her action echoes through three generations. It all started twenty feet below the earth’s crust, telling a little girl to hang on tight. Just hang on. I will do the climbing. Mountain Home contributor Brendan O’Meara, of Saratoga, NY, is the author of Six Weeks in Saratoga: How Three-Year-Old Filly Rachel Alexandra Beat the Boys and Became Horse of the Year.
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Courtesy of the Tioga County Visitors Bureau
Barbour Rock
There’s This Little Place I Know On the Edge of Time and Space… By Jeremy C. Bechtel
I
have been hiking the nature trails of North Central Pennsylvania for almost thirty years, and the Barbour Rock Trail just outside Colton Point State Park is one of my favorites. Some of my friends may say that’s because it is so short—only about a mile round trip—and mostly flat. And while those are charming attributes, I’d venture to say that those who truly know me wouldn’t be able to hike that trail without understanding exactly why I enjoy it so much. The trail starts at Colton Road and goes about half a mile, where it brushes against the western rim of the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon before making its loop and returning to its origin. The forest there is mostly 16
open woods of oak and maple, with a thick line of mountain laurel ripping through the middle of the trail. About three-quarters of the way out on the trail you start seeing open sky straight in front of you through the gaps in the trees. Anticipation grows, knowing you are almost there, almost to The Vista. The vista where time seems to stand still and the world is a whole lot bigger than it was when you got out of the car. Time spent at the vista is, for me, a reprieve from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It’s a time to reflect on and process the past. It’s a time to map forward progress. And when I’m not engulfed in life’s turbulence, it’s a time to just soak it all in. From the vista you can see north See Barbour Rock on page 48
Dave Milano
O U T D O O R S
When Life Hands You Wood Let The Chips Fall Where They May
I
t was the late ’70s. America had firmly declared, “We give up” in the Vietnam war, Nixon had resigned, oil and energy were forming America’s crises du jour, and America’s young adults were experimenting with what turned out to be a quaintly innocent version of the “me” era. I was in the very representative statistical center of that generation, and personally gave sociologists no reason to consider altering their charts and graphs. I half-heartedly attended college, half-heartedly worked as a bicycle mechanic, lived in a halffurnished apartment, and generally avoided any activity that might one day lead to permanence. I was having a very fine time, half-intentionally following the grand cultural dictum of the day to “find yourself.”
By Dave Milano One day, in the midst of my happy, lukewarm life, a leaflet showed up in the mailbox sent from the local high school. It was an offer to expand myself by taking one of their many evening “Adult School” courses, which were not courses really, but organized activities geared around a variety of topics that ranged from Charm And Self-Improvement to Welding. Another disconnected activity seemed just the thing. I signed up for Wood Shop. The first evening in the shop was full of anxious anticipation. We met our instructor, Mr. Art, who delivered the obligatory safety lecture and then gave us all booklets full of minor shop projects from which we would choose what was to keep us busy three times a week for the next month. I was
immediately drawn by deep and strong forces to the lathe. My project would be a five-foot-tall coat tree turned from glued-up scraps of Douglas fir that I had scavenged from a local building site. I was completely enthralled with the idea. Carving away at a rapidly spinning piece of wood on a hefty machine tool was simply irresistible. Mr. Art gave me a short lesson in how to get a piece of wood securely mounted on the lathe, some basic instruction in how to attack the whirling chunk with a spindle gouge and parting tool, and set me free. Somehow I got from A to B without major mishap and produced perhaps the ugliest coat tree ever, one that nevertheless pleased me greatly because I had made it, and because it stood up fine in the corner with only a See When Life Hands You Wood on page 20
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WELCOME TO
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WELLSBORO
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When Life Hands You Wood continued from page 17
single matchbook under one leg to achieve verticality, and because it even held coats if they weren’t too heavy. But the main thing was that the lathe seemed to fit me like old sneakers. I felt at home there, operating the various lathe parts, saying their fabulously practical industrial names—centers, drives, belts, spindles—and of course holding cutting tools against spinning wood and watching amazedly as the chips flew and the piece transformed from roughly square to smoothly round. It seemed a match made in heaven—a natural connection between some part of me, hard-wired by God himself, and an industrial-era machine. At the lathe, I was at peace. It might easily have become a lifelong obsession but as things turned out, when the course ended, so did my association with the wood shop. I wouldn’t touch a lathe again for thirty-five years. Shortly after the course I met a good woman and found myself succumbing to another primal urge—to establish family. Securely fixed in nesting mode I couldn’t help but notice that my friends who had eschewed finding themselves and had gone instead to college for the financial payoff were doing pretty well out there in the big world. Thus college and a “professional” career promptly became my plan and path, and I handily became another statistical center—a boomer in the ’80s, accumulating money and things. To tell the truth, it was pretty okay, what with the wife and kids and no worries about where our next meal would come from. But sure as sunrise after sunset, when the kids married and moved out and the time came to retire from my official career, the “inner me,” apparently long latent but clearly not defunct, called again. I purchased an old Oliver 167 spindle lathe that had been used (and mildly abused) by Elmira High School shop students back in the ’60s. It was a scratch-and-dent special with the motor and all the controls except its original Reeve’s drive long removed. It was just right. I happily set about installing a new motor and controls, banged out a few dents, and in no time was back in form. I was a woodturner again, feeling like I had never left. The old, satisfying, long severed connection had been repaired—mind, heart, and hands neatly reunited. I returned to the wood shop like a native to the jungle, home again, busy and happy, and also strangely aware that I was, once again, solidly in the center of yet another bell curve. I was a retired boomer with a hobby virtually opposite in character to that of my career, nursing a nagging wonder about what life might have been like had I, decades earlier, heeded a whispering, primordial call.
Dave Milano is a frequent contributor to Mountain Home.
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Mother Earth
A Mouse in the House
D. Gordon E. Robertson
By Gayle Morrow
“S
o many rodents, so little time.” That is the credo by which our cat, Chub, lives. Chub has always had a very close relationship with food, perhaps because he was an orphan and a stray and likely went hungry a lot when he was too little to catch much more than bugs. He has since developed into an extraordinary hunter; we know that because he regularly brings to us the catch of the day. There are a few theories about why cats gift their humans with dead things. One is that they like the praise—“Oh, good kitty, you caught a mouse!”— that sort of thing. Another school of thought is that cats think we, the people with whom they live, are just poor providers. We couldn’t catch a flying squirrel or a turkey chick if our lives depended on it, and so it’s up to the cat (heavy sigh) to do the hunting for the pride. Mo s t m o r n i n g s t h e re a re , complements of Chub, bits and pieces of his midnight snacks scattered about on the living room rug. He prefers to eat in the house, so he brings things in through the kitty door to enjoy. Sometimes the things he brings in are still quite lively, so then he and the other cats can have some good entertainment watching us trying to chase chipmunks and bunnies back outside. He catches, but does not eat, moles, voles, and these cute little mice with really long tails that I always
thought were kangaroo mice. It turns out, however, we do not have kangaroo mice in Pennsylvania. What we have are meadow jumping mice and woodland jumping mice. They are similar in appearance—light brown fur, light-to-white bellies, and tails that are five to six inches long. The meadow jumping mouse, Zapus hudsonius, likes grassy, brushy fields and woodland edges. The woodland jumping mouse, Napaeuzapus insignis, is what I think we have around our house. It prefers a hemlock/hardwood forest habitat rather than fields. It can leap up to ten feet—thus the name, I guess. Both the meadow and the woodland jumping mouse eat seeds, grasses, berries, fungi, worms, and insects. They are winter hibernators, curling up in underground burrows. The woodland variety has a longer gestation period than its meadow cousin and so usually has just one litter per season. Woodland babies are also thought to have a longer developmental period as compared to other small rodents, although it is, understandably, difficult to do much research on mouse parenting skills. Keystone State Press Award-winning columnist Gayle Morrow, former editor of The Wellsboro Gazette, cooks locally—and organically—at the West End Market Café. 23
VoicePlay
B I L LT O W N
Sing, Sing, Sing: VoicePlay a cappella singers (from left) Layne Stein, Eliezer “Eli” Jacobson, Tony Wakim, Earl Elkins, Jr., and Geoff Castellucci will be on stage at the Community Arts Center this fall.
Laughing All the Way to the Stage Live from the Small Screen, Comics and Singers Come to Billtown
By Linda Roller
F
rom the small screen to the big stage, the Williamsport Community Arts Center (CAC) is taking the excitement of some of the most popular shows on television and bringing it live and local. With the eighth season of NBC’s Last Comic Standing just finished, the five finalists are taking it on the road across the nation, and Williamsport is their
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destination on September 30 at 7:30 p.m. The tour showcases the winner of Last Comic Standing, Rod Man, along with season finalists Nikki Carr, Lachlan Patterson, Joe Machi, and Rocky LaPorte. “Comedy is amazingly popular at the Community Arts Center. It seems like everyone is up for a good laugh to escape,” says Rob Steele, executive
director of the CAC, noting that the format is slightly different from the show, where the comedians only got a short amount of time to perform. On stage, each comedian gets twenty minutes to try to “one-up” their fellow comics. For area viewers, Joe Machi is the hometown guy, hailing originally from State College before moving to New York City in 2006 to pursue a See Laughing All the Way on page 26
d . . r . a o b A All ioga County T e c n e i r e p x E MAY - OCTOBER
SCENIC EXCURSIONS, DININg & ThEMED TRAINS
TIOGA CENTRAL
R A I L R OA D Phone: (570)724-0990 Web: TiogaCentral.com
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How funny is that? State College native Joe Machi is coming to the Community Arts Center stage.
26
Courtesy Varela Media
Laughing All the Way continued from page 24
career in comedy. His work on Comedy Central and an appearance on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, followed by his strong showing on Last Comic, have catapulted him to a national audience. The CAC show gives people the experience of a big city comedy club, with some of the best fresh talent in the country. And a limited number of folks will get the opportunity to actually meet and socialize with the comics, through a special VIP package. Although winning a nationally televised competition is thrilling, the exposure of a national audience alone can change the career of a group. VoicePlay, an a cappella group from Orlando, was highlighted through the NBC program The Sing-Off and then was selected for the tour of the show in February and March of 2014. But it was in January, right after the show aired, that executive director Rob Steele heard them in New York City at APAP (the annual conference of the Association of Performing Arts Presenters). He was so impressed that he sought out their booth. In the conversation, they talked about their interest in educational outreach. Steele was excited about the group and a way to connect with young people in the area, so “we came up with... performing a clinic/mini-concert in each of the eight school districts in Lycoming County. VoicePlay will be in town for five days with four days of clinics, a matinee performance
WELCOME TO
WILLIAMSPORT
Courtesy Varela Media
The winner takes all: Last Comic Standing champion Rod Man headlines the road show coming to Williamsport.
at the CAC for 2,000 students, and an evening public performance.” That public performance is on Friday, October 17 at 7:30 p.m. Geoff Castellucci, the bass voice of VoicePlay and one of the founding members of the group, said that initially the group developed their work in schools to bolster attendance at their performances. “It was a necessity.” In previous years, Castellucci, along with Earl Elkins, Jr., Layne Stein, Eliezer “Eli” Jacobson, and Tony Wakim did clinics at schools forty to fifty times a year. This year, with The Sing-Off, the tour, and all the new opportunities, they will not be doing as many school events. But, according to Castellucci, “We will continue to work with schools. It’s our favorite thing to do...to see the excitement coming out in that audience.” But the joy is not reserved for a younger audience, as VoicePlay’s mix of incredible vocal arrangements and clever comedy creates a show loved by all. Carla Fisher, director of marketing and creative design at Williamsport CAC, noted that there seems to be a common thread. Many of the shows “are coming from the small screen and making their live debuts.” For the audience, it guarantees an eclectic mix of performances by up and coming talent, with many of them expanding on shows enjoyed in a living room, theatre, or online through YouTube. They are at once fresh and familiar, and playing at one of the finest regional venues. Enjoy the show!
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Mountain Home contributor Linda Roller is a bookseller, appraiser, and writer in Avis, Pennsylvania.
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ARTS & TRAVEL
The History Center on Main Street
Gold In Them Thar Hills: In the humiliation of his life, Mansfield geologist Andrew Sherwood and his investors were swindled in the Klondike Gold Rush of 1896.
How Fabulous Were the 1890s? Let Us Count the Ways By Joyce M. Tice
W
e call the 1890s decade fabulous, and that is exactly what it was. It was a dynamic era of transition, excitement, and enthusiasm. It was so fabulous, in fact, that in Mansfield we still celebrate it every September. The 1890 Census showed a United States population of almost sixty-three million people, up 25.5 percent from 1880. Immigration and a high birth rate raised the numbers. In Tioga County 1890 was the peak population level of all time with over 52,000 people. With the decline of the coal
and lumber industries, this fell to 31,000 in 1940. Today we have only recovered to something over 42,000. North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, and Washington had just become states in 1889. In the 1890s, Idaho, Wyoming, and Utah joined. Not coincidentally, the last battle of the Indian Wars, the infamous Battle of Wounded Knee in South Dakota, occurred in December of 1890. Hundreds of the native population, people of all ages and condition, were slaughtered.
The big business of the country was agriculture. 43 percent of the nation’s labor force worked on four and a half million farms, the average size of which was 136 acres. In that decade agricultural exports of $703 million annually amounted to 71 percent of all U.S. exports. The Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogs made every imaginable product available to rural families. The Burpee seed catalog offered variety for garden and farm. Part of the agricultural environment was the annual local or county fair where See How Fabulous on page 30 29
The History Center on Main Street
Burgeoning bloomers: At last, women could ride bicycles in comfort. How Fabulous continued from page 29
produce and livestock were displayed and judged. Healthy
competition raised the standards. It was also a major community event that brought all the residents of the rural communities, who might not mingle any other time of the year, together in the local market towns. Entertainment of all kinds added to the festivity of the annual fair. According to one of our local diaries, The Great Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show was part of the entertainment in 1890. Farmers and townsfolk alike travelled on various horse drawn conveyances over mud roads. For town-to-town travel the stagecoach was available. It ran between Mansfield and Wellsboro round trip twice a day. For longer trips, one only had to get to the closest train depot and the whole country was open to explore and visit. The Western migrants and their Eastern relatives could exchange visits. Locally, people would take the train to Elmira for shopping or a family reunion at Eldridge Park. We can’t talk about transportation without including the bicycle. It was all the rage. Bicyclists took to the road by the thousands. They joined clubs. They raced and toured. Women abandoned their corsets and long skirts for Bloomer Suits that freed their movement. Infrastructure improvements were extensive in the 1890s. The first American subway was built in Boston in 1897. Electricity was a new resource. The first alternating current was transmitted in 1891. In April of 1892, The General Electric Company was formed by merger. In September of that same year, they demonstrated electricity at the Great Mansfield Fair resulting in the first ever night football game that we continue to commemorate. The first phone line in this area connected Mansfield and Wellsboro. There was one phone in Mansfield at the Hotel Allen. There had been earlier private lines. Large-scale phone line installation in our area started in 1900. Mansfield signed a contract for water, needed mainly for fighting fire. See How Fabulous on page 31
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CORNING’S GAFFER DISTRICT
The History Center on Main Street
WELCOME TO
The White City: The first Ferris wheel was built for the Chicago World’s Fair. How Fabulous continued from page 30
The 1890s had no shortage of celebrities. Among the most prominent was twenty-two-year-old investigative journalist Elizabeth Cochrane, pen name Nellie Bly. Inspired by Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days, she set out in her now famous checked coat to do the same. It took her only seventytwo days to circumnavigate the globe, telegraphing her progress back to her newspaper daily. At every stop dignitaries and fans gathered to share her journey. Fame and a long career followed. A board game was even produced to follow her trail. The Klondike Gold Rush of 1896 has a local connection. Mansfield geologist Andrew Sherwood was approached to participate in an Alaska mining venture. He became the general manager of the Alaska Mining and Prospecting Company with a Mansfield address. He even took a team to the Klondike. Not only was he swindled, but so were those he had encouraged to invest. It was the humiliation of his life. The big event of the decade was the Columbian Exposition, the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. The 600-acre White City hosted millions from across the country who flocked to experience wonders never seen before. The first Ferris wheel carried 2,160 passengers. Wrigley’s chewing gum was among the new products introduced. You can experience some of the flavor of the 1890s at Mansfield’s Fabulous 1890s Weekend on September 26 and 27. This year it is paired with Mansfield University Homecoming. You’ll see twice the parade and twice the entertainment. You will see more agricultural elements this year, balloons, and a new video show of the 1890s decade in the museum tent. You can even try out the Nellie Bly board game. We hope to see you. Joyce M. Tice is the creator of the Tri-Counties Genealogy and History Web site (www.joycetice.com) and The History Center on Main Street in Mansfield.
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WELCOME TO
CORNING’S GAFFER DISTRICT
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DISCOVER AUTUMN’S
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171 Cedar Arts Center offers classes, exhibitions and performances for all ages & interests. This September, don’t miss: Opening Reception: Gigi Alvaré, INCANTATION September 12, 2014, 5:30 - 7:30 PM 171’s Houghton Gallery (155 Cedar Street) In honor of her 60th birthday, Gigi Alvaré presents INCANTATION, a series of works on paper and mixed media sculpture, inspired by nature. Alvaré evokes movement through line, form, color, light and dark. The exhibition will remain on display through October 24.
7 DANCERS, 5 DUETS, 1 MUSICIAN AND A HOOP Saturday, September 27 & Sunday, September 28 171 Cedar Arts Center | Drake House Studio Theater Lois Welk curates this one-of-a-kind dance concert featuring exceptional talent from across the nation and our own back yard. Open-to-all ‘master’ classes, performances both improvised and rehearsed, and the return of our own Saturday Social Dance make for a spectacular weekend of dance.
See our full class line-up, become a member, or donate @ www.171CedarArts.org
16 E. Market St. Corning, NY 14830 607.937.4438
171 Cedar Street, Corning | info@171CedarArts.org | 607-936-4647
MKTG104632_CONNOR_M.indd 1
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Opening Season Concert The Shirley Hodge Gould Memorial Concert Sunday, September 21, 2014 4:00 pm
Corning Museum of Glass Guest Artist Gleb Ivanov, Piano
Of The Southern Finger Lakes Adams
The Chairman Dances; Foxtrot for Orchestra Mendelssohn Piano Concerto No. 1 in G Minor Beethoven Symphony No. 3 (Eroica)
Toshiyuki Shimada Music Director & Conductor
Tickets: Clemens Center Box Office 607-734-8191 or OSFL.org Adults: $45 Students: $8 (Processing and facility maintenance fees apply)
Tickets for: OSFL 20th Anniversary Gala and Subscriptions to the 20142015 Season can be purchased by visiting www.osfl.org or by calling 607-936-2873
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F I N G E R
L A K E S
Wes Lobdell
So close and yet so far: at the Tasting Room in Watkins Glen, boutique wines from all New York’s wine regions are available for sampling and for sale. But getting to taste them in other states is another story altogether.
The State of the States
All Those Years Ago, Prohibition Was Repealed—More or Less‌ By Holly Howell
T
he United States has come a long way. Decades ago, we were best known for wines like Boones Farm and Pink Catawba. But, in a relatively short period, the United States has caught up with some of the older wine regions of Europe,
who have been at it for centuries. We have become one of the major players, producing a line-up of amazingly diverse domestic wines that have comfortably taken their place alongside the highest caliber wines in the world. According to most recent studies,
the United States is rated, in terms of quantity, as the fourth largest wine producing country in the world. We follow Italy (in first place), France (in second place), and Spain (coming in third). The good news is that all of our See The State of the States on page 36 35
The State of the States continued from page 35
fifty states are making class-act wines, with California leading the charge. In terms of quantity, California is followed by Washington, New York State, and Oregon, in that order. We are apt to find only wine from these top four states sold in our local wine shops, but there are wonderful wines being made in “the other forty-six.” The sad news is that it is very hard for us to get our hands on those other wines. I have managed to procure some of these elusive gems by either traveling to the state in person or having a friend bring them back when visiting. Sometimes, if I am lucky, I can get my hands on a few through charity auctions. The fact is that there are incredible award-winning wines being made in states like Texas, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Ohio, Colorado, and many more. Although many out-of-state wineries can ship to other states, we
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are still not privy to tasting or learning about these wines through our local wine shops and distributors. So, they remain a mystery to most. It seems not a little bit ironic that we can get single vineyard small production wines from Hungary, South Africa, Sicily, Austria, Uruguay—but it is nearly impossible to get a wine from one of our neighboring states. It is all in the state’s hands, after all, as was defined by the aftermath of Prohibition. Who knew back then that the future of wine would hold such promise in America? But, the way the system has devolved in the United States, we basically have fifty different countries that all have individual rules. Six states ban the sale of wine on Sundays. Three states completely control their sales of wine, which eliminates a free marketplace—and Pennsylvania is on that list. There are fifteen states that ban residents from
bringing a bottle from home to a restaurant. Currently, eleven states ban residents from having wine shipped to them from out-of-state wineries. And there are thirty-six states that still ban residents from having wine shipped to them by out-of-state retailers. Eeeks! And don’t even get me started on Canada. The result is a confusing and frustrating system that really hurts the consumer. You may be able to order wines online to be shipped directly, but only if that state allows out-of-state shipping. How will the rest of the world get to taste our unique American wines if we cannot even share them with one another? Fortunately, some concerned citizens have founded an organization to help. It is called the American Wine Consumer Coalition (AWCC), and they are dedicated to representing the interests of wine consumers in See The State of the States on page 38
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Wes Lobdell Sampling New York: a taste at the Tasting Room. The State of the States continued from page 36
America. This newly formed group is ready to address legal access to wine via direct shipment, and I am thrilled. I hope that they can make some headway in changing our annoyingly archaic system and allow us to celebrate America by showing pride in every state’s accomplishments—and learning to better appreciate the wonderful wines we have here at home. I am jumping on the bandwagon, and I hope you will join me. For an update on what the AWCC is doing, and information on becoming a member, please visit www.wineconsumers.org. On the Web site, you can click on any state to see just where you stand. Alas, much work still needs to be done to break down state barriers with wine. But in the meantime, that should not deter you from being adventurous and searching out great local wines as you travel this summer. There are too many fabulous wines out there that need to be discovered. Cheers, America! You can meet Holly, a Certified Specialist of Wine (by the Society of Wine Educators) and a Certified Sommelier (by the Master Court of Sommeliers in England), at Wellsboro’s Wine & Art Tour on Friday, September 19. She will be teaching Wine 101: How to Taste Like a Pro at 7:00 p.m. at The Wellsboro House. The $25 ticket includes a wine glass, tastings, light hors d’oeuvres, and dessert. For $35, you can take Holly’s class plus From Grains to Glass, a beer tasting class taught by Wellsboro House Brewmaster Rob Kathcart. Call the Wellsboro Chamber of Commerce at (570) 724-1926 to make advance reservations. 38
&
DRINK
Food Thinkers/flickr
FOOD
Lamb on the Menu? It's Rare.
Or So Says Our Writer, Who Can Never Get Enough By Cornelius O'Donnell
W
hen I was a kid—or should I say “several years ago”—we probably had lamb several times a month. It could be lamb stew or chops, but more often it was a succulent leg of lamb. And it was rare that we grilled anything in our little brick outdoor fireplace, so it was an oven roast. Dad was a meat and potatoes kinda guy, and with that background it’s no wonder I learned to love lamb and why
I felt an acute sense of lamb withdrawal during my two years on active duty in the army, mostly in post-war Korea. I don’t remember ever having lamb in the Mess (such an appropriate name, eh?) And, friends, in those days there weren’t any Indian, Greek, or Middle European restaurants in Seoul, let alone near the DMZ where they plunked me. And there was no “soul” food in Seoul. (I’m talking the late ’50s. The photos of Seoul today blow my mind.)
While on an R & R trip to Tokyo nostalgia kicked in, and I even managed to find a German restaurant and went nuts trying dishes our family loved at home, thanks to my grandmother’s nurse/housekeeper.
Back to BAAA Land I’m writing about lamb because I’ve noticed a notable lack of this meat on area menus. I imagine it just doesn’t See Lamb on the Menu? on page 40 39
Lamb on the Menu? continued from page 39
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prove popular with diners—because so often the lamb would arrive on the table overcooked, grey, and dry. And, let’s face it, with the price of lamb escalating it will probably be saved by home cooks for big occasions. Wonderful thick lamb chops—when you can get them—might require you to take a home equity loan, but, boy, are they delicious. I must tell you, though, I phoned a local market, one that is noted for their meat, to order lamb for a special dinner. The butcher explained that they didn’t carry it as people rarely asked for it, and he was loathe to order it (and charge the going rate). I was shocked. You can find some cuts of lamb in other area markets—thank goodness. A friend of mine who is a terrific cook has found several cuts of lamb and butchers who are willing to cut what you need in our local Tops market. Call ahead and check on the availability of the cut you want, and they will probably order what you need. I’ve had good luck with getting ground lamb—as I am addicted to lamb burgers. I often go Greek and stuff them with feta cheese and a little finely chopped rosemary and mint. But let me give you a favorite—and easy—recipe for leg of lamb (it’s a little further down the page).
On the Web Market As a treat, I’ve ordered lamb from a wonderful source in Pennsylvania, www.JamisonFarms.com in Latrobe. Google their Web site and you’ll find every cut available (I have a trove of the shanks in the freezer), as well as lamb sausages (perfect with a mess—in the good sense—of lentils and beans). There are lots of options, and you can buy prepared foods made with their lamb, such as grill-ready burgers. Their well-packaged offerings will last up to six months in the freezer. And, might I add, I found out about Jamison from chef friends here, who source their lamb from them, and often proudly 40
cite the company as supplier on their menu listings.
Shake a Leg What could be more festive than leg of lamb for an anniversary or birthday or christening or…almost any celebratory dinner? This is the way my mom made the dish and I remember it well as “guess who” was allowed to stuff the slits even back when I needed a stool to reach the countertop. Actually, little fingers are a great help here. Mom or dad can make the slits with a sharp knife and the kid gets to do the garlic and rosemary bit. I love it when young ones are allowed to help in the making of a dish. Remember that commercial with the little darlings proclaiming “AND WE HEPPED” that said including kids in the cooking process instills such pride when the final dish is presented to the family/guests? At least I remember such feelings to this day.
Leg of Lamb with Rosemary Start working on the lamb well ahead of the oven time: season the leg and insert the garlic and rosemary, then let this sit for a few hours (figure an hour on the countertop at cool room temperature, but for a longer precooking nap it should be refrigerated). Bring to room temperature before roasting. Please, please don’t overcook the lamb. I think it’s done when an instant read thermometer registers about 130135 F (it will be deliciously rare). And for Pete’s sake (who was this Pete?) don’t worry about the pinkish hue of the meat when you carve. But suit yourself. And don’t forget to let the roast stand, lightly tented with foil, for about ten minutes after you pull it out of the oven. For easier slicing you can use a semi-boneless or a boneless leg; just adjust the time and use that thermometer to determine doneness. See Lamb on the Menu? on page 42
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Lamb on the Menu? continued from page 40
Obviously, these will take less time to cook. 1 (4-5 lb.) leg of lamb (buy a bigger leg for more than 6 diners) 3 large cloves of garlic, peeled and cut into slivers Several sprigs of fresh rosemary Extra virgin olive oil Salt and freshly ground pepper 3 to 4 slices of thick-sliced bacon Champagne or sherry vinegar Preheat the oven to 350 F. Trim the excess fat from the lamb, pat it dry, and, using the tip of a sharp knife, cut slits all over it, the more the merrier (to coin a phrase). Fill the slits with garlic and bits of rosemary. Brush the roast with a little olive oil. Place the bacon in the bottom of a roasting pan; add the lamb, fat side up. Bake, basting from time to time with a few tablespoons of vinegar; 20 to 25 minutes per pound should do it, or until a meat thermometer registers about 135F. Do not let the thermometer touch the bone. Remove the roast to a cutting board, cover lightly with foil, and let it rest for 20 to 30 minutes. The aroma will be wonderful. This serves six.
A Little Poem for Dessert Here’s a poem I learned when I was a sassy teen and came across a bunch of “twisted” nursery rhymes. I never forgot it and, though I may have gotten some words wrong, I now present it to you: Mary had a little lamb, some beets, and then some prunes, A glass of wine, a bowl of soup, and then some macaroons. It made the naughty waiters laugh to see her order so, And when they carried Mary out her face was white as snow.
Chef, teacher, and author Cornelius O’Donnell lives in Elmira, New York.
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Barbour Rock continued from page 16
and south into the length of the canyon itself. I have often sat up there watching as the weather changed from fair to foul or foul to fair. Whether it’s the lifting of early morning fog from the canyon or an evening rainstorm bringing the fog in, I am always mesmerized by the transformation. To sit on the edge of the gorge watching the cloud pack below moving in and out of the contours of the rugged terrain is inspiring. You start to wonder if you are sitting on the edge of the Earth, pondering what creatures may be waiting in the abyss below, or to imagine you are sitting on a precipice in Heaven waiting for an angel to pass by. I have often watched as gray squirrels frolic in the trees on the edge of the steep drop-off. They dangle over the edge of the canyon on the limbs of huge oaks, comfortably showing off for their visitors. One evening I stood there alone at sunset pondering the meaning of life when I heard a rustling in the leaves to my right. I watched as a large squirrel traipsed across the forest floor, climbed up into a maple tree, and walked out on a limb about ten feet off the ground. As if signaling to me, the squirrel turned to look at me, then looked back towards the canyon as it lay down on the limb. When I left ten minutes later it was still laying on the branch. My wife and kids and I go out there together every fall. We stop to pick up and break open acorns from both red and white oak trees. It’s still funny to watch the look on their faces as they bite into the bitter fruit. The boys and I always go on a search for the perfect walking stick, and I ask them the names of plants in the area. They are starting to know quite a few. I always caution them to stay away from the steep drop-off, and they always reply, “I know, Dad, stay on the trail.” Sometimes my wife and I take some mom and dad time, drag out a blanket and a picnic basket, and just hang out for a while. Some of our best conversations have taken place out there on the edge of the canyon. And no matter what is going on in my life, walking the half-mile back to the car after being at that vista always makes me smile.
Mountain Home contributor Jeremy Bechtel is a forest ranger, outdoor enthusiast, husband, and father from Wellsboro, Pennsylvania.
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www.nigelpkent.com
B A C K O F T H E M O U N TA I N
After the Storm Photo by Nigel P. Kent A downpour had just ended over Canadice Lake, and I came across a vision: a beautiful handmade canoe pulled up on the shoreline. The owners were still sheltering from the rain, so I got to photograph it still and empty, just waiting to skim back onto the quiet water. ~N.P.K.
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Dr. Coyle
Our newest OB/GYn speCialist.
Susquehanna Health Obstetrics and Gynecology at Soldiers + Sailors Memorial Hospital is pleased to welcome Dr. Allison Coyle to our team. She joins Drs. Leo and Roberts in delivering comprehensive women’s healthcare in the region. Dr. Coyle specializes in routine gynecological care, obstetrics, high-risk pregnancy, menopause management, surgical procedures and much more. She earned her medical degree from New Jersey School of Osteopathic Medicine and completed her residency in obstetrics and gynecology at Jersey Shore University Medical Center. Dr. Coyle is excited to join the Wellsboro community and provide personalized care to women in the region. Dr. Coyle is accepting new patients and is located at 15 Meade Street, Suite L-1, Wellsboro.
For more information or to make an appointment, please call (570) 723-0637.
SusquehannaHealth.org