Pennsylvania & the New York Finger Lakes
Good Dog, Hunting
Paula and Steve Piatt Train Their Labs to Fetch Pheasants Instead of Slippers
By
Paula Piatt
Hunt for Orange November
We Like Bigfoot and We Cannot Lie
FREE as the wind
Don’t Sit on the House Chairs
By Linda Roller
Twenty-five years of Victorian mansion tours in Williamsport.
Tess’s Table
By Teresa Banik Capuzzo
Good Dog, Hunting
By Paula Piatt
Paula and Steve Piatt train their Labs to fetch pheasants instead of slippers.
By Linda Roller
For six locations, this trailer is heaven on wheels.
By Lilace Mellin Guignard
You’re never too old—or too anything—to follow your dreams.
By Gayle Morrow
Hunting for some big(foot) stories.
Back of the Mountain
By Sarah Wagaman
By Gayle Morrow
Eldred WWII Museum keeps memories and lessons alive.
Cover photo by Wade Spencer, (top) Molly by Wade Spencer; (middle) Bigfoot by Wade Spencer; (bottom) Eldred WWII Museum by Gayle Morrow
mountainhomemag.com
E ditors & P ublish E rs
Teresa Banik Capuzzo
Michael Capuzzo
A ssoci A t E E ditor & P ublish E r
Lilace Mellin Guignard
A ssoci A t E P ublish E r
George Bochetto, Esq.
A rt d ir E ctor
Wade Spencer
M A n A ging E ditor
Gayle Morrow
s A l E s r EP r E s E nt A tiv E
Shelly Moore
c ircul A tion d ir E ctor
Michael Banik
A ccounting
Amy Packard
c ov E r d E sign
Wade Spencer
c ontributing W rit E rs
Paula Piatt, Linda Roller
c ontributing P hotogr AP h E rs
Larry Flint, Linda Roller, Sarah Wagaman
d istribution t EAM
Dawn Litzelman, Grapevine Distribution, Linda Roller
t h E b EA gl E Nano
Cosmo (1996-2014) • Yogi (2004-2018)
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25th ANNIVERSARY
Eras Tour, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
November 22, 23, & 24
A Tour of Historic Homes, Churches and Museums
Funded in part by the Bradford County Tourism Agency Presented by: 26th Annual Sayre Borough Christmas Parade
Friday, November 29, 2024 Downtown Sayre @ 6:30pm
Friday, November 22
Victorian Christmas Program ”From Petticoat’s to Pillboxes”
Community Theatre League • 7pm to 8:30pm
Saturday, November 23
Tours of Historic Homes, Churches and Museums 9am to 5pm
Sponsored by West Branch Susquehanna Builders Association
YWCA - Crafted/Juried Artisan Holiday Market, Taber Museum - 33rd Annual Will Huffman Toy Train Expo, Carriage Rides, Rosko’s Brewhouse - Historic Culvert Tours & more!
Sunday, November 24
Backhouse Café and Tea - Celtic Wood and Wires 12pm to 2pm, Saint Luke’s Church - Williamsport Civic Chorus “Winter Songs” 3pm to 4:30pm, Taber Museum - 33rd Annual Will Huffman Toy Train Expo, 11am to 4pm, Wildwood Chapel - Village Green Brass Ensemble, 1pm, YWCA - Crafted/Juried Artisan Holiday Market - 11am to 4pm
For all event times, locations, pricing and to view a video of Victorian Christmas, “Williamsport’s Holiday Tradition,” check out our website at: victorianchristmaspa.com Tour tickets available now at eventbrite.com
Good Dog, Hunting
Paula and Steve Piatt Train Their Labs to Fetch Pheasants Instead of
Slippers
Paula Piatt By
Wade Spencer
Training goes swimmingly: Riley shows Molly how much fun it is to fetch a bumper from the pond.
Without fail, when the leaves started to turn, the phone would ring and a friend we hadn’t heard from in a while, after exchanging pleasantries, would ask “Hey, how’s Ben doing?”
It was pheasant season, and our Labrador retriever was getting more calls than Steve and I were. Long before the cell phone, the messages would pile up on our answering machine. And for good reason. Ben was a hunting machine—bringing our pheasants back to us. Bringing other hunters’ pheasants back to us. I’m smiling just thinking about him.
Molly has the same potential. She didn’t know it yet, last July, riding home on my lap. Curious, but not yet big enough to see out the window, she wriggled and squirmed before settling down in frustration to chew the new Kong we brought along for the ride. (“Chew this, not that!”) She’d have been more excited if she’d known what was ahead, but tooling down the highway at 70 mph, I was kind of glad she was just chillin’ out. I knew it wouldn’t last for long, especially when she met her new big sister, Riley.
We’ve been fortunate to welcome many new puppies to the family over almost forty years—so many that this newest pack member carries the registered name of “Sayre Hill’s Eight is Enough,” although we both know that’s probably not true. All eight Labrador retrievers (Magic, Brooks, Ben, Maddie, Hailey, Finn, Riley, and, now, Molly) have been destined, via a comfy spot on the couch, for the upland fields of Pennsylvania and New York in search of pheasant, grouse, and woodcock.
(3) Courtesy Paula Piatt
We’ve always opted to do the training ourselves, and so our dogs haven’t been perfect by any stretch of the imagination. Genetics overcame our shortcomings with Ben—hence his October popularity—but Hailey was always a work in progress. While Maddie dove into the briars and the brush hot on the trail of a bird, Hailey patrolled the edges, waiting for the bird to appear on the trail. Yeah, she’d say. No need for me to go in there. Accidents have happened, though. Once during a hunt, I’m pretty sure Magic retrieved the pheasant, brought it right back, and sat down beside Steve. But we didn’t get a picture.
Christmas in July
To a dog, however, they loved to go, they got the job done, and we had fun. So it will be with Molly. The dog we were never supposed to have.
We expected to head into this hunting season with Riley and her big sister, Finn. When she lost last year’s pheasant season to a nasty cruciate ligament tear (and the subsequent surgery and rehab), we all missed Finnster Monster tearing around, doing what she absolutely loved. “There’s always next year” gave us something to look forward to. But cancer is cruel. We knew the lump was probably bad news, but we never imagined that six weeks later we’d be saying goodbye to one of our best friends at the young age of eight.
It was never the question of “if” we were getting a puppy, but “when.” You don’t, however, just go to the Good Dog Store and pick one up. Steve will tell you that I have a tendency to over-research things—whether it’s a blender or a dog. I checked genetic testing for any number of heritable diseases, hip and elbow test results, and calculated inbreeding coefficients. I’ve learned from my mistakes.
Lab work: Brooks plays the opposite of fetch with a glove (top); Maddie swims the bumper home; the pheasant aficionado— Finn—poses with pride.
And, since Ben, I’m diving generations back into pedigrees, looking for familiar names from his lineage. Not only will I know we’re getting a great dog, but I can look into the pup’s eyes and see a little bit of Ben. So, I knew Molly—on paper—before we even picked her up. But there’s still that moment driving up the kennel driveway—“a kid on Christmas morning” doesn’t do it justice. Molly was Steve’s dog to pick out, but all three options melted my heart. There wasn’t a bad choice. The decision made, she willingly jumped on my lap—a good sign of an outgoing dog. As car rides home go, that one was pretty uneventful. “What a little angel,” Steve and I cooed as she yawned and curled up between us. (Not so angelic during the Sharknado that came later.)
Her introduction to Riley was also textbook. In the bright sunshine that July day, our three-year-old yellow Lab was happy to see us (as usual) as we let her out, albeit a bit subdued, still reeling from the loss of Finn. We couldn’t blame her irritation when the gangly, energetic seven-week-old bounded toward her. In the open yard, there really was no place to escape, so she kept circling my legs hoping to hide all of her fifty-five pounds from the incoming storm.
At least it wasn’t like Hailey’s introduction to Maddie years ago. After a long drive home from Virginia, we arrived after midnight to a sleeping Maddie, again, happy to see us. Until she wasn’t. Wide awake Hailey wanted to play with her new big sister, who found solace only on the couch, which was just out of the new pup’s reach.
It would be her escape hatch until Hailey was big enough to jump that high.
At first, it was all fun and games this summer as Molly settled into her new home and housemates. I have (or had) two or three pairs of slippers in the living room, and one was usually in her mouth…the perfect opportunity to teach the “drop it” command. Over and over again. As she learned the boundaries of biting and chewing, and when to tell us she needed to go outside, it got crazy. It got loud. With Riley over her puppy-hating stage, they’d both get the zoomies, tearing around the house like it was Watkins Glen International. But silence is bad.
“Where’s Molly?”
“Right here.”
“No, she’s not.”
Yeah. Silence is bad.
In those small windows of calm, Molly learned the basics—sit, stay, and come. And, honestly, Steve and I have to be more disciplined, never giving a command that we’re not willing to enforce the first time—a mistake we’ve made with all our dogs. Maddie, for as good a dog as she was, learned early that the first ten “sits” didn’t mean a thing until Steve came out with SIT. Oh, okay, I get it, why didn’t you say that the first time? she’d ask, engaging those sad puppy eyes.
There’s always an AKC STAR puppy class during the early weeks, as much for our training as for the dog’s. Molly just thought it was fun, seeing her friends Margo, Millie, Boo, and Sully each week and, of course, the hour of non-stop treats.
At ten to twelve weeks, we introduced Molly’s most important command—her recall word. I use “touch,” teaching dogs to come and touch my hand for the reward. And, hey, don’t be a cheapskate, make it a high value treat. Liver, hot dogs, chicken, whatever works. A light-hearted but firm “touch!” will bring her from just about anywhere in the yard—and, with luck, she’ll drop the rotten apple she’s playing with. This will also bring her back to us in the field, stop her from chasing the skunk, and keep her from running into the road toward an oncoming car.
It. Will. Save. Your. Dog’s. Life.
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Schubert’s Ave Maria and other holiday delights
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Fetchin’ Feathers
With the basics in place, we can get down to business. I don’t know how dogs talk to each other, but soon Riley will tell Molly about The Hunt.
Yeah, we get in the truck (I don’t really like that part, so I whine and bark and drool all over the place) and drive to this really big field. We get a stylin’ orange vest with a bell and tear around until these huge birds fly in the air. Mom and Dad miss a lot of them, but, when they don’t, we get to go fetch ’em. You can chew it a little before you bring it back, and if you take it back, they’ll do it all over again!
I also hope that Riley lets her know there will be some training beforehand, and to pay attention.
Because she was a summer “gotcha,” Molly hit the water early. We’re not waterfowlers, but our dogs are Labrador retrievers, after all. Molly jumped in Hammond Lake at fourteen weeks, thanks to Riley whining and straining at the leash at just the sight of water. Molly didn’t understand the game until Riley
splashed in with abandon. Curiosity, as it usually does, got the best of Molly and before she knew it, the bottom fell away, and she was swimming. Swimming isn’t hunting, but it is a way to spend a joyful summer afternoon with our dogs.
Now at the four-month mark, because we’ve got great weather, we’re outside introducing hunt-related activities. We did our homework choosing Molly’s litter, and know fetch is an instinct she has. Still, we keep the training sessions brief, because she’s got an attention span even shorter than ours. Leaves, bugs, rabbit poop—they all easily distract her, and we want this to be fun, not turn into a chase to get a stick out of her mouth before she swallows it and tests the limits of that new pet insurance we’re trying.
In time, we’ll introduce a dead bird to her retrieval routine. We’ll start with a smallish bird, like a mourning dove (taken during the fall and winter dove season and then frozen for the occasion). Small enough that she can handle, it will introduce the concept of feathers. We’ve had dogs spit out doves. I don’t know how Hailey knew the
difference between a dove and a pheasant. Excited at the shot, she’d run to the downed dove, but only after a lot of coaxing would she pick it up. And drop it immediately. I’m sure there was a solution, but we just stopped dove hunting with her.
Later, Molly will be introduced to a live bird so she can experience the wings flapping and flipping. At some point, we’ll ask her to track down a bird that didn’t fall completely to the gun, but we’ll need to find a trainer with birds whose wings have been clipped.
After she’s comfortable with birds and feathers, we’ll get out our starter’s pistol because there’s no such thing as a gun-shy hunting dog; that’s a couch potato. While all our dogs have loved the couch, none were banished there because they were gun shy; they all made the connection between the noise and the retrieve as we’d throw the bumper (a training tool to simulate the weight and feel of dead birds) and simultaneously fire the pistol. Ben was so intense that he would sit, wait, and quiver—his eyes glued on the orange bumper. We could have detonated
Dog continued from page 9
Courtesy Paula Piatt
Very fetching: Steve has a successful hunt with a young Riley.
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a bomb, and he wouldn’t have hesitated to track down his prize.
All our dogs get to where they’re excited just hearing the tumblers on the gun safe. Except in May. Knowing that she doesn’t hunt turkeys, Riley is happy to head back upstairs to bed on any given spring morning at 3:30 a.m.
Training Time
We’re honest about our expectations for our dogs and are perfectly happy with what they can do. Ben would hunt forever and retrieve anything. Brooks was fun in the field, had fun in the field, but lacked that insane drive of a true hunter. We didn’t love her any less.
Any number of trainers could take Molly and turn her into a hunting machine, including her breeders, Renee and Tammy Adsitt of Peak Performance Training in Holland, New York. They’ve got a three-month basic retrieving training camp that covers all the bases, and they’ve got the time and talents to teach them.
“It’s the repetition of the training that makes it stick,” says Tammy. “A lot of people work. If it’s raining out, they really don’t feel like doing it. If they have company over, or whatever, they’re not working their dogs. As a professional, that’s our job, and we’re working the dogs every day. We’re going to have that consistency.”
Professional trainers are worth their weight in kibble, and the folks at Peak Performance are top-notch, but I can’t imagine dropping Molly off and coming back three months later. Especially at
Dog continued from page 10
Joy unleashed: Molly (black) and Riley (yellow) enjoy a warm fall day in a Bradford County pond with Paula.
this stage of her life. If we gave up the “getting up at 2 a.m. to pee,” followed by the “getting up at 3 a.m. to pee,” moments, what would we have to fondly look back on?
In the past, we’ve toyed with the idea of a hybrid program— finding a trainer and enrolling in a series of classes—but we’ve always chosen to take the time and train our dogs ourselves. We’ve had great hunters, and we’ve had dogs who like to take a walk on state game lands in the fall. For Steve and me, the time and energy—and yes, frustration—have been more than worth it to spend time with family.
If you’re not expecting perfection and just want a hunting companion who hits the field a dozen times a season, get a good book (yes, books are still a thing) and set aside the time necessary. Tammy recommends The 10-Minute Retriever, a good strategy with short, ten-minute training sessions throughout the day. Honestly, if you’re not willing to set aside even ten minutes a couple of times a day, you should rethink this whole dog training thing until you are.
Joy, Fun, and Seasons in the Sun
That season after the hunting seasons—March and April around here—is a great time to do your reading and training preparation. It hasn’t always worked out this way, but we love to get our new pups in the spring and summer months. Ideally, we’ll bring home a March-born puppy in May. Molly arrived in July, still with
Hunting for Some Big(foot) Stories
By Gayle Morrow
There’s a lot of activity in the woods this time of year. With so many people in camo staying still and trying not to smell like a human, you’d think sightings of oddities like a Bigfoot sort of thing might be prevalent.
Well, maybe they are, but maybe those people in camo don’t really want to talk about it. Or, maybe the Bigfoot themselves are smart enough to stay out of the woods during busy times. Who knows? Nobody for sure.
“It’s probably something like a Jungian archetype—wherever there’s a human population there’s a [story about] wild man,” says Timothy Renner, a York County (PA) resident, author of Bigfoot in Pennsylvania, and a believer that there is something else out there. What it is, or could be, is kind of muddled, though.
“There’s something about the phenomenon that doesn’t want to give a clear picture,” he says. His book, published in 2017, gives, in his words, “a statewide sur-
vey of historical sightings starting with the earliest reference I could find [1838-1847] and ending in the 1920s.” And, he’s right. There isn’t a clear picture. He has his own theories about what Bigfoot and other cryptid-type creatures may or may not be, but he doesn’t know for sure, any more than anybody else does.
The newspaper accounts Timothy collected include sightings all over the Keystone State, including Tioga and Potter counties. “Some of the reports are scary; some are matter-of-fact, while others are quite strange,” he writes. The things people reported seeing ranged from “a wild woman, half naked, very dirty, brown colored”, to a creature “walking sometimes upright like a man, or else running along at race horse speed on all fours…”, to “gorilla not exactly seen, but shots are fired.”
“I don’t blame people for saying what they see,” Timothy says.
Patrick Kovchok, aka JP, loves mountain biking. Until a stroke this past spring,
JP had spent a lot of time over the last fifteen years or so in the woods of Tioga County, riding and clearing trails, often alone. He recalls a couple of odd happenings that he attributes to Bigfoot.
The first was in 2008 or 2009. He was riding on Silver Run, off of Landrus Road (between Arnot and Morris), going slow, he says, and not making a lot of noise.
“All of a sudden, it was like I woke something up—something was talking in a language I’d never heard before.” He says he has relatives who spoke languages other than English, including Slovak and Japanese, and this “wasn’t a language I recognized.” He didn’t see anything, and continued riding down the trail.
In 2012, JP was using a chainsaw to clear a section of Deadman Hollow trail near Colton Point, when a tree fell right next to the trail, lined up with one he had just cut.
“I thought to myself, ‘This is strange.’”
Wade Spencer
Then, he describes having what was “a second person’s voice come into my head,” saying “You’re not welcome here.”
“I didn’t feel the chainsaw was enough protection,” he muses, twelve years later.
He says he went back a few days after that and got within about 100 yards of where he had been. He saw that another big tree had come down, and suddenly another fell. There was no wind.
“I said, ‘There’s something wrong here.’”
“Were you afraid?” I asked him of his two “incidents.”
“Yeah, I was.”
My own Bigfoot story goes like this. It was over forty years ago (Forty! How that happened I can’t say, but I don’t think it had anything to do with Bigfoot.), and we were on a bare bones, not-too-far-from-home overnighter in an area known as Lost Trail, which is between County Bridge State Park and Armenia Mountain. My companion was David, the future father of my children, but it was just the two of us on this little adventure (or was it?).
David remembers being up there with a bunch of pals back in their high school days, and says they all felt “creepy”—not something teenage boys used to hunting and camping are prone to admit to.
“Maybe that put me in a specific frame of mind,” he said during a recent phone conversation when I asked him what he could recall from that night. He acknowledged that the place had a bit of a reputation, as “weird things have happened up there,” maybe even some murders back in the 1940s.
Whatever may have gone on in the past, there wasn’t much up there when we arrived—no camps, no real campsites, just a flat place where somebody else had had a fire ring and probably partied. So we pitched our tent, got a fire going, and settled in. Until we both started feeling uneasy, creepy.
“I remember we both looked at each other and thought we should leave,” David said. As we gathered up some things, I saw something, something just outside of the fire ring, before the light of the flames was lost in the darkness beyond. It was a leg—a striding leg—very long and covered in hair.
We wasted no time piling into our Toyota Land Cruiser— never mind the gear and the food, just go!! Not far down the road, we stopped to catch our breath and ask each other what just happened. Then something hit our vehicle, hard, and we took that as a sign to, as they say, get the hell out of Dodge.
We went back the next day to collect the rest of our camp stuff. Nothing had been bothered—I don’t think the pack of hot dogs had even been touched—but there was this other thing— there was a board, that hadn’t been there the night before, with something tacked to it. David said he thought it was a flower I had found. “It was a little bit disturbing,” he said.
I don’t remember that part of it, he doesn’t remember seeing the leg in the light of the fire ring.
Maybe there are cryptids—Bigfoot, Yetis, Loch Ness monsters (watch The Water Horse: Legend of the Deep, for a good take on that one), the Jersey Devil, ghosts in the attic, or beings from some other planet, time, or space hanging about our own planet, time, and space. Maybe there aren’t. It’s hard to prove they exist. But nobody can prove they don’t. I know what I saw that night on Lost Trail. I just don’t know what it was.
Holiday Happenings
KICK OFF THE 2024 HOLIDAY SEASON IN SAYRE, PA
18th Annual Sayre Turkey Trot 5K
Thursday November 28 • 10am • Downtown Sayre sayreturkeytrot.com sayreturkeytrot@guthrie.org
26th Annual Sayre Christmas Parade
Friday November 29 • 6:30pm • Downtown Sayre sayreborough.org parade@sayreborough.org
SBA Shop Small Saturday Saturday November 30 exploresayre.com
SHS Model Train Day
Saturday November 30 • 10:00am
Sayre Historical Society Museum 103 South Lehigh Avenue sayrehistoricalsociety.org
Downtown Sayre Holiday Stroll
Thursday December 5 • 5:00pm sayrebusinessassociation@gmail.com
Some events are funded in part by the Bradford County Tourism Agency
2024 HOLIDAY OPEN HOUSE November 29-30 10am-5pm
Uniform pride: A model for museums, Eldred’s brings all aspects of World War II to life—from the home front to the frontlines—with displays that are often interactive.
On a Mission to Save World War II
Eldred WWII Museum Keeps Memories and Lessons Alive
By Gayle Morrow
“Ikind of grew up in this place,” says Kyle Dunn, who’s been curator for the Eldred WWII Museum for not quite a year. He was three in 1996 when the museum opened, and remembers some of the original displays. He’s been volunteering for the past sixteen or so years, and when long-time curator Steve Appleby announced his retirement, Kyle was more than pleased to accept the position.
“Both of us started on January 1,” says Liz Threehouse, the new executive director.
The museum is here, on 201 Main Street in the tiny borough of Eldred (population 760, according to the 2020 US census), McKean County, because Tim Roudebush, son of George Roudebush, who had founded the WWII-era munitions plant about a mile outside of town, realized today’s kids weren’t being taught history—at least not up close and personal.
A museum could help alleviate that problem. Knowing his father’s and Eldred’s close connection with the war, he opted to put it here.
The museum has been doing Tim’s good work of educating its visitors for nearly thirty years, but, as Kyle knows, it is a daunting task. He shares a New York Times stat from 2018: 41 percent of Americans and 66 percent of Millenials cannot say what Auschwitz was.
“I did get to meet him a few times,” says Kyle of Tim. “He always spoke in a boisterous voice. He was a very hard-working businessman all his life. He left us a huge legacy.”
The National Munitions Company plant opened in January of 1941, producing mortars, smoke projectiles, incendiaries, fuses, and hand grenades for British and Canadian forces, and for American forces
after this country joined the war. There were 1,500 people employed there at one time, mostly women, and mostly women from Pennsylvania, New York, and Ohio.
“It closed in 1948,” Kyle says. “There’s not much left.”
But there is a lot here, in these 15,000 square feet, thanks to Tim Roudebush, and to the hundreds of people from all over the world who have donated time, money, and, most important, the artifacts, equipment, memorabilia, photos, documents, books, uniforms, and more that are keeping the stories of the Second World War alive, even as the living memory of that time is disappearing.
“We have hundreds of binders,” says Liz. “We’re all about keeping the stories alive. We’re hoping, in the future, to send out some of our veterans’ stories—in, like, a kit for history buffs or teachers.”
Gayle Morrow
In the meantime, the museum brings the wartime experience alive for its visitors.
“We try to cover every aspect of the war—within reason,” Kyle says. There’s a Life on the Home Front display, “because, of course, the war was about what happened here, too,” Kyle says. The Mitchell Paige Hall celebrates the young man from Pittsburgh who walked to the recruiting office in Baltimore, twice, before he was accepted at eighteen into the Marines, and who went on to earn a Congressional Medal of Honor. There is a water-cooled machine gun on display in that area—it’s the kind Colonel Paige used, although it’s not his.
There’s Ol’ Jake, a big cargo truck known as a deuce-and-ahalf for the two and a half tons it could carry, and an ambulance, built to honor a family member who served in the war, its transport to the museum paid for by a donor.
“It is a WWII-era chassis with a modern engine and drive system. Most other museums didn’t want it for that reason, but we have no problem with that,” says Kyle.
There is a diorama of a battle, and incredibly detailed models of war ships made by a man named Guy Pernetti.
“He’s still making models for independent motion pictures and is an avid musician,” Kyle says. “I believe he’s living out in Ohio now.”
The museum is home to an actual periscope from a submarine, and, yes, you can look through it. It is very cool. There is a telephone switchboard used in the field, and also a field kitchen with a stove that ran off pressurized gasoline.
The most disquieting space is the room with the Holocaust display.
And then there are the uniforms. Dozens and dozens of them.
“Wars are not won by lines on a map, they’re won by individuals,” Kyle says. “Every single one of these uniforms have a story.”
The Nisei solders are a great example. They were second-generation Japanese/Americans, and 33,000 of them volunteered to serve. Their units were some of the most decorated in the war.
“They did a hell of a job,” he adds.
Though he’s a couple of generations past the Greatest, Kyle has a few of his own stories and memories related to that time.
Lee Frair, the superintendent of his alma mater, Portville Central School, was a D-Day survivor and an artillery observer in an L-3 Grasshopper (basically a Piper Cub, Kyle says).
“Lee was gone from Portville Central School by the time I got into elementary school, but he was still a local legend and visited frequently giving talks. The last time I had the pleasure to speak with him was in 2011 when he spoke at our graduation.
“A lot of the gentlemen who were WWII veterans that I knew in my youth I often didn’t know were veterans until after they passed,” he continues. “They were such humble people. Lee was definitely the one I knew mostly though.”
A radio commentator had this to say recently: We have to remember what it’s like to be at war, and how important it is to be at peace.
Kyle couldn’t agree more, and it’s likely Tim Roudebush would as well.
“We want to keep them alive up here, because they’re the ones who saved the world. It’s such an honor to be here.”
Don’t Sit on the House Chairs
Twenty-five Years of Victorian Mansion Tours in Williamsport
By Linda Roller
There’s something about Christmas and Victorian settings. To give credit where credit is due, I suppose we have to acknowledge Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol. But it’s more than that. The weather is nippy, and lots of clothes, boots, capes, top hats, and bonnets just feel good and look festive. The Spirit of Christmas Past is the ruler of the day. But in Williamsport, the women who organize Victorian Christmas (get details at victorianchristmaspa.com) have so much more than just bustled dresses, hot toddies, and elegant carriage rides. They have mansions. Real Victorian mansions built when Williamsport was the lumber capital of the world. The only hitch is that most of these houses are also modern family homes, not museums (well, there is one) or movie sets. To allow as many as 1,700 people from across Pennsylvania and nearby states access to private homes takes nerves of steel, the ability to head off disaster at the pass, and organization—lots of organization.
Enter the Williamsport Victorian Christmas Committee—the house chairs and the docents, or room guides. The house
committee itself is twenty-two people. Nan Young is one of the original house chairs. She, along with Gloria Miele and Ted Lyons, first talked about an event showcasing the nationally recognized architecture of Williamsport’s Historic District.
“We start meeting about the houses for the event in January,” Nan says, then pauses. “Well, we actually start talking to homeowners about having their house on the tour the year before, or maybe even longer. We keep lists.” Many lists.
Jill Confair, who is on the house selection committee with Nan and Valerie Lundy, follows up.
“We have a worksheet with month by month lists of things that must be done,” she says. The homes for the year are selected by January, with a final list by March. Houses shown are not repeated, usually for at least six years, and the committee has a list of what houses were on tour back to 2008. There is a house chair guide with a suggested timeline, and lists of people who have worked as house chairs and docents in the past. Jill was quick to note that they are always looking for new people.
“The house chair is in charge of helping the homeowner get the house ready,” house chair Kathy Schick explains.
Not all the houses are in the historic district.
“We have at least two homes in the historic district, in addition to the Rowley House [a restored Victorian mansion that is also a museum],” Nan continues. “For our twenty-fifth year, we have eight homes to tour.” Homes not in the historic district are ones with interesting architectural design, and a rich history in Williamsport.
Kathy is the house chair for two houses this year—the Smith/Ulman house on West 4th Street and the Woodmont, a Dutch colonial up in the city’s Vallamont section.
“I have my docents selected by July. It’s two shifts for each room, so I need ten docents for the Pulizzi house (Woodmont) and twelve for the Smith/Ulman house.” Though many of the owners and the house chairs know each other, it’s not necessary that they do. “Some younger people are buying these older homes in the Historic District. It gives me hope,” she says. See House on page 22
Larry Flint
Docents of Christmas past: Costumed docents provide guests with stories and information in each room of the decorated mansions toured yearly.
welcome to WELLSBORO
Gale Largey presents
Presidential Elections
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Facts, Tidbits, and Cartoons
Did Lincoln win Wellsboro? What Democrat did we love? A fun free film on our votes from George Washington to today.
Narrated by Mountain Home co-publisher
Michael Capuzzo
History Center
61 N. Main St., Mansfield Sunday, November 3, 2 p.m.
Deane Center
104 Main St., Wellsboro Monday, November 4, 7 p.m.
House continued from page 20
The tasks of the house chairs are daunting. They will do the research, often at the historical museum’s library or through deeds in the courthouse, if the homeowner does not know the history of the house. Chairs make sure there is a small space for docents’ coats, some bottled water, and perhaps a wrapped small snack for the four-hour shift. It’s their responsibility to make sure the docents have their scripts, and a QR code of additional information for guests. All the docents are dressed in Victorian attire—a long skirt and festive hat from Nan Young’s collection. In the past, the docent might never see the house she works in prior to the dayof, but, more recently, they do a dry run and see the entire house. One of the most important jobs for the docent is to keep people moving.
Then there is the protection of the property, as unending lines of people walk through a family’s home. This may not just be the parlors and dining areas, but, in the case of the Thomas and Susanna Long house, a Queen Anne in Vallamont, it includes the new renovation that converted the attic to living quarters, with a common room in the turret. If the weather is wet, that may mean booties inside, or plastic runners. Docents are on watch for damage to their room, as younger visitors might be tempted to touch. Visitors are often treated to hot cider, cookies, or candy canes, all arranged by the chair. “But not in the house!” the group chorused.
And what’s Christmas without decorations?
“These are great houses,” Kathy raves. “People want to see them dressed in their finest.” Many of the homeowners already have the perfect holiday adornments and ornaments for their house. But for those who are not Victorian decorators, never fear. The house chair and the committee have a collection of decorations, and can offer pre- and post-tour help. Nan remembers, “Once, we did a house where the owners did not decorate for Christmas. We did it all, right down to the elaborate Christmas trees, then carefully undecorated them at the end of the day.”
And doesn’t a Christmas celebration need music? Williamsport has always been rich in musicians, and they will play at each home. The music chair, with assistance sometimes from the house chairs, organizes the performers. There are two performances for sixty to ninety minutes each in each house.
“It adds beauty to the tour,” Nan says.
Williamsport’s Victorian Christmas is a three-day event, November 22 through 24, with many churches and businesses decorated and hosting special events, including carriage rides, a toy train expo, an Artisan Market, and a Friday night Petticoats to Pillboxes fashion show. Tours are only on Saturday, November 23, from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. For this quarter-of-a-century event, the trolley that ferries visitors to the homes will stagger the route, so not everyone starts at the first house. That will ensure a smooth flow for what the committee expects will be a larger than normal attendance.
Tour tickets are available at victorianchristmaspa.com for those wanting to make Christmas past their Christmas present.
Mountain Home contributor Linda Roller is a bookseller and writer in Avis, Pennsylvania.
Tess’s Table
Talkin’ Turkey
By Teresa Banik Capuzzo
Duck, capon, chicken, with turkey a distant fourth: it used to be, when I was eating a roasted bird, that was always my order of preference. But turkey closed the gap a few years ago at a Thanksgiving dinner made by our gourmand confreres Jon and Linda, when they used a recipe by Walter Staib from City Tavern Cookbook. Chef Walter (who many of you might recognize from the cooking show A Taste of History) recreated the cuisine served to the Founding Fathers when he revived the kitchen of their old haunt, the reconstructed City Tavern in Philadelphia.
On this particular Thanksgiving Day at their Colonial-Era Rock Raymond Farm, the kitchen was filled with the heady aroma of that roasting turkey under whose skin was stuffed an aromatic mix of fresh parsley, rosemary, and thyme. Can you imagine the resultant drippings for turkey gravy? Yes, you can, and it’s that good. And when Chef Walter finished his turkey gravy recipe with a cup of Madeira (a sweet and cherished beverage of our Colonial forbears), the goose was cooked for me, so to speak. I was a turkey lover.
Mike and I have extra thanks to give on turkey day, because we always follow up that sublime Thanksgiving dinner in Chester County with another complete holiday
at my brother’s house seven hours down the road. Mark served as a Marine Reconnaissance Corpsman and SAW gunner in Kuwait during the Persian Gulf War. (On that note, thank you Mark, and thank you to all veterans, this November 11 and every day, for throwing your lives on the line for our country.) So, between the remnants of military programming and the two lurking teenage boys eating through everything that isn’t tied down, there is an efficiency in Mark and Jessica’s kitchen that includes throwing the Thanksgiving turkey into an oven bag to bake. The downside of that is largely psychological (we’re baking in a plastic bag??). The upside, it turns out, is masses of turkey drippings to make enormous quantities of gravy.
And so, this herbed and Madeiraed turkey treatment has become a standard in both households. But fast forward to last year. Jon and Linda’s newly married daughter Wendy and husband, Prasad, had taken to sous vide cooking, the French technique (literally “under vacuum”) in which the turkey is cut apart, sealed into plastic bags (with Chef Walter’s savory herbs stuffed under the skin), and cooked in a low-temperature-controlled water bath for many hours (the legs and thighs overnight). The downside of that is largely psychological (we’re cooking in
plastic bags??). The upside is meltingly moist, and rarely experienced, leg and thigh meat, seared before and after the slow cooking for crispiness. If you haven’t jammed the oven with pies, you can roast the turkey carcass for more gravy drippings to go with the juices that come out of the sous vide bags. Or you can simmer it with herbs for a rich broth.
By the way, you can find Taylor Madeira, still made in the Finger Lakes, at most of Pennsylvania’s state stores, and actual Portuguese versions of the same at places like GCP Discount Liquors in Horseheads or the full-blown PA wine and spirits shop in Williamsport. Terence Lane, our Planet of the Grapes columnist, will be reporting to you next month about Hazlitt’s Solera Sherry, made in a method that mimics Madeira’s. He wouldn’t hesitate to make that substitution.
City Tavern Roast Turkey with Madeira Gravy (Serves 8 to 12)
1 whole turkey with giblets (12 to 14 pounds)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 medium yellow onions, 1 of them quartered, the remaining onion coarsely chopped
From the cover of City Tavern Cookbook, ©1999 by Walter Staib
¼ c. chopped fresh parsley
2 Tbsp. chopped fresh thyme
2 Tbsp. chopped fresh rosemary
2 medium shallots, finely chopped
1½ Tbsp. olive oil
2 large carrots, chopped
2 celery ribs, chopped
3 c. chicken stock
¼ c. dry white wine
1 c. Madeira
1½ Tbsp. cornstarch
Preheat the oven to 325ºF. Set the oven rack to the bottom level. In a large roasting pan, place a wire roasting rack sprayed with vegetable cooking spray. Remove the giblets and neck and any visible fat from the turkey cavity and reserve for the giblet stock. Discard the liver. Rinse the turkey inside and out with cold water and pat dry with paper towels. Sprinkle the turkey cavity with salt and pepper. Place the quartered onion in the cavity.
In a small bowl, combine the parsley, thyme, rosemary, shallots, and 1 Tbsp. of the oil. Sprinkle with salt and a generous grinding of pepper. With your fingers, separate the turkey skin from the breast meat, taking care not to tear the skin or pierce the meat. Rub the herb mixture on the meat under the skin on each side of the breastbone. If you aren’t stuffing the turkey, tie the drumsticks together with kitchen string and twist the wing tips behind the back. Place the turkey, breast side up, in the prepared roasting pan. Loosely cover the turkey with aluminum foil and roast for 2 hours.
While the turkey roasts, in a large saucepan, cook the coarsely chopped onion, carrots, celery, and reserved giblets and neck in the remaining ½ Tbsp. oil over medium heat, stirring frequently, about 15 minutes, until the giblets, onion, carrots, and celery are well browned. Add the chicken stock and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to low, partially cover the pan, and simmer for 30 minutes. Strain the giblet stock through a fine sieve into a medium bowl (you should have about 2 cups). Discard the giblets and vegetables. Cover and refrigerate the stock up to 6 hours, until ready to use. Remove the foil from the turkey and roast about 1 or 1¾ hours more, or until a meat thermometer inserted in a thigh muscle registers 185ºF. Baste with ½ cup of the Madeira wine every 15 minutes. Transfer the turkey to a carving board. Loosely cover the turkey with aluminum foil and let rest for 15 to 20 minutes before carving.
While the turkey rests, pour the drippings from the roasting pan through a fine sieve into a small bowl. Place the bowl in the freezer about 20 minutes to solidify the fat. Meanwhile, set the roasting pan back on the stovetop over medium heat. Add the rest of the Madeira to deglaze the pan, scraping up any browned bits on the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Cook about 1 minute, until it comes to boil. Strain the liquid through the fine sieve into a medium saucepan. Skim the fat from the chilled pan and discard. Add the drippings to the saucepan. Add the reserved giblet stock. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. In a small bowl, dissolve the cornstarch in 2 Tbsp. cold water. Slowly add to the simmering mixture, whisking until the gravy thickens slightly. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Remove the string from the turkey and carve. Serve the turkey with the warm Madeira gravy.
Open Mon-Sat: 2:00-10:00 pm and Sun: Noon-8:00 pm
Mobile Food Pantry Spreads the New Love
For Six Locations, This Trailer Is Heaven on Wheels
By Linda Roller
Sometimes, a failing plan hides its own surprising solution—a blessing in disguise, if you will. For the New Love Center, with its beginnings in 2014 as western Lycoming County’s answer to the loss of its only local food bank, that blessing has turned into one of abundance for people in need. Dave Winkleman, New Love Center’s president, explains.
“Five years after we took the food pantry over, we launched a capital campaign for a new building. A $2.7 million campaign for an 18,000-square-foot-food hub. We were $800,000 into it, when covid shut everything down. By the time we could resume, the cost to build the food hub was $5.4 million.” Dave and the rest of the executive board took it as a sign that this was not the goal for this faith-based community resource. So, the group opted to ask a different question: “How do we get food to
people in need?”
The pantry was serving more people than when it had started, but the people who went to the food bank were mostly within five miles of the South Avis location. Freed from the old goal of a new building, the executive committee came up with the idea of taking the food to the people who needed it—people who were not in Williamsport or Lock Haven, who were far from distribution centers. To do that, the New Love Center needed a mobile pantry. And once they made that decision to change direction, a new mission fell into place.
Geisinger was a big early sponsor of the mobile plan, starting with the Muncy and Renovo pantry sites. Less than two years later, there are four more distribution centers—Lairdsville, Cogan House Township, Lock Haven, and Trout Run. (For times, dates, and locations call (570) 244-8838
during normal business hours, or go to thenewlovecenter.com.) Each location gets a visit once a month, and, with the exception of the Lock Haven location, all are over twenty miles from the county seats.
But a mobile pantry takes more than just food. The safe transportation of frozen items, fresh produce, and canned or dry pantry staples calls for a large truck and a walk-through trailer. The New Love Center wanted to recreate the “store experience” that they use at the food pantry on Henry Street in South Avis, where people pick the food they need and use, rather than having a box of food handed to them.
Luckily, they already had a volunteer who could drive this large setup. Bob Fox, who’s been with the mobile pantry from the beginning, was a lineman for thirty years with lots of experience in getting large equipment where it needs to be. As the
Linda Roller
Pantry raid: Once a month, people in Muncy, Renovo, Lairdsville, Cogan House Township, Lock Haven, and Trout Run descend on the mobile food pantry provided by the New Love Center and volunteers.
commitment to and use of the mobile unit grew, that volunteer position became a staff position. As Dave comments, “We just couldn’t afford not to have Bob Fox.”
“I’m thankful for the people we’re reaching—and worry about who we’re missing,” Bob says. He’s dedicated, and he knows the need. “In Trout Run,” he relates, “there was a young woman with a child at the fire hall a few months ago. She got through about half of our trailer and just stopped. Emotionally, she said, ‘You don’t realize—I had hardly any food on Sunday, and wondered and prayed about what to do on Monday. I drove around you three times to make sure you were what you were.’”
Bringing food to the people is not cheap. “The mobile pantry is the most expensive way to deliver food to people in need,” Dave explains. “But it is also the most efficient way we have at this time, reaching people that otherwise would not have food they need.”
The flyer for the New Love Center asks for donations of funds, food, and time. All are necessary, but both Dave and Bob stress the need for volunteers, especially younger people who can help move food into the Henry Street location and the mobile unit. “Our goal for the mobile locations is to have the needed volunteers for distribution waiting for us at the location,” Dave explains. “We’re not there—yet.”
Dave points out that all the pantries are committed to providing nutrient-dense food, not empty calories and carbs. The hubs are stocked with lean proteins, whole grains, and canned and fresh vegetables and fruit. “We buy milk and eggs, so that we have them all the time. The Weis markets flash-freeze meats, so that is available.” Businesses in the area hold food drives for the pantry, and Central Pennsylvania Food Bank supplies the Henry Street location as well as the mobile pantry.
And the New Love Center offers several more programs, beyond the pantries. There is the Fresh Food Farmacy, in conjunction with Geisinger and centered at the Henry Street location. That is a prescription service for people with diabetes and an A1C (A1C is a blood test that monitors glucose) level over eight.
“That’s a person whose diabetes is out of control,” Dave says. He explains that people enrolled in the program, which includes education, recipes, and health coaching, can lower their A1C level, which leads to less medication and better general health. The café at Trinity Methodist Church in Jersey Shore provides a hot meal every day at noon for anyone. There’s the backpack program, for children that do not have enough food on weekends when they are not at school. There are additional boxes for both military and elderly who qualify.
The statistics highlight the progress.
“Seven years ago, we had a budget of $100,000 and helped about 200 families a month,” says Dave. “Now, we help over 1,000 families with a budget of $786,000.” For the small staff at New Love Center, and the army of volunteers, this makes it all worthwhile. Bob stresses, “This is not done without volunteers. We need 800 to 1,000 hours of [volunteer] work done to make this happen.”
A Deer Hunter Is Born
You’re Never
Too Old—or Too Anything—to Follow Your Dreams
By Lilace Mellin Guignard
Iwas born as a hunter at age fifty-two, after a very long labor and delivery.
I grew up in the suburbs of DC, and there were no hunters in my family. Well, that’s not exactly true, because go back far enough and there were hunters in pretty much every family. But at fifty-one I shot a rifle for the first time because I wanted to hunt with my son and to keep eating venison. Learning to shoot was the easy part, even though I had to shoot as a lefty since the eye on my dominant side had gone bad. One perk of starting so late was already knowing which body parts I’d need to compensate for. Bad eye, bad knee, and menopause. I’d never get cold in my tree stand, right? Sadly, I’ve never had a hot flash when I needed one.
If it weren’t for good friends with land and a love for hunting so strong that they shared not just their wisdom, firearms, and skills, but also their hunting spots, my son and I probably wouldn’t be hunters. I let
Gabe, at fifteen, have a year under Jim Wagner’s tutelage without his mother horning in. Gabe got a five-point that year. My first year, I got attuned to the sounds and shapes of deer in the woods. I watched a fox move across the hillside, picking its way to avoid dry leaves, unaware I sat above. I saw deer, but never had a good, legal shot.
The next-to-last day of my second rifle season, I sat in a tree stand. Yes I was hunting but, as far as I was concerned, I wasn’t a hunter. My friend Sue Webster and her husband, Rob, had invited me out that afternoon. Their Potter County land was a mix of woods and fields, and Sue chose a spot for me. It was my first time hunting with another woman, and Sue’s enthusiasm over me getting my first deer was sweet. I already dreaded disappointing her. She’d handed me a walkie-talkie because there was no cell service. It sat on my pack at my feet. My 30.06 was loaded and ready. I had a doe tag, so lack of antlers was not an issue this week.
The temps were in the high forties, but after a few hours sitting very still I was wishing for that hot flash.
I tried to imagine what it’d feel like to pull the trigger. Not because of any moral quandary or squeamishness. My family’s approach to ethical eating focuses on local sustainable food, and hunting expands our choices beyond the farmers we’re lucky to have in our area. Years ago I’d learned how to get a chicken from coop to soup pot by myself. And parenting requires one to deal with all sorts of body fluids, of which blood is the least gross, in my opinion. What I was trying to imagine was the certainty I’d need to pull the trigger. I knew where to aim and was a good shot—at motionless paper targets.
About three o’clock, some deer wandered onto a mowed hill across the road. I watched them through my scope. They seemed disinclined to wander away from
Courtesy
Lilace Mellin Guignard
Hunt for orange November: Celebrating after her first successful hunt, Lilace Mellin Guignard (left) takes a trophy photo with Sue Webster, because sharing hunts with friends is the best prize.
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their sunny field. Rustling started next to me, as black-capped chickadees showed up to peck at red berries dotting scraggly gray branches. I jerked a little when the lone doe scampered into the field, entering from the path where the ATV had disappeared earlier. She was almost hopping. The deer I’d seen in the woods didn’t do this, they moseyed or bolted. She turned right, and I brought my left eye to the scope, even as I knew she was going too fast— and up and down. She headed for the large patch of thorn apples, then the trees and shrubs. So much for that, I thought.
Scanning the area, I saw movement behind the screen of branches. If she kept going, I might see her as she came out briefly, right there. I ignored the noise in my brain about all the things that had to go right. I took the safety off and trained the scope where I thought the doe would emerge. When she did, I followed her slow walk, resting my right arm on the rail of the tree stand, holding the crosshairs at the crease behind the front leg as it opened and closed and opened—and suddenly noise. I wasn’t looking through the scope anymore. When had I decided to shoot? I could hear the echo and pressed the button on the walkie talkie, shaking.
“That was me. I have no idea if I got it. It’s way out by the trees.”
“Oh, I hope you did,” Sue said. “I bet you did. I bet you got one.”
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I stood on the seat to get a better look. There’d been no thrashing through trees, which was not a good sign, unless it was a very good sign. I couldn’t calm my heartbeat. There was a tiny patch of white in the brush, low. I packed my things up and reminded myself they don’t drop in place unless it’s a really good shot. I marked where I was heading and climbed down. Sue’d asked if I needed help field dressing. I’d told her I was prepared but had never done it myself.
“I’m coming to you,” she said. I wanted to tell her not to give up a chance at her buck until I verified the kill. What if it was a plastic bag caught in the briars? A white stone?
As I rounded the mown semi-circle, it was as if the doe manifested at that moment, as if before I’d rounded the bend she hadn’t been there. But she was. I let Sue know, and said my thanks to the Creator and to the deer.
Sue coached me through the next part. She gave me long orange plastic vet gloves that covered my sleeves, over which I put regular latex gloves. She loaned me her knife—so much sharper than mine—and at a crucial point shared an orange plastic corkscrew device that I immediately put on my Christmas list. Whenever I paused and looked up, I could barely make out the tree stand. Sue’s range finder put it at 127 yards.
Sue and I yee-hawed it on the ATV back over the muddy trails to find Rob. When asked why he wasn’t still hunting, he laughed and said with all the squealing and cackling we were doing, he figured his hunt was over. He also wanted to see what I got. A good-sized doe, they agreed.
Back at their cabin, joined by Sue’s brother Chris and our friend Joe, we had a beer and told our tales of the day. This was what I’d been craving. I can’t explain the feeling, but I can remember it. I couldn’t text my family, but when I walked in the door late that night, I said, “I’m finally a hunter.”
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plenty of summer left to train in good weather, the long days giving us extra hours to work with her.
That’s not to say we haven’t brought dogs home at a more inconvenient time. Maddie arrived in February. In the Adirondacks. As Steve was headed for major back surgery. On the bright side, she learned to go out and pee really fast before racing back to the woodstove, a trait she kept for the rest of her life. Riley, our Pandemic Puppy, also arrived in the dead of winter. Convinced she was adopted into a homeless family, she rode home in the truck as day became night, which became day, then night, then day again on the way home from Kansas. A week later a December snowstorm dumped forty-three inches on our back patio. She, too, will pee quickly and get back in the house to that woodstove.
As we inch toward Molly’s first outing, we’re excited about what’s ahead…all the retrieves (maybe some that even come straight back to our hands) and crisp fall days in the field, followed by a fresh pheasant pot pie and some heavy snoring in front of the fire. Too soon we’ll be accepting those final retrieves—some unsuspectingly. We didn’t know Finn’s final pheasant of 2022 would indeed be her last. We’ll hunt this year with the memory of her in her prime, still disappointed that we didn’t get the chance to mark the occasion. It’s not a ceremony that we look forward to, but one fitting the work and life of our dogs.
When Ben was quite gray, we waited for a warm winter day for a trip to a game preserve with plentiful pheasants. We prayed our aim would be true. The maladies of a fourteen-year-old Lab were catching up with him. He couldn’t go fast or far, but his spirit still howled like the wind. His last bird came perfectly to Steve’s hand, and we both wiped that damned sand from our eyes that came out of nowhere.
Molly has the same potential, some of the same DNA, and the same dog parents who will give her what she needs to thrive. We don’t have an answering machine anymore, but we’ll gladly pay for her cell phone plan.
Paula Piatt lives in the Northern Tier of Pennsylvania with her husband and two Labrador retrievers, where they hunt and enjoy the outdoors. An award-winning writer and member of the Dog Writers Association of America, she is an active member of the Pennsylvania Outdoor Writers Association.
Dog continued from page 13
The ruff ruff sisterhood.
Wade Spencer
BACK OF THE MOUNTAIN
A Fall Pick-Me-Up
By Sarah Wagaman
Last November, I bundled up, nestled my umbrella under my arm, and headed up the nearby hill in State Game Land 37 in an attempt to embrace the colder weather. I missed the colorful beauty of autumn. Then I started noticing the gems that, though less vibrant, were all around me. Nature’s symmetry caught my eye more than once on this chilly walk. Beech trees hang onto some of their leaves all winter, making them marcescent rather than deciduous. Even the dreary months contain beauty, though it can be a little harder to find.
