It was a lonely Sunday afternoon in the spring, the family all gone, and I got the urge to go up to New Bethlehem to plant our Easter flowers on my grandparents' and uncle's graves. When I was a kid, New Bethlehem was my favorite place in the world. My grandmother took each of us--all five siblings--to stay with her by ourselves for one week every summer. That's to say, she spent five weeks of every summer hosting one of her grandchildren. What a dear, loving soul. She knew our home life was kind of like living in an orphanage. It was the best week of the year for each of us because it was the only time and place where we were known and loved as individuals...by someone who took a genuine interest. My parents? They weren't (aren't) bad people. But they didn't really have much interest in parenthood, And if you weren't the only girl or the oldest boy, they'd forget your birthday and even get your name wrong most of the time.
This photo shows the remains of the old Andrews estate in New Bethlehem. The Andrews may still live here, I don't know. They were among the small town elite that used to thrive in rural communities. The southern portion of their estate was a formal garden open to the public and planted with ornamental shrubs and shade trees--all of which are gone now. This murky pool was once a goldfish pond, and one of my first memories is of holding my grandmother's hand and gazing in wonder at the colorful aquatic life in its magical depths. In fact, I used to keep a print of M.C. Escher's "Three Worlds" on my wall to recall that lovely memory to me.
There are lots of palatial old houses in the small towns of Western Pennsylvania, but the Andrews' house came replete with terraced formal gardens, a guest house, a carriage house, and an air of self-possessed grandeur. To look at it now, all you see is a big house with a terrace in the back and a huge lawn.
Sitting on this spot was once the Old Globe Hotel, where my great grandmother worked as a cook, and where my mother was born. In fact, I still own the bed in which my mother was born! (Different mattress and springs, of course.) My grandmother was also born that same bed, which had been built by my grandmother's grandfather, whose name was Christian, though he went by "Christ," rhyming with tryst. He was a minister who spoke only Pennsylvania German and whose given name is my middle name. It makes me sad to know that my kids will have absolutely zero interest in that bed when I'm ready to let it go...but non-attachment is wisdom.
In many small towns around here, the Presbyterian church was the club of choice for the educated and for professionals and business owners... You'd have to make the long trip into the county seat each Sunday for an Episcopal church, which defeated the communitarian nature of church back in the day.
The Methodist church, where my grandparents belonged (until the pastor suggested that the Devil was more a metaphor than an individual) still bore a whiff of frontier revivals and the sawdust trail. In fact, my grandparents' former church--pictured here--quit the Methodists just a few years ago because the denomination began to welcome LGBTQIA folks into leadership.
The old railroad running west out of New Bethlehem was a fun place for my brothers and me to walk, back in the day. I still fondly recall the smell of tar and creosote mingled with the fishy fresh scent of Redbank Creek. It's a really nice rail trail now. I decided to walk it past the old brickyard that was once new Bethlehem's claim to fame.
I went about three miles out and three miles back. The vacant brickyard is still where it always was. Both my grandfather and my bachelor uncle worked there. For a photo of the distinctive New Bethlehem style bricks, see the last photo. You can still see these bricks in older buildings across this part of the state. They look...quilted.
It was a pleasant walk and full of wildlife. A river otter crossed the path only 50 feet in front of me. Another animal that I took to be a fisher did the same--smaller than an otter and shaped a bit more like a ferret with a long tail.
And here's the old Zion Cemetery, high on a hill above town. This is where my grandparents and uncle are buried. No one had done anything to their graves for many years--since their friends are all dead, and their family consists of my mother, my siblings, and me. I'm the only one still living in state, and tending graves has never felt like an urgent concern until recently.
I've always been curious about the old, disused church that sits surrounded by the cemetery, waiting for its congregation to return. Apparently this was once a Evangelical United Brethren church, which merged with the Methodists long ago...before closing its doors.
It is a scenic little piece of Americana.
And here's the quilted brick that gives New Bethlehem its claim to fame. You've seen these blocks in the foundations and exterior walls of buildings all around the region. Consider the significant places in your life. Where are they? Why are they significant to you? Is there wisdom in revisiting them, or is it better to leave those ghosts alone? All in all, it was a pleasant Sunday afternoon in this place that used to be my favorite spot on earth.
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