.
Copyright
© 2017 John F. Oyler
August 31, 2017
Seventy Nine North
Most of the time I have to
put a lot of effort into writing this column, but sometimes the columns write
themselves. This was the case today. I had to drive up to Conneaut Lake and
meet with a handyman who is doing some much needed work on our cottage. I
haven’t spent much time there since my wife died, and the place desperately
needs a caretaker; fortunately my neighbor there found just the right person
for me.
Consequently I found myself
heading north on I-79, a trip I have made many times in the past. It was
strange this time not having, at least, a dog and my wife as companions. When
we were first married, my wife’s mother and Aunt Gladys were living in Grove
City, and both of her sisters and their families were in Meadville.
Our route in those days was
up Route 8 to Harrisville, then west on 58 to Grove City. To proceed on to
Meadville we took 173 north through Sandy Lake to Cochranton, where we picked
up 322 on to our destination. When construction of I-79 began, we switched to
Route 19, taking advantage of each portion of the new highway as it was
completed. By 1980 when we purchased our cottage, I-79 was done, providing us
an easy route to Conneaut Lake.
It takes me about twenty
minutes to get across the Ohio River; this part of the trip is close enough to
home to be completely routine, especially since my daughter Elizabeth and her
family are living in Sewickley. The drive up to the intersection with 279,
which is the one quarter point of my trip, is also without incident.
I have given up trying to
find acceptable music on the radio when I drive north, so I reverted to CD’s.
First was Mozart – “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik”, the “Haffner” Symphony, and
“Serenata Notturna”. Then a collection of Baroque – Pachelbel, Vivaldi, and
Corelli – which suddenly sounded trite when Bach’s “Air on a G String” raised
the bar abruptly.
Suddenly I realize that I am
not alone in the car; as we pass the UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex I imagine my
wife commenting on the probability that this has forced the Penguin hockey
players to all move to the North Hills. She also has something to say when we
pass the rest area that was never completed.
“License Plate” is a popular
Oyler family car game. In our version you attempt to make the shortest possible
word out of the three letters on the Pennsylvania plate. The letters must
appear in sequence. “GRN” yields grin, for example. The recent plates all begin
with “J”, which is particularly difficult.
Soon we pass the large auto
storage area where radio controlled model plane enthusiasts used to be evident
whenever we passed. Then we come over the crest of a hill and see the lazy “S”
curve the highway takes as it crosses the Conoquenessing Creek valley before
ascending the next hill.
Past the Portersville
interchange is a spot where we broke down on the way home one Sunday, losing
the transmission in our Dodge Caravan. We had just celebrated passing 100,000
miles on the odometer, which unfortunately was the mileage for which the
transmission was covered by the warranty. We were rescued by AAA and had a nice
ride home in the tow truck. The bad news was that our dog had to ride alone in
the towed van, an experience she didn’t enjoy.
A short distance north of
there we pass a lovely farmhouse/barn combination to the east. Years ago we
stopped to photograph it and make it a subject of a pen-and-ink sketch. It
still is picturesque.
Beyond the 422 interchange we
pass Cooper’s Lake Campground. It is late enough in the month that all the SCA
(Society for Creative Anachronism) folks are gone. This is a group of people
re-enacting the Middle Ages “as they ought to have been”, who congregate at
Cooper’s Lake early in August each year and dress up in Renaissance costumes.
They are from the kingdom of Aethelmearc, which encompasses western New York,
western Pennsylvania, and West Virginia.
Just north of Cooper’s Lake
is the summit of a large terminal moraine which marks the southern edge of the
area covered by glaciers in the last Ice Age. Consequently it is the boundary
between two geological regimes, and indeed the terrain is dramatically
different. North of here the hill tops are a little lower, the valleys a little
shallower, and the highway grades are much flatter.
“JDI”! “Twelve!” “Jurisdiction!”
Next we pass a large pond
completely covered with algae and my companion makes her obligatory comment
about people who don’t take care of such things.
At the Grove City interchange
she shouts “Turn on the rice, Aunt Gladys” in tribute to the many Sundays we
stopped at her house with a car full of kids for supper on our way home from
the cottage.
Passing an old barn we have
sketched in the past, now covered with vines and in late stages of
deterioration, we get another complaint about “those people”. Nearby is the
site of another sketch subject, a wonderful old coal tipple that was torn down
years ago. Fortunately we had photographed it extensively and were able to
produce one of our all-time favorite sketches to record it.
“I wonder whatever happened
to Peggy Baldwin” signals our reaching the I-80 interchange. Bob and Peggy
Baldwin were great friends of ours who eventually moved to Clarion. When we
visited them, we left I-79 here and took I-80 east to their home. After Bob
died, much too young, we lost track of Peggy and their children. That suggests
another Internet search for me.
I-80 is, of course, another
well-known boundary. How many times have we heard the weatherman say “Look for
heavy rain, changing to snow north of I-80”? Sure enough just as I passed
through that interchange on this trip, the clouds broke up and the sun came
out.
Next we cross the Bessemer
& Lake Erie Railroad and I look in vain for a train. Another picturesque
vista that needs a locomotive and string of cars to be complete. We are now
into an area of what appear to be very prosperous farms, with big barns and
tall silos, another area that has produced a number of sketch subjects.
As we cross Lake Wilhelm, “I
wonder if Paul has fished here recently?” My brother and his son Paul enjoy
fishing in this area. Paul likes Conneaut Lake because there are more fish
there; Joe likes Wilhelm because it is so natural, with no buildings in sight.
“DJB!” “Ten!” “Adjustable!”
As we get close to the Geneva
interchange I slow down and start looking for state troopers. In 1980 as we
were hurrying to Conneaut Lake for the closing on our cottage, I got a ticket
right there from a trooper sitting in a car hidden behind a small ridge in the
median strip. I cannot pass that spot without inspecting it carefully.
The Geneva exit features Aunt
Bee’s restaurant and truck stop; someday I will investigate it. There is a gas
station where we cross Route 19; my imaginary companion announces “$2.59”,
laying the groundwork for our comparing the price of gas there with that at the
Sheetz super complex in Conneaut Lake.
Many years ago an
enterprising farmer tried to make a go of raising sunflowers along the Geneva
Road. We took a beautiful photograph of a large field of sunflowers against a
threatening sky; I saw a copy of it in Sara’s home a few weeks ago.
Next comes “Worms Last
House”, a roadside sign that immediately suggested to me something from one of
Tolkein’s novels. Of course we eventually realized that it marked the place
where a fisherman seeking live bait could turn down Marsh Road and stop at the
last house to make a purchase.
“JCT!” “Seven!” “Adjunct!”
Another memorable barn was
located where Town Line Road intersects the Geneva Road. We sketched it years
ago when it was in its prime and several times more recently in decrepit shape.
It was finally torn down last summer, leaving its silo as a monument.
It appears that this has been
a good year for corn; all the fields look quite healthy. A few years ago one
farmer on the Geneva Road converted his corn field into a Corn Maze (maize maze?).
We went through it with Jonathan and Marsha Maddy and would probably still be
trying to find our way out had Jonathan not advised us to keep our left hands
on the left wall – a strategy that enables one to exit a dead end successfully.
Apparently his entrepreneurial effort was no more successful than his neighbor
with the sunflowers; there is no sign of a maze this year.
It is fascinating that a
simple two hour drive can be embedded with so many memories. There seems to be
a story around every curve and at the top of every hill.
,
No comments:
Post a Comment