This drop-in will take a few installments. There’s just too much weirdness to invite you into. I’m a native to that area, but I could use a Sherpa. In steps my high school friend Gary Houtz to serve as our fact checker and story slinger.
Gary’s mother was a noticeably attractive woman even to me, a squirrely 7th grader. She laughed mercilessly at me once for stuffing half of a Lebanon bologna sandwich in my pocket to “finish at home” as my dad pulled up in his truck to take me back to Watsontown.
She handed me a Glad bag. Her reaction embarrassed me because, for once, I wasn’t trying to get a rise out of someone. I was being courteous, and the sandwich wasn’t that bad.
The Houtz’s lived outside of Allenwood, PA, across the Susquehanna River from my town in what is now called a “manufactured home” at the foot of the eastern terminus of Nittany Mountain.
Gary was a true country kid, and I was a city slicker by comparison. Though I had only been to his house a few times, I was successful in spotting it recently on back roads near Elimsport.1 It looked exactly as I remembered it.
He would tell me stories about that part of Union County that sounded like juvenile tall tales. But we did a bit of exploring, and over the years I’ve visited and pondered the place often. All the weirdness lines up, and I remain perpetually stupefied.2
The first three bizarros to infect my young mind lay in close proximity:
After the attack on Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, our country’s war effort swelled.
To this end, in the spring of 1942 the federal government seized the small village of Alvira, Pennsylvania, and after kicking out the populace, razed almost every building in the village to build the Susquehanna Ordnance Depot.3
200 families were given six weeks to evacuate. Some building remains are still visible, though I’ve never explored them.
Gary adds:
The map you have of Alvira is from 1868. You'll notice down toward the bottom right "S. Houts". That's my great, great grand uncle. I have another map from 1873 that has Levi Houts property (more toward Elimsport). Levi was my great, great grandfather.
For a deeper dive, I found a thorough article4 about Alvira from 2019 written by a Canadian Naval officer, of all people. What was he doing snooping around our turf? But seriously, it reads like a scene from Stranger Things: A national government commandeering a place by imminent domain for secretive national interests.
And that leads to the next curiosity.
Americans were virtually all-in for defeating the Axis powers. “All gave some,” as the song goes, but the residents of Alvira gave more than their lunch money to Uncle Sam.
In two community meetings at Stone Church in the valley on February 16 and March 7, 1942, 400 Alvira and vicinity residents learned that the federal government would commandeer 8500 acres of their land to build a massive TNT production plant, the Pennsylvania Ordnance Works, the largest public works project ever witnessed in central Pennsylvania.5
Where to store all this nasty TNT? How about in 150 concrete igloos?
These bulbous babies I have indeed explored, and I recall two impressions: First, watch your step. Cow patties lay everywhere as it seems the local grazers occasionally used the domes as porta-potties.
Second, build an underground house if you want to be cool. Imagine an earth-sheltered cathedral home. Well, I can. Not that I ever did anything about it or asked a Realtor to find one for my family.
Beyond the superficial rush of exploration, one’s heart sinks to consider the utter cost of conducting a war, no matter its just cause or necessity.
I distinctly remember my dad, the eminently dramatic conveyor of local yore, telling me about field anomalies on the federal land. He insisted that during extensive rains lakes would emerge overnight. After a few days the water would recede creating an audibly eerie sucking sound.
(That was your imagination kicking in).
I’d have thought Dad off his rocker except for this: During the ‘72 flood, my parents and I were out surveying the damage from Hurricane Agnes. One stop was between Allenwood and Elimsport, and sure as I’m legally sane, we were staring at a massive lake where there ought not be one.
What do you know, Gary?
On the sink holes, saw them many times as we would drive through Elimsport to Williamsport. We just called them “the sinks.” I often wondered (and still do) what kind of things may be down those holes.
I would venture to say at least a lot of unhappy cows.
If those three obscurities don’t whet your whistle for more facts about this drive-though town, I suggest you have your curiosity bone checked out.
Stay tuned for:
A massive mountainside rock field (including late 70’s photos and haircuts)
An abandoned hospital in the woods
A barn that vomited out a dozen antique cars suddenly and without warning
A diner from which my pals and I were kicked out (by my dad). And one small detail about snakes.
This hamlet also has a history with me for being the site of Bucktail Camp, a get-away cabin my parents owned. (Yes, I created a Google spot for it).
In August I checked off a bucket list bike ride: To climb out of the Nippenose valley and over the mountain pass to South Williamsport, a 3.5 mile climb with a much scarier descent. Landing safely, I joined Becky and a friend at the Little League World Series. Easy parking.
Heather Truckenmiller’s extensive Valley Girl Views blog has also been an invaluable resource. She opened my eyes to two additional stories which I’ll offer as bonus tracks in the final installment.
That’s how Atlas Obscura puts it. That is one book each person, family, and witch doctor should have in their library.
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