Allenwood is nestled along the Susquehanna River’s West Branch, thirteen miles south of Williamsport and cleaved head-to-toe by a serpent called PA Route 15.
Except for the commercial district along “The Pike” it’s just another one of those hamlets you’d miss as easily as a black snake sunning himself on a flat rock until you’re on top of him. Or, as Clyde Peeling might point out, the snake is a “her.” I’m, getting ahead of myself, though. We’ll get to Reptiland eventually.
My previous post, which was originally for paid subscribers, is now available to all. In it I speak of such Allenweirdness as geological wonders, Stranger Things-level military intrigue, cement igloos, cow patties, and the long lost village of Alvira:
Now it’s time to forge ahead to explore a few more anomalies of this fascinating PA town.
Sometimes when you’re driving along one of the east/west routes in Central PA you’ll see white, bare spots on the mountain ridges. You may have said
Hey, look at that, would ‘ya!
And wondered,
Has anyone seen those patches up close?”
I have. (And like you, I talk to myself often. It’s nothing to be ashamed of).
To get to those rocks, one needs an Aragorn, a true Ranger.
Gary Houtz, whom I introduced in the first episode, was my proud guide as we hobbited our way up through the woods of White Deer mountain as teenagers to arrive at acres of boulders strewn around like giants’ molars after a battle with orcs.
Here’s the proof.
Gary would tell us a story that sounded too good to be true: He and his brother had an abandoned hospital to themselves to run around in and smash things.
As it turns out, Sonny, as his family called him, had not spent too much time in the sun.
This Valley Girl blog confirms that the former Devitt’s Camp existed as a former tuberculosis respite center along White Deer Hole Creek just outside of Allenwood. Its current expanded version is the White Deer Treatment Center.
Gary says:
We lived at Devitt's Camp in Allenwood (on the mountain) when I was born up until when I was 8 or 9 years old. It was called Phoebe Devitt Homes, an old age facility, with two hospitals that became empty due to the place being sold. My brother and I used to ride our bicycles in the hallways of the hospitals. Did a little mischievous stuff as well, nothing too serious. Census records show a lot of my ancestors worked there: My Mom and Dad, Grand Parents, Aunts and Uncles, etc... to name a few.
The picture below shows the two hospitals facing each other, with what I believe in the middle is the dining hall. Our house is mid right mostly obscured by a group of trees.
It’s safe to say these boys had the time of their lives. And I say:
Totes jelly!
On a recent visit to the ‘Wood, I drove up the inclined driveway to see the camp for myself. I got as far as the gate where I was welcomed by a surprised staff person who not so subtlety invited me to turn around. I didn’t get to see any of the grounds, but I spied a dozen or so residents hanging out around a picnic table.
The reason this is fascinating to me is the Lancaster connection. A few blocks from my row home is a satellite treatment house of the White Deer center. I’m reminded at least weekly of Gary’s enviable exploits at the mother facility deep in the woods.
I’m a huge fan of obscure automobiles. It all a began the day my dad paid $50 for a field car for my thirteen year old self: A 1964 Chevrolet Corvair. That dalliance with underdog beaters led me to fall head-over-wheels in love with the Crosley.
To get a feel for The Crosley’s awesome power, imagine yourself and a few passengers cruising the boulevard in a clothes dryer on wheels. Did I mention Crosley was deep into making appliances?
Much to me delight, on the way to our “Bucktail” cabin in Elimsport, my family and I crossed Route 15, and there on the corner sat a half dozen Crosleys covered in dust. It looked like an automotive bilge pump hurled them out suddenly onto the grass, and the owner took the time to arrange them, loosely, facing the highway.
I snapped a good deal of 35mm photos which I can no longer find, but I recall that the models varied: A “woody” station wagon (uber-cute), a convertible, and a hardtop or two.
I suppose a collector gobbled up the tiny cars, an example of a true “barn find” before such treasures become the object of voyeuristic doomscrolling. (I can’t be the only one).
We’re back to snakes, and we haven’t even gotten to Clyde Peeling’s Reptiland. I teased you. I’ll talk about that unusual haven of reptilian-ism in Part 3.
For now, for whatever it’s worth, let’s a enjoy a fitting dessert to go along with the Lebanon Bologna sandwich I introduced you to in Part 1.
“Passing handbills” was a rite of passage for each Becker boy. On a quarterly basis, Becker’s Ben Franklin Store in Watsontown would hold a sale, and my dad would pile 4 or 5 boys into a truck or van to deliver full color flyers onto porches in surrounding towns.
After school on Monday we’d fan out through town till about 6:30 PM. Tuesdays were for “out of town” canvassing which required shuttling. We’d get home about 8:30 PM.
But not until we were treated to dinner at The Basket dive diner. The picture will form easier if I simply list a few visceral memories:
Bar seating on the right; dining room on the left. That’s where my dad would reluctantly lead us hungry, loud banshees in for our feast.
Aroma: A mixture of french fry oil and Lysol emanating from the restrooms. Speaking of…
The old faithful roll-up cloth towel dispenser. The main memory, besides the flatness of cool cotton on a working man’s (sic) hands, was the sound: A gentle clinking and ratcheting that said, “This is a diner, my friend.”
A glass-covered Formica counter that allowed for a panoply of business cards and humorous notions to be displayed.
One cartoon I vividly recall: A marooned man on a tiny island with one palm tree is seen from above, desperately beckoning a presumed airplane. Behind him reposes a barely clothed, buxom woman. On the sand spelled out with sticks is his message: SEND MORE PILLS!
The waitresses, not as alluring, were like your aunt, the skinny one without a sense of humor.
The burgers, fries, and Cokes were “severely great!” It’s just how we talked.
At one of those meals, after a half hour of our infernal yakking, chair flipping, and straw shooting, Dad clobbered the table with his right fist, shoved his chair back, rose, and with great irritation and greater restraint said through clenched teeth:
That’s it! I can’t take it anymore. You just won’t shut up! Let’s go. Get in the goddamned truck.
Toothpick dangling from his mouth, he paid our bill, and we scuttled out of there with french fries hanging from our mouths and shoving each other with glee. We landed in Milton, PA to finish our job, and Dad would always tell this story with a bit of delight.
What’s that have to do with snakes? Not much except that, little did we know, The Basket was inhabited by a brood of serpents just below the floorboards where we finally pushed Dartt Becker to the edge.
The infestation was discovered when the joint closed in the 2000’s (?).1
Stay tuned for more odd stuff from Allenwood PLUS two Lancaster connection bonus tracks.
If you know the date of The Basket’s demise, chime in.
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