Boy Scout Cabin Hill

Yesterday, a childhood friend (I used to be her babysitter) sent a Facebook post, showing a landmark in our hometown of Oakdale, Pennsylvania.  It's an old log cabin, perched on a steep hillside above a creek.  It was known as the Boy Scouts Cabin because that's were the scouts met.  Because it sat alone on that part of the hill, in a wooded area, it had a mysterious air about it.

From the main road at the bottom of the hill, a path wended it's way to the top. The path began with a sturdy bridge across Chartiers Creek before the steep climb began.  At the very top of that climb, the path became much steeper. Above that was a paved road and houses.  Leveling a place for the road simply became a push of dirt to the open side.  They couldn't very well pile it in someone one's front yard, now could they?

In fact, there were three blocks of houses and an empty field above that.  The friend who posted lived at the highest point of the housing section.  I lived just down the hill from her.  Later, that empty field became a housing development.

That path often challenged thoughtless kids in winter and kids in a hurry in summer.  It always seemed shorter to take that path back and forth between downtown and home.  Few of us dared it at night, however.  Off to the side of that same housing area we lived in was the Boys' Industrial Home.

The home began as an orphanage, but when the state took it over, it became a home for juveniles. Older, "better behaved" boys were allowed to run errands off the grounds.  Truthfully, the grounds weren't hard for them to escape because there were no fences.  Just shrubs.  It was the main reason few of us dared to use that path after dark, unless there were several of us.  Even then, our adrenaline would be urging us to hurry to the street light and hopefully, safety, at the street above the path.  That dark, brooding, silent cabin among those tall trees was eerie-scary to a kid even as a teenager.

Over the years, the cabin has fallen into disrepair, probably unused.  Fortunately, a company from West Virginia is planning to restore it.  And, they're planning to televise it.  That is so exciting!  I hope I can catch it on TV.  Just yesterday, I remarked how Americans think new is better than old and we've destroyed a lot of interesting history in the name of "progress."  Europeans don't do that and I admired them for the way they would use what was literally centuries old instead of rushing into new, square boxes of glass and steel.  In the town where we lived, the oldest house was built in 1609 and it was still occupied!

I remember Boy Scout Cabin for a number of reasons, but since I was rarely in it, I remember the hill and the path more vividly.  In spring,  I would gather violets under the trees along the creek bank.  It would make me wonder what it looked like before civilization changed so much of it.  It was such a pretty place in spite of being hemmed in by a busy road and houses.

My friend Jeanne's older brother, Jim, once went down that hill on ice skates.  I was very impressed, but my older brother, Art, said he'd do it.  Not me.  

But, the memory that I think of every time that hill comes to mind is the day Bonnie, Jeanne, and I were sled riding down that narrow, rut filled path.  It was so rough, it's a wonder someone didn't get seriously hurt on it.  On that particular day, Bonnie and Jeanne decided to go down the hill on the sled together, Bonnie guiding, Jeanne the passenger on top of her.  Only sissies sat up on sleds.  We all hurtled down hills face first.

Down they went on that day, head first.  Sparks flew when their sled hit a rock that had lost it's blanket of snow.  But, it was at the bottom that my heart clogged my throat and my mind froze at the sight of my friend's sled heading for one of the upright metal poles on the bridge.  I was sure I was going to have to call for an ambulance.  They would either be dead or brain damaged for life.  That hill was steep and we FLEW down it.  They were heading, face first toward a three foot, hollow metal pipe, filled with cement.  It really was a sturdy bridge.

At the last second, the sled runner hit the metal pipe that spanned the creek as the base of the bridge. That adjusted their path and they glided smoothly across the bridge before they stopped and returned to the top of the hill, laughing.  Heart still in my throat and beating wildly, I couldn't laugh.  I think that ended our sled riding on Boy Scout Cabin Hill that day, but not my memories of it.