Word Celebrity Blog

South Fork, Pennsylvania is located 78 miles east of Pittsburgh, 12 miles north of Johnstown. At the turn of the 20th century, South Fork was a prosperous coal mining town. Between 1869 and 1980, the hills around South Fork produced over 70 million tons of coal, and the mines employed around 2,000 workers at their peak around 1910. Today there are less than a thousand people in the area.Many people in Pennsylvania have never heard of it, or the two facts that have made it noteable. In 1889, a dam at South Fork burst, causing the famous Johnstown Flood, and that it was the birthplace of Charles Dennis Buchinsky (Charles Bronson). It was here that shortly after midnight, May 12, 1932,  I was born.

South Fork is a small town built along the Little Conemaugh River. The streets are mostly brick paved and on steep hills. The home where I was born, is on Maple Street (magenta mark on the left side of the map).


This is a picture of what most of the kitchens of the coal miner families at that time. The arrangement of the kitchen at my grandparents was a little different, but, is the exact stove and in the same spot.

My grandfather was a first generation American. His father was a Scot who came to America from England  and went to work in the coal mines. He died in a mine accident when my grandfather was 9 years old. Since he was the oldest child, Andy Boyle went to work in the coal mines at the age of nine. In those days, the miners worked 12 hours a day, for 364 straight days a year. The only day off work was Christmas day. To get any other days off, they had to be because of an accident in the mines. There was no pay or compensations while you were off work. This was the case for about half of his working life. The working conditions improved as the coal mines became unionized.

My grandmother came from Scotland with her family, when she was 9 years old. At the age of 20 she married Charles DeLong, a coal miner, and lived in Houtzdale, Pennsylvania. In less than two years, her husband was killed in a mining accident. She and her infant daughter moved to South Fork to live with a married sister. It was there that she met my grandfather Andrew, who was a widower with a small daughter and they got married in 1902.

My grandparents never owned a horse and buggy or an automobile. If they traveled anywhere the took a train. The main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad  went through town. The first automobile that they rode in, was my father's roadster.

For about the first 30 days of my life, I lived at my grandparents house with my mother. Due to the constant urging of my grandmother, my parents registered my birth with the British consulate. By their doing this, I have dual citizenship.

When I was 3 years old, a neighbor boy was riding my tricycle and wouldn't get off. I gave him a hard shove and while I was getting on the tricycle, he picked up a sharp stone from the street and threw it at me. The stone broke my nose and split it open. I spent a long time with my face bandaged that summer.

When I was 4 years old, our family moved to Akron, Ohio. I was fortunate that my parents allowed me to spend my summer months with my grandparents in South Fork. In retrospect, I believe they wanted to keep me from getting into trouble on the streets of Akron. From the age of 6, I spent four consecutive, wonderful summers with my grandparents.
The Stienman Coal Company was in the valley along the South Fork Creek. It was in their mine that my grandfather began to work at the age of nine. After the dam burst at the man-made lake on South Fork Creek, in 1892, the flood waters washed away the Steinman buildings, the South Fork Brewery, railroad engines, cars, and tracks as it roared down the Conemaugh River to Johnstown.
This is the flood plain of the South Fork Creek, as it looks today. There is very little left to remind you of the flood, with the exception of several markers and signs and one building.
This is the coal mine in which my grandfather worked for most of his life. When I was spending my summer vacation in South Fork, I would walk to the mine and walk home with him. He would always manage to find an apple or a cookie that remained in his dinner bucket and give it to me.

This is a foot-bridge over which the coal miners crossed while they were going to and from work. In the summer of 1964 or 1965, I drove over 150 miles to take this picture, before they took it down. The next day, the bridge was removed. As you can see there is still some pollution in the water. I am happy to say that after the state and federal government has spent millions upon millions of dollars and voluntiers have spent years of work, the stream and rivers now contain fish and other freshwater life.
This is a picture of a coal mine waste dump. We used to call them "rock dumps". It is where the mining companies dump the non-coal materials which come out of the mine. Of course, some amount of coal gets deposited on the huge pile as well. It was the chore of most children in a mining community to pick out the coal from the dump and haul it home for the family's use. This picture shows children picking coal in the winter time. When I spent my summers at my grandparents, I picked coal and put it in burlap bags and hauled down the street for about three blocks and put it into the coal bin. On days when there wasn't much coal on the dump, or their were a lot of children picking, A couple of us boys would go down along the railroad tracks and pick up the coal that had fallen off of the railroad cars. It was much harder to lug it home, since it would be uphill all the way. We didn't really care about that: we were as happy as if we had found gold. By the end of my vacation, my grandparents coal bin was filled to the top.

It was the custom that every Friday evening, about an hour before dark, each one of the children who had been picking coal would bring a potato to a spot near the rock dump. One of the parents would have gathered a pile of lumber and we would have a bonfire and when the fire has burned down to hot coals, we would put in our potatoes and roast them. I am sure that all of us thought those blackened potatoes were the best we had ever eaten.

It was during the second summer, that I first tasted peanut butter. When you bought peanut butter, the local grocer would scoop it out of a barrel and would weigh it on the scales, quite like the way they do hamburger today. The peanut butter was so dry that it stuck to the roof of your mouth. Given two thick slices of homemade bread with peanut butter in between, brought big smiles across our faces.
In the summer, it was often too hot to sleep. I would very often lie at the foot of the bed in front of the open window and listen. I would listen to all of the sounds of the night, while I awaited for the trains. I could hear their whistle way off in the distance. The lonesome sounds echoed across the hills and through the damp night air. I watched for the light to pierce through the fog and to hear the fast chug, chug, chug.of the steam engine as it labored up the mountain. It was a lonely sound, but, a comforting sound to me. Many nights I feel asleep at the foot of the bed listening... and listening.

I was 11 years old when we moved back to Portage. We lived in a house just outside of town. There was a barn and chicken coop.behind it. Each year, my father would raise 2 hogs and 300 chickens. My chores consisted of feeding and watering them all as well as cleaning out the chicken coop once a week.

One night we heard a loud commotion coming from the chicken coop. my father called for me to go with him and he grabbed the shotgun and a flashlight and we hurried down to the chicken coop. The dog had chased something up a tall tree. He handed me the flashlight and told me to shine it on whatever was up in the tree, I kept trying to find something, without any luck. He took the flashlight and handed me the 12 gauge double barreled shotgun. I had never shot a gun before. My father told me to cock the hammers and aim the sight at the end of the barrel on whatever we saw, and to squeeze the trigger when he said shoot. He kept moving the light around the top of the tree while the dog continued to bark and my arms were aching from holding the shotgun up in the air. Suddenly, we saw two eyes reflecting back. My father yelled shoot and I pulled the trigger (both of them). Something came crashing down as I went rolling backwards. After I got to my feet, I picked up the shotgun and walked back to the tree where the dog was tearing into the huge dead bobcat. It seems that I had pulled both triggers at  the same time and both barrels fired together.

On my next birthday (my 12th), my father bought me a Marlin 22 cal. rifle. He gave me the gun, but, he kept the bolt. I could not shoot it unless he was with me. It remained that way until he believed I could handle it safely and was careful as to what I would shoot.

On Saturday afternoon after my chores were done, I would ride my bike the 9 miles to South Fork to visit my grandparents.

I didn't ride down in the winter. In Cambria County, back then, you didn't measure the snow by the inches, but, by the feet.

I enjoyed the time we lived there. Behind our house there was about 2 square miles of forest with a nice stream running through it. Where we lived was the only easy access to it. I pretty much had it all for my private playground.

My grandfather came to live with us. That fall, we moved to a farm outside of Mercer, Pennsylvania, where I began my high school years.

CLYDE