Jan 4, 2024 4 min read

Over the river and through the woods for fun, warmth and love

By Nick Jacobs

Back in the day, there used to be something called snow.

It was a weather phenomenon that often started in October and ended near the end of April. People went sledding, skiing, and had snowball battles. We also didn’t have the massive snow removal equipment that we have now. That made life with rear-wheel vehicles much more exciting.

​Because the roads were hardly ever plowed, and there was no salt on those snow-covered roads of the 1950s and 1960s, the drive to my grandparents’ house was always memorable. You’d see a truck with a guy in the back shoveling those black ashes which were often mixed with tiny pieces of unbreakable objects that would puncture a tire at least once each winter that came straight from the bony dumps.

​The trip to their house was over the river and through the woods. We’d slide down the long hill from East Liberty to the Dawson Bridge, which had a floor of old wooden planks that clicked and clacked as we crossed the Youghiogheny River. Then we’d head for the back roads to St. James Park where my grandparents, Patsy and Francesca, lived.

​Dad was not shy about winter driving on snowdrift-covered roads. As we slipped and slid through the white stuff with our chain-covered tires on those twisting backcountry roads at breakneck speeds, he would laugh as if nature was his virtual reality game.

​Our clunky old 1950s car was filled with the aroma of my father’s cigarette smoke and those wool seats that smelled like wet dogs were just crazy fun. Our cars felt like big metal bobsleds. It seemed as if we were driving into total isolation, where no unchained car had gone before us. Knowing we were making those first tire tracks in that freshly fallen snow was absolutely thrilling. Mom would yell, “Charlie, you’re going too fast!” But he was focused and determined to get us through to what was waiting for us on the other end of our journey.

​Once we got to our destination, my brother and I would play in the snow in our grandparents’ yard with their giant dog, Boy, and their geese and chickens. That could go on until our blue jeans were completely frozen, blue icicles. We were so cold that even our long underwear felt frozen. We looked like kid-cicles, but their house was always warm, cozy, and smelled like a wonderful Italian restaurant.

​Once inside, we were surrounded by more fun, love, and craziness than a kid could imagine. Pots and pans were bubbling and jumping on every burner of her old gas-fired stove, spaghetti, meat sauce, homegrown vegetables, Italian cookies, and every type of fruit.

​In the middle of the table, there was always a bowl filled with black gold, those wonderful fat, black olives that became candy to me. When the spaghetti was finally put on the table, it was in a serving dish the size of Clark Griswold’s aluminum sleigh in “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” There had to have been at least two or three pounds of specially cooked pasta just waiting to become part of our collective muffin tops.

​After we said grace, Granddad would pass the wine around the table. Throughout the entire meal, they would drink, and we all would laugh. Usually, it was with my cousin, Tom, my Aunt Amelia, Uncle Max, and Uncle Bert. I loved the lighthearted happiness of those meals. By the end of the meal, my grandfather would do something fun like dump his peaches into his coffee cup. Grandmother would yell, “Patsy, Patsy, you gonna make-a da boys be bad!” He would smile and say, “Oh, they’ll be bad, alright, but not because of tonight. It will be because I’m their granddad.”

​We always left knowing we had their complete love. Believe me when I say, embrace those times. It’s all about the love.

Nick Jacobs is a Windber resident.