The Magical Furnace

Growing up in Pennsylvania, I lived in a world where magic was the rule, not the exception. I’m not referring to occult rituals, but to the abundant sources of wonder in my childhood kingdom – such as the constant presence of the old.

I grew up in York, first capitol of the United States, nestled among the rolling farmlands of southeastern Pennsylvania’s Susquehanna Valley. The area is encrusted with layer upon layer of history: American Indians, early settlers, Revolutionary War, and Civil War. Gettysburg, Valley Forge, and Philadelphia were easy day trips for my family.

History and tradition were a palpable presence in both town and countryside. You could read history in the old mills, abandoned brick houses, and tottering ancient red barns. There was the receding mystery of old train tracks through grassy fields, and hex signs painted on the sides of Amish barns. Old tradition was audibly present in York's famous factory whistle that wafted eerie tones of Christmas carols through miles of midnight air on Christmas Eve.

One of my favorite spots, hidden in the woods a few miles from my home, was the Codorus furnace – a giant stone furnace rising like a smoke stack amidst the trees, were soldiers made cannon balls during the Revolutionary War. There were no fences around it, no tour guides, no money charged or donations asked to view it. It was just there, like a ghost that would not sleep, a looming presence of history just as natural as the landscape. It was there to climb upon, crawl inside, play around. It was there to wonder at.

It is sad that there are people whose entire experience of history has been mediated by museums and tour guides. I don’t mean to put down museums and guides. I love them, and they do a wonderful service. But there is nothing like an encounter with history in the raw, meeting the presence of the old face-to-face on its own turf. History haunted Pennsylvania with ghostly presences everywhere. There was a feeling of being in touch with something "other." I love that feeling. It allows me to step out of the everyday, the ordinary. It's a "rabbit hole" (remembering Alice) into another world. And it doesn't have to be explained -- just appreciated.