Pat Bettinger is among the handful of folks, myself included, who spend a lot of time unearthing stories, photographs, and memories about our hometown of Williamstown, Pennsylvania.

Pat’s Facebook page, Williamstown – My Hometown, is a treasure trove of photographs and stories that I’ve long used to help my own research into the region’s history.

Recently, Pat posted a long, moving reflection of his time in Williamstown that struck me, and other Williamstown locals, as capturing the essence of what it was like to grow up in this former mining town at the far end of Dauphin County.

Here’s Pat’s story, as originally shared on Facebook:

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Let’s Take A Walk | July 11, 2025

While traveling the streets and alleys of my hometown recently, I experienced a flood of recollections and emotions from a lifetime ago.

My journey took me past places I used to know where dreams had begun and where lives had ended. Remembrances of great happiness and wonderful friends came back to me and made me smile.

I happily remembered a time when people walked everywhere, where neighbors were glad to take part of your burden from you, and where everyone knew your parents, your grandparents, and back beyond your own knowledge of your ancestry.

Memories of turmoil in some homes came to mind, lives derailed for one reason or another. Frustration seemed to be the cause of a great deal of pain in my hometown. Seems like some folks never had much of a chance in life, sort of like everything was stacked against them. And there were others who had it pretty good from the get-go. My family was somewhere in between.

I recalled genuinely nice people, and a few crabapples. I could see faces from my past, and in some instances, I could recall parts of specific conversations.

Without any effort on my part my dear mother’s soft voice entered my awareness when she said, ‘don’t just stand there with the door open,’ and ‘are you trying to memorize everything in the refrigerator?’ And today I recall those two things she said every time I’m looking in the refrigerator. She did her job well, and I’ll love her until the day I die.

I recalled going into the 5 and 10 downtown at age seven or eight and buying my mother a bottle of lotion. It cost a dollar. That was all I had. She was so happy when I gave it to her that I wanted to go buy her another bottle, but I didn’t have another dollar.

As my journey continued I walked a path I had walked a million and a half times. It went from the end of Vine Street, just behind the Catholic school, to Walnut Street, or vice versa, depending which way you were headed. There was a small metal bridge along the path where we had fun trying to balance on the handrails. There was also an identical bridge a little north of the one we used. But we always took the same route and used the same bridge, close to the tennis courts on Lesher’s estate.

This path was a direct route to Fowler’s Playground or to the Pump Dam. You got to Walnut Street, crossed over, and went through a swamp that was dry most of the time. Sometimes you had to step over or around old bits of concrete foundations. We learned later these foundations had been part of the trolley barn complex that was torn down years before.

Walking by the school, specific teachers came to mind, and so did the challenges of keeping up with my older siblings who had had the same teachers. I knew they cared about me as much as they did my siblings, but everything seemed to come to my sibs so much easier than it did to me.

Names and faces from my school years began coming back to me. I wondered what had happened to this friend and that one. I knew some had passed, but others I wasn’t sure, one way or the other.

The clubhouses, forts, and huts built by all the kids in my neighborhood passed before my eyes. I could picture what they looked like and what materials were used in their construction. Same thing with gigs, doghouses, and chicken pens. My pals and I knew what garages and barns had old cars sitting there, waiting to be rescued and brought back to life. We had plans to do just that with about half a dozen vehicles.

We knew who had the apple and cherry trees with the best flavor, so when they ripened, we enjoyed our share, usually after dark. We knew the names of every dog in town, and some cats. We knew where the pets had come from, and what they liked to eat.

As I passed one old horse chestnut tree, it seemed really familiar. It was an old tree 50 years ago. We used to play on and around it. Never thought it would still be there. My kite got stuck in it one time, and the old tree didn’t want to let go of it. So I left it and went on to something else. Bits and pieces of that kite may still be up there, keeping the old tree company after all these years.

Things I hadn’t thought of in many years, decades even, came back to me. Things like hand me down clothes, putting plastic on windows to keep the winter out, and closing off rooms so the heat from the furnace would go to a certain place in the house. I began to think about the snow from years ago, but quickly erased that from my mind. I can relive snow every winter. I don’t have to reminisce about it.

As I passed by closed and boarded storefronts downtown, memories of the annual block parties between West and Tunnel Streets filled my brain. To see the rides, foodstands, and the equipment in the daytime meant nothing. It was really kinda boring. But when the sun went down, it was like Disneyland parked itself right in our little town.

The sounds, the smells, and the lights were mixed together with the excitement of riding a ferris wheel or winning a prize. The older folks played bingo, there in the middle of Market Street, always right in front of the firehouse. The young toughs spent dollar after dollar trying to knock down heavy metal milk bottles. If successful, the prize was a chalk doll or other figurine. I never knew why a girl would want to carry one of those around all night, just because a boy had won it and given it to her. All sorts of games of chance were available, with prizes being a lei or a brightly colored wooden walking stick, or something else made solely to make a kid’s mouth water.

Popcorn was not readily available in my hometown, except at the movies. But during the block party the smell of it just made my mouth ache for some of that hot, buttery bit of heaven. Some kids used to throw their popcorn at each other or at the girls, but it was too valuable to waste like that. And one bag had to last while we walked the whole strip, from West Street to Tunnel Street. I can’t recall that it ever did.

Big time entertainment was booked into our town that special week. The most well known show I recall was when tv hostess Sally Starr made the universe whole again. She was the consummate performer. She sang, told jokes, showed us how to have fun, and made us glad we had our black and white TV’s so we could watch her every day.

The night they closed the block party was hard to handle. Music died down, lights were turned off, even the food smells from the vendors didn’t seem mouth watery anymore. But we got over it. All fantasies come to an end.

Many homes had fences around them back in my youth. And I thought I could easily leap over any of them. Today, if there’s a fence in front of me I begin looking for a gate. But not back then. We used to jump whenever and wherever we could, over parking meters, hedges, streams, and each other.

Climbing trees, running, swimming, and doing cartwheels were favorite pastimes of mine. We played hide ‘n seek, kick the can, hopscotch, and any number of games. Games with friends were made more special if we played them after dark. Parents didn’t start looking for us until after nine p.m., 10 p.m. in the summer.

Back to walking, I saw in my head homes with people sitting on the porch. Made me remember who used to wave, and who wanted you to stop and talk for awhile. During the Christmas season some homeowners came out and asked for your name and your parents’ names if you were dawdling too long in front of their decorations. East Street came to my mind first.

Pausing in front of a church I was reminded of who went to which church, and who didn’t go to any church. And of those who went to my church who never got any closer to the front than the last two pews. I fondly remembered fish suppers, donut days before Lent, apple festivals, and parties at church, at home, at school, anywhere. Seems like there were a lot of parties to enjoy back then.

As youngsters we walked the alleys as much as the streets, especially after dark. One spot we always stopped at on our rounds was the back of the legion. There are a number of grates there, through which you could hear what was going on down in the canteen. We never heard any good stories, but we liked that we could hear them and they didn’t know it.

It’s been a long walk, longer than I was able to describe here. Both knees are aching, not used to walking this much. I’ll have to cut my time-machine visit to my hometown short. I’ve got a lot of memories to dwell on, a lot of friends to visit again, if only in my mind.

There’s one good part of reminiscing about the past, you are in charge. You get to delete the bad times, the hurt and the pain, the parts of your life that were not fun or easy. As for me, I’ll have to take this trip through my hometown again, but I think next time I’ll visit the mountains, woods, coal dirt banks, the black crick, swamps like deadwater, the railroad tracks and the trestle. So much more to recall, to visit, and to explore.

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Well said. (Wiping back a few tears).

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Read more stories about Williamstown, Pennsylvania

An interview about the history of Williamstown as it prepared for anniversary | 1976

Williamstown, Pennsylvania – 1916

“This is a thriving little village” – Williamstown in 1871

A coal town is born – Williamstown, Pennsylvania in 1864

A family connection to Coal Region history

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