Finding Nowhere

by Brian Hodges

As someone who is born and raised in Southern California, the Newport I grew up knowing was a beach town, with many shops and a pier and miles and miles of sandy coast. I remember going after school as often as I could to jump head first into the crashing waves and take a quick swim in the icy water before drying off and doing my homework on the sand under the lifeguard tower. The cold water always made the sand feel warmer. Often times I’d stay until the sun went all the way down. I always loved watching the sun turn an impressive burnt orange color, radiating across the full horizon. It was much more magnificent, yet you were able to stare right at it as it began to dip into the water, turning the clouds in the sky above it a light purple and the water below it a wonderful mix of yellows and reds until disappeared behind the earth in front of it, almost giving the illusion of sinking to the depths of the ocean. That was the Newport I know, and although they share the same name, the Newport I found is dramatically different. This is not my Newport.

To the majority of the Universe, even to people who live in the state that it is in, Newport, Pennsylvania, doesn’t exist. A Google search won’t give you more than a page or so of information, and you won’t even find it on some of the most detailed of maps. To most of the world it doesn’t exist; to most, it doesn’t matter; to most, including myself, it’s nowhere.

The city itself is in Perry County, a rural, run-down part of Pennsylvania. Originally named Ryders Ferry, it was the spot where one of the first ferries was located along the Juanita River up until the canal was built, making the ferry practically useless and the town was renamed Newport. Along with a port along the river, it was home to a busy rail yard for large freight to be shipped in and out moving through the Pennsylvania railroad. Newport has been a place of industry from its origin, and now, it seems its primary purpose is to be a place for truckers to stop and refuel before continuing their trip through the state. Once you get off the freeway, you’re greeted with old car garages, rest stops, abandoned brick buildings, and the occasional strip club… charming. While driving through, my instinct was to turn around and try somewhere else. Seriously, where the heck was I, and how could anyone live here?

For some reason I stayed on course. There was a genuine curiosity that forced me to continue on. The farther you traveled from the freeway, the more it began to open up. The road became lined with trees on both sides of the two-lane road as it wrapped around a hillside. The branches intersected overhead creating a canopy of brilliant reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of the leaves as the fall season begins. The sun spilled through the spaces between them as they swayed in the wind. Through the trees you could see glimpses of a river that stayed close next to each twist and turn of the road. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. We didn’t get views like this in California. It was pretty, but I still had no idea where I was going. My GPS said I was minutes away but I didn’t see any sign of human life anywhere.

All of a sudden, a truss bridge appeared through the trees and the road took a left toward the river and away from the hillside. The sign before the bridge entrance read “built in 1934.” Its age showed. The impressive blue steel of the bridges’ support beams were being swallowed by the inevitable infestation of rust. It was sturdy, but old. It was impressive but not in a way that would make you stop and marvel at it. It was just a reliable old bridge.

On the other side of the bridge was the main street of a town. It just appeared, as if you just discovered it yourself. A row of brick buildings crowded each side of the street. There weren’t even spaces in between each, just a wall of red squares with evenly spaced windows on each face. There were no stoplights, barely any street signs, there weren’t even any people walking on the sidewalks. The town looked empty at first glance. Welcome to Newport.

I started my journey at the Pub. I had a meeting set up with someone who grew up in Newport, but due to illness, I was never able to meet with him. What he did tell me was to go to the pub. He said it would be a good place to sit and meet someone who would know a thing or two about the town. When I asked what the name of the pub was, his answer was quick and direct: “The Pub.” Don’t overthink it, I guess. Outside of the pub was an old wooden sign that read what it was exactly and the name of the establishment itself. You guessed it. “The Pub!” Unbelievable.

Walking into the bar was just as unnerving as driving into town. I was greeted with stares from both the bartender from behind the bar, and two people sitting at a table across from each other. The man sitting by himself at the bar didn’t even look up. The thought of, “Okay, seriously, what are you doing here?” overcame me once again, and it took everything in me to walk all the way in and not just get up and leave. I could have turned around and walked right out without ever coming back ever again; sure, it would have confused the heck out of the three people who even noticed me in the doorway, but I’d never come back so who cared what they thought, right? It remained an option. I decided looking like the crazy wanderer to these people wasn’t worth it so I walked in and sat at the bar by myself.

The Pub was old. I found that to be a common theme in Newport. The newest thing in it was a 32-inch television in the top corner of the room. The bar was made of a dark wood and the bar stools matched it. The only thing well lit was a pool table that sat across the room. It was daytime out on a sunny fall afternoon, yet you wouldn’t be able to tell all that considering the lack of light coming in through the closed window shades.

“What can I get for you, dear?” The question came from the bartender. She was an older lady, barely tall enough to reach over the bar top. Her hair was blonde and curly, and her face was lightly wrinkled and had a pleasant smile draped across it.

“Just a Miller Lite, please.”

I wasn’t going to order anything alcoholic, but when the question was asked, I answered with the first beer that came to my mind, and considering I stepped into a bar I didn’t want to look even more out of place than I already did. I could have use a beer anyway.

She asked for my identification so I gave it to her. She looked it over for a second and handed it back.

“California?” she said with a curious smile on her face.   “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Oh, I’m just driving through. I go to school in Maryland, so I’m making my way around I guess.” I don’t know why I wasn’t honest with her; I had no reason to not tell her I was writing a story, but I was so used to being asked about my hometown whenever I show my ID in this part of the country that I just gave a different variation of my instinctual answer.

“Just driving through, huh? That’s pretty much what everyone who visits this place is doing. If you don’t live here you’re just driving through.” She said with a chuckle. She seemed to be joking but with a real sense of honesty, and it wasn’t hard to believe she was completely right.

“Here ya go, Brian!” she handed me the beer and since I never introduced myself it took me a while to realize she got my name from my ID.

“What’s your name ma’am?”

“Margaret!”

“Well, thank you, Margaret!” I was already warming up to the place. The more I sat there the more I realized The Pub’s charm. The beer signs all over the wall were washed out and faded. The only sign above the bar was another wood sign that read ‘Hikers Welcome!’ in red paint. Margaret explained we were near the Appalachian Trail and it became a thing to stop in for a drink at the pub over time after people had gone hiking. I certainly wasn’t a hiker, but I was beginning to feel welcome.

I got out my journal and began to jot down a couple thoughts. “Watcha writing?” Margaret asked. I still didn’t really want to tell her I was writing a paper on the place, so I told her I was journaling about places I’ve been. I asked if there was any cool information about the place that not a lot of people know about. Her answer was quick and direct.

“Ask Hank. He might have a story for ya.”

“Where can I find Hank?” I asked. She was obviously going to tell me who he was regardless of if I asked or not. I felt stupid for asking, but before she could even answer I heard a voice to the right of me.

“Right here!”

Sure enough, the one man who didn’t even look up from his beer when I walked in answered.

“Hey, I’m Hank. What do ya wanna know?” he said and moved a couple seats over. He proceeded to tell me I didn’t look like I was from around here. I don’t think he meant it in a bad way, but it was an interesting observation to make. I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant considering I’ve only really met two people from “around here”.

His face was a little red and full of stubble. He was wearing a ball cap and a brown jacket. He had eyes that were dark and focused but friendly all the same.

“Wanna know how we got the name Newport?”

“For sure!”

“There was an old port down the road!” he said laughingly.

I took a sip of beer with a smile and a chuckle. I thought he was for sure messing with me, and I think he sensed my disbelief.

“No I’m serious!” he continued before I could protest. “When the town was built people up the river would say, ‘Ship it to that new port down the river’ and over time the name stuck.” He was laughing, but the tale did have some logic to it. I still doubted the actual truth of it, but I liked it, and that was the story I was going to tell anyone who ever asked. Newport: A town that practically named itself. Interesting. I liked it.

“What else you got for me, Hank?” I asked.

Whether he gave me the truth or not didn’t matter anymore. I just wanted to hear what he’d say. He was a born storyteller and you could tell he’d talk to anyone who would sit and have a drink for long enough to listen.

He responded with his own question. “Well have you heard of anyone from around here?”

I told him the only two notable names I could find. Billy Cox, professional Major League Baseball player for the Dodgers, and John Hetwick, the man who invented and first patented the airbag. Two of the most opposite people you could think of. I really thought he was going to talk to me about Billy, but he surprised me with his answer.

“Oh, yeah, two good ones! ‘Ya know Johnny (Hetrick) wasn’t given a dime for the airbag. Car companies weren’t trying to advertise safety until after his patent ran out then they jumped on it.” Which is far more believable than his first ‘old port’ story, actually.

He asked why I was writing it down. I finally decided to come clean to both him and Margaret. I told them I was writing a paper for school about a travel experience. Margaret then told me to go to the Newport Apple Festival. Apparently, for one weekend of the year the people of Newport hold a festival where they make apple cider and apple butter and sauce. I had no idea it was even a thing so I figured I’d give it a shot.

A whole festival dedicated to apples? Sure, why not.

Margaret gave me the directions after I paid the tab and I was off, to an entire festival dedicated to… apples. After turning on to a dirt road, the trees got thicker as I continued to drive right back into the middle of nowhere. I began to feel uneasy again. Where the heck was I going? Was there even a festival? There was a cardboard sign tied to a tree that read “Apple Festival ahead!” That answered one of my questions at least.

I finally pulled up. The parking lot was dirt along with the uphill walk to the location. I could see once I got out that it was a mill: a wooden barn with a massive metal mill on the side, powered by a stream running along side it. Outside was a massive pot over an open flame where, I learned later, they were apparently cooking the apples and turning them into the butter. The smell of apples and cinnamon filled the air. It was intoxicating. I was getting excited. For being a festival, I was expecting it to be more crowded than it was. Outside of the barn was a series of stands, showing off how the apples were grown and picked and processed. I got a cup of apple cider that was actually the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted. It was like biting into the most perfect apple you could imagine. After trying the cider, I had to get the pie. I turned back around and ordered from the same table as the cider.

I’d like to make a public apology to my mother who is the greatest cook and baker of all time, but this apple pie was on another level. The lady who sold it to me informed me that she picked the apples earlier that morning and finished baking it about an hour ago. Was she kidding me?

I walked from one end of the fairground to the other with my pie, which wasn’t very far at all. In between the vendors and the mill was a folk band playing music to a large group of children with their parents sitting on hay bails on the grass. I was really enjoying the music, but I had no time sit and listen. I wanted to see the mill. It looked even bigger when you were standing right in front of it. The metal plaque in front of it read:

FITZ

32 FOOT OVERSHOOT WATERWHEEL

Installed about 1906 And Replaced May 1977

By Harold M Greaney, Contractor

And Harry W Land, Welder

 

The mill was originally built and restored years later by the community around it. This thing was over 100 years old. I walked into the barn and found an intricate series of moving wooden gears that stretched overhead and spun wheels on both sides of the pathway. To the left of me was a group of three men tending to a machine that looked sort of like a food processor. The inside of the mill smelled like apples along with an enchanting smell of what fresh wood chips and saw dust smell like after you chop a tree down or saw a two by four in half.

“Hey there young man!” said the man in the back. He was hard to look in the eye behind the massive spinning gears between us.

“This is an impressive machine you have here, sir.” I truly was impressed by it all. It was so intricate yet simple. It was hard to describe. I could see every little piece that made up the mill, but I still couldn’t comprehend how they put it together. It was almost beautiful how everything fit together and worked symbiotically. It looked like art.

I told him it was my first time at the festival. I genuinely couldn’t believe his answer.

“I could tell by your shoes you weren’t from here,” he said with a large grin. They were white and we were in the dirt so I understand but note to self, I needed to figure out how to not dress like I’m not from “around here.” His smile got even bigger once I told him that was the second time I’d been told something like that today. He told me his name was Jerry. He then asked me the question I was dying to answer.

“Wanna see it work?” he asked. I knew he knew my answer because by the time I said “yes” he had already loaded it up. His partner pulled a lever that attached a belt to one of the spinning gears overhead, thus turning the gears within the machine. The apples were then grinded up faster than I could blink. Out the other end was a spout, and the ground up apples were spat out into a wooden barrel, where they were pressed by the third man attending the machine and the juice was collected from there.

“That’s the way this Mill has done it since the 1800s,” Jerry said with a smile. He let me film it and gave me a sample of the apple butter the previous batch made. It was better than the cider. I bought two mason jars on my way out.

Leaving the fairgrounds was an interesting experience. As my white shoes walked through the dirt road, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of nostalgia for a time and place I never knew. For some reason, it felt like home. I didn’t want to leave, but the day was done. I felt like I was saying goodbye to somewhere familiar.

I realized the town of Newport was a community. Who would want to live here, you ask? Normal, friendly, welcoming people who were willing to help someone like me navigate his way through the town, even if I didn’t dress like I was from “around there.” It was old and run down, but at the same time it was charming and full of life. I couldn’t believe a town that’s not even on the map, a town that no one has ever heard of, a town that most people drive right through could be a place full of American history, friendly faces at a pub, and beautifully scenic landscapes. The city of Newport, a town that names itself. This nowhere place is actually somewhere to the people who live there and to the people who will stop and find it instead of driving through. It’s a town that has a lot to offer for those who are looking for nowhere to go.