Aug 23, 2005 4 min read

It was literally a drive down memory lane. I grew up in Scottdale, a small town north of here, a pleasant community whose streets when I was a small child were packed with shoppers on Saturday night and bore not one, but two, five-and-10-cent stores, several drug stores, a confectionary, a couple of dry cleaners, etc. In its heyday, Scottdale was a bustling mill town. It survived the Great Depression and is named after a railroad official (some fellow who’s last name was Scott), although it began life bearing the handle, Fountain Mills.

Like many other towns, decades of urban development that went nowhere and shopping centers outside borough limits, malls and other factors, crippled its downtown. Nearly all of the stores that existed when I grew up are gone now. Others have replaced them and it seems to me, on my rare trips there, that things have gotten much better.

My most recent visit was practical: I was checking out a few places where my aging parents might live. They are looking for something with far less maintenance than their present home, yet in a community they know well. They are both natives of Scottdale.

One potential home is located on what we called Loucks’ Lane. It’s a road that connects one thorofare in town with a state highway. And, its name denotes the old-time farm and family who lived there and helped settle the area.

It was also part of the path I took to walk home from junior high school on those occasions when I had missed the school bus or couldn’t get in touch with mom for a ride. Those were pre-cell phone, pre-computer days so communications were far more primitive. A single, black, dial telephone served most homes.

One such trek on Loucks’ Lane was on that November 1963 day when President John Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas. Sitting in afternoon art class, our principal sadly gave told us the news via the public address system that Kennedy had been shot. Then he dismissed classes for the rest of day. We could wait until the school buses arrived a couple of hours later to take us home or find our own transportation. The weather being mild for November, I decided to walk.

That’s one of my Loucks’ Lane memories, since I walked its hardtop road home.

Another recollection is from several years later. I was driving Dad’s 1960 International pickup truck home one evening and had taken an alternate route, as I so often did. Gasoline cost a whopping 29 cents a gallon and joy riding was a pleasure. This is how I justified taking the long route home: Since I had only recently acquired my license I got more driving experience. I was working part-time, so I paid for the gasoline.

It was one of those bleak winter nights: cold, damp and a little foggy. I turned onto Loucks’ Lane, downshifting from third to second gear. That old truck had a habit of getting stuck in second. I’m not sure what the problem was but Dad showed us how to fix it. However, the flashlight in his glove box had about as much life in it as rock at rest. I pulled to the side of the road, popped open the hood and groped my way around the steering column, feeling for a collar that controlled the shift lever inside the cab. I found something, turned it, and heard it snap into place.

It was a good thing, too, since at that time there was but one house on all of Loucks Lane and no streetlights.

Well, today, it’s called Loucks Road, according to the street sign I passed. And there are more houses along it, as well as a couple of apartment complexes and an assisted living facility for the elderly, than on most densely packed city streets.

The road is still blacktopped and the original barn and brick farmhouse remain.

And it continues to be a nice looking area. If my parents find a home there, I’m sure they’ll be content.

Sure, I’d like them to be closer. But I’m willing to compromise. After all, I suppose in one way or another, everyone goes back home, even if it is just in memories.

Have a good day.

James Pletcher Jr. is business editor at the Herald-Standard and can be reached at (724) 439-7571 or email jpletcher@heraldstandard.com