Mountain Home, August 2025 by Mountain Home

By Karin Knaus

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The Mini Horse that Could

Kristen Zaidi

The tale of a horse, a Honda, and heroes. 24 Trout Run Strong

By Don Everett Smith Jr.,

Lilace Mellin Guignard

A town (re)built on preparation and compassion.

Rowing a boat on the Erie Canal. 28 An Original Jughead

David Higgins

Wellsboro’s Comic Con hosts Horseheads artist.

Skiff Happens

By Jim Pfiffer

Paul Bozzo

photo: Dog rescue during the Westfield flood by Bridget Reed; (top) Westfield Municipal Building by Andrea DeSera; (middle) Rt 284 in English Center, by anonymous; (bottom) Chris Wilkinson’s “Keuka Storm at The Park Inn”, courtesy Hammondsport Chamber of Commerce

A Flood of Love and Hope

By Karin Knaus

After tropical storm Debby, Westfield mends from within.

Readers Remember

By Suzanne Boak, Becky A. Monroe, and Pastor Russ

Shared stories of the Debby floods.

By Karey Solomon

Hammondsport’s Palettes of Keuka continues to paint the town.

Cover

mountainhomemag.com

E ditors & P ublish E rs

Teresa Banik Capuzzo

Michael Capuzzo

A ssoci A t E E ditor & P ublish E r

Lilace Mellin Guignard

A ssoci A t E P ublish E r

George Bochetto, Esq.

A rt d ir E ctor

Wade Spencer

M A n A ging E ditor

Gayle Morrow

s A l E s r EP r E s E nt A tiv E

Shelly Moore

c ircul A tion d ir E ctor

Michael Banik

A ccounting

Amy Packard

c ov E r d E sign

Wade Spencer

c ontributing W rit E rs

Suzanne Boak, David Higgins, Karin Knaus, Becky A. Monroe, Pastor Russ, Jim Pfiffer

Don Everett Smith, Jr., Karey Solomon, Kristen Zaidi

c ontributing P hotogr AP h E rs

Suzanne Boak, Paul Bozzo, Jerilyn Brubaker, Andrea DeSera, Kevin McCracken, Echo Putnam, Bridget Reed

d istribution t EAM

Dawn Litzelman, Grapevine Distribution, Linda Roller

t h E b EA gl E

Nano

Cosmo (1996-2014) • Yogi (2004-2018)

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A Flood of Love and Hope After Tropical Storm Debby,

Westfield Mends from Within

By Karin Knaus

The Japanese have an art form called kintsugi, in which broken pottery is repaired by mixing gold with lacquer or another medium and using it to seal the cracks. Rather than hiding the blemishes and discarding the disaster, they choose to highlight them, celebrating history and how it reshapes all things into something different, but beautiful.

“Beautiful” is not the first word most who experienced the aftermath of Tropical Storm Debby a year ago in the Cowanesque Valley would use to describe those days when the Cowanesque River and its tributaries surged out of their banks, washing away homes, belongings, businesses, and roads, and leaving behind mud, debris, and even death. Shock, ruin, desperation—these are words that more quickly spring to mind. Over time, though, another word emerged in a more profound way than all the others: community.

Hometown Hero

In November 2024, Develop Tioga awarded Crary Hose Company the Hometown Hero award, saying: Tropical Storm Debby was one of the most destructive natural disasters our area has ever seen. It was a dark and terrifying time as flood waters rose and houses were destroyed. But there was a light— Crary Hose Company.

Bridget Reed

Under Tow

With the fire hall under water, residents used their Jeeps and trucks to tow fire engines out of the bays.

I live in Westfield, and I wasn’t even supposed to be home that day. I had plans to attend a funeral in Wellsboro. When I woke, it was raining—hard—and it didn’t stop. It reminded me of the rain in a movie scene—streams of water steadily pouring down windows on all four sides of my house. I couldn’t remember another storm when it hit all sides so hard. As I lazily scrolled social media, people were speculating about the potential for flooding. The possibility that Westfield would flood honestly never crossed my mind.

When I went into my bathroom to shower, I could hear water running, but I hadn’t yet turned on the faucet. I stood and listened, and I finally figured out it was coming from below me. I went around to the basement door and opened it to look.

I had a few inches of water down there, which, in the ten years in my home, I’d never seen before. I could hear the water rushing in.

I did next what I always do in a home emergency. I called my next-door neighbor Joanie DeSera, who is the greatest neighbor God has ever given anyone. She and her son Nick came right over, and, like always, she calmly figured out what was going on and fixed it, in this case by plugging up the hole in the wall where the water was coming through with a towel. We’d had a veritable river running down our street off the hills at the end of it, and we tried to divert it with some old wood from my garage. By the time we accomplished that, the rain had slowed, and the water eddying in my yard and leaking into my basement had, mercifully, started to recede.

We walked over to look at the creek behind our homes and saw that it was nearly up over the bridge on Route 49. We stood there, the rain just a sprinkle by then, watching the water across Route 49 on the north side of town expand further and further beyond its banks before our eyes and take down a couple of trees. All this in mere seconds. That is when the shock set in. This was big. Even at this moment, though, I could not have imagined just how much bigger it would get.

It Was All Under Water

We went home, and I got that shower, finally. About a half hour later, I heard commotion at the fire station near my house, and, as a nosy citizen of a small town, walked down to see what was happening.

Hope continued from page 6

Andrea DeSera

Route 49 was under water in both directions from the end of my street, which, mercifully, is on a hill. Cars were submerged. Our fire hall was under water, and locals were using Jeeps and trucks to tow the firetrucks out of the bays so they could be used in rescue. Teams from other towns were coming in with boats and fourwheelers. We were hearing stories of people who were trapped by flood waters and needed rescue, which at the time seemed impossible. When I looked west, I was dumbfounded by the destruction. Everything we could see on the north side of 49, like Schoonover’s ice cream shop and everything near it, was under water.

As I stood there, astonished at what had happened in such a short time—I’d just gone inside for a few minutes—my friend Mike Orr showed up on his four-wheeler with a pump. He’d been pumping out a neighbor’s basement and heard I needed help, too. He got most of it out. The rest, my brother-in-law handled when he could finally reach Westfield from Wellsboro that evening.

I spent dinnertime at the Cowanesque Valley High School, where I teach English, with my co-worker and friend, Dave Wert. The school was being used as a temporary shelter, and our principal, Matt Sottolano, couldn’t reach it from his home in Lawrenceville. We had some food on hand, and a place to sit and wait until people figured out where they could stay. Our superintendent, Kris Kaufman, came to lend a hand, too.

The next morning, Dave and I decided to go out and see if we could help anywhere. We stopped at Corner Hardware, which had flooded but stayed open through their own recovery, as they knew people would need them. We bought work gloves and headed out. It was turning north off Route 49 that opened our eyes to the level of destruction people had faced. That area of town was buzzing with people hauling furniture out of homes, pumping basements, and shoveling mud. There were already trailers overflowing with debris. Every single home had taken on water.

We helped a friend on North Street clean up the wreckage in his yard, and then we drove down Mill Street. There we saw a young man carrying furniture out of a house. We jumped out and, with our friend and co-worker, Nicole Pritchard, offered help.

This is the moment at which my entire perspective on these events changed.

Not Much to Save

We approached the house and found a retired couple sitting in chairs on the lawn, with tired, helpless gazes. We met a gentleman inside named Doug. He and his son Sam had come down to check on this couple, one a physical therapy client of Doug’s, and found them sitting in the yard, unsure of what to do. Their entire one-story home had flooded and was coated in a thick layer of sludge. The task, he said, was to empty it. EMPTY it. We were taking everything out of their home.

I started with the belongings in a hutch. The water had gone high enough to fill the drawers and first shelf with water. I emptied out the whole thing. Years of special occasion dishware filled with silty water, soaked photographs, waterlogged candles. Out on the lawn, we made two piles: garbage and “maybe you can save it.” Every step in the home was precarious for fear of falling in the mud. Doug took off the front door so they could remove the refrigerator,

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A World Turned

washer, and dryer, all filled with muddy water.

The couple, whose names I’ve lost in the myriad homes we cleaned out in those days, just sat and stared. I learned later that when the waters came so unexpectedly to their house, it blocked their path to the door outside. They’d had to climb out the window of their living room. Once out, the water was rushing so quickly around them, they had clung to a chain link fence until it receded and they could avoid being swept away. They were exhausted.

We spent a couple of hours at their house, carrying things and bagging up to toss what couldn’t be saved. Kristen Zaidi, a real community leader in the flood relief efforts, showed up as we finished up the master bedroom. I was evaluating what was there, where waters had risen at least halfway to the top, and she pointed to a pile and said, “All of that will have to be thrown away. You can’t save it.” This, too, shocked me. The contents of their closet. Their mattress. So few of their things ended up in the “maybe you can save it” pile.

All Kinds of Help Needed and Provided

Another issue began to surface. Everyone needed trash bags, tubs to hold the things that could be saved, and, ultimately, dumpsters where we could put all that was lost. Those who could save their homes needed fans and dehumidifiers. Squeegees were the most efficient way to get mud off floors. Those things became vital donation items over the days that followed.

Upside Down

The devastation flipped cars and made neighborhoods unrecognizable.

Once that first home was cleaned out, we moved on to see where else we could help. That’s how those days immediately afterward worked. Helpers put on their boots and hiked in to do what they could wherever they could do it. People shoveled mud, loaded trucks with trash for the dumpsters that started to dot the downtown, tore out the rapidly mildewing walls, hauled items from trinkets to La-Z-Boys to the lawn, hugged the downtrodden, and listened to stories about cherished belongings. Sometimes they were the stories of strangers. No one questioned any help they were offered, as there was a mountain of labor to take on. Friends started reaching out from Wellsboro and other places to see how they could help and where to meet me to pitch in. They came in work clothes, with food, brought kids, took days off. They sent money and supplies. Our community grew.

At the end of each day, I’d drive to my parents’ house in Wellsboro. I’d lost my own hot water heater due to the water in my basement, and, after hosing off my clothes, gloves, and boots, showering, and eating what my mom cooked for me (all my favorites that week), I’d come back to find the people who became our touchstone each evening on Joanie’s back porch. She’d put out food and drinks and fire up the hot tub. A collection of friends would gather, have a drink, and talk about all we’d seen, shocking one another with the stories we had—whole walls blown out by water, people who’d been hung up in a tree until the waters receded, and of course, the saddest of all the flood stories, the search parties for our dear friend and community leader, Dave Murdock, who was swept away trying to save a neighbor’s dog. This huge loss still haunts us all.

Bridget Reed

Andrea DeSera

Bridget Reed

Readers Remember Shared stories of the Debby floods

Paradise Lost—and Found

My home near Ulysses, Potter County, had its beginnings in a farm house that burned down in the 1800s, leaving only the fireplace. A new owner built a cabin around the fireplace in the early 1900s. My father bought the cabin in 1960, and we loved spending time in the mountains. When my parents died in the ’70s I inherited it, and when I retired in 1994 I loved it so much I wanted to make it my home. I preserved the original cabin on the inside and kept the addition in all wood to match the original, adding large windows throughout to give panoramic views. I spent over thirty years converting the grounds into a wildlife habitat with pollinator gardens. Every day living there brought me joy.

My home is now twisted and heaved, the gardens decimated...but the fireplace, though broken, anchored the house and prevented it from being swept away. I will soon have a new home on stilts, and though I cannot replicate what was there, the fireplace will remain as a memorial to a lifetime of memories, and stand as a tribute to strength.

I have also come to know that the people of Potter County are as beautiful as the mountains we live in.

Submitted by Suzanne Boak

Suzanne Boak

Riptide and Higher Ground

Idon’t even know how to put into words how terrifying and devastating this whole thing was. My house is located at the end of the little dead end road that runs along Route 49, near the Westfield Elementary school. The water just came so fast. It started lifting our floors, and with the pressure of the water coming from behind the house and under it we thought our house was going to come up off the foundation and be swept away. So we made the decision to get to higher ground. My husband, Nate, had Ruger, our English mastiff who weighs about 230 pounds, by his leash. Our sons Noah and Liam, sixteen and fourteen, respectively, were walking holding on to each other, and I was carrying Millie, a mixed breed weighing about forty pounds, and was going to go back for Stella, a Lab and bluetick heeler mix who weighs about fifty pounds. She was on the front deck, but the flood opened our front door so she went back inside the house. Noah had a book bag with his Chromebook, PS5, and cell phone. I almost told him to leave it, but I’m so thankful I didn’t. We started walking through the water. It was thigh deep when we got to the end of the house, and it quickly reached chest level, sweeping us out into the front field. Then it was well over our heads and we could not touch ground anywhere. The current was taking us toward Route 49 where there would be nothing to hold onto. The current was coming from both Cowanesque Creek and North Fork Creek. We were all struggling to keep our heads up. I still had Millie, trying to keep her up out of the water, but Nate had to let go of Ruger to try to help our boys. My oldest son, Alex, twenty-one, was trying to get to our house, but the roads were flooded and he was trapped on Route 49 watching all this. He saw Ruger get swept away, so he took off running to get him. He thankfully did not see us all go under after that, because I know if he had he would have jumped in and tried to help us, and it was an even deeper and stronger current in that end. Alex ended up getting swept in. His friend, Nick, saw him and he jumped in to try to help. The water carried them both away, but they were able to grab onto the wooden decorative bridge at Westfield Elementary. They held on until the water receded enough to get themselves out.

Nate, the boys, and I were still struggling to keep our heads above water. The boys were both hanging on to Noah’s book bag, which helped them float a little bit. Growing up in Jersey and being in the ocean, it was always drilled into my head what to do if you get caught in riptide or current. You never fight, because you will exhaust yourself and drown. That was what I saw happening. They kept dunking under and panicking. So I was yelling to the boys and Nate to calm down, relax, and float. Just keep your head up. It was so crazy—after I said that everyone floated together and we did a U-turn in the water. The current brought us to higher ground so we could touch a little and it pushed us behind my neighbor’s house where we could grab trees. I was still holding my dog, so my hands were full. I was able to get behind a tree that was wider than me, so the force of the current eased up some. I was trying to lean back on the tree, but I kept sliding, so I dug holes with my feet and anchored myself down. Nate, meanwhile, kind of pushed the boys in the direction of a group of three trees. They were able to grab them and wrap their arms around the trunks. Nate drifted a little further from us and was backed up to a shed. We stayed like that for about an hour, then the shed started moving. Thankfully it wedged up against a tree, so Nate was able to grab that.

The water was still chest high. I had my Apple Watch on—I kept trying to make a call but it wasn’t working. I remembered I had my cell in my pocket. I figured it wouldn’t work, either, since we’d been submerged so long, but I was desperate. So I maneuvered the dog enough that I could reach it, and the damn thing worked. I was so relieved. I had already called 911 before we left the house so I called Alex. At that time I didn’t know what he’d been through. Our phones were not working properly, but he heard enough of what I said and called 911 for us. Faith, Alex’s girlfriend, called 911, a guy who was up on Route 49 and watched it all also called, and my son,

See Riptide on page 16

Riptide continued from page 14

Ephraim, eighteen, who was at a friend’s house about two hours away, also called. He had called me while we were hanging on the trees, and I could see the call was connected but I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t know if he could hear me, so I just said “Help, we are in the water hanging on trees.” He only heard me yelling help, so he called 911.

The water was starting to recede to waist height. I wanted to get over to my boys, so I started making my way to them. The current started to pull me away, but they both reached out and were able to pull me to them. We waited about another hour until the water was thigh high, then Nate made his way to us and helped us get to the field. Once we got to higher ground, it wasn’t even twenty minutes and the water was almost gone. Just like that. Help did finally come, but they were so busy with calls they couldn’t get to everyone. We understood that and were just so grateful to make it out alive. Then I got a call from Alex telling me Ruger was alive! He got tangled up on someone’s porch downtown, and he was okay! (Millie and Stella made it, too.)

The house is still standing, but we lost almost everything. We are living in the house, we can repair it, but it’s going to take a while. We are very grateful. It could have been worse. Our foundation was fine and everything is fixable. We always get asked why we left the house. It was just our first instinct to get to higher ground. When our floors started lifting and the current was hitting the back of the house, we thought it was going to come off the foundation and we didn’t want to be in it when that happened. When we first stepped off the front deck the water was just to my knees. Low enough I thought I would have time to go back and get Stella. But when you hear “flash flood” it really means in a flash, because it was to my chest before I even made it twenty feet. It was terrifying and I pray our community never goes through that again.

God was definitely with us, and I can’t even begin to tell you how wonderful our community has been. We all lost so much but everyone has pulled together and that makes this horrific situation a little easier to bear. I couldn’t even list all the people who have come by, helped clean up, brought supplies and food, and picked up bags of nasty, wet, muddy laundry. We are so incredibly thankful—I can’t even express how much this has meant to us. Just thank you!

Submitted by Becky A. Monroe

2025 Endless Mountain Music Festival

Friday, July 18

Opening Night – “The Wheel Spins, a PA Premiere” In memory of Keith Cooper

7:00 p.m. – Steadman Theatre, Commonwealth University at Mansfield, Mansfield, PA

An Ever-Present Help

Iwill never forget that dark day in August. The rain fell at breakneck speed, and before we knew it, the flood had captured the communities west of us. Glued to the news, I grew more concerned with each update. I prayed. I emailed. I made phone calls. Then, I jumped into my car and drove west from just outside of Lawrenceville to check on our church members. Please let them be okay, Lord.

At Osceola, a fire department member stopped all traffic. I rolled down my window and talked to the volunteer. My heart sank when he said Route 49 was impassable. No one was getting through. All other roads were underwater, unsafe, or open to emergency crews only.

Hoping the road would open soon, I sat in Lee’s Country Kitchen restaurant, next to the Big M in Osceola, and waited…and waited. After a while, I realized, with frustration, that I couldn’t be there with the people I loved on that awful day. I had to wait and go back in the morning.

But Someone was there. My Lord, Jesus, was there. The Bible says He is everywhere at all times (Jer. 23:23-24), including troubling ones. Psalm 46:1-2 says: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea….”(NIV)

When the roads opened, I saw first-hand God’s presence, working in his mysterious ways. As I checked on members, I didn’t know most street names, being a new pastor—less than two weeks. Yet God knew, and street by street, house by house, and person by person, things came together. One member who had fallen on a slippery, flooded floor smiled as we prayed at her hospital bed. Another man whose faith had not drowned with a waterlogged furnace said, “It’s all just ‘stuff,’” and I smiled inside as we prayed. Another dear saint, who had lost everything in this world, still trusted God because Jesus himself was her serenity. I felt honored to pray for her.

And God kept working. Our church, Westfield Methodist, collaborated with our Baptist brothers and sisters next door to feed our community. Already close, God would knit our hearts together even more as we teamed up again. We have been blessed to have what is known locally as the Youth Center—it’s right beside the church—which has a kitchen and space to serve hot meals to many. In that special setting, both churches, community members, with help from other churches and groups, labored together, and the center sprang to life. The delicious, homemade food filled the damp air with warm aroma, empty stomachs with nourishment, and our hearts with hope. We helped each other there for two or three weeks.

Months later in a sermon, I teared up as I remembered God’s love during the flood. I will never forget that dark day in August. I will also never forget the radiant love of Jesus, who was there that day…and still is, comforting all, especially the ones in the deepest loss and heartbreak. Jesus said it best to His children: “‘…I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’ Amen” (Mt. 28:20b).

Submitted by Pastor Russ Fisk

Big River, Small Horse

Timmy at the guardrail with his rescuer after being washed downriver, posing for his social media photo, and (opposite page) disembarking from Kristen Zaidi’s Honda CR-V, which gave him a lift home.

The Mini Horse that Could

The Tale of a Horse, a Honda, and Heroes

By Kristen Zaidi

On August 9, 2024, my family and I finally got home to Westfield after four hours of driving down every backroad we knew—to find our house intact, our dogs safe, and only our basement filled with water. I was lucky to have internet and spent the evening looking at social media and came across a post about my neighbor down the river in Potter Brook. Their miniature horses were both washed away during the flood, and only one had been recovered. Timmy the mini horse was missing, and I was heartbroken. As a former racehorse trainer and lifelong ‘horse-crazy’ girl, I could not imagine losing a beloved horse in this way.

The next morning my husband, a public works employee, was called in to help with the crisis in Westfield Borough. I set off into town to get my mother-in-law out of the third floor of Riverside Manor. I spent the next few hours escorting seniors down the stairs and giving them rides to First Baptist Church for food and some

relief from the heat. After a long morning, I headed home to let my dogs out, grab something to eat, and connect to the internet to check in with family, as cell service was out for my carrier.

My dog was barking incessantly outside while I was trying to throw together some sort of sandwich. It’s unlike him to be that persistent, so I went outside to call him in, and when I followed his gaze I saw a little horse in the tree line eating grass. I put the dogs in the house, grabbed a leash, and headed down Route 49 on foot to get to the other side of the river. Worried about spooking the little guy, I approached him slowly. Luckily, Timmy was happy to see me and let me fashion a makeshift halter out of the dog leash.

We trucked up the hill, slipping and sliding in the mud, pushing through undergrowth. Once we reached the road, we became stuck behind the guardrail, unable to go around due to a downed tree. I stood there with this little horse, thinking about

how I would get him and myself out of this mess with no cell service and no great ideas. A few cars and trucks went by, seemingly unfazed by the woman and horse trapped on the side of the road. Finally, a pickup truck stopped, and a couple got out, asking if I needed help.

Jeff and Cheryl Furrow of Wellsboro had come to the Valley to help, and as luck would have it they had a chainsaw! I held onto Timmy, talking gently to him, worried that the sound would scare him, but, again, he proved to be made of tougher stuff. Once around the guardrail, we walked him down the road to my house. I put him in the yard, took a picture, and went inside to post online that he had been recovered.

Shortly afterwards, two young women arrived to bring Timmy home. They intended to walk him the mile and a half, but he was exhausted. He’d just spent the night swimming for his life. Could I get him in my Honda CR-V, I wondered? I’d gotten to know Timmy at this point. He was a sen-

sible horse. I felt sure he’d appreciate the ride. I backed my car up the hillside and coaxed him up to the hatch. With a few heaves and a big lift, we had Timmy in the car and were on our way.

Margery McCutcheon, Timmy’s owner, who later became a friend, called her grandchildren to the door and took a picture for her husband, who was desperately trying to get home from his long-haul trucking route. She said, “Duane will never believe this!” In the middle of this enthusiastic reception, Timmy slowly hopped out of the car and very calmly returned to his yard to munch on a pile of hay with his friend.

Timmy remained humble after his rise to local fame. He remains with his family in Potter Brook as they continue to rebuild their lives.

Kristen Zaidi is a transplant to the Northern Tier, having lived in many different places in the country while a horse trainer. Now pursuing a new career in the medical field, she enjoys her family, dogs, cooking, gardening, and is an avid reader. She founded Westfield Community Arts (WCA) in 2022 to bring the arts to her adopted community and volunteers for the Red Cross.

Margery McCutcheon became a friend after being introduced through Timmy’s rescue and was a beloved member of WCA until her untimely passing in June of 2025. This piece was written with fond memories of Margery.

Courtesy Kristen Zaidi

Andrea DeSera

Jerilyn Brubaker

Gayle Morrow

Echo Putnam

Kevin McCracken

Andrea DeSera

Bridget Reed

Andrea DeSera

A Stream Runs Through It

Extensive firehouse repairs are necessary after the kitchen fell into the creek (left); hardworking volunteers include (l to r)

Rachel Bubb, Fire Police Jenny Jones, who is also cook extraordinaire, and Department Trustee and Assistant Fire Chief Bobby Whitford.

Trout Run Strong A Town (Re)Built on Preparation and Compassion

By Don Everett Smith Jr. and Lilace Mellin Guignard

In the daylight of August 9, when it was apparent the Trout Run Firehouse’s kitchen was a total loss from Tropical Storm Debby and volunteers were rallying resources and setting up relief areas, Davis Swift, operations manager of Camp Susque, had an idea. Camp Susque is three miles out of town and on a hill, so though they had lost power they were otherwise in good shape to lend resources. The specific resource Davis was thinking of then was the network of Camp Susque alums across the country who deeply love this small town in Lycoming County. He said to his brother, who is the executive director, “Peter, if we put up a Facebook post we could probably raise $10,000 for the fire hall.”

So, Camp Susque set up an online fundraiser for the Trout Run Volunteer Fire Company, posted it on social media, and then focused on what they could provide immediately, such as coffee, water pumps, and even a six-by-eight-foot walk-in fridge that had been donated to them. This meant

the makeshift community kitchen that volunteers Jenny and Chris Jones ran for weeks didn’t need to rely on coolers and endless ice runs.

“Jenny and Chris were amazing,” says Davis. According to him, Camp Susque has really awesome coffee and really big coffee makers, so for four to five weeks he brewed coffee and drove into the valley at 4 a.m. “My goal was to be first, but Jenny usually had the griddle fired up, frying pounds and pounds of bacon.” The sustenance was appreciated by the many folks that Fire Department Captain Chuck O’Brien, who was also the emergency management coordinator, relied upon.

“One of the first celebrations that we had,” Chuck says, “was that no one was swept away.” The rain gauge in Cogan House Township got nine inches of rain, and Lewis Township (where Trout Run is), had eight. The creek came up from its normal flow to its highest flow in about two and a half hours.

The Trout Run crossroads, where Route 14 joins Route 15 as it curves north, hosts homes, businesses, a travel complex with a Subway, a Methodist Church, and the Fire Hall where many community events are held. The small but mighty Trout Run Volunteer Fire Department, of which Davis is a member, has fifteen active members and eighty regular members. It covers or assists with over 100-square-miles of coverage in Lycoming County, including the townships of Lewis, Cogan House, Gamble, and Cascade. The firehouse was built in the 1950s before the entire area was established as a flood zone.

Trout Run was not, however, unprepared. When disaster struck this day, the fire department and the citizens it serves looked disaster in the eye and forced it to blink.

Chuck says it’s thanks to their proactive preparation that lives in Trout Run were saved. Once they knew Debby was

See Strong on page 26

Don Everett Smith Jr.

about to hit, they set up shifts. “Being in this kind of a basin we’re in, you know things are a little more predictable,” he explains. “Basically, what we do is [monitor] Lycoming Creek itself. We will call all the membership in and send them to different [flood-prone] locations.” The data they collected made the difference.

“We had 115 individual [residential] damage assessments,” Chuck continues. “We had thirteen businesses damaged, public infrastructure that included the fire department, the post office, the town’s maintenance building, [and] the travel plaza. There were two vehicle repair shops involved, and also the Trout Run Hotel.”

Davis says he happened to be on a trip into Trout Run when the bridge went out. The stream had undermined the abutments, and he watched as the pavement leading to the bridge washed away and the stream completely shifted to go around the bridge. The structural integrity of the entire fire hall was compromised too. The most obvious damage was that the kitchen itself fell into the creek.

“[We lost] all of our kitchen appliances and everything,” Chuck says. “We lost a ten-burner commercial stove. We lost a big-budget air, or convection, oven, a couple of slicers, a couple big mixers, you know, lots of pots and pans.

“They did find a lot of them down in here, believe it or not,” he adds, pointing to the mud and reconstruction of the bridge below. “They [the appliances] were buried in this [mud and sludge].”

In addition to Camp Susque, a Christian camp, Amish and Mennonite members of the Christian Aid organization were on hand to help. Buttons and T-shirts were created to raise money. Chuck explains that he and his wife purchased the products bearing the “We Are Trout Run Strong” motto, and that between $2,000 and $5,000 was raised that way. All of that money went to help with the town restoration.

Meanwhile, quietly online, the fundraiser Camp Susque had set up for the fire company raised over $20,000 that first week. After three weeks they were over $40,000. Camp Susque got the ball rolling by committing $1,000 and EQT Corporation, the largest natural gas producer in Lycoming County, matched the first $5,000 raised, and mostly individual donors did the rest.

Davis says EQT and Seneca Resources did a lot more than contribute financially to the relief efforts. They were quick to roll in with temporary offices for firefighters and shower facilities. Many of their employees helped with clean-up efforts.

Here it is a year later, and Chuck says work has yet to begin for the kitchen—but with good reason. Engineers and architects are donating their time to complete plans for the repair, and they’re waiting for the building to settle. He says this will determine whether they can rebuild there or if the whole building will need to be scrapped.

The good news is the trucks bays are still intact. And the spirit of the community is stronger than ever.

Don Everett Smith Jr. is an author and journalist who writes history, true crime, horror, and pulp. He lives with his wife, Laura, and cats in Lycoming County.

Many Mediums, Large Talent

Examples of Chris Bell’s work include (from left) the variant cover for an Archie comic; two works in acrylic & oil on board; and the cover of his graphic memoir Here. I Tried.

An Original Jughead

Wellsboro’s Comic Con Hosts Horseheads Artist

By David Higgins

Saturday, August 9. You’re an out-oftowner just passing through quaint, leafy Wellsboro, and you think you’re hallucinating. The streets are full of…elves! And warlocks, knights of the Jedi, superheroes…and—yikes—superbaddies. Was that…Sonic the Hedgehog? Tagging along with Beetlejuice? By Odin’s beard—what can this madness be?

Relax, Muggle—you have not entered another dimension. You just have happened onto the fourth annual Wellsboro Comic Con, a celebration of art and imagination. Or, if you will, “classic comic creativity wrapped in retro rural charm.” Sums it up nicely, don’t you think?

Star billing at this year’s Con goes to Horseheads artist and illustrator Christopher Bell, who is presenting an exclusive cover for issue #78 of Archie’s Pal Jughead. The insides are the same as the regular-edition comic; the twist is the limited-edition variant cover, a special marketing technique common in the world of comics. It’s a career boost for

Chris and a marketing coup for the Con.

“Creating this variant cover art for an Archie comic was both a nostalgic journey and a creative challenge for me—honoring the legacy of these beloved characters while bringing my own artistic voice to the page,” says Chris.

Chris, forty-seven, is an established artist who is branching out in many different forms and styles. He grew up in Breesport, near Horseheads, and, like many kids, got turned onto art by Marvel Comics. After studying art and illustration at Elmira College, he worked in the graphics department for newspapers in Elmira and Pittsburgh. These were unglamorous jobs, but they taught him real-world skills in speed, adaptability, teamwork, and meeting deadlines. Perhaps due to this hard-knocks training, he is the exact opposite of a diva. After print media began its steep decline at the hands of the all-conquering internet, he got a masters in education, and, since 2008, has been teaching art in the Horseheads school system. He

also maintains a separate, thriving graphic design business, creating logos, books, brand identities, several murals, and even custom shoe designs for football star Justin Jefferson of the Minnesota Vikings. He does work for several charities as well.

Chris is also forging another career path in fine art, in both old-school realism and in digitally-enhanced mixed media, and had a solo exhibition at 171 Cedar Arts Center in Corning in 2023. This summer, he’s even working on a mural of football hero Ernie Davis in downtown Elmira.

His versatility is intentional.

“I always wanted it to look like multiple artists created my work,” says Chris. “So, I have never worked in just one style or medium.”

Chris published his first “official” comic book in 2009 and hasn’t stopped since. All share wry humor with first-rate graphics. A partial listing: Champtown (an eerie village revolving around pro wrestling), Evan

See Jughead on page 30

Courtesy Chris Bell

& Slate Run Tackle Shop

Jughead continued from page 28

Apocalypse (a skateboarder copes with zombies amid the ordinary tribulations of middle-school life), and Ashes (the misadventures of the Grim Reaper after medical technology has rendered him obsolete). Chris has also just published an autobiography in comics form, Here. I Tried., which is by turns poignant and belly-laugh funny. Check out examples of his work at bellgfx.com.

The Con is organized and sponsored by Pop’s Culture Shoppe, a toy and game mecca in the center of town. Pop’s provides a family-friendly environment and quality products for social interaction, imagination, and hands-on learning and play for all ages, with first-rate customer service. They provide old-school (non-electronic) games and activities and a free community space to put down our phones, make eye to eye contact, and play and laugh together.

Owners and operators Anja and Julian Stam met playing the classic card game UNO in a college dorm. They both grew up in families full of creativity, and they cultivated a love of imaginative play and life’s simple pleasures when raising their own daughters. Once the girls were off to college, Julian’s childhood comic book collection, love of games, and career as a preservation librarian along with Anja’s background in languages, the sciences, teaching, and art, coalesced around the idea of opening a shop that not only sold games and creative fun for all interests, but also offered a place where people could gather to play and tell stories.

“We chose Wellsboro for its beauty and small-town charm, and opened our doors in the spring of 2012,” says Julian. “The first Con we organized was in 2022. It was a way to celebrate our tenth anniversary and say ‘thank you’ to our wonderful customers. It was so well received that we’re still doing it.” It has quickly grown into a must-see event, drawing fans from across the northeast.

Comic Con venues are both indoors and outdoors. Visitors will find them throughout the Deane Center for the Performing Arts, the Warehouse Theatre, and on Central Avenue from Main Street to Water Street (just look for the signs). It’s exceptionally well-organized, and there’s even a “Plan Your Trip” page for further things to do around town, as well as a full list of participating local businesses. Visit wellsborocomiccon.com for all the details.

“Wellsboro Comic Con has the coolest vibe of any con I’ve been to. The city is so beautiful, and everyone’s so welcoming. It’s just like a slice of Americana,” says Spiderman expert Bruce Wechtenheiser, a 2024 attendee. Professional cosplayer Michelle Pastore agrees, saying, “This is a very community-based convention. I’ve seen all ages and all backgrounds here, and everyone’s having fun. There’s a lot of different things spread out in different places, and I’m loving seeing all the costumes here.”

The Wellsboro Comic Con will be held on Saturday, August 9, from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. Chris will be signing copies of his work all day in the Deane Center. There are over 100 vendors, creators, panels, presentations, cosplay, and all-age family activities. And general admission is free.

‘Nuff said!

David Higgins is from the small town of Deposit, New York. He retired in 2021 from Corning Community College, where he taught art for thirty years.

Pal-etting Around Hammondsport

Tour the many palettes on display and then come bid on your favorites on August 30. Maybe it will be (l to r) Elaine Liberio’s The Cradle of Aviation at the Curtiss Museum, or Ron Dixon’s The Red Newt at Vern’s Bakery, or Lisa Gilbert Gillis’s Autumn’s Embrace at The Cinnamon Stick.

A Lot on Its Palettes

Hammondsport’s Palettes of Keuka Continues to Paint the Town

By Karey Solomon

How many artists jokingly hear, “You ought to hang that palette on the wall!” referring to the eggshaped board with a thumbhole used to mix paint colors? About twenty years ago, someone listened and Palettes of Keuka was born.

A project of the Hammondsport Chamber of Commerce, the project involves a juried panel of fine artists from throughout the Finger Lakes. Every January, up to twenty-eight of them are given enormous palettes (thirty-one by forty-two inches at their widest) made of pre-primed MDO, a weatherproof material used for outdoor signs, to paint on. Their subject material might—or might not—be connected to the region’s waterways, vineyards, or history. Squint a little and you might decide the shape of a palette is, after all, reminiscent of the shape of Keuka Lake. The completed paintings are returned in late May, and displayed at sponsoring businesses throughout greater Hammondsport.

The Chamber of Commerce offers a

map of where each palette is placed, most accessible on a short walking trail through downtown Hammondsport, though a detour along the Keuka Wine Trail is needed to see them all, possibly blending your taste palate with the painted palettes. At each stop, in-person viewers can pick up a clue to a word puzzle based on the self-guided art tour, as well as a map if they don’t have one in hand.

On August 30 at 1 p.m., the palettes will be auctioned at Pultney Park, the center of downtown Hammondsport. The proceeds are divided, with 65 percent going to the artist, and 35 percent for the event’s expenses and to fund two $2,000 scholarships. Three $50 gift certificates will be drawn from the pool of those who successfully solved the accompanying palette tour word puzzle.

Picking up their palettes each winter generates no small amount of excitement among the artists, many of whom have long planned their subject material. Elaine Libe-

rio, from Palmyra, spent time at the Glenn H. Curtiss Aviation Museum, researching the airborne inventions of Hammondsport’s native son (who won the title “fastest man on earth” with one of his early motorcycles) and taking photos of the historical planes on display. Her piece, Cradle of Aviation, depicts the sky over Keuka Lake filled with colorful early aircraft.

Sadie Taylor (whose work was juried in this year) knew she wanted her palette, The Trip Back, to have a sci-fi theme, so hers is a witty take on an alternative reality in which a Curtiss spacecraft whizzes through the ether, about to descend into a “wormhole” over Keuka Lake. What could be waiting behind the palette’s giant thumb-hole? That’s a mystery for the viewer to decide.

The question of how to treat the palette’s unique shape is a conundrum for many artists, who study it multiple ways before deciding where the hole should go. “One year I made it the inside of a bowl,” says Ron

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Courtesy Hammondsport Chamber of Commerce

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Dixon, who lives on Weller Island in Lamoka Lake. This year, Ron, like many artists, oriented his palette so the hole would be less noticeable. In The Red Newt, the hole hides in the foliage. A muchlarger-than-life red eft perches momentarily on a leaf, set off by the sparkle of sunlight on raindrops about to drip off. You’d almost expect to see a puddle underneath.

Suzy Bresson, whose Time Well Spent offers a visual collage of Hammondsport’s iconic annual events, filled the space with a working clock.

“The shape is always a challenge,” says Jennifer Fais, from Cameron Mills, whose Sunlit Heron is a tribute to her favorite denizen of a pond near her property. “Great blue herons are so elegant,” she says. “I love them!” In this painting, the heron is looking toward the downward-facing point of Keuka’s Y shape. A lifelong birder, her love for the species is evident. A passerby comments aloud, “Look at that plumage! It looks so real!”

Lisa Gillis, last year’s top-grossing artist, smoothed and primed the palette several times before beginning to paint. Unlike most of the other artists, who use acrylics, Lisa works in oils using Old Masters techniques. Her Autumn’s Embrace features a venerable catawba grapevine bearing iridescent clusters of fruit.

At the opening reception in late June, many of her fellow artists sought out Lisa to admire her work and talk to her about it. “I was an art teacher for years,” Lisa says. “I’m retired now, a full-time artist for the past eight years. I spent the majority of my life devoted to fostering an interest in art, and the fact that it’s for a scholarship means a lot to me.”

Among those eyeing her work was this year’s sole scholarship winner, Ashtyn Manchester from Penn Yan, a passionate portraitist with a talent for painting people. “Ever since I got serious about art, six to seven years ago, I’ve been obsessed with faces,” Ashtyn says. Being awarded the scholarship confirmed her commitment to studying and finding her career in art. Her college career will begin at Finger Lakes Community College and continue at Alfred University. She’s already been asked to paint a palette for next year’s festival.

Kenneth Corey, a former Hammondsport Chamber president and the volunteer who organized the 2025 show, is universally acknowledged as “the man who makes it all happen.” He will once again be the emcee for the auction. “I talk a little about each artist. I’m sort of the schmoozer,” he says.

Several years ago, he recalls, he suddenly heard a familiar voice in the audience—his wife’s. “She’s an aggressive bidder,” he says. “She did jump-bidding until the people she was bidding against dropped out.

“We’re not doing this to make money,” he continues. “We’re happy if we can pay the artists, underwrite the ($2,000) scholarships, and break even.” And if people seeing the palettes on the art trail try a Hammondsport eatery, or visit a winery or shop, the part of Ken invested in the Chamber is happy about that, too.

Karey Solomon is the author of a poetry chapbook, Voices Like the Sound of Water, a book on frugal living (now out of print), and more than thirty-six needlework books. Her work has also appeared in several fiction and nonfiction anthologies.

Palettes

GAFFER DISTRICT

Stroke of Genius

D.J. Kitzell (far right in left photo) takes folks who sign up for St. Ayles Skiff Rowing Program, like writer Jim Pfiffer (right, in front) and friends, out for a new way to experience the Finger Lakes.

Skiff Happens Rowing a Boat on the Erie Canal

By Jim Pfiffer

On a Sunday in June, I helped row a beautiful wooden racing skiff on the Erie Canal—and lived to tell the tale, despite the abuse my back, arms, and dignity took in the process.

We were aboard a St. Ayles Skiff, a twenty-two-foot-long, 500-pound wooden goddess of a boat that looked like it rowed right out of a maritime museum. That’s fitting, because it did—courtesy of the Saunders Finger Lakes Museum in Branchport, New York. The boat is part of their Community Rowing program, which gives landlubbers like me a chance to travel back in time, burn some calories, and pretend we know what we’re doing on the water. Joining me were three life-jacketed shipmates: Hilary Strong, Bob Jamieson, and Ken Osika. We each paid thirty bucks for

a ninety-minute nautical workout disguised as historical tourism. Bargain of the century if you enjoy light suffering, pretending to be a pirate, and singing whaling tunes.

These skiffs were originally Scottish fishing boats, built to withstand the harsh conditions of the North Sea, which is essentially nature’s blender, akin to Deadliest Catch. They’re named after the medieval St. Ayles’ Chapel in Anstruther, which I’m pretty sure translates from ancient Gaelic as “Ye Olde Shoulders Shall Ache.” To learn more, visit the Scottish Coastal Rowing Association at scottishcoastalrowing.org.

Our boat was a handcrafted stunner— clean lines, elegant curves, and a navy blue hull so classy it could’ve worn a tux. Dr. Craig Hohm built it ten years ago from a marine plywood kit. It took six months as

part of a boat-building class. Our fearless coxswain and guide was D.J. Kitzel—teacher, stonemason, furniture maker, wilderness skills instructor, and the kind of fun fellow you would like to hang with. D.J. (you can read about him in the September 2024 issue) sat high and mighty at the stern, steering with a wooden rudder and shouting rowing commands like a very polite Viking.

I ended up in the number one seat— closest to D.J.—because I sat down first and no one stopped me. That meant the others had to watch my technique (or lack thereof) and try to match my timing. I asked them to call me Captain Ahab. They voted instead for Shut Up and Row.

Rowing a skiff is a full-body workout, with four twelve-foot-long heavy wooden

Courtesy Jim Pfiffer

by Patricia Gray

oars made of spruce, which is Norwegian for “My God, that’s heavy.” Your legs push, your arms pull, your back begs for mercy, and your shoulders try to unionize. And through it all, D.J. chanted, “Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.” Under my breath, I was chanting, “Ibuprofen. Ibuprofen. Ibuprofen.” We rowed with our backs to the bow, which meant we couldn’t see where we were going, just where we’d been. It’s like life, only with splinters.

Despite our ragtag coordination, the boat moved. Sort of. The canal kindly gave us a tailwind, and we powered along the historic waterway lined with trees, stone walls, and amused pedestrians wondering if we were a historical reenactment or just lost. We passed under old iron bridges and waved at cyclists, joggers, and one guy eating an ice cream cone who looked confused and slightly alarmed. We shared the canal with sleek rowing shells, a tour boat, and a majestic wooden canoe, paddled by two men who looked like they practiced synchronized canoe ballet. Show-offs. Wildlife sightings included a great blue heron, a white-tailed deer, and a woodchuck lounging on a floating dock with a quizzical expression that said, “You folks rowing for fun, punishment, or because you lost a bet?”

The highlight? D.J. singing old sea shanties. Imagine a man serenading you with tales of rum, sea monsters, and drunken peglegged sailors while you row like you’re in a salty sea period reenactment, but sweatier. We even joined in on a breathless, off-key chorus or two, though we were out of sync and pitch enough to cause fish to leap from the water.

But now and then, magic happened. All four oars hit the water in perfect harmony. The skiff glided silently, and the boat creaked its approval like an old porch swing. For a few seconds, we were a team. We were powerful. We were...sore.

Back at the dock, we hauled the boat out like victorious warriors—if warriors wore sunglasses and complained about lower back pain. We were tired, but high on endorphins and a sense of historical fantasy.

Want to try it? Good news—there are two more excursions planned this summer, with departures at 1 p.m., 2:30 p.m., and 4 p.m.

They are Sunday, August 3, at Canadice (northeast boat launch), and Sunday, September 7, at Hammondsport (Depot Park). Up to five people can go: four rowers and one lucky freeloader who sits in the bow and switches out when someone fakes a cramp. To book a skiff session or learn more, visit fingerlakesmuseum.org/programs-events or call (315) 595-2200. So, grab a few friends (preferably with strong backs and a sense of humor), and discover how fun it can be to row the hard way. No experience necessary—just enthusiasm, a willingness to splash a little, and the ability to chant “heave-ho” without irony.

Jim Pfiffer’s humor columns can be found on Facebook pages, nextdoor. com, southerntierlife.com, “Full of Wit” blog fullofwitblog.wordpress. com, and Outlook By the Bay magazine, outlookbythebay.com. These columns are posted weekly unless Pfiffer gets lazy and then who knows when they will be posted. He’s very irresponsible. Stay tuned.

Skiff continued from page 36

welcome to POTTER COUNTY

So many helpers were doing their part in other ways, too. The supply center that had been created in our high school shop was managed by too many good teachers to name. People from all over the country were sending laundry detergent, pillows, and bleach. Matt became a point person for information and assistance, and a familiar face for those who needed help.

My friend Mike Watkins and I spent a day assisting the tireless Lacy Miles, our ag teacher, and her crew with supplies. She spent days going home to home handing out and arranging cleaning supplies, water, fans, and food, working out of her ambulance rig.

My plumber James Wilkinson and his team worked long hours replacing people’s furnaces and hot water heaters (I had one up and running just days later).

Papa’s Patties came with free food each day and fed the dozens of workers.

Whole teams came in to assist. Some were expert crews in flood recovery who knew exactly what people needed to do. The laundry trailer came.

Not only were teachers manning the supply station, but the timing meant no one would be able to do much to set up their classrooms or otherwise prepare. At the elementary school, flooding abatement was in progress right up until the start of school, and many at both schools just felt the flood work was more important than bulletin boards and photocopies.

And the start of school worked out just fine.

Being There

Eventually, cleanup slowed down, reconstruction began, and life went on, but the impact of those days is not far from anyone’s mind. For me, I’ve developed a new fear of rain. It’s fine if it’s a short or light storm, but heavy rain makes my skin prickle up a bit. I also spent a few weeks, which turned into a few months, avoiding Mill Street. I didn’t want to know if that house we’d emptied on that first day was still there. I knew it was possible it hadn’t been saved. Then one day on my way home from school this winter, I decided it was time to look. It’s gone. I don’t know where that couple from the lawn landed or how they are doing. I’m embarrassed to say that I still haven’t found out their names.

But that’s the sort of thing that marked those days. It didn’t matter who you were or who you knew or what you needed or how you could help. Someone would just pitch in where they could and move to the next house. No fanfare. No exchange of numbers or Facebook friending. It was “community” in its best definition—being there for your neighbors. It was the gilding in the cracks left in our town.

Karin Knaus is an English teacher in Northern Tioga School District who wants to use this space to thank her friends who don’t live in the Valley, but came to help: Tracey Crumb and family, Anne Leete, Derick and Bri Coolidge and family, Deven and Chelsie Martin and family, Taylor Nickerson, Sandy Beideman, Jim Black, and Mike Watkins. Hope continued from page 10

• Diamonds & Quality Jewelry

• Bulova & Seiko Watches and Clocks

• Fenton, Charms, Trophies and Engraving “We

BACK OF THE MOUNTAIN

Come Hither Lane

By Paul Bozzo

Tioga Lake Lane is short, maybe three miles. It leaves Route 15 and runs parallel to the Mansfield Hike and Bike Trail all the way to the boat launch where the Tioga River becomes Tioga Reservoir. The end of this road seems to go right into the river, where the concrete ramp disappears underwater. I’m often there because it is a short outing from my home and has many photo opportunities. There are plenty of trees and fresh air, and, on this day, also perfect clouds that coaxed me to aim, shoot, and capture.

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