The Valley: A Memoir of Growing up in Post-War Cleveland, 1950s, by Sam Thomas

From MemoryArchive

Who: Sam Thomas
What: Cleveland Metroparks
When: 1950s
Where: Cleveland, Ohio

The Valley: A Memoir of Growing up in Post-War Cleveland

Forest, shale, grass and water form the setting for this tale, all threading their way around and through and beneath a large sprawling urban center. Such was Cleveland's Metropolitan Park, the "Emerald Necklace,” simply the “valley” to the scores of boys and young men from Cleveland's West Side who played and later worked there during the two decades following World War II.

In many ways, those decades were a watershed for what later evolved into an impressively engineered recreational site still enjoyed by countless greater Clevelanders and visitors. But long before, and for twenty years after the war, the valley was nothing like the closely managed and meticulously developed formal spaces that today make up the still marvelous though somewhat high-tech Metroparks. In those earlier years, there was primitiveness about the place. It was comparatively unsupervised and untamed, filled with surprises, discoveries and adventures. Those qualities lured a generation of youth to roam freely, explore its mysterious caves, climb its slippery shale cliffs, grip the thick vines that precariously spanned its gorges, leap its fords and skip rocks with abandon across the murky Rocky River wherein, we were told, only the great brown carp could survive.

My entrance to that netherworld began at a worn old "cow-path" high above the river, a few steps off what was once a hoof-tamped dirt road, Rocky River Drive. Before I tread it, farmers herded their animals down to feed on the lush pasturelands below the developing city. To my boyhood friends and me, however, it was the point of departure into a place far from parental oversight where we had the chance for a unique rite of passage. The valley was a place to feign the strenuous life and release pent-up energies, a domain where the countless and often foolish dares of adolescents spurred untold acts of rashness and bravado that were prerequisite to earning even the grudging respect of our peers.

For many of us in the decade beginning in the mid-fifties, it also became a place to work through long hot summers, forty-eight hours a week, Monday through Saturday, 7:30 AM to 3:30 PM. The length of the workweek didn’t matter much; neither did the paltry pay, which grew from $1.15 to $1.45 an hour over seven years. We reveled in the opportunity to care for “our” carefree space of earlier years. Work was as varied as our play had been---roads to patch, latrines to siphon, garbage to collect, hillsides to buttress, grass to cut, weeds to sickle and scythe, and trees, countless trees to climb, trim, or put to the axe or two-man.

Even more varied, but especially intriguing, was the mix of people who worked those spaces. There were the regulars or year-rounders; some of them combat veterans of WWII and Korea, many of them from Appalachia who had come to Ohio during the postwar job boom. Then there was the summer help, some high school but mainly, and as the regulars begrudgingly referred to us, "g--damn college kids." My younger brother, Tony, and I numbered among both groups. Like others of our ilk, we accepted very minimum wages for which, much of the time, we worked hard and even dangerously. To compensate, we also did a little goldbricking--- and generally grumbled a lot about “the old man”--the work crew boss or more often, his superintendent-- and the latter's penchant for sneaking up on us during a break. More often, we just joked and teased and pulled pranks and, in between, did our job, all with a zest and often a recklessness that only naïve youth could muster. We used to drive the regulars nuts, but we made them laugh too even as they cursed us.

Some day I hope to expand on my recollection of those incomparable years, what we did and the unique folks we did it with. They were a cast of rare but real characters and if I don't mention most of their names, it won’t be to protect the innocent--though there were a few among them--but mostly to shield the goofy, the hilarious, the cavalier and even the mildly perverse. Some of their antics and attitudes were and still are the stuff of legend, nostalgia, and weird fascination to those of us who worked with them. Their idiosyncrasies and especially their genuine humanity were among the hallmarks in a series of unforgettable summers that many of us have long since romanticized as near life-shaping experiences. I can still see their faces and, after more than forty-five years they haven’t changed a bit. One of the more gentle and colorful was “six-fingered” Willie who regularly boasted that he was the only guy in the world who could walk into a party store, hold up his hand and order “a six-pack, please.”

Then there was Roger, the wizened old WW II vet and my tree-crew boss for many of the summers that I worked in the valley. He trusted me to drive a truck and a vintage power wagon when I was barely old enough to handle a car. He showed me the finer points of the rope with its bowline and sheepshank knots, taught me to climb and cut, and courageously let me wield the pole-saw, chainsaw and axe---often at the expense of those disease-ridden but majestic American elms. The last item, the axe, merits some spotlight. It wasn't your ordinary slasher. It was a double-bit head Kelly Perfect, what Roger proclaimed "the best damn axe in the world." A highlight of many a day was sitting around Old Rog and learning how to properly sharpen and otherwise caress our Kellys. "Care for it and it'll care for you." He was right, of course, holding forth as he was wont to do, in a full squat, axe in hand, and an unfiltered camel hanging from the side of his tobacco stained lips. I recall too that he always capped our "sessions" with advice that still frequently comes to mind when I'm tempted to lose perspective. "Have fun, boys," he would add with that wry smile, "but don’t get hurt.” I’m not sure I’ve mastered that last piece of wisdom, but I haven't forgotten it.

Though my memories of those times may gloss, the pleasure they continue to bring is undeniable. My brother and I, now a bit wizened ourselves, still regale each other-- and our sons---and whoever else happens to be in earshot, with tales of the valley and the years we still describe as among the best and most carefree of our lives. Imagine---city boys growing, playing, and working in such a wondrous stretch of nature. You had to be there!