I love this town, so full of smiles and worn, friendly faces. A history as deep as the coal mines below and everyone is ready to share their story with you. While corporate America struggles to find a handhold in Bethlehem, the true grit and soul of the city lingers in the small colorful streets that are, to me, always festooned with Christmas decorations and riotous explosion of autumn leaves.
Our pit stop at Ginny's Luncheonnette was a whim but the beginning of a very good day. Walking in the nondescript door, I was reminded a certain other local dive somewhere far out in the desert where only those in the know would care (dare) to venture. The smell of grease and coffee was in the air and the waitresses were sweet but brisk. We stood out like two sore thumbs and all the patrons turned and stared as we entered. We sat at the counter and ordered two hot teas and breakfast potatoes, afraid of using the facilities without giving a little something back.
Unexpectedly, Ginny's embraced us in her homey grip. Two men on either side shared their hard-hidden disappointment in the destruction of the steel mill and the inevitable demise of the town they once knew as children. I could see that everything they held dear in Bethlehem was on the brink of disappearing and true to their staunch American spirit, they would not let it go lightly. They were cheerful, but resigned. Although it was scarcely ten o'clock in the morning, I could envision a beer instead of the coffee under their faces, between their rough hands.
The toast was the best toast I've ever had. It wasn't the bread and it certainly wasn't the slab o' butter that was spackled on each piece before they were clattered on plates before us. It was the tired and always-friendly faces of the middle-aged servers, so swift and familiar in their element of service. No face like that is complete without a "Here you go, my dear," even though the phrase sounds so different to me depending on who's on the other end of it. In this moment I envied their lives, so classic and so quintessentially American. Without trying they possess a nationalism and a sense of identity and pride that I could never live to tell. They are this country. They live those lives and make up the fabric of what we are. They have always been here, and in a way I hope they always will be.
Bethlehem is a town full of stories. Walking through the streets and staring at the legendary blast furnaces, you are guaranteed to meet a misty-eyed individual ready to share his personal tale about that metal jungle. Today I realized that the stories find you when you're here. The magic of this place is so deeply ingrained in the bricks of the streets and under the furnaces themselves. You will never leave this town without having weird and wonderful opportunities throw themselves in your way, and you will go home ready to tell others about what happened. While the man on Main St narrated his tales of 30 years, losing friends to explosions and explaining the night he climbed the towers and hung the star of Bethlehem, I head back to Maryland tonight with tales I'm just as eager to share.
I know that my stories from Bethlehem Steel are a Generation Y of this American Behemoth and I feel feeble assuming that my experiences weigh as much in history as those men in the diner. But I met new people, was inspired, and was fascinated once more with the strength and power of these structures. It is no longer a mystery to me why I keep returning to see her again and again.
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