Voice of the Valley: 
An Early History of Bradford, PA

by Angela Nuzzo

Down from the seven valleys they’re coming
with no roads to follow
and no signs to lead the way,
only faint trails left by Native people
whose hunting grounds this used to be.
Men, in wagons,
their ox-teams straining,
cleaving the forest
in search of a home,
New Englanders, mostly,
looking for adventure,
ready to conquer elements
to fulfill their dreams.

Their numbers are few now,
but this will not last long,
for they’ve spotted the treasure
that lies at my floor.
The Tununguant,
so named by Six Nations,
the wide-mouthed creek
gives life to us all.

The men, with their axes,
stump-levers and hoes,
clear lots for their cabins
built out of pine,
squared to fit
or chinked with red mud,
the massive logs
are thought only a nuisance.
Felled are the mighty
that stood for so long,
replaced by a farm
to grow turnips and corn.

Fetching the family
on a long journey northward,
the men return…and they settle
and my future is borne.
Men named Melvin, Foster, and Pike
ban together and have me called a township.
I am Bradford…
and am named so
because of where these families hail from.

As years pass,
more settlers pierce the forest
and emerge in my green valley.
They are a hardy lot and make do
with what surrounds them.
The flowing water provides a link
with the world downstream and distant.
In dug-outs and bark canoes,
goods are taken
and news brought homeward.

The Tuna, so fondly called,
becomes a public highway.
And my quiet hills are soon transformed
in the era of pine and rafting.
Chestnut, maple, ash, and oak
are now seen for their profit.
And the logs are cut
and skidded down
until they reach the water.
Here, the timbers float along,
combined one to another,
until a raft of 60 feet
seeks out its destination.

More men are coming
and Littleton is the name they give
to their tight-knit group of houses.
They build schools and churches
and rough-hewed roads.
A bridge is laid ‘cross the Tuna.
Lumber mills spring up like daisies
and run all night and day.
My pines are harvested without pause,
cut to boards and taken elsewhere.
Flat-bottom boats,
burdened with the weight
of my fallen comrades,
are poled down the stream
to deliver their cargo.

A man named Kingsbury
buys 50,000 of my acres.
He joins the lumber industry
and orders that the main street
be built AROUND his mill pond.
His land holdings are dispersed
among the settlers
who become permanent fixtures
in my long life.
The Old Red Store is being built
and its paint is made with clay
from my own hills.
A Post Office is planned
and the townspeople,
no longer content with being a little town,
agree to rename me Bradford.

A rumble in the distance
warns me that times are changing.
Dozens of my strong-willed brothers
travel for days away from me.
I am sad to see them go
and know that many
won’t be coming home again.
But their cause is dear to them,
these Bucktails of McKean.

As war rages
in fields beyond my viewing,
new men begin trickling in,
with eyes so bright and hungry.
They want to take from me
something I hold inside,
and for years they persist
with their poking and prodding.
The spring-pole makes a few successful
on the outskirts of the town,
but nothing can prepare me
for the grief that is in store.

There are tracks being laid
through my dwindling forest
and hemlock is taken
by trainloads from me.

A commotion is rising
from my once-quiet haven
and, suddenly, my black blood
roars into the sky.
I can feel it leaving me,
being pushed out by pressure.
And I wilt in upon myself
knowing what is to come.

Small tracks are being built
to haul the black gold.
The Peg-Leg creeps unsteadily onward.
People, from everywhere,
converge upon my valley
like locusts
descending from the sky.
Towns appear
where none should have to.
Tarport – the most wicked of all.

In just four years,
my beautiful village
grows from 500 to 4,000 people.
My slopes are stripped bare
of anything natural,
and derricks grow thick like the trees.
At night, the yellow dogs
light up my hillsides
as do, frequently, horrible fires.
All day there’s the low slow
thunder of the bull wheels
pumping their echo into my soul.

I’ve become a city
with this influx of settlers
and I know not what to do.
The peak is reached
at 10,000 oil wells,
60,000 barrels…each day.

I grow weary now
and my body suffers.
I think back
and remember gentler times.
I hear children talking
of a wonder not distant.
A span of greatness
and magnitude.
Connecting two hills
across a deep valley,
a wide, quiet valley,
and I envy it its home…

But only for a moment,
for I relish what I’ve lived.
And I feel secure in my future
as it lies with my children.
Because I will ALWAYS
take care of them
and they will look after me…
as only family can.