MY SUMMER TRAVELOGUE COMES TO A CLOSE with another attempt to capture what it is about my little Pennsylvania home town that keeps drawing us back there year after year instead of going to Hawaii or to Europe with our friends. We don’t go specifically to see family, or friends, but just to be in Ridgway itself with family and friends blended in.

We enjoy the lack of things to do. We wake up to birds and church bells in an attic so small nothing needs doing except the coffee. We move slowly. People outside move slowly. Time barely moves at all. I recognize the same sidewalk cracks I skipped over as a kid. Nothing much has changed.

Susan and I went for daily walks to nowhere. One day we toured the cemetery. One day we walked the Rails to Trails along the Clarion River. Some days we didn’t get far. One of my favorites was the day she wanted to stop and request a library card. The library, three blocks from the house, is a tall colonial building with a sweeping wide, sheltered, whitewashed porch with well-kept wicker furniture.

When we arrived, it was amid another light, warm rain. I had my card. I chose to sit outside in a wicker chair while she went inside to sign up and find a few books. I fell fast asleep for the afternoon. Susan had got into her hunt. Hours later, with a Jodi Picoult under her arm, she awakened me. We continued our walk.

One day we met new friends, retirees Phyllis and Dwight Cooke. We were on a stroll to nowhere along East Avenue near the library. We wanted to say hello to my brother-in-law Craig and his friend Cliff, the craftsmen who built our attic love loft. They said to stop by their current work site. They had been remodeling a new bed and breakfast for six months. We stepped around back toward the hammering. Craig and Cliff were building one of three decks. We said “Hey.”

This is when Phyllis came out to greet us and invite us inside. Phyllis gave us the detailed tour of Cooke’s Murphy House as she told their story. She and Dwight worked in New Jersey for 40 years, she in mortgage banking, he in accounting. They retired, moved to Ridgway and bought up an old timber-era mansion a block off Main Street. I’m guessing they paid over a hundred grand considering how nice the house is. Three extra bedrooms have become guest rooms, each named for a daughter, and when they have no guests, they are simply at home. Craig and Cliff have done all the work.

Why Ridgway? Why Craig? Their daughter Abby lives in town and is executive director of the Elk County Council on the Arts. We know Abby from a tour of her house on a previous visit. While visiting Abby, the Cookes came across the old Murphy House up for sale and couldn’t resist. They bought it and the renovation began.

Abby is married to renowned artist Charles Wish who transplanted from L.A. and bought a huge Georgian Federalist school house built in 1909 to call home. Craig and Cliff helped renovate their 6,000-square-foot home, with a private night club in the attic.

One day we went for a walk to the Elk County Historical Society’s annual Strawberry Festival three blocks the other way. They rope off a block in front of their museum on Center Street and fund-raise with strawberries and ice cream. Two old gentlemen play banjo and violin on the porch every year.

For $5 you get strawberry shortcake with all the fixings. Water is $1. About 100 people usually show up, mostly locals, lots of suspenders. People sit on folding chairs at folding tables under pole tents. Seating is limited so mostly gray hairs dominate the tent seating. Sue and I arrived a bit early and sat, rightfully, under the tent. Then I saw old neighbors Ron and Shirley Mitchell sitting on the curb across the street.

I excused myself and ambled over. I sat next to them before they noticed me, in the same spot where we three sat as kids watching fire trucks line up before the Fireman’s Celebration because we knew the firemen would toss us candy intended for the parade. We hugged and shared what’s new sitting in the grass.

Once a year we get to say hey at the Strawberry Festival. Ron and Shirley live near each other out of town. Ron works at a powdered-metal plant, as most do. Shirley has seven horses she cares for along with others’ horses who stable with her. As a little girl, she never wanted dolls, only horses.

Phyllis and Dwight took my seat under the tent next to Susan. They ate ice cream and chatted it up for an hour themselves. It was a photo moment. Sue was wagging a plastic spoon, making a point. Dwight, a new business-man now at age 70, was leaning in, listening. Phyllis was grinning, nodding. Then they all laughed at the same time.

One Friday we hooked up with our friend Ron and rented canoes on Main Street. We’d promised him that Monday to run the Clarion on Friday if the weather was sunny, and it was. However, it rained hard on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. When we reached the boat rental shop, the river was high. Some trees were under water. Off we launched down a short ramp. What the heck, it couldn’t be harder than whitewater on the Colorado River, and it wasn’t. There is no turbulence in high water. It was a pleasant if speedy trip. Our afternoon canoe ride lasted a brief two hours.

We floated past Lost Island. As kids we rafted to it on pallets and barrels and lived for days.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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