History is made up of individual lives connected to one another like threads in a tapestry. Take a step back for a better look at the big picture as three locals weave memories of the Valley's history experienced firsthand.
World War II Bethlehem
John Guranich saw his first airplane at five years old, depicted on a jigsaw puzzle his mother bought for him. “It was a B-47, I remember to this day.”
In 1942, he and his Ukrainian family had just moved from Manhattan to Northampton Heights next to Bethlehem Steel. A neighborhood now wiped from the map, its street signs read Anthracite, Bessemer, Carbon, Diamond and Emery, elements relating to the factory where its residents were employed. Only Emery Street remains.
“The furnaces were 100 yards away from the back porch,” says John, who followed his father to work at Bethlehem Steel. “Smoke dust and silver dirt was all over the place.”
The sirens and traffic of Manhattan had nothing on Bethlehem's clamor. “The Steel had a steamship whistle on one of their stacks they'd blow for changes of shifts, so you knew by listening to whistles or bells and sirens what time it was. I played outside morning until dark and I knew when to come home for lunch and supper.”
The Second World War influenced all areas of life. Rationing meant his family got used to chicory coffee and oleomargarine. Dye to mix in and give white margarine a buttery color was included. “I wouldn't eat it unless it was yellow,” John says. “Otherwise it looked like lard. That was my job when we got that home. I kept squeezing it for 10 or 15 minutes until I got that nice uniform color.”
In those days of car and tire shortage, his parents took the electric trolley or the bus around town to make the most of their ration stamps at various stores, like the Municipal Market in South Bethlehem where a strip mall now stands. Chickens were slaughtered and plucked on demand and the second floor housed the police department.
Moving from the isolated overpopulation of Manhattan to the comparably cozy Northampton Heights, his first neighborhood game was war-themed “Commandos.” John was the youngest and so he usually elected first to be killed or captured by his fellows brandishing broom-handle rifles, but he didn't mind. With a stack of comics under his arm he'd visit fellow collectors and swap for new titles procured at Matz's confectionery on Broad Street.
A model airplane club met at Pfeifle Field, now developed, and John cultivated a great interest and expertise assembling these delicate structures. “We'd go to Mac's Hobby Hall there to Five Points and buy our airplanes on a Saturday, next week build them, next Sunday fly and break them, and then the cycle began again.”
Following plans for model airplanes would turn out to be a passion that lent itself well to drafting in the structural engineering department at Bethlehem Steel. John could look at a thing and start drawing it on the spot.
When the war ended, celebration didn't last for those whose work in defense industries was slowing down. “Older Steel workers would look up at the amount of smoke over the furnaces to see when they'd be called back to work,” John says. “Steel workers would tell you that wasn't dirt in the sky, but money.”
Colonial Manor Gift Shop
Nowadays, the gleaming white columns of 218 Main Street entice passersby to explore the Emmaus Historical Society's collection, and this onion of an address is a fitting place for it, layered with local history. Some remember when 218 was the Colonial Manor Gift Shop, from 1963 to 1986, a business that owed its existence to one remarkable woman: Miriam Barto.
“She was so good a person,” says her son, Bill. “If I could only be as good for one day of my life as she was for every day of hers!”
The house was already a landmark when the Bartos bought it in 1962, built in 1824 on Lot 11 of the original Moravian settlement. It's possible Bill's father, Elmer, lifelong employee of Rodale Manufacturing Co., took an interest in the house when he described its architecture for a high school paper, but he never got to live there. Between purchasing the house and moving in, Bill's father passed away, leaving his wife and teenage son to reassess their situation.
Miriam had suffered the death of both her parents just a year earlier when they died together in their sleep, poisoned by a gas leak. In the wake of such compounding difficulty, Miriam did more than survive. She kept the deed to 218 and gambled on an entrepreneurial enterprise to support her family. Bill recalls sitting with his mother and a AAA travel guide one night looking up other shops to come up with a name. “We weren't wealthy,” Bill says, “far from it.
It was a leap of faith. She went to New York, bought merchandise, opened the doors and hoped somebody would come.”
They did come, and they kept coming. Brassware, glassware, candles, towels, Pyrex, Corningware, gift cards and much more, American-made and hand-selected, went with customers to weddings, showers and birthdays galore. Colonial Manor's inventory also made its way into the cookbooks and magazines of Rodale Press, whose test kitchen was right next door. Mary Jane Mahler remembers how often her mother, Katie Lutsey, employed at Rodale's office, would come next door to visit. “Miriam always had everything arranged so nicely,” Mahler says. “She was a sweetheart, good old Miriam.”
Whether shopping, visiting or both, Emmaus residents loved Colonial Manor right up until Miriam passed in 1986. Bill continued residing on the second floor as a parade of small businesses incubated in the gift shop space, outgrew it and moved on and up. Then he restored the home to its former glory, tearing up the white linoleum that had shone underfoot to reveal the original hardwood floors.
In 2015, the Emmaus Historical Society took full ownership. The Society retains a collection of Colonial Manor Gift Shop artifacts, and Bill has his own memento of his mother's strength and spirit: “She always had a little book in her nightstand from the Emmaus Moravian Sunday School, 1920-something, called Facing Forward, Poems of Courage, her whole adult life. Now it's in my nightstand.”
Ezra D. Groman Bakeries, Inc.
In the fall of 1967, employees of Ezra D. Groman Bakeries, Inc. loaded a truck with the components of a massive cake creation to be assembled in front of Hotel Bethlehem. Aluminum sheets, poles and pins held layers of cake in a dizzying tower as Richard Groman Sr. iced and decorated with intricate piping and foil seals of the city. “And he had his bow tie,” Richard Groman says. “My father always loved to be on stage.”
Main Street was packed with people as Mayor Payrow gave a speech commemorating the 50th anniversary of north and south Bethlehem merging into one city, and plates of cake flowed freely to the crowd. Along with such showstoppers from the area's original Cake Boss, Groman's provided celebrated breads, cookies and cakes to the Valley for most of the twentieth century.
Richard's great-great-grandfather Edward started with his Aunt Emma's Moravian mint recipe, opening Daddy Groman's Moravian Mintery in the Roaring Twenties, when hotels across the continent kept their lobbies lavishly stocked with bowls of these melt-in-your-mouth delicacies. Edward went west to open a mintery in Hollywood where he aspired to (and achieved) a presence in the silent pictures, while the business back home had to weather the Depression.
By expanding into baked goods and bringing a network of family onboard, his son Ezra was able to stay afloat. “For a little pin money, some of my grandfather's relatives started to make the stuff in their homes,” Richard says. “That's how they all got through the Depression.”
Great success awaited Groman's, which grew to nine locations and 100 employees. The seven-layer chocolate French torte was renowned as birthday cake of choice, and Richard's father was the mastermind behind desserts at Hess's Patio, including the strawberry pie.
Growing up in a bakery, “Everybody wanted to be my friend,” Richard says. They had a chance to come over after school, dig stuff out of the walk-in refrigerators and make pies. Richard and his sister were put to work around the holidays, adding the nuts or sticky cherries onto thousands of handmade cookies. “You wouldn't do that to children today,” Richard says, “but I loved it.”
At his father's funeral, folks came out of the woodwork to pay their respects. “They were there because the bakery was their first job,” Richard says. “Over the years, there must have been thousands.”
Richard sold Groman's in the 1980s, when preservatives, malls and mass-production were taking over, but for the past three years he and some of the bakery's old helpers make thousands of Groman's Moravian sugar cookies at Christmas, sold through Historic Bethlehem.
“It's wonderful stuff,” Richard says, holding the unique recipe close to his chest. “My grandpa said, you ate something from Groman's, you knew it was from Groman's without seeing the box.”
Every year, they throw off their aprons, exhausted, swearing they can't do it again, but if the spirit moves Richard Groman and his elves this year, you may get a taste of tradition under your tree!
Daisy's Dear Life service helps families save life stories and love stories as heirloom books.
