Along the old alignment of Route 183 where the highway once traced the Tulpehocken Creek stood the Schlappich farm, in the southern part of Penn Township, Berks County. The farmstead lay on the north side of the road, opposite the cluster of summer bungalows known as Locustdale. Around 1939–1940, Raymond “Pop” Schlappich and his wife, Carrie (Ohlinger) Schlappich, purchased the property from Tom Gross. They established a mixed operation typical of small Berks County farms in the mid-20th century: a farmhouse and barn near the road, outbuildings including a chicken house, tilled fields close at hand, and pasture extending toward the creek.
A working landscape and a seasonal community
The farm’s immediate neighbor across Route 183 was Locustdale, a modest seasonal enclave of three-room bungalows fronting the Tulpehocken. Built for warm-weather use, most cottages had a hand pump and relied on shared outhouses. Social and commercial life followed the road and the water. Within walking distance stood the “83 Creamee” roadside stand, a local stop for ice cream and cold drinks that served motorists and bungalow families alike. Farther along, the Wolfskill place kept bees and market gardens, selling honey and produce from a small stand. The soundscape reflected an earlier transportation era, with the rattle of decking on nearby iron bridges mixing with creek flow and porch conversations.
Schlappich Farm
Family, neighbors, and everyday rhythms
The Schlappich family’s ties to Locustdale were practical and personal. Sons George and Chester remained close—Chester kept a home at Locustdale’s entrance—and their sister, Stella (Bertrand), lived just beyond. Saturdays commonly brought porch-front conversation, children fishing the shallows, and the steady exchange of labor and news that underpinned rural neighborhoods. Raymond’s reputation for reliability was well-earned; when help was needed, the hay wagon often appeared.
“Hop on!”—George’s red-tractor hay rides
One of the valley’s fondest rituals belonged to George. On soft summer evenings and crisp early-autumn weekends, he would back his red tractor to a wagon lined with fresh bales and call out to the Locustdale kids to “hop on.” The ride traced the farm lane and meadow margins, skirting the edge of the creek and circling past the chicken house before easing up toward the road. There was the steady thrum of the engine, the sweet, dusty scent of straw, fireflies winking on over the pasture, and a chorus of laughter when the wagon boards creaked at the turn by the barn. Parents waved from bungalow porches; older children pointed out favorite fishing stones; and every so often George would let a youngster feel the wheel under his guiding hand along the straight by the fenceline. Those slow loops stitched the neighborhood together—part courtesy, part celebration of place—and they’re still the first thing many recall when the Schlappich name is mentioned.
George Schlappich Hay Ride
George Schlappich Hay Ride
Flood and recovery: Hurricane Agnes, June 1972
Catastrophic flooding arrived with Hurricane Agnes in June 1972. The Tulpehocken surged, reaching bungalow windows, pushing appliances and furniture out of place, and coating interiors with mud. In the aftermath, the Schlappich hay wagon ferried ruined household goods away for disposal at the farm, an episode long remembered by Locustdale families. Agnes was part of a long local history of flooding, but its severity in 1972 reshaped personal calculations about staying, rebuilding, or moving on.
Federal acquisition and the Blue Marsh project
By the early 1970s, preliminary talk of a flood-control and water-supply project in the Tulpehocken valley had advanced into appraisals and acquisitions administered by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. For owners in the footprint, this period brought directives not to invest in improvements unlikely to be compensated—painting, re-roofing, and enhancements were discouraged once condemnations loomed. The effect was gradual but decisive: routine maintenance continued, yet the long tradition of “leaving a place better” gave way to caretaking pending removal.
In 1975 the Schlappich property was taken for the Blue Marsh project. Shortly thereafter, Route 183 was relocated, and the new highway corridor ran over the former house site. The change altered not only an address but the geography of memory. A lane once leading to house and barn was replaced by modern pavement engineered to move travelers quickly through a landscape that no longer matched older maps.
Loss, transition, and what remains
Raymond “Pop” Schlappich died in 1973, the year after Agnes, and did not witness the full dismantling of farm and neighborhood. The family finished the closing tasks—sorting, salvage, removal—common to rural displacements throughout the project area. Locustdale’s bungalow row was vacated; gardens ceased; seasonal routines ended.
Yet physical traces persist. During winter drawdowns of Blue Marsh Lake, a line of stumps along the opposite bank marks where Locustdale porches once faced the creek. Subtle changes in grade still suggest the course of an old farm lane for those who know where to look. These remnants, together with oral histories, anchor a record that paper plats and project maps alone cannot convey.
Context within the broader valley story
The Schlappich farm’s fate mirrors that of many properties acquired during the creation of Blue Marsh Lake in the mid-1970s. Across the valley, farmsteads and hamlets were converted into open water, buffers, and access roads. The project advanced regional goals—flood control, water supply, recreation—while concluding generations of agricultural tenure along the Tulpehocken. In Penn Township, as elsewhere, what had been a patchwork of small holdings and seasonal cottages became public land and reservoir, with new road alignments recasting everyday travel.
Legacy
Today, motorists on Route 183 pass swiftly over ground once walked daily by the Schlappich family. The “83 Creamee” counter, the Wolfskill honey stand, and Locustdale’s summer porches survive mainly in recollection. What endures is the pattern of neighborliness and mutual aid that defined the place: a farmer crossing the road to talk by an outdoor fireplace, a wagon arriving after a flood, and, in the golden hour before dusk, George’s red tractor easing a wagonful of children along the meadow—laughter riding the breeze while the Tulpehocken moved unhurriedly toward the valley below.
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