Choking on Goodbyes Again

we've got 
two more miles to go
before the sun
erases the night. 

let's break away
from 
the madness
for awhile.

let's silent
the 
future. 

if we stare at the highway
a little bit
longer
the headlights will 
lead
us
home. 

my friend,
we're almost 
sleeping. 

and tomorrow's 
still
our burden.  

maybe we pay for 
our sins
eventually.

or maybe
they just turn
us gray.

that's probably 
why people stare at rainbows.

stay with me
for one more
drink. 

then I'll say
the
damn word. 

New Hampshire

I'm in Georgia

now.

far from home,
like you.

were there gates when you arrived?
we learned about
them as kids.

it's getting warmer
and
the sun's still
shining.

I've been saying
my prayers
more and more now,
those ones
we learned together
as kids.

tell me,
have you found
your peace
in
New Hampshire?

I hope it rains
soon.

I hope it rains
a lot.

was it cold that night?

were the
stars even out?

I guess even good Catholic boys
miss Easter mass sometimes. 

I'm still in Georgia.
I've been listening to jazz
and sending cigarette smoke
your
way.

tell me,
is your heart still
laughing?

Why Cliches Are Actually Okay

For PH

I’ve always hated clichés.

There is usually a better, more original way to express one’s self before falling victim to an overused saying. However, those damn clichés always seem to come up in conversation when you just don’t have time to think. Low battery on your iPhone? Dead as a doornail. Problem with someone? You have a bone to pick with them. The least bit hopeful? Don’t count you’re chickens, my friend.

But my feelings toward clichés changed in mid-April after a friend of mine died. Patrick was only 23 when his life was cut short from the disease of drug addiction. I know, even the details read like a cliché. However, Patrick’s life was far from that.

Patrick was all about the unexpected. In fifth grade, he snuck up behind me, wrapped his arm around my neck, and began to sing “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls (this was in 2001…five years after the song was popular). Whenever someone would get into a fight with Patrick, who mostly came out on the losing end of a beating, he would laugh uncontrollably. And even with an unconventional running style and bones like glass (he once had casts on both arms at the same time); he was an impressive force on the basketball court, which is where my friendship with him grew over multiple years of being teammates. 

Patrick and I went to different high schools, but that didn’t affect much. Once in college, the highlights of coming home on break were always seeing Patrick out or getting together for a basketball game. I saw Patrick only a few times during the last year of his life. Last summer after I graduated from Penn State, I stayed in State College for the summer for an internship. I was beyond ecstatic when I heard Patrick was coming to town for the weekend party event Artsfest. At around 10 p.m. on a Saturday, we were watching a band perform in the street and dancing (Patrick was going the hardest). A few minutes later, he was right next to the stage with a young woman who was so skilled at hula-hooping that she was actually making some money. Patrick watched her in awe, then he picked up an extra hula hoop and tried like hell to keep it up, but it continually fell to the ground. I had never seen a 22 year old man enjoy himself so much while failing at a child’s activity. We went back to a friend’s house and laughed for a few more hours together. 

Laughing with him was one of my favorite pastimes. 

Perhaps the most amazing aspect of Patrick is how much you could love and hate him at the same time. He forced you out of your comfort zone by pointing out your insecurities and making you confront them. Other than my parents, Patrick has been an extremely important part of shaping who I am (I believe many others would say the same). On Monday, you loved him. Tuesday, he had you laughing hysterically. On Wednesday, Patrick was under your skin. On Thursday, you wanted to hit him (and probably did). And, even more amazing, Patrick could have you feeling all of those emotions during one weekend. The most rewarding feeling was always amusement, though, and the laughter came even after his death.

I had heard the clichés that accompany someone’s passing many times before, but I never understood them. I never understood the comfort they bring to those grieving a loved one. Patrick’s viewing and funeral were hotbeds for every death cliché imaginable: “He’s in a better place.” “I wish we had more time.” “I’d give anything to see him again.” 

And those were just the ones coming from my mouth.

It became evident a day or two after I heard the news that Patrick’s death was one last surprise in a life soaked in unpredictability. Hours after his funeral, a group of people were trading stories about Patrick outside. I could feel tears beginning to form and in what might have been one of the most clichéd scenes ever I broke away from the group, looked toward the night sky, and whispered gently, “I just don’t get it.”

I then began to cry a river. Cliché intended. 

The Summer of Shawn (Part 3): Mountain Jam

The hike up Montage Mountain was long and sweaty and full of tie-dye.

Joe, Kory and I – all college roommates – were hauling camping gear through gravel and dirt to find a spot to camp out for four days of the 2013 Peach Music Festival in Scranton. It was a grueling journey where supplies spilled, muscles flared and fists were almost thrown...almost.

We settled on a slanted plot of land inside a hidden trench on Slope Four of the campgrounds. It had to have been one of the worst spots on the mountain, but our bodies were tired and all we could think about was drink and music. A bottle of peach whiskey and some Rolling Rock fueled us for the rest of the night while we enjoyed a performance by Rusted Root (most popular for their 90s hit “Send Me on My Way”).

The first night ended quickly, especially after we discovered that the propane connector for our portable grill didn’t make it to the festival. For the remainder of our stay, we ate cheese and lunchmeat until it ran out or spoiled. Then we moved on to just bread and beer and laughter. 

On day two, we came to the realization that sleeping on the almost-vertical Slope Four was not conducive for a good night’s rest. Joe and I – accompanied by our friend and resident wild card, Thumper, who arrived on the mountain in the early morning hours – stumbled over to Slope Five where we found ample room on flat ground. After we rousted Kory, the four of us marched our tent and supplies to the new location. Later in the day we met our new neighbors, who had made the trip to Scranton with plenty of LSD and mushroom chocolate bars. 

Everyone on Slope Five (and the entire mountain for that matter) loved to tell stories. Brian, a weekend LSD salesman, talked about his mom and how she got him into the festival scene. His girlfriend, Ali, liked to listen to everyone’s stories while twirling her dreads and always replied “I dig it” at the end. A few tents away there was a character named Keller who had a beard down to his chest and rarely wore a shirt. At one point during the weekend, I saw Keller ingest five different kinds of drugs before heading down the mountain to see a band.

I didn’t quite get it until Saturday night. A group from Slope Five settled on the center of the venue's hill to watch Bob Weir (of the Grateful Dead) and Ratdog. I struck up a conversation with another neighbor, Bryan, about Weir. The mellow, 40-something mushroom enthusiast broke down some of the Dead’s best songs and talked about how many times he’s seen the band. When Weir’s set was over, Bryan, with much remorse, headed back to the campsite before the Allman Brothers Band came on. His old bones couldn’t handle any more dancing, he said. As we jumped around and danced during the Allman Brothers’ set, hollering at every song, I started to notice just how committed everyone was to the music. There was no judgment on that hill - only some drug-induced dancing, spacing out on the stars and grabbing the closest person next to you for a short embrace. Joe and I stuck it out until the very end to hear the epically jamtastic “Whipping Post.” The rest of the night went with the wind.

Kory and Joe left the next day around noon, but Thumper and I had to see the Black Crowes. Although we had lost most of our group by Sunday evening when the Crowes took the stage, the two of us joined a small dance circle in the dirt and got down to “Remedy,” “Hard to Handle” and a fantastic cover of “Hush."

 

Traveling down Route 81 toward Harrisburg, my eyes were fixed on the glowing taillights in front of us. I knew that, for me, the title “hippie” would never be the same. It had been restored to its former beauty after I got the tiniest bit closer to Woodstock that weekend.

For those four days in August, I didn’t worry. Although all of my possessions were out in the open, I never felt more confident that they would be there when I returned. I listened to people. I listened to their stories and watched as they swayed back and forth in the setting sun, occasionally turning a stumble into a beautiful dance. During those few brief moments when everyone cheered wildly, transfixed on a guitarist squeezing every last ounce of passion out of a final note, I felt like I had found another home on the mountain.   

As Autumn Takes Hold

I would have to say that the summer of 2013 was one of the best I’ve had yet. The play outweighed the work, but everyone deserves a streak like that sometimes. As my job search continues, friends and former classmates are finding work, beginning new careers and falling comfortably into adulthood.

I firmly believe that people from my age group will help cure diseases that have plagued the human race for far too long. A few will break their backs working the land like their ancestors before them, fueled by sweat and the need to survive. A few will chase their dreams, and they’ll either rise or fall.

Sometimes you have a path all planned out in your head and it involves going to school and getting a degree and finding a job. But the friends, family and strangers I encountered during the summer of 2013 made it clear that it's fine to stray from that path. You'll find your way eventually. 

And if there's a little bit of careless rambling along the way, well...that's okay too. You won't be young forever. 

The Summer of Shawn (Part Two): A Weekend with the Yinzers

Every time I make the drive to Monaca, Pa., I roll my window down just enough to smell the faint hint of smoke in the air from the steel mills. I’ve made the trip so many times over the years to visit my family that the smell isn’t overwhelming – it’s more like home.  

It’s a town with a lot of heart. There’s few traffic lights, segments of rusted railroad tracks and multiple poorly lit bars where regulars can rot after work. It’s like something out of a Springsteen song. Growing up, I often described the area with such fondness and probably used “yinz” one too many times that many of my friends were enthralled by the area. I might have been the only person trying to sell people on what a sports writer once referred to as a “decrepit hamlet.”

However, my obsession with Monaca doesn’t have to do with its small-town charm. I’m more concerned with the people who live there. Like almost anyone else who has been lucky enough to grow up with grandparents, I constantly brag about my Bubba and Pappy because I truly believe they are the best. They’re the quintessential elderly couple: they met when they were young, grew up in the same area, had a big family, and inherited grandchildren who – no matter how old they get – are in complete awe of them. 

Bubba is a woman with a big heart. She has a gentleness about her that comes from raising and loving seven children and close to 20 grandchildren. She didn’t take any shit from her kids back in the day, though. Her days of chasing Uncle Ed around the house with a Wiffle Ball bat are long gone, and nowadays she prefers to wrap her grandchildren in a safe, warm embrace.

Pappy, on the other hand, is a different story. Pap – or “the Ripper” as many people know him – is full of as much life as he is Jim Beam on a daily basis, and I have yet to figure out which one affects the other. He’s a die-hard Notre Dame fan who wears a white cowboy hat, and he always has a story to tell (even if it's one that's been heard three or four times).

In late July, I took a trip to Monaca to meet up with my cousins Richard and Chad to go see a band from Pittsburgh called The Clarks that they introduced me to a few years back. Since I rolled into town earlier than I planned and Chad was still at work, I made my way to Bubba’s house.

In the creaky hallway of Bubba’s first floor is a line of her grandchildren’s senior pictures. I remember being overly excited when I was added to the wall – it was like joining a special club officially after being part of it for 18 years. Opposite the grandchildren’s photos is a collection of wedding pictures and family portraits from over the years.

Perhaps the most cherished picture in the house was taken when there were only eight grandchildren around (there’s about double that now). We’re all wearing matching red sweatshirts under the large tree in Bubba and Pappy’s front yard. For me, it’s a reminder of barbecues and laughter and a time when none of us worried about money or jobs. We were smiling, safe and content, at Bubba's house.  

My grandparents’ entire house on Eckert Road is full of history: photos of ancestors, antique furniture that has seen far too much action over the years, and books on everything from religion to Irish sayings. In the more recent days, if Bubba can get a grandchild alone in the house, she starts to tell them what she’s going to leave them once she dies. It’s not the easiest conversation to have, but for a woman who’s led such a full life and lost so many loved ones along the way, death is no big deal at this point, I guess.

After I caught up with my grandparents for a little, I went over to Chad’s house and we headed to the Steel City for the concert. A couple hours and a few beers later, we were standing in front of The Clarks as they tore into “Snowman,” one of the first songs I had heard by the band. Richard, who’s seen the band more than 10 times, and I stood right next to each other and went word-for-word singing lyrics throughout the concert. The Clarks are a superb live act, but the show’s way better when your older cousins are throwing their hands up with you toward the mid-summer Pittsburgh skyline.

I spent most of the next day at Bubba and Pappy’s house. Pappy began showing me some of the artifacts from his life that are all over the house like he’s done multiple times before. When I was younger, I sort of zoned out on during these conversations, but now, I take whatever bits of history I can get from the man. As he was entering young adulthood, he was off fighting in Korea. At the same point in my life, I was still trying to figure out how to drive. Later, I took the Ripper to the club – a rite of passage among us cousins – and watched as the dingy bar lit up when he walked through the door.   

That evening I was able to spend time with Richard, his wife, Katie, and their 9-month-old daughter, Reaghan. There was a time when Richard, who’s the oldest grandchild, was the center of attention for Bubba and all my aunts and uncles. Then the rest of us showed up and he lost some of the limelight. However, Rich has been returned to his former glory with the family because of his adorable daughter.

Although I had to be back in State College Monday morning for work, I stayed in Monaca Sunday night so I could see my Uncle Shawn who was coming to visit from Florida with his family. We congregated at Bubba’s, like always, and sat outside as the day faded. We joked and talked about memories from last summer’s trip to the Outer Banks, periodically chatting about our individual concerns. Some were minor - like Bubba worrying about the fire for the children’s s’mores or Pappy worrying about his next beer and some were a little more daunting - like me worrying about finding a job. During the heat of discussion, I noticed that my younger cousins from Florida, Tommy and Teaghan, were completely overjoyed to be at Bubba’s house. They laughed and smiled with us under that same tree from the picture.

It’s comforting to know that some things never change. 

  

The Summer of Shawn (Part One): Dirty Lots and Things that Go Boom

Graduating from college came with a strange mix of excitement and fear.

After I walked across that stage in early May 2013, I felt the weight of bills and job pressures on my back. It was yet another point in my life when I truly felt I was growing up.

When I should have been searching for entry-level jobs at any publications hiring, I was happy-hour hopping and staying up late – trying to make sure I didn’t miss a precious, reckless minute of university life. I was able to land a part-time, unpaid internship at a news website, though, and that allowed me to continue writing after school.

Instead of getting a part-time job in addition to the internship to actually make some money, my roommate, Kory, and I turned to Craigslist. There, we found lists of online classifieds that we saw as opportunities to continue our post-collegiate, no-job lifestyle.

And in early June, we found our true calling: selling small explosives from a tent.

The ad stated that over a 10-day period, vendors could make between $3,000 and $5,000, depending on sales. Kory and I saw that money split two ways and immediately made some calls. By the next day, we were on track to become TNT Fireworks salesmen. We traveled almost two hours for a daylong training session about how to calculate sales, report numbers and set up the product – all of which we listened to with a “no shit” attitude.

On the day we received our product, we spent 12 hours unloading boxes, stacking Pop-Its and bottle rocket fountains, and sweating all over the Walmart parking lot where our stand was located. Our day was finally coming to an end when a steady rain started to fall. I drove back to our apartment for a quick shower and meal, but when I walked in the door, drenched in stench and rain, I looked at my phone – three missed calls from Kory.

“Dude,” he said with defeat, “the tent caved in. The fireworks are getting soaked.”

The only words I could mutter in my state of disbelief were, “Are you kidding?” For the next couple weeks, everyone else who heard the story repeated that same question.

It turned out that the tent was set up wrong. A few of the poles were crooked and there wasn't enough weight holding it down. Some guys from the tent company came out late that night and secured the tent with concrete blocks as the Leaping Lizards and Mad Dog Fountains lay in puddles. At around 2 a.m., we sat in the back of my mini-van speechless and nearly defeated.

“So this is the real world,” I joked into the uncomfortable silence. Kory looked at me and smiled briefly. Our anxious laughter carried us through that first night. By the next morning, we both desperately wanted out of this arrangement. I went to my internship while Kory tried to explain to our regional manager that we had lost all interest, enthusiasm and, more importantly, our Snakes and Morning Glory Sparklers. The manager, with all his slippery, used car salesman aura, simply pointed to the fine print and let Kory know that he signed a contract. If we quit, legal action would be inevitable for the $10,000 worth of merchandise. We were stuck. Instead of taking it to court, we did what any pair of new college graduates would do – we put minimal effort into redecorating and visited the nearby six-pack shop daily.

By Friday, our tent was back up and running. Sales were slow and the tent was bare, but we were actually doing it. To reward our efforts after our stressful week, we threw a small party inside our tent. The middle table that had been our main display with assortments and prize packs earlier in the week became the beer pong table. Things got a little out of control, and after a brief conversation with the local cops, Kory and I spent the rest of the morning sitting outside of our tent, sipping warm beer and taking in the dull, orange sky.  

And that’s when we met Josh.

Looking back, the signs were all there that Josh was homeless: the overly stuffed backpack, the makeshift cast for his broken hand, the blank stare at his hand as he sifted through broken cigarette remains from his pocket at 4:30 in the morning. Maybe the fact that he was young and conversational blinded us from how crippled his posture was from carrying his life on his back for months.

The next day, when our replacement fireworks arrived, Kory and I started to see what we were dealing with in Josh. He continually asked for money and ate all of his meals at the nearby McDonald’s, which was open 24 hours. When we broke it to him that he couldn’t hang around anymore, he asked to call his sister.

“I’m down at the Walmart by your house,” he said to her. “Can you pick me up?” There was a long, stale pause. “Because it’s fucking raining. You keep saying you love me but you never show it.”

With that he hung up and called his “friend.” Twenty minutes later a small, soft-spoken man from a local church named Andrew came to pick up Josh. He told me that Josh’s family had basically disowned him. They drove off and I realized that Kory and I were probably the closest things to friends Josh had had in years. We would see him periodically for the rest of our time there, wasting away on a bus bench with his head bobbing in the wind seemingly from intoxication or exhaustion. 

After the busiest day of sales - July 4 - Kory and I sat on our lawn chairs, watched the nearby fireworks display and took a deep sigh of relief. We handed out free sparklers to children as the colors exploded overhead.   

Days after we returned all of our extra fireworks and made a modest profit, I drove by our lot. The tent was gone and most of the spots were empty. A slow-moving line of cars in McDonald’s drive-thru was getting longer by the second. Some people looked pissed and others looked hungry. Most were just waiting and daydreaming about something the comfort calories just never seem to provide.

Before the light changed, I took one final glance at the parking lot. It looked as if Kory and I had never been there. 

And I couldn’t help but feel a little upset at the thought that we would never be there again.