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.

Singing to the Moon

I remember seeing pictures of hell as a child. They never made any sense. They never looked right. Heaven was the same way - too bright, too many wings and halos. But false is comforting sometimes. 

It's scary to think about these images now, some 15 years later. As a child, it's all about first impressions. If hell meant fire and heaven meant perfection, then what was left for in-between? My father once told me, after a few pints, that his greatest fear is purgatory. His greatest fear is not being good enough for heaven and knowing it for the rest of eternity. 

But now that I'm older, the fiery illustrations of hell fade. Uncertainty takes a tighter hold everyday. Is Lucifer's home just an eternity with physical and personal demons? Melting and burning for our sins? Or is it silence? No more chances to charm a lover. No more punchlines at the bar after a 12-hour day. What if hell is just a long walk home in the dark filled with self-loathing. No street signs visible. No directions worth giving. 

What if hell is just a journey with no more adventures, like the last rotten steps before you surrender to sleep's warm embrace. 

Away

you hear
footsteps following
the low hum of an
outdated vacuum.

family voices echo
and the floor's creaking
serenades -
too stubborn to
give way.

this place glorifies
Saturday afternoons
with stick swords
and frost-colored war cries
dancing
across the creek.

you've never been here,
but a piece of you
lives
in these walls.

it's walked through
the half-broken doors.
it's smelled the burnt matches
and aged Merlot.

it keeps whispering
songs of
escape.

promises pleasure
like
the street-corner
muses.

it's the same piece of yourself
driving away
from your mother,
and Sundays,
and the backyard.

they say you go crazy in places
like this.

the water's too close.
the trees are naked and
broken.

it's too far from
neon
and buildings mimicking
Babel.

they say you go crazy
on winter's darkest days
too.

maybe
you only go crazy
if you
want.

but azaleas and laurels
always find new reason
to bloom.

Natty Light Sunrise: A Look at the College Drinking Culture

The spotlights at the Arena Bar and Grill outshine glowing Christmas decorations when you’re onstage singing karaoke.

Just thinkin’ about tomorrow, clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow…

I shouldn’t be on the stage with a microphone. I shouldn’t be turning as red as the stockings hanging throughout the bar. I shouldn’t be singing a hit Broadway tune with my toneless baritone that’s normally reserved for shower performances.

But, I am. And my friends chuckle from the safety of their booth, knowing quite well that a dare and a few liquor pitchers are the only reasons they’re watching me fail…epically.

Wednesday nights usually aren’t this rowdy for me at Penn State. According to a report released by the office of Student Affairs Research and Assessment, Wednesday night isn’t a big drinking night for most students, with about 13 percent of the student population admitting to drinking on Wednesday in 2011 (about 70 percent said they were drinking on Friday and Saturday).

Regardless of what night, Penn State has a well-known drinking culture like other schools of its size. Tailgates with mountains of beer-filled coolers can be seen at every home football game. Lines at bars stretch well pass the entrance on the weekends. Students even created their own drinking holiday, known as State Patty’s Day, when they realized they would miss out on the debauchery associated with St. Patrick’s Day because of spring break.

Although I make it to my classes on Thursday, the damage is done. I drag my feet from building to building and sit, zombie-like, in each of my classes before I get back to the scene of the crime. I decline a few invitations for drinks because I have work in the morning.

“Time to get back up on that pony,” one friend texts.

The obvious attempts at peer pressure do little to move me from my living room Futon. I know that if I go out, I won’t make it to work the next morning.

“There’s this mentality of going out to get drunk,” Suzanne Zeman, coordinator of educational services for the office of Health Promotion and Wellness at Penn State, says of students who attend the university.

Zeman, a registered nurse who oversees the university’s Brief Alcohol Screening and Intervention for College Students (BASICS), says Penn State’s drinking culture is similar to other schools.

“A lot of the universities like Penn State have been dealing with this issue for decades,” she says about drinking in college.

Zeman says tailgates with alumni reliving their college days might give students the wrong impression. And pre-gaming, drinking before a party, with shots of liquor is becoming increasingly popular, which leads to a higher risk of emergency room visits and trouble with the law.

“Some of the students, when we talk to them, most of their negative experiences that they’ve had with alcohol were with liquor,” she says.  

A majority of students are referred to the BASICS program because of some sort of alcohol-related incident, Zeman says. Some students were caught with one beer in a residence hall, while others were rushed to the ER with high blood alcohol concentrations.

Health educators screen students for anxiety and depression during the first session and ask questions about the students’ alcohol use. A week or so later, students return for a feedback session and more one-on-one discussion.

“They’re sent here to do the program, but that doesn’t mean they want to change anything,” Zeman says. “It’s driven by them. It’s about what they feel confident they can do.”

In a combined effort, the student and health educator discuss the possibility of an action plan for manageable changes in the student’s drinking patterns, as well as strategies on how to execute the plan such as counting drinks and setting a limit.

“Sometimes that word ‘change’ can be a big deal because students are expecting that they are going to come in and we’re going to judge them for what they did,” she says.

Zeman says the program tries to educate students on the problems with binge drinking. She says most students begin to binge drink in college, but some have been doing it since high school.

According to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, binge drinking is when a person drinks enough alcohol within two hours that their BAC levels reach 0.08. Long-term effects of binge drinking include liver and heart damage, among other organs.

Zeman slides a chart to the middle of her desk and begins to talk about something called the Biphasic Response to Alcohol.

Alcohol, a depressant, has two phases or effects on people. The initial phase, she says, is a feeling of stimulation or excitement. This is followed by the second phase of feeling tired.

“After a student reaches the point of diminishing return, there is less of the good feelings,” Zeman says.

The point of diminishing return occurs at a BAC of about .06. Zeman says maintaining a BAC lower or equal to that can lead to a good night, void of nausea and the infamous hangover.

Zeman, who has seen most of the negative effects of Penn State’s drinking culture, says there will never be a strategy to completely avoid the problem of an excessive drinking culture, but giving students information on alcohol and encouraging change in drinking behaviors is what she and her colleagues try to do through BASICS.

“It is what it is,” she says, not sounding defeated by the problem. “There are fluctuations year-to-year, but in general, I think it’s an issue we deal with and face a lot.”

* * * * * * * * * *

My small loft apartment is cluttered Saturday with red Solo cups, most of which are half-empty with warm, stale Belgium wheat beer.  

Friday night’s party died naturally, with most of the guests leaving when they had their fill of booze, but not before some unknown culprit vomited in the bathroom. An unwelcomed gift for the host.

Whoever left their dinner in my shower didn’t know when to stop. Much like after karaoke when my roommates and some other guests continued drinking until 6 a.m., a few hours after I went to bed. They started an impromptu fire outside the apartment because it seemed like a “good idea” at the time.

The cop who showed up didn’t think so.

And then Saturday night there was the young woman who, after being kicked out of one bar, wanted to continue her bar tour at another drinking establishment.

Standing in the harsh, December cold, my friend Matt and I decline the invitation.

I’ve had one too many shots and can feel my eyes getting heavier from the lack of sleep. I know my limits, and another bar feels more like torture at this point in the night.  

College is full of drinkers who want to extend their nights and parties. Many have had one or two reckless nights when they can’t recall how they made it home. They swear never to drink like that again.

Then there are those who have a definite problem. There is no “off” switch for these drinkers.

Jason Whitney, an education professor at Penn State, knows what’s like to push unhealthy drinking limits in college. The recovering alcoholic of 21 years and faculty advisor for the Lions for Recovery program on campus is frank when discussing his partying days at the University of Colorado at Boulder.

 “It’s a pretty common story about being wiped out from drinking in college,” Whitney says about his partying days. “By the time I’m done telling that story, students are falling all over themselves going, ‘that’s exactly how I drink’ or ‘I know exactly what you mean.”

Even after admitting to similar experiences, Whitney says that some of those students don’t think they have a problem. They don’t stick around to learn more.

Lions for Recovery is a student-run group that provides students in or considering recovery a support system. The group is affiliated with the national Collegiate Recovery Community.

After he realized he was blacking out every time he drank alcohol, Whitney decided to stop drinking while in college. He was 19 years old.

He says when he decided to get sober, the University of Colorado at Boulder already had a long-running Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. He found a “great new set of friends” there who were very supportive and serious about recovery.

“Seriously good friends,” he says. “Good people all around…I love those people.”

Now, at Penn State, Whitney works with both the CRC and LFR so students can experience the same kind of circumstances that he says saved his life. 

“People who suffer from alcoholism and drug addiction have a disease that tells them they don’t have a disease,” Whitney, who sponsors some Penn State students in recovery, says.

There are 18 students at Penn State who are currently in recovery through some part of the CRC program, he says. And, for those students and others pursuing sober living, it’s not easy…especially at Penn State.

“It’s really hard when you feel isolated,” he says. Whitney explains that a campus like Penn State could be classified as an “abstinence-hostile environment” because there is an expectation that “drinking should be happening.”

But the students in the program are ready to make the necessary commitment to recovery, he says.

“You can’t just change one aspect of your life,” he says about sober living. “You can’t just keep going to the bars and expect to last very long.”

“And you cannot do it just by avoiding the whole party scene either, because that doesn’t work. There is zero chance of recovery in just going at it alone for someone who is an alcoholic.”

Before his next meeting, Whitney takes a bite of his lunch, which has been largely neglected because of the interview.

Whitney says students who can’t control how much alcohol they have once they start drinking and can’t stop after they have really good reasons to stop need to get help. Future graduates who will be searching for employment soon need to consider their drinking habits because “if you’re blacking out consistently at Penn State, you’re going to be blacking out everywhere,” he says. 

There is a type of person who is known as a “hard drinker,” he explains, who can stop drinking when they are given sufficient reason. The hard drinker may get in trouble at work for something caused by their drinking and that will be enough motivation to stop.

“The alcoholic gets the same reprimand, means to stop and can’t,” Whitney says. “They don’t understand what alcoholism and drug addiction is…even people who really have the disease often don’t understand how it’s kicking their ass.” 

But, his other message is one of hope.

“Recovery is awesome,” he says. “I was learning a tremendous amount about myself and how to be a better person,” he says.

“It’s less lonely than drinking, even when you have hundreds of friends,” he adds, pausing briefly. “It’s actually less lonely.”

* * * * * * * * * *

As we walk away from the downtown action, I have to ask why Matt’s packing it in so early on a Saturday.

I’ve told him that I’m tired, but since he’s the same friend who harassed me earlier in the week after my night of karaoke, I can’t let him go without returning the favor.

“I have a lot of stuff to do tomorrow,” he says.

Before I have the chance for an encore performance, we shake hands and go our separate ways. 

The sun’ll come out, tomorrow…

I hum for a few more blocks, kicking an empty beer can before realizing that it already is tomorrow.