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.