#371: Homecoming Part 2: At the Confluence

Pennsy at "The Confluence"

There are some words in our language that are so loaded with meaning that they carry their own context with them.  "Harbinger" is one. When you hear "harbinger," you think of robins heralding spring. If you're a football fan, "confluence" is another one of those words. There's only one reason for any sports announcer to use the word in a sentence, and it goes like this...

This evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, two teams will meet at the confluence of the Allegheny, the Monongahela, and the Ohio rivers in a battle for AFC supremacy as the Baltimore Ravens visit the Pittsburgh Steelers on Monday Night Football!

We called it "The Point. I doubt if any of those sportscasters even know what a confluence is. They certainly never know how to pronounce "Monongahela," but they are right about one thing... This is a place where giants meet. And last Sunday, I got a chance to walk among them.

The alarm went off at 5:00 AM. For a 1:00 kickoff. And I was already awake. Mrs P groaned softly, mumbling something about driving carefully and having a good time. I pulled on my black and gold turtleneck and hooded sweatshirt, then made my way down the steep steps of Mum's house to the kitchen. Coffee. Poppy seed cake. English muffin. I looked up at the clock over the sink and tried to do the math. If I left now, I could be at Skip's house by 7:00 AM. For a 1:00 kickoff. What the heck. I had nothing else to do.

The road to Gramma's house

It was pitch black, country black outside when I steered my little Honda down the two lanes of state route 66 toward New Bethlehem. The GPS chattered helpfully, but I didn't need it. I've know these twists and hills since before I could talk. We would drive up into the mountains on Friday and visit with Gramma and Grampa Cole till Sunday after the noon meal that they called "dinner." Then we'd pile into the station wagon, Mum would cry, and we would head back home to Pittsburgh.

Unless the Steelers were on TV.

If they were playing, We would settle down in the living room, Grampa in his big vinyl recliner with the little round burns in the arms and a pack of Camel cigarettes. Dad sat on the couch with his Bel-Airs. My sister and I rolled on the floor, usually arguing about something, while the little men on the black and white console TV ran around losing football games to teams led by players like Bart Starr, Johnny Unitas, and Joe Namath. Grampa would joke about how bad we were. The Pirates were the only decent team in town. Gramma and Mum would sit in the dining room with Aunt Grace or Aunt Marylin playing cards or gossiping. After the game, which the Steelers always lost, we said our goodbyes and Dad steered the big Pontiac Tempest wagon down state route 66 toward home.

So, yeah. I knew the way.

Skip playing college ball at Davidson... not too shabby

When we were in high school, our basketball team made a rare appearance in the WPIAL tournament downtown at the Civic Arena. The Pittsburgh Press interviewed our coach, and he talked about our star, "Downtown Skippy Brown." He was trying to coin a catchy nickname, but I don't think it ever took. The nickname I remember was "Wilhelm." Don't know if that's right or not, but in German class, Frau Grubesky gave us all German names like "Max" or "Friederich." Mine, oddly enough, was "Robert." If I remember right, Skip's was "Wilhelm." He was a hard kid to ignore in the halls of Keystone Oaks. When I had my growth spurt, I shot up to 6'-3" over the summer. Skip kept going till he hit 6"-10". When pestered about it, he always claimed to be 5'-8". He still does. He was a skinny, gawky kid, like most really tall teens, and the day the class bully, who had some success in the Golden Gloves took a poke at him in gym class, it didn't take long for word to spread around the school that skinny Skippy Brown had kicked the lunk-head's ass. He may have looked like a toothpick, but he was tough as re-bar. Still is.

"It's in your blood..."

Skip has been a volunteer fire-fighter for over 30 years. His grandfather was a city fireman, and use to take him down to the station house to climb on the truck and meet the rough men who risked their lived to keep the smokiest city in the world from bursting into flame. "It's in your blood," he says. He always wanted to be a fireman. I can't imagine a more reassuring figure coming through the smoke to rescue me than this gentle giant. His heart is even bigger than he is.

So it was not really surprising when I got the message on Facebook. He had Steeler season tickets. If I agreed to beat cancer, he would take me to a game. I called cancer and let him know that the deal was done. I had better things to do than die this year.

I arrived at Skip's front door around 7:45 AM. For a 1:00 kick-off. After a decent interval, I called and Karen answered the phone. Skip was in the shower. I told them I was about half an hour away, and drove off for a little tour around the neighborhood. The South Hills of Pittsburgh are like nowhere else I've ever been. Houses aren't built on these hills, they are carved into them. Here, you might have to climb 10 steps to get from the street to the ground floor. My dad grew up in a five room shot-gun house on the South Side and none of the rooms was on the same level. He knew people with coal mines in their basements. In their basements! As I drove the perennial lousy pavement of Pittsburgh, I fell in love with my hometown all over again. It is not a pretty town, not by a long shot. But it is a beautiful one. This city makes you tough. You learn to climb up the mountains and to enjoy sliding down the other side in the snow that never seems to go away. The city was built by entrepreneurs and union workers and robber barons and immigrants who were willing to dig in and make a life for themselves in a place where a lot of sensible people would stop, enjoy the view, and then move on to flatter, friendlier places. In my heart, Pittsburgh is the capital of Pennsyltucky. Coal and steel. That's who we are.

Pennsy and the Chief... No, I don't mind if you smoke...

When I finally got up the nerve to stop in front of Skip's house, he was coming out the front door to greet me, wearing Antonio Brown's #84 on a black Steeler home jersey. He extended his hand, and I plowed right past it, offering him one of my patented Pennsy welcome hugs. I'm sort of used to wrapping people up in my arms. Hugging Skip is like being embraced by a grown-up when you're 8 years old. It wasn't to be the first time I'd feel that way. I spent a lot of time that day following his footsteps and peeking out around from behind him to see what was going on. We went inside and I met their handsome pit-lab mix whose name I seem to remember was Winston, but I'm not sure if that's right or not. Karen introduced herself and welcomed me. Then we went downstairs into what Skip calls his "museum." First thing you see is his handsome son, in annual 8x10's lined up on the wall. The school pictures show a boy growing into a man who mercifully favors his Momma. Skip's office is a shrine to Pittsburgh sports. The walls are covered with autographed photos and memorabilia from the Pens, the Bucs, and the Steelers, as well as trophies his grandfather took from the Germans in WWI and a collection of fire-fighter collectibles. A bushel of Terrible Towels hangs from the rafters. The chair is a handsome black leather number with you-know-what emblazoned on the back. This is not the home of a "fan." This is the home of a devotee, a lover of tradition and greatness. It is a little nook in what they call Steeler Nation. It's a great place to hang out.

All the way from Mexico City...
Steeler Nation knows no boundaries.

We shared a few stories as I thumbed through a couple of albums filled with autographs, photos, cards, tickets. I showed skip the Terrible Towel I had tucked into my sweat shirt pocket. We said good bye to Karen and Winston, and hopped into his SUV for the drive through the Liberty Tubes and into town. Skip's family has had Steeler tickets for 50 years, so he has the routine down. Just over the bridge a man greeted us and waved us into a small parking lot outside of a business that was closed for the weekend. Skip introduced me as his old friend who was seeing his first Steeler game today. The man wished me well, took Skip's $30, and sent us on our way up the hill toward Heinz Field. We walked through the parking lots filled with tailgaters. The air was filled with the smells of burgers, keilbassa, brats, and fried onions. One table was laden with about 20 gallons of top shelf liquor. Next to it was one covered in home made brownies and cans of pop. Black and gold were the only colors. Except for the Mexican flag flown by two fans who had flown up from Mexico City to see their first game at Heinz Field. They had been fans for years, they said. I took their pictures with my big friend, and we made our way to the Great Hall. Here, beneath the bleachers, all the greats are enshrined, from Ernie Stautner to Ron Woodson. Giant replicas of the six super-bowl trophies line the center of the hall, and the place is filled with parents and kids passing the stories down.

Canton? Go north and turn left.

The first glimpse I got of the field took my breath away. Heinz field is supposed to be the worst surface in the NFL for visiting players. Just like the streets of Pittsburgh, you have to live here to love it. I looked out from the North end zone, the open side of the stadium, the side that cost Jeff Reed his job, and felt my eyes mist over. Heath Miller and Heinz Ward ran routes toward the end zone as Charlie Batch lofted rainbows to them, one after another. Lawrence Timmons and Lamarr Woodley ran sprints toward us under the cool gray sky. If you want to know the truth, I could have left right then and been happy.

Skip's seats are ridiculous. 25 yard line. Behind the Steeler bench. 10 rows back. to get much closer, you'd have to put on a helmet. Everybody seems to know him. That's because Skip treats everybody like an old friend. He knows their names and their kids names. He always introduces me. Everyone is glad to meet me and knows I'm going to have a great time. We stand and I sing the national anthem, our black and gold caps over our hearts. This is not the kind of stadium where people mill around chatting during the anthem. When the young woman finishes, my neighbor says admiringly, "That was a great job. She didn't junk it up." We know steel in Pittsburgh, and we know scrap. The came begins, and it becomes obvious to me that there's going to be a problem. When I raise my arm and twirl my towel, it is just about level with Skip's head. I whack him in the back of the noggin with nearly every wave. He never says a word.

Skip knocking the lid off of Pennsy's bucket list...
And yes, we are both standing...

At half-time, I am frozen in my seat. I contemplate the possibility of actually sleeping here tonight. This is something like Skip's 500th Steeler game. "I wish there was some way for me to tell you what I'm feeling right now, Skip." He grins, "I can see how you're feeling." "I'll remember this day, as long as I live."

And I will.

By the way, We beat the Jacksonville Jag-offs 17-13. Icing on the cake.

Peace,
Pennsy

#370: Homecoming Part 1: Mother Fair

I can remember seeing them every autumn. They gathered in little clumps on the quad. They took up tables in the pizza joint and the sub shop. They milled around the library and the student union and the chapel, telling stories about ancient days. I never knew what to make of them, these graying junior executive types in their cashmere sweaters and their carefully creased khakis.They were goofy, semi-grown-ups who couldn't get on with their lives, lurking around in the hangouts of their youth, reminiscing about drunken nights in a dry college town. I used to laugh at them. This week, I joined them.

Back in time...

Ring out the bells in Old Main's tower again...
Home of the Towering Titans

New Wilmington is a pastoral village, the western capital of Amish Pennsylvania. Unlike her eastern cousin, Lancaster, New Wilmington's Amish community doesn't market itself very aggressively. Sure, you can buy some cheese or a rocking chair. But the souvenirs available are pretty minimal. Mostly, the Amish of New Wilmington go about their business quietly, living in comfortable proximity to the private college students and "English" natives of this little town, tucked into the Alleghenies. And at the heart of the town stands Westminster College. Founded in 1852 by the Presbyterian church, Westminster looks like a college from a movie about college. There is ivy on the walls. There is chalk dust in the classrooms. The faint aroma of generations of pipe tobacco teases your imagination as you walk the halls of "Old Main," the administrative and historic center of campus. The ancient "Westminster Chimes" ring each hour, half and quarter hour. For a working-class kid from Pittsburgh, coming to Westminster was a dream come true and the chance of a lifetime.

Erin, Pennsy, and Jeff... Titans, all...

Mrs P and I arrived just a little late. We missed the class photo, but we arrived just in time to catch everyone hanging out on the library steps afterwards. I heard her laughing voice from halfway across the Quad. Erin was one of the first people I met when I came to school. She smiled that smile and gushed over my voice when I sang in chapel and I was smitten for life. We took classes together, spent our summers at Bemus Point, even met for tea when she was a RA our senior year. We were never sweethearts, but I was sure sweet on her. I guess I still am. She gave me a big hug and kiss, and asked to meet Mrs P. As I introduced them, I saw Jeff on the steps. We were room mates, class mates, cast mates, brothers, and fellow artists. Jeff went off to be a professional song-and-dance man. I went off to get my MFA and become a Broadway star. We both did ok. He's been teaching at a very prestigious university for 16 years. He has a beautiful wife and a little girl who lights up his eyes every time he mentions her. He's just as handsome and compassionate as ever. Mrs P fell in love with both of them on sight.

A place for joys and concerns...

Ever the social butterfly, Erin flitted off with another group. We would catch up at the banquet. Jeff, Mrs P and I wandered through the gray autumn afternoon, the wind blown leaves dancing around us almost as fast as the memories swirled around our every step. We entered the silent chapel reverently. So many prayers had been lifted, so many tears shed, so many joys celebrated under those great oak arches. "It's very Presbyterian," Mrs P observed, and she was right, but it was so much more. A lot of important things happened to us inside the stone walls of the chapel. A lot of friendships were started, even a love affair or two. In the sentimental memory of an alumnus, all of campus is special: but the chapel is holy ground.

Where I learned there's no such thing as a "sex ghost."

A very nice lady saw us wandering the halls of Old Main and gave us a tour. Many of our old classrooms are "smart" now. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm sure it's very expensive. We saw the room where the brilliant Peter Mackey taught C.S. Lewis wearing the crazy National Health glasses he got while a scholar at Oxford. We saw the corner spot where Patty Lamb taught us about Keats and Joe "Sure Shot" Hopkins gave us the toe-the-line, hard-core Presbyterian version of New Testament studies. Finally, we visited the room where Fritz Horn taught Shakespeare. This too was hallowed ground. I was delighted to see that there was still a pencil sharpener screwed to the dark wood trim around the slate blackboard. Maybe this old museum room wasn't "smart," but a genius used to teach here, opening our minds to the words of a writer who would change my life. He also taught me that just because somebody published it, doesn't make it true. And the best lessons are the ones you teach yourself.

Beeghly Theatre was home for all those years. That's where I auditioned and won my scholarship. It's where I played my first part in a straight play. It's where I almost failed Theatre History. And on my last day of college, it's where I stopped to say goodbye. While normal college kids were home studying or out drinking and trying for a little Calvinist nookie, we were studying lines, rehearsing scenes, practicing dialects, even learning to ride a motor bike. There was a ghost, whose name I can't recall, and a lot of hard working kids whose faces I will never forget. As we sat on the steps of the auditorium, laughing about our chain smoking mentors, the door opened and in peeked one of the loveliest of those faces.

Pennsy, Joellen, and Jeff... If you ask me,
The halo is on the wrong angel.

I remember Joellen like a little bird, vulnerable and beautiful with a lovely face and a sharp mind. Westminster wasn't always an easy world for a good Catholic girl, but Joellen found her niche. She tried acting for a while, but her heart wasn't in it. She became an English major and a writer. Now she's a mom with three handsome boys who make her so proud that she tears up when she talks about them. I embarrassed her by remembering how great she looked in her blue leotard when we were 19. Mrs P thought I was being a little inappropriate, but if somebody remembered liking my butt after 30 years, I think I'd appreciate knowing that.

Pennsyltucky's Allegheny mountains

We kissed our goodbyes in the fall afternoon, stopped by the bookstore to replace my long gone Towering Titans tee-shirt, and headed back to Mum's house to change for the banquet. How i love these mountains. I drove a lot of miles through them. Hiked them. Camped in their forests. Fished their lakes. Dreamed under their clouds. I am a city boy, but those trips to the mountains, that's where I was really raised. The best parts of me all grew out of the loamy soil under these hardwoods.

Marcia, Jeff, Pennsy, and Jennifer

The banquet was unforgettable. The company, I mean. Not the food.  I've already forgotten the food. I sat next to Marcia, a beautiful mom and dancer who used to wait tables in a yellow polyester waitress uniform at the Hotel Lenhart on Lake Chautauqua while I sweated away behind the dishwasher, wishing one of those lovely daffodils would go for a summer stroll and a smooch with me after the kitchen was clean and dark. Her daughter dances now, and her husband is an engineer. They live out west and the climate suits her. She looks as lithe and graceful as ever. And though we took a walk or two in the moonlight, I never did get that smooch.

Dear, lovely Jennifer. I'd like to tell you that she's as beautiful as ever, but the truth is that she is even more beautiful now than she was when we were all young and fresh and full of ourselves. Jennifer was an actress and a friend, and was very good at both. She once told me that she hated a monologue I did because of my "shit-eating grin." It takes a good friend to be that honest. Jennifer and I knew one another from high school when we competed on opposing speech teams. We kind of competed all the time. She was much smarter than I, so I had to find less elevated ways to take her on. We once had a bet about who could lose the most weight in two weeks. She struggled bravely through salads and yogurts while I smirked along gobbling mashed potatoes and ice cream. What she didn't know was that I was sneaking down to the track every night and running myself stupid. I won the contest, and she paid the bet. She was a woman of honor as well as candor. On her last night at Westminster, we all climbed up to the roof of the Beeghly and slept out under the stars. It was completely against the rules, of course, but we didn't care. It was a great idea and we were all actors: trained to seize great ideas and go with them. It was one of the most wonderful, magical, innocent nights of my life.

Still smitten, after all these years...

And so was Homecoming 2011. Erin kept her promise. We did catch up at the banquet. I laughed at her for the way she "worked the room," just like when she was hostess at the Lenhart, just like when she gave away that smile to each table as she made her way through the dining hall at school. We shared a few precious minutes of our own private joys and tragedies. A lot can happen to a person in 30 years, you know. Most of what we shared is just between us. But I can tell you that the laughter and tears that we exchanged were deep and heart-felt.

Much to my delighted surprise, I discovered that I really love these people. I guess I always did. Wish it hadn't taken 30 years for me to appreciate that, but I'm sure glad I lived long enough to get here. And so glad that I got a chance to share this wonderful part of my life with Mrs P. Maybe now she understands my affection for sandstone buildings and Reformation theology a little better.

Time is hard on hair, but good for hearts...

Much more happened on this special homecoming, but that's enough for one post. Tomorrow, I'll tell you about why I no longer need a bucket list. Here's a clue: Steelers 17, Jaguars 13.

Peace,
Pennsy