Weekend review: PSU and a foggy morning

This weekend was our annual trip to see a Penn State game, compliments of my aunts and uncles, who seem to come up with tickets for us annually, yet are consistently vague in how they get ‘em or who we owe for them. (Thanks, Aunt Cathy & Aunt Anne for making the weekend possible!)

After enjoying a breakfast tailgate, we ambled into the stadium. The opponent was Eastern Illinois, a team not considered to be in the same league as Penn State, and because it was expected to be a blowout, Beaver Stadium was not filled to its usual, sardine-tin capacity.

Our tickets were for seats in different areas of the stadium. This is the view from two of the seats, down low in the North section.  The right side of those bleachers is filled with students. You may be able to see an “S” surrounded by white – those are seniors. Above them are three floors of suites, where one can view the game in climate-controlled comfort, something that matters much more during the later season games.   Fortunately, yesterday was temperate and dry – perfect football weather.

Curt took The Boss and Peezer up to our other three seats, high up in the south section, where they quickly discovered one of Beaver Stadium’s several microclimates. It was a head-on wind up there, and the boys quickly tired of it. Fortunately, there was plenty of room in our section, so at halftime, they relocated to the cozy lower level with the rest of us.

Peezer at Penn State

Because the score was even more lopsided than predicted, the crowd began to filter out during the second half. That meant there was lots of room to stretch out. Apparently, these folks three rows in front of us failed to notice the additional real estate in their vicinity… either that or they really luuuved each other. I took this photo about halfway through the 4th quarter:

Togetherness

We spent last night at Curt’s parents’ home, and this morning we awoke to an unusual view.  Their house is positioned on the side of a mountain with a sweeping view of a quintessentially Central Pennsylvanian valley, and while it’s always spectacular, this morning was breathtaking:

It looks like a lake surrounded by mountains, doesn’t it? That’s fog that settled down into the floor of the valley.  After a while, it burned off and here’s what it looked like (look beyond the neighbors’ house to the valley):

The difference in colors / exposures are a result of me messing with my camera, which I finally received back from warranty repair. I did not manipulate or otherwise adjust these other than the settings in the camera. These shots just don’t do the view justice; I never get tired of gazing towards the valley.

The tug of history

This past Thursday, I drove 2 1/2 hours north into Central PA, to an old, small, red brick church in the country.  The occasion was the funeral service and burial of my Great Aunt May, and the venue was the church where I was raised, located within view of the farm where I grew up.

The minister was new to the church and didn’t know Aunt May well, but he said he learned much during his meeting with her five children. In particular, he said he found great comfort in knowing that May would take her eternal rest in a place where many generations before her also chose to be buried. It warmed his heart, he said, to think that she would be surrounded by her ancestors.

It’s true, she’s buried next to her first husband, my Uncle Gilbert, but technically, the little cemetery in the valley holds many generations of his family, not hers.  Nevertheless, she proudly took the Beaver name when she married.  She even researched and wrote a geneaology book, outlining the descendants of George Beaver of Pfoutz Valley, PA. It was this George who, in 1878, would be the first of many to be buried in that quiet plot of land that is surrounded yet today by fields of grain.

As I exited the highway and drove through Millerstown, turned right to go up the hill, past my high school, then out into the valley, I felt as if I was being transported back in time. (The Simple Minds song on the radio helped.) I used to drive from home to school a couple of times a day and joked then that I could probably drive it with my eyes closed.  I used to know who lived in every house along the five-mile route. Now, I know many have been sold to new occupants. Things are “turning over” in the valley.

The inside of Pfoutz Valley United Methodist Church hasn’t changed much since I left home for college in 1985. The same portrait of Jesus hangs on the wall over the same gold cross on the same altar furniture.  Ginny played hymns on the same organ I used to practice on during that one year I took lessons in high school.  Food for the post-funeral luncheon was arranged on the table in the kitchen where my Sunday School class met when I was a teen.  Several of the men and women who watched me grow up were there, attending to the food so that the mourners could eat and visit with each other.

I understand what the minister was trying to say, about finding comfort in being surrounded by so much history. He remarked that many people don’t have that. I moved to the DC area almost 20 years ago and figure we’ll stay here at least until the kids are grown, if not longer. But when I think about where I would want to be buried, my mind always wanders back to the little cemetery in the valley. My dad’s there, my grandma and grandpa are there, and all those generations of ancestors, a little piece from whom I carry within my own genes.  Also, I like how the cemetery is next to the church. Around here, there are huge “memorial parks” that have no church association. Our own church doesn’t have its own cemetery.   It just makes sense to me for one to be buried next to the place where one worshipped.

But would it make sense for my survivors to cart me the whole way up there?  Not really. It’s not practical. I mean, I spent only 16 years of my life there. But they were the formative years. The ones that really leave a big impression on my soul.  And even though I’ve been gone now for more years than I lived there, I still feel the tug of history, the pull of that connection to those who went before.

Hey, kid: Wanna win a knife?

When we were in Pennsylvania week before last, we spent an evening trying to find enjoying the Schuylkill County Fair.  It was everything we expected: Carnie rides, awesome food, first-class entertainment (an Elvis impersonator was the featured act the night we were there), barns full of 4-H exhibits (baked goods, home-grown produce, and farm animals galore) – the works.

For some reason, Bubta decided he was enchanted by the goats, and begged us to take one home:

And Peezer? He rode this ride eleventy-frillion times in a row:

As much as I loved the fresh-cut fries, served up by the local Grange (or was it the Lions Club?), and the funnel cake that was so hot I burned my fingers, I have to say that this was, by far, my favorite attraction:

It’s not a great photo, but if you read the bottom, you’ll see it says RING ‘N’ KNIFE, and if you look at the two turntables above, you will see that they are studded with real, live KNIVES! That can cut things! You buy rings (20 for $4 or a whole bucket o’ rings for $5), then you try to toss the rings onto the knife you wish to have. It sounds easy, but the turntables do turn, so you really have to know what you’re doing. (But NO LEANING, please!)

Now, I know what you’re thinking, Mom and Dad. You’re thinking, that’s not such a great idea – what if my teenager wins a knife? How will I know about it? And aren’t knives kind of… dangerous?

Rest assured, the good folks who run the RING ‘N’ KNIFE booth have already thought of that.  They’ve addressed your concerns with a couple of helpful signs, suspended from the roof of the booth:

The sign says:

ATTENTION

Anyone can play, You must be

18 to receive knife.

Under 18, You will receive a coupon for

your parents to redeem for your knife.

Another sign helpfully adds:

PARENTS MUST TAKE KNIVES HOME

Well, that settles it then! Have at it, kids!

MINOR: Hey, Dad! Can I have five bucks?

DAD: Now junior, haven’t you had enough French Fries yet?

MINOR: Naw, I wanna throw rings at the Ring ‘n’ Knife.

DAD: You know you can’t take the knife home, right?

MINOR: Right. Got it. I definitely won’t lie about my age or anything.

DAD: All right, then. Be careful. And no leaning!

MINOR: Thanks, Dad!

DAD: Good luck! Try for the scrimshaw!

I dunno. It just struck me as funny. I’ve seen the nickel pitch, where you could throw coins into glassware and win anything you manage to land your change in. I’ve seen where you buy ping pong balls and toss them into small fishbowls in hopes of taking home a disposable goldfish.

But knives?

Huh. I guess that’s how they roll in Schuylkill County.