It’s Wonderful to Be Here, It’s Certainly a Thrill

It was 20 years ago today: I rolled into to State College in a car I no longer drive, to move into a house I no longer own, and work for a newspaper chain that no longer exists.

I was the father of three young children and the scruffy human of a scruffy mutt named Bop the Movie Dog, an easterner glad to be back in the land of fireflies and fall foliage after two decades in California.

Now the kids are grown, the Bopster has gone to the great kennel in the sky, and I’m asking myself, did I mean to stay here this long?

To tell you the truth, I don’t remember.

I know that we moved to State College, in part, because it seemed like a good place to raise a family.

I know that we didn’t want to shuffle the kids in and out of schools. With the youngest still in diapers, that meant we figured to settle in – unless we hated the place.

We didn’t hate it.

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This is a sweet spot in many ways. Lots of trees, easy access to green space, pretty campus, stimulating events, stimulating people.

I don’t love it unreservedly, however. Too far from the sea. Too far from the bright lights of Broadway.

If State College were small but close to Gotham, its smallness would be part of its appeal: One could nip out for a jolt of big-city buzz, then zip back to the ease of small-town life.

If State College were remote and large, there would be enough here to hold one’s interest.

For me, in other words, small and remote is not a great combo. Or, more accurately, it’s a fine combo for a month or so at a time. Then I need to get the hell out of here.

If I don’t, I start to feel like I’m trapped in a trash compactor, like the “Star Wars” heroes. I know that I am fortunate that, like Luke Skywalker and friends, I can escape before the walls meet.

With the small-and-remote problem thus solved, it is entirely possible that I will retire here, and stay until I go to the great newsroom in the sky.

There are worse fates.

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As a 20-year man, I have been in Happy Valley longer than the Bryce Jordan Center, Medlar Field, Wegman’s, the H.O. Smith Botanical Garden, and the IST Building.

I remember old Schlow, the old HUB, the old municipal building, and the old Creamery.

Why, I remember when Beaver Stadium held only 94,000 people. It was so quiet you could hear a vuvuzela being blown directly into your bad ear.

In fact, I was there the day JoePa got on the PA system to encourage fans to throw snowballs at the Michigan players – I mean, to order the fans to quit pelting the poor Wolverines.

And I was in the old Creamery to report on the scandal that almost ended Bill Clinton’s presidency. No, not his affair with “that woman.” I’m talking about his claiming executive privilege to mix ice cream flavors.

(It pains me to add that I was also on the scene to report on the sniper who killed one student and wounded another as they crossed the HUB lawn.)

When I got to town there were still phone booths in the HUB and you could still drive through campus on Shortlidge Road.

I was here for the fights over traffic barriers in College Heights, a Hooter’s on East College Avenue, and a second high school in the State College Area School District.

I shopped at O.W. Houtz, dined at the Hummingbird Room, and read magazines with a side of Chunky Monkey at much-missed Graham’s on Allen Street.

I also recall when there were two single-screen theaters downtown and no multiplex on North Atherton; when you could browse for rentals at Blockbuster or Hollywood, or catch a movie at the Starlite Drive-In; and when the State Theatre was waiting for a savior.

And speaking of saviors, I remember when Penn State had a football coach who walked on water, a president who played the washboard, and a professor who smoked dope in a lawn chair on College Avenue.

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In the 20 years I have been here, I have known people who totally buy into the Happy Valley mythos.

I have also known people who feel trapped in Zombie Nation, or as I like to call it, the Land of the Woo People.

But as an on-the-one-hand/but-on-the-other-hand kind of guy, I compare thee, Happy Valley, to a bed topped by a fluffy blanket.

Sometimes I feel all comfy and cozy here.

Sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating.

And sometimes I feel like my friends and I are making blanket forts, eating popcorn, and having the greatest sleepover ever.