A Painting for Her Nursery

I haven't done a painting in years, but a new friend reminded me what fun painting can be.  I'm realizing, too, that my preferred artistic outlet (theatre), is going to be less and less available to me as a new dad, so I am hoping to write more and to create more visual art as a coping strategy.  Film projects are more manageable, too, especially the shorter film projects.

Anyhow, this is for our baby girl's nursery.  It's not finished... I ran out of white paint partway through the sky, so I am eager to add another layer of highlights, then perhaps a few more detailing layers, but I have a feeling it may be hanging in there unfinished for a while.  My friend Bill has a blog about being a dad (and being a dad-to-be right now) and he put it eloquently when he spoke of the mistakes in their nursery mural: 

"Throughout the drafting, chalk-lining, taping and painting, we reminded ourselves that we were creating the mural 'out of love, not perfection.'

Becoming parents, after all, requires coming to terms with our imperfections."

Here it is, my imperfect painting for our baby girl... an abstracted view up the Susquehanna River Valley, looking north... sunrise, midday, sunset, and night (24"x48").  I'll add a photo whenever I can get it to a more finished state:

... and a little slideshow, too.

Holes, and Waking Up Ready

When people you care about die, they seem to leave holes in you somehow. The holes don't really ever go away, either, I've found. You just become more and more like swiss cheese as the years go by and the griefs pile up.

By the same token, when incredible things happen, it's like being adorned with some extraordinary power-granting gem (okay, yes, I made a Green Lantern reference), or breathing the freshest air or drinking the purest juice imaginable, or waking up invigorated and ready. That last one is something that I think has happened to me maybe six times in my life, so to me it feels like a pretty incredible event. Not a morning person over here.

One of my favorite students abruptly left this world a little over a week ago. Today was his memorial service. My administrators graciously let students and teachers attend, even though it was in the middle of the day. That's the right thing to do, and that seems to be what motivates them, in my opinion. Hence, I tend to like working for them. I've been around for students dying in the five or so years I've been working in public schools. This was the first time I knew the student so well... well, the first time since a classmate died in high school.

There's ready-made cliches for these occasions, and the fact that they're cliches makes them feel a bit wrong, even though they are actually wholly accurate. They are too young to die at this age. It isn't supposed to be like this. No parents should have to go through that.

Maybe part of why it hit me so hard is because Alexis and I are expecting a child at the end of August. We've already been through a miscarriage, so the whole event, while exciting and beautiful beyond measure, is also fraught with fear and a quiet sort of terror. I'm a little nervous about trying to be a good dad, but mainly I am just afraid of the random darkness of this fallen world sneaking up and snatching them away before this child really gets a chance to live it out.

It may be that, partly, but probably it's more to do with the fact that I knew this kid. I knew the intelligence that hid behind a quiet facade. I knew the soft heart that hid behind hard armor. I knew much more than a name and some grades and some anecdotal evidence. I cared. Once you're caring, you're already, on some level in this life, digging into yourself and building a nice comfortable hole in yourself, somewhere for them to live cozily. Then, when they're gone, you're left with that hole.

What a capricious, malevolent, cold world. What a wonderland of delights, too. When weighing the two extremes together, the highs and the lows of life, it's hard for me to regard it with anything but a strange blend of both wonder and terror.

Today I tried to mourn one of my favorite students. Tomorrow I find out if we're having a boy or a girl. And that, my friends, is death and life, sitting together in about as overwhelming a yin and yang as I've encountered.

I like art and literature because they strive to explain these great mysteries of life, and they usually do so (when they're doing it well) in non-dogmatic ways, ways that retain room for the mystery itself to still captivate and flourish.

I keep hearing a song a friend of mine wrote when I think about this new hole I'll be carrying around. "Death / He looked me straight in the eye / He said you're never too young to die / His words / They rang true in my heart / And that was the worst part / Oh, Death..."

Family is forever

I gave some serious thought to the idea of deleting that last post. I felt like I was lashing out at Penn State, and I love Penn State. Penn State is like a part of my family. Faults don't have to kill the love.

But what happened can never be undone, so I might as well own up to the anger of my reaction. I hope if anyone was hurt by what I said there that you might forgive my bitterness. I'm not generally the kind of person who lets bitterness linger and last forever. At least, I don't think of myself that way. If it makes any difference, I'm trying to forgive myself for that bitterness and anger, whether it was justified or not.

When Paterno died, I was deeply upset. It did have such a ring of tragedy to it. I admired the way his family chose to honor him, and I feel he deserved that honor. I finally went to the statue of him by Beaver Stadium with a lump in my throat.

When he died, story after story came up in my friends' facebook feeds and in news stories that told of an incredible number of anonymous acts of gracious kindness and remarkable generosity he did for people, routinely and over the course of many decades.

One key thing that changed my perspective on Paterno's role in this horrible Sandusky story was a short op ed piece written by a child abuse attorney. This attorney calmly pointed out a few factors about mandated reporter laws. First, Paterno was a mandated reporter. This has been acknowledged. Secondly, the people he reported to were exactly the people he was supposed to report to, by law. Had he violated the chain of communications, he could have jeopardized the credibility of his potential testimony. This was something I didn't know because no one was saying it in the media. Hearing this, I was able to finally see that Paterno actually did exactly what he was supposed to do. He trusted the men above him to do the right thing, and they hadn't given him any indication that he shouldn't. That broke my heart a bit, realizing this, in light of my initially buying into some of the vilification that had come towards him. I can now still think of him as a hero. He was not perfect, or a saint, but I can see goodness in him again the way I used to. Doing so makes me honestly a bit ashamed that I doubted the guy. It was so hard, when this horrible story exploded, to see anything clearly.

I am too emotionally tied to Penn State to let anger fuel my feeling for the place. If others feel that way, though, I can't blame them. And if still others feel more loyal to the place than ever, I can see their position too. I feel stuck in the middle now. Others have picked up the banner for accountability and change and are willing to shout and fight. Many of them have far more power and influence than I ever will.

What a hard end for Joe... scandal... doubt... public rage... lung cancer... betrayal... yet the man was calm and even happy because his family surrounded him. His son said he died with a clear conscience. I think that's amazing.

The black Nikes swish through the perfect grass; the khaki cuffs slap lightly after; the clash is over, the quiet re-settles, and the feet meander home through the cold, grey Pennsylvania twilight. The scoreboard is meaningless; the game was all.

I wrote this for Joe. He walked home after every game. To me, this is more about the grey misty walk into the mysterious afterlife. I hope the man gets to keep peace with himself, with his soul. He loved poetry. I hope he got to see it. It may not be a great poem, but it's from the heart.

I'm not sure what "we are" anymore, but I am sad and angry, and I pray for something better.

Nothing in this past week is more important than the sad fact that a small group of young boys had their lives destroyed by one sick, selfish man.

People keep politely using the term “alleged” to describe the actions of a clearly horrifying monster. The evidence is stacked. The courts will surely have their say. If anyone thinks for a moment Jerry Sandusky did not do these things, they are naïve to a dangerous degree. The state attorney general’s office acted carefully and spent years building evidence. They knew they couldn’t move without an airtight and overwhelming case, because if they did, the army of public opinion would overwhelm the credibility of the case, and the institutionalized blindness would be enabled to perpetuate itself.

I am sad in the extreme that these horrifying, abusive, monstrous acts happened.

I am, I guess, a little bummed that Joe Paterno got swept up in it, too, and I could easily see almost any man struggling to do the right thing when confronted with the possibility of having to send a trusted friend to jail in order to do the right thing. However, I cannot help but feel immensely disappointed that, when confronted with a chance to live his lifelong credos, one of my childhood heroes elected instead to act with a disturbing degree of cowardice.

What I feel as a lifelong football fan is dull and inconsequential in the face of things that are so much more important. I am saddened with each new media story I see focusing on Paterno or the football program at Penn State at all. A crime happened here, folks, and it’s a crime weighty and consequential enough that no one should really be giving a crap about football. It’s a freaking game. Get a grip. Screw it. Forget about football right now.

I am angry that Penn State continues to allow itself to be an institution that isolates itself from reality. It looks around at the picturesque mountains of Centre County and feels alone in its mountain hamlet. Because of this, it can become the nation’s number one party school without any social consequences. Because of this, it can allow something as horrifying as this to occur. Because of this, it remains entrenched in a cultural climate that is fundamentally unwelcoming to nonconformists and minorities. Because of this, it becomes the most celebrated corporate recruiting station. Because of this, it can tolerate utterly stupid, mongrel acts of mass riot... repeatedly, and never for any reason greater than alcohol-fueled football fanaticism. Because of this, it can put football first.

As an institution, Penn State has allowed itself to behave like an aging alcoholic in denial. It has allowed itself to behave as though it cares for nothing greater than its own public image. The slogan “success with honor” has become more important than actually achieving success with honor. There were points in the university’s past when it had success with honor (and it didn't print that slogan on a t-shirt at that once-honorable time in its past), but it has since sold out royally and drunk its own kool aid.

I see good, sane, rational people who went to PSU or grew up in State College defending the instituition this past week, and I don’t exactly understand what they feel they’re defending. The university will suffer for these crimes, and the university deserves to suffer for these crimes. There will be legal consequences and financial consequences and consequences that forever impact the story and reputation of this institution. There will be scars from this that will never go away and never stop hurting. There is no healing from this for Penn State. The school can move forward, and should, but they should also pay dearly for allowing this to happen, and they surely will. I read my own words and they feel awfully jaded... and I bet most of those sticking up for the institution have heartfelt reasons for why they feel that way. I can't assume to know better.

What I hope can come of this eventually, though, is a shift in culture there. I would like for State College to assume a greater responsibility, perhaps starting with the assumption of police responsibility for all of University Park. I would like for Penn State to humble itself and put a stop to the excessive drinking, which is so entrenched that it merited a feature story on NPR, one where "gown" appeared very bullying to "town." Enforce a culture of sobriety if it means anything to them as an institution; clearly it hasn’t meant a damn thing for decades now.

I would like for their admissions office to be a bit more judicious. Perhaps there is a template for riotous and vulgar behavior that could be screened in admissions applications. Hundreds of other institutes of public education have managed to not be defined by drunken fools and the decision-making of moronic douche bags. Perhaps Penn State could, for once, sincerely endeavor not to allow such foolishness to happen, instead of turning the blind and winking eye to that, too.

I feel so much more sorrow for State College, a remarkable community of good-willed families and forward-thinking people, than I will ever feel for Penn State. Penn State, for all its remarkable accomplishments (and the list remains extensive and impressive), allowed some despicable and vile cultures to take hold. The bacteria in those cultures spread into a virulent strain of a stupid, horrifying, and apish disease. This past week we’ve witnessed some of the results of what can happen when blindness replaces oversight, when corporate personhood replaces humanity, and when distractions become the main focus and education becomes a distraction.

I’m directing Antigone right now with a group of wonderful and dedicated high school students, and one moment that gives me chills is when the blind prophet Tieresias tells Creon:

Creon, all men are wrong at times.

This is known.

We are all of us fools at moments in our lives.

The man who is no fool in his heart

will always try to make things right.

The man who sees his folly,

who sees the darker half of his evil self in the mirror,

and decides to change course from his darker path,

he can be saved.

Men who will parade their iron mettle,

who will never examine themselves,

who brag of their hard-headed stubbornness,

these men make themselves look pathetic and stupid.

So I guess what I feel is sadness and bitterness that anyone can think much about football at a time like this, as that is indicative of the larger change that is necessary. I am sad and bitter, too, that Paterno, who knows a great deal more about Greek literature than I do and the nature of tragedy--it exists that we might learn to make wiser choices--chose the actions he chose, and also chose the inaction. PSU Football has for a long time been a symbol of doing things better, but if that symbol becomes intensely problematic (and it has), can the school manage to change itself for the better or will it simply keep perpetuating its own problems?

I pray for the childhoods Sandusky ruined. I pray for the hearts he has broken. As the sun continues to come up over what people once lovingly referred to as Happy Valley, I doubt it can ever be really considered that anymore, as one of its heroes has driven a dagger into its heart and twisted the knife. But as that new day dawns again and again and the world moves inexorably onward, I hope for justice for those victims. It should result in their destroyer being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. It should result in serious legal consequences for any and all who allowed it to happen and did not do nearly enough. It should also result in an end to the isolationism, naïveté, crass corporatism, base stupidity and horrifyingly blind selfishness that has come to define an institution that knows much, much better. It should result in matters of grave consequence.

Much of the workforce, student body, and body of alumni of Penn State have their perspectives firmly in place in a healthy way. They celebrate the way the school shapes minds and character for the better. They appreciate the good things and don't overhype the things that ultimately bear little relevance to making life better. I would offer that the vast majority of the people associated with Penn State believe in what it has done for all the right reasons. This is not a hopeless scenario. Many friends and alumni are suggesting we shift the focus to philanthropic efforts aimed at ending child abuse. This is a wonderful start to the change that must happen. I'm going to make a donation to RAINN right now.

-Robert Campbell (State College Area High School '97; Penn State University '02 BA Theatre Arts / Honors & '08 MEd Curriculum and Instruction) started going to Penn State Football games with his dad when he was six. Most of his extended family got degrees there, and several of his immediate and extended family have had long careers working for Penn State. He loves his adopted hometown of State College, which he moved to at the age of fourteen. He believed in everything Joe Paterno brought to the institution's identity, as did hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, of others. Joe at his best seemed to think life was about a great deal more than football...

Homecoming 2011

This short piece was a sample I wrote for my students as part of an assignment they had to do replicating some aspect of the American transcendental experience...


-----


On homecoming weekend, I went home for the first time in many, many years.

When people ask me where I’m from, I usually tell them I’m from State College. Sometimes they need assistance figuring out just where that is, so I use my open left hand as a map of Pennsylvania and point to the root knuckle of my middle finger.

State College is a neat little town. It’s clean, it’s friendly, it’s vibrant. It’s filled with hustle and bustle, color and life, fun and smart people. It’s got a few too many fraternity types wandering around drunk at three in the morning, but beyond that it’s generally pretty safe, too.

I moved to State College when I was fourteen, and it wasn’t long before it felt like home. It was a better fit for me. A lot of who I was fit in there better than it did where I grew up. The nerd in me, the artist in me, the performer in me, the thinker in me, and even the football fan in me all fit in better in that town.

I grew up in the sticks. When people think of northeastern Pennsylvania they generally think of coal mines, flooding disasters, the Pocono Mountains, and not much else. I grew up about twenty minutes west of Wilkes-Barre in a little hollowed-out patch called the Back Mountain. Dallas, Pennsylvania is the only real town to speak of in the Back Mountain, and the rest of the area there is pretty rural: two-lane roads zig-zag between rows of forests, hills and creeks. The terrain is steep and claustrophobic, and where it isn’t there’s basically nothing but farms.

Rural America is often gorgeous. Even when it seems dirty or broken, the haunting charms of Americana can infiltrate one’s soul. The people in the country are almost always a little extra: the friendly folks are extra friendly, the tough guys are extra tough, the mean kids are extra mean, etc.

I found, as I got older, that the Back Mountain wasn’t going to support me as an artist, as a performer, as a nerd. I couldn’t be myself there, not fully, anyhow. Country strong doesn’t leave a lot of room for intellectual or artistic pursuits. Lucky for me, we moved.

I miss the beauty of my childhood home, though. I miss the jaw-dropping autumn colors; only two hours south, it’s just not the same. I miss the wind in the trees. It just sounds different in those mountains. I miss the haunted feeling of our two-hundred-year-old country house as it breathed and creaked in the winter. I miss the loneliness of the country, that feeling of space and time just to oneself that is so easy to find there, and so hard to find anywhere else.

The last time I’d visited was about five years ago. My wife (we were just dating then) and I went up to Scranton for a minor league baseball game. We know one of the coaches. It was a nice visit. On the way home, I detoured through the Back Mountain and showed her some of my favorite old familiar sights. Memories get more powerful with age. The ghosts of that place hadn’t gone anywhere; they were still there, and I could feel them tugging at me.

In the interim, some of my best friends had discovered Ricketts Glen. It’s an incredible place to hike and swim and camp. Ricketts Glen is one of the more gorgeous state parks in Pennsylvania, and probably one of the more underrated gems of all America’s state parks. It’s a short distance from the house I grew up in, nestled in the hills and hollers of the Back Mountain. Two robust creeks run down the middle face of a steep rock mountain, and every couple hundred yards these streams drop off a steep slate cliff, creating a powerful waterfall vista. There are more falls in Ricketts than I can recall; one after another they come, each unique, each powerful, each gorgeous. In autumn, Ricketts Glen is on fire with oranges and browns, yellows and reds. The hiking there can be treacherous, and it’s a heck of a workout, but the payoff is phenomenal.


These friends had always invited me to come along to Ricketts Glen, and I’d always been busy and had to say no. This weekend, I could go. They were all excited about the gorgeous place and the gorgeous hike. As for me, I was mired in old anxieties and nostalgia, part sadness and part joy, at the prospects of going back home.

I think I cling to my past more than most. I’m not sure why. Revisiting the past, though, always puts a strange taste in my mouth. That was then, and now it’s different, I suppose. Going home is a wistful, bittersweet experience.

That day we got up early, rode two hours north, and hit the hiking trails before ten in the morning. The first hour or so was rough. I was reminded just how out of shape I am. Eventually, though, my lungs adjusted and I found a steady pace. The falls were stunning. Ricketts Glen was in all its Tolkien-esque finery. The water rolled over those slate falls and my childhood flooded over in my mind. It had been too long.



We can’t escape our pasts. They will always creep up when we least expect it, for better or worse. It’s best to just go toward the nostalgia, to shake off the dust and embrace it again. As we crested the mountain, I got my second wind. Maybe I finally felt country strong.

-----

One week later, I woke up next to Alexis and she mumbled something about meeting up with her sister Brianna and some friends to go for a run at Wildwood. “It’s about a 5k,” she murmured, half-asleep.

Wildwood is my favorite place to hike around here. It’s no Ricketts Glen, but it’s a special place, an accidental gem of a park around an old public works drainage spout that collects stream runoff. American lotuses flower and flourish there, a rare find in this part of the country. It has brackish swampy spots and steep hillsides, wooded coves, wooden walkways, birds everywhere, and teeming plant life.

“I want to go with you,” I said.

They all jogged one direction, and I walked the other. My wife and friends are training for a 10-mile run for the arts this spring. I like to walk.

I popped in my ipod earbuds and rambled into the swampy side passages, raised wood platforms weaving through the dense swampland in a serpentine twist. The Indigo Girls sang “Galileo” and I thought about my mother-in-law’s fat dead cat with the same name. He was such a sweet boy. The walk was some kind of weird nineties retrospective, replete with Weezer, Luscious Jackson, and Nirvana. When I turned around to head back, I felt lighter at first, then for a brief moment I felt something like fear crawling up behind me.

I thought of Emerson and Thoreau, and realized I was about to teach them, albeit briefly, in my American Literature course. I got the idea for this project with the fresh cold air of fall in my lungs, walking in the tamed wilderness of modern America.

House and Home

I don't blog very often, but when I do, I need it.

I'm back for another year of teaching this fall. Tomorrow marks my first official day back. I will be in my room this afternoon setting up once again. I am filled with excitement. My rosters are full of amazing students, my courseload is challenging, yet exhilarating, and I genuinely like where I work.

However, I am sad to see this time go. I need to bury my summer first.

This summer was unlike any other. Alexis and I closed on our first home. I have been yearning to own a home since I was 23 years old. I am now 32. Nine years of pining away finally ended. For much of that time I was working full-time in the theatre in central Pennsylvania. This was great fun, and I still work part-time in the theatres in the area, but I didn't think I would ever be able to afford a house doing that work full-time. Fortunately, I knew I loved to teach, and I knew I had a chance to be in a great teacher training program, one that works especially well for lateral career shifts. All of that worked out. Alexis got a better paying job, though still in the nonprofit arts world. A couple years of saving, a lot of luck and support, and poof: here we are.

Our house is charming and lovely. It's everything we could have wanted in a first home--nothing too fancy, and not without problems, but in all an excellent little house. I am hoping it's our last home, honestly. I, like anyone who ever moves anywhere, feel pretty strongly right now that I don't ever want to move again.

I took a bunch of photos along the way, so here goes...

This is the front of the house:

... and this is the back.

Not bad, right? Pretty quaint. Here's some of what we've done with it.

BEFORE

The patio:

The den:

The living room:

The breakfast nook:

The master bedroom:

Spare bedroom:

The kitchen:

DURING

We did a fair amount of painting. I didn't document much of that, but I have a few process shots from the den.

Special thanks to our intrepid paint crew: Joe G (den and dining room), Brianna D (dining room and breakfast nook), and Zach B (dining room).

AFTER

Once all the boxes were unloaded, round one of painting completed (our breakfast nook, dining room and den were painted--the kitchen is in the plans for painting later), some furniture was purchased (although most of it we already had, or was graciously given to us by our moms)... we had a house.

Kitchen / breakfast nook:

These old ladder-backed chairs were the same ones my family ate breakfast, lunch and dinner on when I was a kid. Those kinds of things mean a lot to me. We have a Barbara Campbell Thomas original on the back wall.

Alexis' mom got us an exhaust fan and microwave--Alexis and I installed it with the assistance of our friend Joe... thanks, Patti!

Living room:

Furniture set (couch, loveseat) from Discount Mattress and Furniture King. No frills, no extra costs passed along to the consumer. We got a great deal. Everywhere else we looked was overpriced, in our opinion.

Alexis had one of our favorite paintings (by my sister Barbara) mounted and framed...

Dining room:

I still want to get a better curtain rod and move those curtains up higher. This room went from a peachy color to this gray. I think paint color names are often silly. This is called "elephant skin." I do love the color, though.

Patti also got us this antique dish hutch... classy!

The dining room is a nice little showcase for several of my sister's paintings, too. The table was my family's dining room table for many years while we were in Huntsville, PA. I remember my mother made my brother a chocolate cake that was shaped like Darth Vader's head, and we ate it at this table, among other things.

The den:

Gamut production posters (Robinson Smith, designer) in frames, all from shows in which Alexis or I were cast...

This furniture came from Rich and Patti's basement family room. Both items are very comfortable. We're lucky to have them. Paintings in the den are by my sister as well as local artist Garrick Dorsett.

The entryway:

Our foyer features another '90s-era Barbara Campbell Thomas painting.

Guest room:

The bedrooms all have curved walls where the roof meets the walls of the house. They are a basic beige, a very neutral color. Our paint choices were pretty bold, so we're holding off on painting them for now. Neutral isn't always boring, I keep telling myself. I welcome any suggestions for color or paint techniques.

This room was a total team effort--knitted afghan courtesy of my mom (I got that afghan over ten years ago--it has held up quite well), beds from my folks (I grew up sleeping on these bunks), one mattress from the Campbells in State College, one purchased, and bedding from Patti. Paintings by (you guessed it) Barbara and her friend Tia Factor. I guess we should get bedspreads, too...

Spare bedroom:

Our old futon, which came to us via Rich, Patti, and Brianna, now lives in semiretirement up in this cool little room with loads of built-in shelves. This room also has a painting of my sister's, one she gave me for Christmas many years ago.

Master bedroom:

Yet another painting of Barb's and a plant we got from Patti adorn the far wall in here, along with many shelves of family and friend photos. The bedside tables and tv stand bookshelf were my grandfather's. They're oak, but they'd been pretty banged up after I had them for a few years (I moved with them quite a few times), so I gave them a black lacquer treatment. The Japanese prints were also my grandparents', a memento of a trip they took to Japan. Alexis uses my grandmother's dresser, and I have one that was handed down from my brother Matthew.

The patio:

When I was little, my grandmother used to always tell my sister, "Someday this will be yours." I asked my mom what I was getting one day. She said, "What do you want?" I gave it some thought, then said I wanted Nana's porch furniture. This summer I got it. I love having items from my family. It makes me think of them more often. I think of my grandparents when I sit out here, and that makes me happy. Nothing store-bought could ever compare. Special thanks to my mom, Ellen, for weeding the patio brick on the day we moved in.

So that's it for now. I have a whole horror story / saga of struggle, redemption and triumph to share about the basement, but I'll do that another day. We're surrounded by art and furniture from family that stretches back to before we were born, mementos of times with the family and friends we hold so dear. Friends and family are welcome--just give us a heads up when you're coming. Be blessed. I know we are.