Volume 4, Issue 1
(September
2010)

"We don't stop hiking because we grow old; we grow old because we stop
hiking."
-Finis Mitchell

Welcome Back!
This is the fourth year of The Hemlock, LHU's online journal devoted to environmentalism, outdoor recreation,
and the culture of Pennsylvania. The Hemlockis a production of the Environmental Focus Group, which is
committed to promoting and supporting activities, experiences, and structures that encourage students,
faculty, and staff to develop a stronger sense of place for Lock Haven University and central Pennsylvania.
All of the articles in this issue are by LHU students. Last spring Professor Marjorie Maddox Hafer taught a
course on Pennsylvania Authors, and Professor Dana Washington taught a course on Creative Nonfiction.
The result was a series of excellent essays on nature and Pennsylvania culture, and many of those student
writers sent their finished works to us. Future issues will contain articles written by students, faculty, staff,
and members of the Lock Haven community.
If you would like to contribute an article, please contact Bob Myers. We would be very interested in
publishing anything connected with the outdoors, environmentalism, or Pennsylvania culture and history.
Past issues can be seen at Hemlock Past Issues.

Only a Camper Knows the Secrets of Cook Forest
--Jessica Johnston (LHU Sport Administration major)
My father turns the old brown station wagon down the familiar dirt road marked with evergreen trees that
bask in the glow of the sun. Straight ahead, the sign Cook Forest State Park welcomes us, and I can no longer
sit still. We drive through the campground to the site where my Grandparent’s trailer is set up and see my
cousins running around crazily as my Aunt and Uncle struggle to set up their tents. My brother and I jump
from the car, run around to give hugs, and add to the chaos. Today is the beginning of an amazing week of
camping with the family.
Every year, my family makes the four-hour drive to Cook Forest, Pennsylvania to camp with my Nana and
Papa, Aunt Dar and Uncle Randy, and cousins: Emily, Jeremiah, Ian, and Dylan. Since we live so far apart,
we only see each other a few times a year, making each moment a monumental adventure. Together, we
brave the mosquitoes, mud, and uncomfortable ground to enjoy a week of memories. We do not need
designated activities to participate in; our imaginations take us on incredible trips, and no idea is a stupid
idea with our family. If someone wants to build a fort, we will make the fort. If we want to pretend to be a
king and the royal family, we will make it happen. This week is a vacation for everyone, and the week with
our family is something we are sure to never forget.
After setting up camp, the adults laze around the campsite, rarely seeing the kids. We are off exploring the
campground and return to the campsite only for regular check ins, meals, and sleeping. Together, three of
my male cousins, brother, and I take on the wild. I quickly become one of the boys. We hike the Black Forest
of Pennsylvania, walking the paths surrounded with virgin white pines, hemlock timber stands, and endless
evergreens. Wandering the paths, we enjoy nature: climbing the trees, and fitting our bodies onto even the
tiniest branches, catching frogs near the river, then making them participate in frog races, jumping in mud
puddles, with the purpose of covering ourselves in mud, and rolling down hills, racing to the bottom, and
dizzying ourselves to the point that we can hardly walk once we reach the bottom. We stray to the Clarion
River for a swim, and Jeremiah decides to make a raft. He pulls out a tangled brown rope from his mud
covered backpack, and wraps it carefully around the pieces of wood. He binds them together with precision
and sets it afloat on the river. Jumping on, we discover it floats surprisingly well. Grabbing another piece of
wood as a paddle, we row through the murky water for a few hours. We paddle with the current to see how
fast we can go, and paddle against the current to test our strength. Then we take turns jumping off the raft
into the cool water.

Riding the raft down the river is relaxing, as we look around at the surroundings. We see rabbits playfully
scampering around a tree, and turtles poking their heads out of the water. Fish swim away as they see our
raft coming closer. Birds chirp and fly around, and we sit back and listen to their songs fill the
air. Occasionally, we make up stories for the lives of the animals, and pretend we know what they are
discussing as they bellow their sounds. We even see a herd of white tail deer jog across a nearby field. After
a short while, we lie on our backs and gaze at the clouds. We name the shapes and make up stories of the
clouds, and the relationships they share in the sky. The fluffy cumulous clouds quickly turn into animals,
people, and objects of our imagination. The game continues until hunger strikes, and our stomachs growl in
anticipation of food. Then we swim our way to the shore, climb up the muddy slope, and run back to the
campsite laughing and playfully shoving each other as nighttime draws closer.
The six adults laugh as we show up covered in mud and drenched from head to toe. They send us to the
showers as they make dinner over the fire. The showers are lined in a row on the outside of the communal
bathrooms. We yelp as the hot water burns our skin, making us jump out of the water. In less than five
minutes, the water becomes too cold to enjoy, and we try to make the rest of the shower a quick
experience. Even so, we make sure to use an abundance of soap, especially on our feet that seem to have
become caked in mud to the extent that our skin is now dark brown. As we shower, we sing songs and laugh
with each other even though we are separated by the shower walls. We cannot let a shower take away the
precious minutes we have with each other.
After showering, the smell of BBQ chicken and baked potatoes overtakes us as we walk back and see my aunt
pull them from the coals of the fire. The crickets chirp louder as darkness takes over, and the campground
quiets down to let nature’s beauty sing. The moon lights up the sky, and the stars shine as we chat and eat
plate after plate of the amazing food. Papa passes around his jar of peanuts, and we lick the salty shells, eat
the peanuts, and toss the shells into the fire that sparks in appreciation of our gift. Aunt Dar announces it is
time for S’mores and mountain pies, and we convince ourselves we are still hungry. We retrieve sticks to
brown our marshmallows over the fire as my mom prepares graham crackers and chocolate. After adding
our browned or burnt marshmallows, we pass them around and each enjoy our special treat. Marshmallow
slides out leaving sticky white goo on our faces as we try to throw uncooked marshmallows in our cousin’s
open mouths.
After S’mores, we take turns using the mountain pie makers. Aunt Dar lines up cans of cherry and blueberry
pie filling on the table. Then she gets out peanut butter, chocolate, and pizza supplies and lets us make our
own mountain pies. My favorite is pizza, so I put pizza sauce, mozzarella cheese, and pepperoni inside two
pieces of bread, place it in the mountain pie maker, and put it into the coals of the fire. I check it carefully to
see when the bread is browning slightly on the outside, to know that the cheese is melted on the inside, and

that it is done cooking. Then I savor each bite as I taste the delicious treat and savor the unique taste, because
I only get to eat them during our yearly camping trip. After we have had our fill of the tasty food, and had
our turns cooking in the fire, we sit back and look at the stars. The sky is beautifully clear, and we can see
millions of the stars in the sky, way too many to count. We look for constellations, but usually cannot find
any actual star designs, and end up making up our own shapes. Mostly we just sit around the fire ring to
keep warm, enjoy the company of family, listen to the crickets, frogs, and other wildlife around us, and
appreciate the broad expanse of undeveloped land, and the endless nature surrounding us at the
campground.
When the adults run out of energy, we are sent to bed with bulging stomachs, but cannot bring ourselves to
sleep. My cousins, brother, sisters, and I, gather in a circle within the tent and spend the night telling stories,
playing cards by flashlight and playing truth or dare. We start by telling stories of school, friends, and our
individual adventures. Then, we share ghost stories, which we struggle to remember, and often end up
telling ridiculous jokes. After running out of stories, we play go fish, crazy eights, Uno, egyptian rats, war,
bull, and rummy. We try new games, but usually end up forgetting them after switching back to our normal
competitions. Then, we play the most fun game of all: truth or dare. Truth is usually too boring, so we all go
for the dare. What crazy task can we be dared to try? We run around the tent naked, eat bugs, and sing
funny songs. When we cannot think of anymore dares, we switch to truth, and invade each other’s
privacy. Who do you have a crush on? What is the farthest you have gone with someone? If anyone in the
room could be your slave for a day, who would it be and what would he/she have to do? What are you
afraid of? Our parents can see the glow in the tent, and we hear faint shouts ordering us to go to
sleep. Disregarding the shouts, we play until our eyes cannot stay open another second and drift away to
dream about adventures we will have the next day.
The next few days pass without any consideration of time. We get up when the sun shines into the tent,
making sweat stick to our skin, and go to bed when we cannot stay awake any longer. We ride bikes around
the playground, stopping to say hi and pet other camper’s dogs. The barks of the dogs follow us as we circle
the trails of the campsites. We roller blade, racing each other and obtaining quite a few skinned knees,
bumps, bruises, black-and-blue marks. Never dismayed, we run to the playground equipment, swing back
and forth, slip down slides, and force cherry bombs against our see-saw partners. When we tire of the
playground, we sprint to the bumper boats to hit other boats in the water. Or, we dash to the water slide, to
be cooled off from the hot Pennsylvania sun. The park is huge and offers endless opportunities for fun;
choosing our next activity is a difficult task.
Dad takes me on an hour-long horseback ride as a special treat and short break from the boys. I am assigned
a gorgeous brown horse named Isabel, who turns without needing much direction. In comparison, Dad is

put on a mule named Gus, who refuses to listen. I laugh and tell him he does not have the special touch. I
enjoy every step as my horse walks among the rocks and trees of the trail and disregard the ache that grows
in my bottom from riding the horse. Ignoring the slight pain, I enjoy the relaxation of riding a horse through
evergreens, flowers, and rabbits, squirrels, and foxes that wander through the woods. At the end of the hour
we have trouble walking, but are full of laughter and excitement, reminiscing on the ride as we waddle back
to the campsite, trying to stretch out our legs from the pain of the horse.
Way too soon we are taking our last bike ride around the campground, waving to our fellow campers, petting
the dogs’ goodbye, and trying our best to stay clean. Less laughter fills the air as we look around and
remember our adventures from the week, silently wishing they did not have to end. Back at the campsite, we
help take down the tents, load the cars, and prop our bikes on the backs of the cars. My brother and I give
hugs and kisses, say our goodbyes and load into the station wagon. As we drive away, we wave to my Nana
and Papa, my Aunt and Uncle, and cousins standing by the fire ring. We pass the trees lazily swaying in the
wind, the puddles being dried up from the hot sun, the river that burned our muscles as we swam, the paths
that we wandered and explored, the horse whinnying for a ride, and lastly the sign: Thanks for visiting Cook
Forest. We hope to see you soon! Oh, we will see you soon, one more year and it will be as if our adventures
had just begun.
Appalachia ‘Shine
--Rachael Estudante (LHU English major)
It took me ten minutes to gather the nerve to get out of my car and onto the Hawkins’ doorstep. I knocked
twice. I wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a date, but my nerves were prepared.
Joe answered the door. He gave me the once over and raised a skeptical eyebrow. I blushed. My tube top,
jeans and flip flops didn’t seem to fit his idea of fishing attire.
“C’mon in, I gotta grab ma bait and tackle,” He motioned a large lazy hand to follow.
I followed and was intercepted by his mother and sister. Both of them were hearty and unkempt women. I
caught them giving my general appearance a skeptical eye. The only lines I’d cast were from the side of a
bridge, so for all I knew, my outfit would do. I moved to meet Joe in his room, trying to calm the color in my
cheeks. He gathered up his rod and bait, then turned to me.
“Ya wanna drink tonight?” It wasn’t a question so much as a dare. I was always down for a good dare.

“Sure.”
“Alrighty. Follow me, buddy,” He chuckled and disappeared down the hall.
I followed him out the back door and down into a root cellar. The room was stuffy, dark and, cold. The only
light came through the open cellar door and glinted off several shelves of homemade canned goods making
jars of carrots and beans look like pickled entrails. I could hardly see. Apparently it was just enough light for
Joe to work. I saw his shadow methodically working while glass clanked.
“A jug or a jar?” he asked.
“…What?” I was lost.
“Of moonshine. Should I fill a jug or a jar?”
“Moonshine?” I asked in disbelief.
“You’ve never had moonshine, have ya?” He was pleased. It was a dare. “We’ll go with a jar. I don’t want
you to get sick.”
“Where in the Hell did you get moonshine?”
“We make it. Where else? Ya know the Durandetta’s farm ‘tween here and Clearfield? We trade ‘em corn in
exchange for a couple jugs of whiskey ev’ry year. Sometimes they throw us a couple cuts from a cow they
butcher, too.”
I didn’t reply, but instead thought over his response. Moonshine. I’d figured the whole moonshine gig was
isolated in the more Southern states, and had basically died out after prohibition. Apparently not. I suppose
we were in Curwensville, which was nestled in the Appalachians.
Joe screwed the lid onto a jar, and we headed to my car. He gave me directions to our fishing spot and we
headed out.
“This won’t do,” he tsk’ed and replaced my ambient indie mix cd with one he’d brought along. We listened
to Merle Haggard the rest of the car ride.

“Here, here. Turn HERE,” he commanded. I was caught off guard. I didn’t see the turn off until I scanned
twice. The road was hidden by thick trees. I took the road and followed it about a mile, flinching at every rut
my undercarriage endured.
He guffawed and teased, “Be a lot easier to get down this road if we were in my dad’s truck. I guess you can
always get out and push if we get stuck.” I scoffed and rolled my eyes at this. After ten minutes, we reached a
point where we had to leave the car behind.
“We got ‘bout a mile ta walk. Grab all yer stuff.”
I grabbed our poles while he snagged his bulging knapsack. He led me down an overgrown, paved path.
Trying to keep up, I stumbled over rocks and fallen tree limbs, ducked under unruly branches and danced
over mud puddles. I was beginning to see why my outfit had been scrutinized.
“Here we are,” he said, pleased, as he plopped down his knapsack on an ancient concrete slab that looked
over the Susquehanna. “It’s the old Lumber City Bridge. There used to be a town here. Part of the town’s
under the river. The bridge fell out and this’s all that’s left. Perfect place to make a fire and fish. Now before
we do that, let’s get some firewood before it’s dark.”
I was assigned the kindling while he took on huge logs and boughs. We collected a decent pile, enough – he
said – to keep the fire burning for a good five hours. He turned to making the fire while I took a seat on a
ledge left behind from the bridge. I watched intently.
He fashioned the kindling into a teepee and lit it, walking me through the process of how to make a fire “the
right way.” After the kindling had caught, he added larger pieces of wood, which gave me time to admire his
figure.
He was 6’5” and built. Dying sunlight accentuated his sinewy arms. The firelight lit his stern face and gave a
healthy glow to his dishwater hair. Dark blue eyes were made navy by growing shadows and the slight
bumps of the bridge of his nose were silhouetted by sunset. His brow furrowed in concentration, while his
muscles tightened as he snapped thick branch to feed the flames.He was into this fire.
“Alright. Let’s fish,” he said more to himself than to me, after the fire was blazing. By then it was dusk, and
he baited his hook using firelight, though he did it so naturally that I believed he could’ve done it
blindfolded. He stood up to cast into the river, then sat down on the concrete slab’s ledge. He patted the spot

next to him, so I came and sat too, but not before sending my own line sailing halfway across the river.
We sat in silence for a while. The fire cracked and popped. It was only late April, so the warm which washed
over our backs was welcome. Our feet dangled about ten feet over the languid, shallow water; ancient
Susquehanna in no hurry to meet up with the Chesapeake. Her healthy moss green hue had faded quickly
when light had disappeared, however if you looked close enough, you could see the reflection of the first
stars. The surface was smooth and regal, as if thousands of years of flowing had earned it the right to settle
her rapids and relax on her journey. The only disturbances came from the occasional hungry fish.
On the opposite bank, three mountains squatted against the sky, cradling the last pinks of sunset among their
weathered peaks. They reminded me of grumpy old men who might snap at you for trespassing onto their
property. The darkness that lay over them intimidated me. I noticed now that except for the fire, Joe and I
were steeped in darkness. My mind took to conjuring up what sorts of things one might encounter in the
woods, at night, in the middle of nowhere.
Joe must have sensed my discomfort, for he teased “Ya all right ov’r there? We can crack op’n that jar a ‘shine.
It’ll help loos’n us up.” He fumbled in his knapsack and presented the mason jar. The lid scraped as he spun
it off with a quick flick. He took a generous swig then thrust it at me. I grabbed it, taking the dare with a
straight face. The alcohol kicked in my mouth and blazed a trail down my esophagus.
Apparently, I hadn’t maintained my straight face too well. He delighted in this and let out a triumphant
laugh, then took the jar back. He took two more pulls then thrust it back towards me. Just as I reached for the
jar, a shapeless animal let out a menacing cry. I started, almost dropping the jar in mid exchange. He roared
with laughter. “Don’t get out much, do ya?”
“ . . . No. Not out here. Don’t tease me,” I chided.
“Sorry, sorry. I gotta have a little fun with you bein’ all freaked out, ya know?” His smile was infectious, and
further warmed by firelight. “C’mere,” he said and put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer to
him. His lips touched my forehead and lingered there for a bit.
He turned abruptly and instinctively, snatching his pole. He let out a whoop as he began to reel in a fish. I
smiled to myself, as I watched him intently and took another swill. He caught my smile.
“Told ya I could show you a good time out here, din’t I? Yer havin’ a pretty good time, ain’t ya?” he nudged
my shoulder. I nodded. He was right. This was the first time I’d actually taken the opportunity to enjoy the

Appalachians, and I loved it.
Joe reeled in his catfish with vigor, swinging it out of the water, within inches of my face. I would’ve recoiled,
had my attention not been on the full moon, heaving its way into the night sky, flattered by a thousand stars,
winking coyly.
Other Side of the Window
--Aimee Walton (LHU English major)
On the other side of the window, filigreed frost clings to the pane. The flakes hang there, clasping hands,
frozen and glittering. I’m safely inside with a blanket wrapped snuggly around me as I try to decide where
one crystal begins and the next ends. They are tulle, tiny, intricate, and unique. I’m not sure who said every
snow flake is different, but I believe I’ve found proof here on my own window. This is my favorite time of the
year. Christmas, that is, not winter. To be honest, I’m not a fan of the cold weather. Unless, of course, I’m
looking out from the inside.
Snowflakes are earth crumbs and water. When dust and water vapor condense in the air, they can become
supercooled and begin to form ice particles. Surrounded by water droplets in a cloud, the ice particles begin
to expand and create snow. As they grow, they blossom into hexagonal prisms and minuscule branches reach
out, blooming into the lacey patterns children cut out of circle paper.
This is enchanting, you might say. Altogether, though, these delicate flakes pile up into drifts of ten, eleven,
twelve inches. They gather on naked tree branches like a heavy shawl, make obscure shapes out of picnic
tables and lawn chairs, ice the roof like a sugar cookie, and magically make the driveway disappear. As I sit
by the window, I can see my mom brush off the car and smack her gloved hands together for warmth. My
dad and brother have gone to work. A landscaping company employs them to clear away the slick ice and
powdery snow from parking lots and sidewalks. It’s only a few days before Christmas, and I wonder if the
blizzard will end in time for them to get off work so that we can see the rest of our family. Tomorrow
morning, I’ll wake up, and ice will sheath every bare surface. The sun will peep out, and its light will shatter
on the slippery casing, casting little rainbows into the atmosphere when I look closely enough.
“We live in a winter wonderland,” I once commented to my parents after ice and snow trimmed the trees in
the wake of a particularly nasty storm. Still, that never really makes up for the mess snow leaves behind.
When it melts, snow leaves behind little rivers of mud and mush. It collects at the bottom of the drainpipe
beside my porch and converts to sludge. It pools in my dad’s garden, barren during the endless winter

months. The side of my driveway becomes mucky and brown and sucks the booted foot into it. Then, little
dog paw prints polka dot the slush and get all mixed up with footprints as if the earth has a memory. The
forest surrounding my house takes on a dreary air because all the old, shriveled leaves left beneath the trees
become soggy and sullen. Sometimes, the plants lining the house start to look tarnished and old, and I can
barely stand to look at them. The concrete sidewalk has cracked, as well. Sheets of ice coat the end of it, the
very last square. If I’m not careful, I could just go sliding off the edge. Old Man Winter has blown his frigid
breath on it specifically.
That ancient harbinger of winter breathes his blustery wind upon us because the world is tilted so that
different sides of it face the sun as it orbits. When our little corner of the earth turns away from the sun,
winter descends on us. December rolls around, and the sun doesn’t smile from the same angle it does in the
summer, so it has to warm a larger area with the same amount of heat it projects during warmer months. Of
course, the truth of it isn’t nearly as entertaining as the Greek myth that explains this bitter season. According
to legend, Hades kidnapped a beautiful goddess named Persephone so he could make her his wife. Hades’
brother, Zeus, agreed to this scheme without asking Persephone’s mother, Demeter, who was the goddess of
crops. Demeter went into such mourning for her daughter that she stopped producing plants on earth. Zeus
finally decreed that Persephone would stay with Hades for six months of the year and then return to her
mother for the other half. During these six months, no crops grew and the world withered. Demeter’s grief
caused the icy dead of winter.
The cold is completely unpleasant. I’ve always thought so. When I take a deep breath of winter air, it feels as
if ice splinters crumble in my lungs. I don’t like gusts of cold wind either because they turn my nose red and
chap my lips. I wrap my arms around myself and button my coat up to my chin, and sometimes I even
remember to curl a scarf around my neck and bury my hands in gloves. That’s never warm enough, though.
This is why I prefer to sink into the couch in my basement that sits right next to the glowing coal stove. My
dad doesn’t normally turn it on until it gets truly cold. So, in November, he’ll dump in the first pile of shiny
black coal and light it up. It blazes at first, shooting sapphire and emerald flames against the glass pane on the
charred metal door. A metallic, heated scent wafts from the stove when it’s first lighted. It floats up the stairs
and envelops everything, keeping us all warm.
I shift in my chair and wrap the blanket more tightly around me. My mom has managed to clean off the car
by now, but I doubt we’ll be going anywhere as the flakes continue to tumble down on our forest world. This
reminds me of that poem by Robert Frost, the one where he stops to look into the deep woods as snow fills up
its dark shadows. It’s called “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” There’s something distinctly honest
and beautiful about the poem, as if he’s longing for something, for solitude and rest. I always feel a little
lonely and sleepy when I get to the end of it, and all I want is to curl up with a cozy blanket. Frost writes that

the only sound is “the sweep of easy wind and downy flake” and “the woods are lovely, dark and deep.” It
gives the impression of silence. That’s the sound snow makes when it falls, by the way: silence. It blankets
and muffles everything. Come to think of it, I guess that’s one thing about snow that I can’t experience behind
a window. Of course, by the time the children next door come out to throw snowballs and sled down the hill
in their backyard, the silence gives way to delighted shrieks. In order to experience the quiet, I have to open
the sliding door in our kitchen and step out onto the balcony while the snow is still falling the most heavily.
The flakes stick to my eyelashes, and I can see little silver drops out of the corner of my eyes. They land on
my nose and, for an instant, I feel one perch there. It doesn’t last for very long. Next thing I know, it’s melted
and all that’s left is a raindrop. Inevitably, my mom will come up behind me and pull out her camera. As I
step back inside, she’ll stand at the door and focus the lens on the frosted woods.
It’s long past the hushed hours of the snow fall, though, as I watch out the window for a few more minutes.
Mom is carefully trekking her way up the sidewalk towards the porch, and someone down the road has taken
a snow blower to his snow-covered driveway. As she bursts through the door, my mom pulls off her gloves
and hat.
“I think I’m going to make myself some tea. It’s freezing out there! Do you want a cup?”
I smile at her ruddy cheeks and nod. “Sure, I’ll take one.” As she walks past me, I glance out the window one
last time, place my hand on the glass, and notice that the ice crystals have begun to fade. Some of them have
left a barely visible outline on the pane as if they’re waving goodbye. A little later, with a cup of tea in hand, I
head up to my room and open up my laptop. Once I’ve uploaded Mom’s snow pictures, I make one my
wallpaper. She captured the corner of our balcony piled high with snow and the woods glazed with
burgeoning ice. This is the way I like winter best: from the inside looking out.
Lost Lilacs
--Tasha Englert (LHU Psychology alumnus)
Walking home from school on ice-accumulated sidewalks, I reached the familiar bent tree, now bare of leaves,
with one thick branch leaning over the sidewalk that leads up to my apartment. I paused, noticing to my left
the nearby neighbor’s bunches of browned lilacs falling back from the wind pushing and pulling against the
fine dried stems. I was reminded immediately of my mother, whose favorite flower is the lilac. I remember
those days when I was younger and would gather lilacs from huge bushes around the neighborhood into a
bouquet to give my mom as a gift for her birthday.
I can see her placing them gently in her tall glass vase, arranging them so that they are just as she would like

them to look, to be displayed right in the center of the kitchen table. They would sit there for a few days, with
my mom bragging to everyone who came in how I had presented her with such a beautiful bouquet, trying to
make the special gift last as long as she could. But after nearly a week passed, the lilacs would eventually
start to wilt, and my mom would, sadly, have to throw them away.
The lilacs I observed near my apartment were beyond wilted. After sprouting in the spring, they became
crusted from the cold of winter, with the purple passion faded away into a frost-rusted, fragile symbol of
death. It made me wonder if the relationship between my mom and me is going through something
similar. I am no longer that happy, gift-bringing child who would pick her lilacs. I am about to finish college,
find my own place to live, and start a career that will send me into adulthood. Part of me is afraid that things
will be different with my mom and me after I reach this mark in life. We are no longer as close as we used to
be when I was a child. I don’t know if I will ever find anything as good as the beautiful lilacs I gave to her as
a child, now broken, decaying heaps in the garbage dump. Looking at the neighbor’s brown, drooping lilacs
makes me wonder if these flowers are appreciated or have any use to others. It appears that things without
beauty have little to offer the world. Who wants a bush of withering, limp lilacs? The neighbor’s lilacs along
the sidewalk seem lost and forgotten, the dying remains of a distant beauty nearly destroyed by a long
winter.
Inside, I watch the occasional snowflake flutter, dust-like, with the vacuum of the wind sweeping it lower
towards the earth. I worry that I will just as easily drift away from my mom, the way the snowflake separates
from the sky in its journey downward. I am no longer the child who can play around in the snow with her
whenever I want, doing whatever I can to help her to laugh and be happy. Now I am a young adult,
troubled by childish insecurities about what lies ahead for me. I have my own concerns to face, like whether
or not I will succeed in accomplishing my career goals, and sometimes feel that through growing up, I have
lost the gift of purity I had in childhood. That same gift parents receive at the birth of a child, an innocent,
unique snowflake from the heavens, bringing them joy and peace. As far as I know, the amount of happiness
a child gives a parent far outweighs the heartache. I am older now; however, with education allowing me to
grow more aware of exactly how complex and difficult the world is becoming, age has its downfalls. With all
the difficulties I have been through, I do not feel the same motivation I did as a child to bring cheer to
others. Suffering has taught me too well that the world is not a fair place. Without a spirit of hope, I no
longer feel capable of sharing with others the delight I would have as a carefree, beaming child, the sparkle of
energy lighting up my mother’s eyes.
The beauty of the joyful spirit that used to shine out from me as a child, brightening my mother’s days and
nourishing my inner self like sunlight feeds a flower, has been dimmed by storm’s shadow. The sun’s
warmth no longer spreads strong rays within me; life has made my once-steady light flicker from the dismal,

gray clouds that block my soul’s growth. Dark clouds decay my vision of myself; icy air has frozen and
cracked all the once-strong roots. I have become blinded by distorted views of myself and the
world. Something has gone missing; I have lost a part of myself that I want back. Long years of dwelling in a
storm that is slowly destroying all the beauty I formed in the spirit of my childhood has led me
astray. Growing weary of lingering in cold and dark days, I no longer have the confidence and pride in
myself to stretch upward in hope of light. I have become the wilted lilac that is losing everything that makes
it alive and unique; the pure essence of what makes it such a special living creation blossomed with the shine
of Mother Nature’s smile and watered by her tears.
Looking at the browned lilacs, though tossed in the cold wind, these flowers will be restored by Mother
Nature, just as I have grown to handle life’s weary wind under the loving care of my mother. My hardships
will pass like the rough, icy winds of the winter season, until I can feel the warm relief of the spring sun. My
mom will not abandon me during storms of strife; neither will Mother Nature leave the lilac. She will be
there at the storms end, with her face lit up with a golden smile, beaming pride at the little lilac for
withstanding winter’s frozen snow swept soil. Mother Nature will reach out her hands, ready to take the
poor lilac no matter how decayed and drooped it may look, carefully cultivating it once more to achieve its
full beauty. Mother Nature cares for her creation, watching over each flower in its changing cycle, tenderly
touching the infant sprouts in spring, and nourishing their continued growth. Likewise, after I have become
cold from dreary days, my mother has always nestled me close to her in a blanket of her warm affection,
wrapping me in her love. She will accept me and care for me even if I am no longer the cheerful, beautiful
child I was before. My mother loves me because I am her daughter, and I always will be special to her.
I am my mother’s precious creation, through good and bad, from moments where I gave her pride to those
where I caused her strife. I am my mom’s gift from the sky, her snowflake to watch it be refined and shaped
by life’s wind while on its own adventure exploring the natural world. I have not lost my beauty; instead, I
am on my way to discovering my inner light. Just as the lilac is reborn in the spring from Mother Nature’s
healing touch, so will my roots of inner childhood beauty be restored and my stem uplifted as I learn to form
my own nurturing light within by modeling the love for myself on my mother’s warm affection. I will
experience my own joys and sorrows throughout life just like my mother, and will learn to take in the healing
light of my soul-smiling days with the strengthening flow of salt-watery tears, until eventually winter’s chill
clinging to my roots will lift, letting the lilac within, my pure self, flourish once again.
The Philodendron
--Leah Gallup (LHU Studio Arts major)
Sitting on my desk is a philodendron plant, a plant that is beautiful in many ways. I appreciate its long

slender green vines and heart-shaped leaves that shine as the light hits it. Growing more and more every
week, it adds new leaves and decorates my desk as the vines grow longer. The philodendron will never
flower, but the long vines and big leaves bring me an appreciation for nature.
Philodendrons originate from the rainforests of Central America where they happily grow in the canopy,
knotting themselves around the treetops and trunks and to the ground. I used to keep it near the window for
sunlight to help it grow, but as I learned in doing that, the sunlight turned the leaves a canary yellow. Then
they would slowly start to drop off the vines, making the plant look depressed and unhappy. When I got to
college, I placed my plant on my desk away from the window for more shade, with limited sunlight. After
doing that I began to see this philodendron rejoice with happiness by growing faster and greener. Now, dayby-day, I see new baby leaves appearing like children of the next part of the vine. Looking so delicate and
beautiful with a tint of green, as each passing day goes by the green turned darker and the leaves grew bigger
and showing me a heart shape. All this is a way of showing me its love because I take care of it, and that it has
just as much life as you and me.
Sometimes the phildendron can be a burden on me. This is a poisionous plant that can kill you if you eat the
leaves, and if I handle the vines and leaves for too long, the philodendron will give me and itchy red rash for
a few days, which is its way of saying, “ I do not like to be touched”. My plant likes to have its personal space
and does not like anyone invading it or that person will pay for it with and itchy red rash.
The philodendron also gives me the opportunity to reproduce its vines into more philodendron plants.
Within its green vines lie roots, baby roots, that if immersed in water will grow into a new plant to love and
care for. That way, there will always be another philodendron for me to grow, and this one will never die.
I know one day it will grow up to be a big forest that grew out of a pot, but a beautiful forest. This plant has
taught me a lot about nature and how tropical plants grow in the rainforests. This philodendron is the reason
I feel one step closer to nature and appreciate it a little more each day. So I say thank you to my philodendron
plant, for showing me how valuable nature can be and how we all can benefit by keeping it looking beautiful.
This humble plant showed me the ups and the downs, the advantages and disadvantages.
I apologize to the plant for not understanding its nature at first, I almost killed it by watering its roots too
much and giving it a lot of sunlight that it didn’t need. I appreciate my philodendron plant for giving me a
second chance and bringing me closer to its world, a little closer to nature.

The Last Summer of Innocence
--Zachary Smith (LHU Political Science major)
I believe it was June 12, 2006, between ten and eleven a.m. The sun was glowing outside; I could see it behind
my dark blue curtains, which I kept shut specifically so I could sleep in. I had just finished a weekend full of
high school graduation and parties, and I was tired. I had graduated from Cowanesque Valley High School
only three days before. My dogs, Lady and Sooner, both beautiful black labs, and I lay in bed enjoying the
first day of summer. My mom walked in and started in on me. “Are you going to sleep this summer away?
Dad and I are waiting for you to get up so we can eat breakfast.”
He’s not my real dad; he’s actually my stepdad, Wayne, but he’s better than any dad, or at least better than
my real dad. I came downstairs in those American Eagle swimming trunks I had to have because they were
‘hot.’ Lady and Sooner followed me.
“So what are you going to do with your first day of summer?” Wayne asked. It had to have been a thousand
degrees outside with the way that the sun intruded in my bedroom.
“Swim,” I said. “I have to get my tan before we head up to Rhode Island.” The day before, I had finally gotten
my mom’s permission to go to Rhode Island with my best friends to celebrate life, friendship, and graduation
before we all went our separate ways. I was going to Lock Haven University, Britt was going to Point Park
University in Pittsburgh, and Lena was headed to Florida to join the Navy.
Over a breakfast filled with pancakes, eggs, and sausage, we talked about getting up at a reasonable hour.
Mom started, “I have to go back to work next week. I won’t be here to get you up, and I didn’t give you the
summer off of a job to sleep it away. You better help Dad around the house.” I stopped paying attention.
“He’ll help Liz,” Wayne replied. It was nice that I wasn’t going to have this battle with Mom. Breakfast ended
soon enough, and I grabbed my sunglasses, book, and tanning lotion. The dogs followed as I headed towards
the door to go out to the pool.
“Now that you have time to read for fun, what’s the first choice?” asked Wayne.
“Harry Potter … again,” I answered.
I had just finished Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince only months before. I wanted to start the series

over so that when the last one came out, I could pick right up where I left off.
“I swear that’s all you read,” Wayne joked.
I did. I love to read. I had at least 300 plus books at this point in my life. Mom always joked that she couldn’t
complain about me wasting money because I spent the majority of it on books. I love Harry Potter though
and on a nice day like it was, Harry Potter and swimming was the thing to do.
The dogs started to bark and headed towards the driveway. Someone was here. Who made it up and out the
door first? Brit or Lena? Brit walked around the corner, Lena following, and said, “I’m surprised to see you
awake.” I gave her look of disproval followed by, “Mom made me get up. She sent the dogs after me.”
Brit quickly interrupted what was sure to be a very minor war of words, “So we were looking at dates to
leave and wanted to know if you wanted to head north before or after the 4th of July?”
As I had stated a million times before I really didn’t care when we left so I half answered the question.
“Doesn’t matter. Probably before would be better.”
Lena piped up with, “That’s what I was thinking,” and agreed.
“Well that’s settled. We’ll leave June 27th and come home July 2nd,” Brit declared.
As Mom headed towards the pool, she asked if they were going to stay for dinner. She knew us all too well.
We’d spend the day at the pool reading, tanning, and swimming and then would head uptown to meet some
people either for a movie or some socializing at Dunkin Donuts. That was our thing. We’d spend almost
every day this way. All three of our parents felt that it would be best if we didn’t get summer jobs and enjoy
this last summer as kids. We couldn’t argue or agree any more. Our routine stayed relatively consistent, and
time seemed to fly by pretty fast.
June ended before we knew it. We managed to fit a load of summer memories in this month along with
movies, bonfires, and just good times with friends. We loved to go to the movies the most. The movie theater
in Wellsboro, was a beautiful old Victorian type, and had all of the summer’s hottest titles. We always caught
the nice o’clock showing and then went to this in the hole in the wall, open twenty four hours a day,
restaurant and ordered appetizers and drank soda until the owner, waitress, or other costumers stared at us
with disapproval and then we’d head home. Bonfires made up a lot of the summer memories too. We tried to
keep them at a minimum, one every couple weeks or so, because they always included underage drinking

and we knew that if we got caught the punishment would be death by our parents. They had to know what
we were doing, they were kids once, and we had heard the stories. Looking back at it now, I know they knew
what we were doing and our Dads made sure that Moms didn’t interfere.
As the month of June ended, and July began, we found ourselves relaxing on the beaches of Rhode Island
staying at Brit’s aunt and uncle’s beautiful beach house. It was great because we could make it to the beach
from their porch before the locals could park their car near the beach. The beaches were simply amazing:
gorgeous white sand, crystal blue waters, and delightfully warm sun. Of course, we didn’t really need the sun
for our tan. We took care of that by the pool back home.
On our last day, we could tell things weren’t going to be the same. “This is really it, isn’t it?” Brit choked.
“I guess so,” I said.
“It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again,” Lena stated. She wasn’t nearly as sappy as Brit and I
were.
As we headed home in my car, my 2004 red Ford Escape I had gotten for graduation, the moon roof was
“popped” as we liked to call it, and our music was cranked. We got pulled over in Connecticut and the police
officer recommended we “spend more time paying attention to the road and other drivers than our moon
roof, music, and teenage wannabe dreams.” I wanted to argue that we weren’t teenagers anymore, that we
were adults, but I didn’t dare to.
When I got home, Mom welcomed us with “How was your vacation?” I handed Wayne the ticket and Lena
filled in with “Great until we got to Connecticut.” I got in a little trouble for that one; actually, I got into a lot
of trouble for that. I lost the keys to my car for two weeks, a complete death to my social life; I got more
chores to pay off the ticket, and a never-ending lecture about how to be a responsible adult.
The rest of the summer wasn’t very exciting. Mom, Wayne, and I traveled to our lake house to relax for the
4th of July. The traditional red, white, and blue fireworks above the lake are more breathtaking than you
could ever imagine. The dogs don’t like them too much, but they cower behind us, and they seemed to be ok.
They like to think they are tough but if they hear any loud noises, forget it.
We spent a lot of time throughout the summer talking about what was next for me, where the road of life was
going to take me. “College, of course, at Lock Haven,” was always my solid answer.

Mom wanted me to think a little further than college. “You have to have goals set into place in order to
succeed,” she’d always say.
Wayne would always come back with “That will come soon enough. Let him relax for now.” I hadn’t even
started at Lock Haven and already had doubts of being a high school history teacher and had no idea what to
do instead. My passion for history and politics would always be with me, but the idea of teaching was getting
worst and worst daily.
It was the last week of my summer vacation. Lena had already left. Things between us were already starting
to show signs of damage. I knew, before I even left my home town, that our friendship would last forever, but
it would never be the same again and seeing each other would be far and few. On the last night I was home,
Brit came over, and we talked about life. How life seemed to fly right by us, how we couldn’t wait to
graduate from high school and now that we had we wanted to start over, we didn’t mean that, we just didn’t
want to say goodbye.
Now I’m getting ready to graduate from Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania. I have a job interview in
less than a week and I’m feeling pretty confident that something’s going to turn out of it, something that is
sure to take me away from Pennsylvania. I don’t know if I’ll come back. Sure, I’ll come back to visit. My
friends and family are here. But, as sad as it may seem, home is going to be somewhere else now, at least, the
home that I live in. Pennsylvania will always be my home because it will always be where my heart is. I love
Pennsylvania, I love everything it has to offer, and I love everything it has made me. Pennsylvania is more
than just a state between Maryland and New York, in the upper east coast. It’s a state of living, of being, it’s a
person all in itself. Pennsylvania is more than my best friend, it’s who I am.
Eleven Zero One
--Adam Russo (LHU English major)
Eleven zero one, and what a weekend. I traveled back down to the middle of nowhere in central
Pennsylvania with my pal Mike again. We saw the same band we saw four weeks ago, Mysterytrain, and the
festival was even better than last time. My night included drinking some good beer and listening to
astounding music, yet the best part of the night was meeting a fellow by the name of Jacob Haqq-Misra. The
man is a genius, and he gives me inspiration.
It just so happens that he’s a doctoral candidate at Penn State University. His specialty is astrophysics, but he
deals some with meteorological and environmental mathematics. Small World we live in. As the band
finished and started to make their rounds with the festival attendees, I offered some sausage to Jacob and his

girlfriend, who is also in the band. We got to talking, and I was immediately interested in talking to Jacob as
he stated something about self-sustaining systems, such as the Earth.
As I progress through my undergrad, I am becoming increasingly interested in Gaia and the similar theories
associated with the science. The word Gaia goes as far back as the Ancient Greeks, and, in laymen terms,
means “Mother Earth.” James Lovelock, the author of the book, published the book in the 1970’s, and
apparently, the theory has been gaining momentum.
The theory of Gaia concludes that the Earth can be looked at as an organism in ecological terms. The Earth, an
organism which adapts and maintains itself, is living within the solar atmosphere associated with our
Sun. Lovelock supplies scientific data that highlights an important fact about the Earth for the past 3 and ½
billion years: the Earth’s oceans, atmosphere, and temperature have remained fairly constant in salinity,
oxygen, etc. Yes—the Earth has gone through numerous catastrophic events, ranging from asteroid impacts
to ice ages that have almost frozen the planet forever until the Sun explodes. Yet, the Earth has maintained
average characteristics, when speaking about a geologic timescale, which have allowed for the existence of
life. The fact that Earth has adapted itself to sustain life makes the idea of the Earth being an organism
credible. An organism is defined as being out of equilibrium with its environment. The environment
constantly changes, so the organism must reproduce and evolve to maintain its existence. The Earth is
constantly bombarded with different solar temperatures, sun spot cycles, methane levels, carbon dioxide
levels, and the list goes on. Yet, life flourishes because the Earth, consisting of an incredibly complex system
between living matter and natural forces, seems to operate on a time-loop. I wrote about this concept last
semester in a posthumanism class, and the model I used for the paper looked somewhat like this:
In simple terms, the chart visualizes the concept of a self-regulating system, such as the Earth. Life has been
on this planet for hundreds of millions of years, and the earth is constantly regulating itself to sustain that
life. Whether this is by accident or on purpose is more of philosophical question, but life has been in the
picture too long to completely disappear. The reference refers to a point in time when Earth was safe and
clean, right after the end of last ice-age for example. If an asteroid were to strike right now, the time-loop
would begin. The asteroid causes an imbalance in the self-regulating system, and the Earth goes through
changes to return to the reference point (let’s say the references are levels of CO2 and O2).
Many species would become extinct in this process, but others would flourish in whatever environmental
conditions arise and adapt as the Earth returns to its normal levels. And yes, humans are part of this process.
In more ways than one. As of now, if a catastrophe such as a huge asteroid were to occur, humans would
probably become extinct due to lack of sunlight and resources. But humans are part of this self-regulation in

another way also.
As our thoughts of superiority over the rest of nature continue, we in turn pollute the planet and kill off other
species through deforestation, water pollution, etc. Moreover, we raise the temperature of the atmosphere
and oceans, which cause our mother, the ever self-regulating system, to start a time-loop. Yes—these cycles
occur naturally. The Earth has been heating up and cooling down for billions of years, but humans are
probably accelerating the process. And uh oh, this presents a problem for humanity. Like the rest of complex
organisms, we slowly evolve and adapt in order to survive as a species. Evolution takes time that is hard to
comprehend, and so do the Earth’s cycles. There is a beautiful dance between man and nature, but we’re
crashing the party.
Once again, our technology and intelligence have grown so fast that our means to achieve this success has
sped up the cycles of the Earth. In turn, we are physically evolving too slowly to adapt to the changing
conditions of the Earth. There’s probably an ignorance for other species and nature as a whole thrown in
there too.
So what does humanity do? Are we all, so to say, fucked and just waiting to die? I don’t want to think so.
And maybe I don’t have to. The question of whether humans are dependent on machines has been a debate
for many decades now, but most of us can agree that we are indeed reliant on our toys. But isn’t that
evolution in a sense? Aren’t we adapting to our environment by adapting our means of survival?
Twelve zero six. My mind has been fixated on the latter subject for the past 24 hours. It’s like it, whatever it is,
finally makes sense. By no means will what I’m about to propose be easy, but by no means is my proposal
impossible.
This country, I firmly believe, and hope, is about to go through a major transformation. The past 24 hours
have consisted of thinking about Jacob’s discussion on superiority. Humans, over the past 10,000 years, have
progressively thought of themselves as superior when compared to every single living thing (other animals,
plants, fungi, etc). And maybe we are, at least on an intellectual level. But with superiority comes
responsibility. How can there be responsible efforts in such a misconstrued world today? The answer is:
there is no answer, only compromise. Compromise and responsibility are practically synonyms anyway. But
one might say: “How do you go about getting everyone to compromise. The churches, the environmentalists,
the manufacturers, the bankers, the world?” The answer is easy: a green movement, a new industrial
revolution for the United States and the rest of the world. Maybe Tench Coxe was right when he stated
industry must not worry about a pastoral ideal, for technology will grow exponentially until in balance with
nature. And wouldn’t a green movement make everyone happy, at least everyone with the right intentions

for humanity?
For one, a green movement would unite industrial executives and liberal environmentalists. The United
States wouldn’t have to stop importing, but our country could once again manufacture and export. The
modern economic conditions have been a long time coming, at least since American companies adopted
foreign manufacturing. Manufacturing could expand back to cars, to alternatives for plastics, and back to
steel and other metal to be used for windmills, turbines, solar panels, etc. It’s almost like a contradiction after
seeing the environmental impacts stemming from the industrial revolution, but manufacturing might actually
be able to lead to a pastoral ideal.
Secondly, and I might be going off on a limb here, but a green movement might have the capability to finally
unite the Christian Church and evolutionary scientists. Jacob’s book contained an incredibly interesting
philosophical discussion on the Christian concept of being fruitful. Within Genesis, God tells man to be
fruitful and multiply, for several reasons. On the religious side, God tells Adam and Eve to leave the garden
and multiply after Eve eats the apple. On the scientific side, early humans were able to be fruitful and
multiply because of their location on the Earth at the time, the Fertile Crescent. Over thousands of years, the
capability of being fruitful and being able to adapt with the use of tools has led to our current world. But, the
Christian concept of fruitility has led to Crusades, slavery, and even the current environmental conditions of
the United States as well.
Quite frankly, the United States has been slapped in the face with this oil spill—slapped in the face with
greed, laziness, and ignorance for the environment. America now faces the biggest environmental disaster in
its history, but with disaster usually comes motivation. There is no better time than now for the American
public to accept change. America may have to make short term sacrifices, but in the long run, a green
movement will help us all. There are those who look up to the sky and only imagine the end of humanity and
the coming of God. But I don’t think I’m alone when I look up at the sky and imagine a new era for humanity
and the showing of God. Call me a pantheist, but maybe God has been here all along: in the trees, in the
chipmunks, in the water, in humanity. The Bible states that God will someday show himself, and I’d like to
believe that he slowly is. Is a simple definition of a God not a superior being? Is the Earth not superior to us?
We are naïve if we still think we are more powerful than our Mother Earth. Gaia, God—the words roll right
off the tongue don’t they?
There will always be more questions, but humans, from the beginning of time, were made to answer
questions. Thoreau once said: "Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something." Let us be
good for ourselves, humanity, the Earth, and, for the infinitely complex and beautiful system that binds

everything, big and small, within our Universe.
A Beautiful Blizzard and a Battlefield
--Justin Rhodes (LHU English major)
The creaking of the hinges from the top of the swing is the only resonance that fills the cold wintry air. I
gently rock back and forth, appreciating the snowfall, falling from the skies with elegance and grace. The
weathered, dark auburn swing doesn’t support me now like it did ten years ago; I sink threateningly close to
the base of the porch. Not a single automobile occupies the poorly plowed suburban roads; a peaceful silence
encircles the borough. According to Joe Murgo on Channel Ten, we’ve accumulated twenty three inches of
snow. This comes as no surprise to me. From the back porch I oversee my small but quaint backyard, a
rusted old fence separating it from the parking lot directly behind it. The yellow brick church that sits beside
our small yet sufficient parsonage home is humbling in size and character. Snow covers its enormous black
shingled gable roof, occasionally sliding off in heaping piles into my yard in avalanche-like fashion. With
authority it crashes audibly against the ground, digging an impressive divot into the soft snow that had
previously fallen there.
The clean-cut grass that I’m used to seeing in the summer is nowhere in sight. All that rests before my eyes is
a shower of white flurries spreading across the ground. Mr. Roberto has arrived to plow the parking lot for
the church, although the chances of them having Sunday morning service after this remarkable blizzard are
slim to none. The scrape of the plow against the asphalt reminds me of that sharp, piercing noise heard in
elementary school when the chalk scratches the blackboard. As he continues to plow, a mountain of snow
forms at the edge of the lot, reaching heights of perhaps fifteen feet or higher. My 1988 black BMW, parked in
the far corner, is nowhere to be seen now; only the passenger’s mirror juts out on the side. The rest of the car
is masked by the relentless snowfall. The mound of snow brings back pleasant memories from my forgotten
childhood. I remember snowball fights with other kids in the neighborhood, competing against one another
for bragging rights. We would hide behind man-made forts, molded entirely out of the tightly-packed snow
shaped by the plow. The parking lot would morph into a battlefield of epic proportions, spheres of snow
sailing through the air like homing missiles with preset destinations.
The snow begins to blow onto the porch now, overflowing the blue recycling bin, blanketing the charcoal
grill. A few curious flurries drift cautiously onto my suede boot. Within a few seconds they thaw, leaving a
small patch of condensation across the toe. A small part of me is saddened by how quickly they disappear. I
look up to remind myself that the beautiful storm is far from over, precipitation coming down steadily across
the quiet suburban grounds.

I decide to shovel off the first few steps, just enough to be able to step out into the open. The experienced
rusty orange shovel might not be the most attractive piece of hardware equipment I own. Nonetheless, it gets
the job done. I feel no motivation to shovel more than the top three steps, at least not until I absolutely have
to. My mind drifts back to a time when the snow seemed much heavier with each shovelful; I hear my
mother’s voice. “Help your dad shovel the backyard steps and sidewalk, and you can go play in the snow for
the rest of the afternoon.” She looked at me with sincerity and promise; I had no other choice than to meet
her demands. Respectfully I grabbed a shovel and went to work in anticipation of joining the snowball
extravaganza taking place not even fifty feet away from where I was standing. The snow wasn’t what you
would call heavy. Its light and fluffy texture made for an easy and enjoyable shoveling session. I worked
quickly, tossing shovelfuls over the wooden railing strapped alongside the staircase.
Impressed with my progression, my dad dismissed me early. “Good job, son, you’re gonna be stronger than
a mule some day.” Flattered by his praise, I humbly placed the shovel in his hands, and rushed towards the
gate separating me from the colossal mound of snow. To a ten-year-old child, the mound was comparable to
the Himalayas, both vast in size and awe inspiring. I wasted no time joining in on the action. While our
parents were inside sipping on their hot chocolate and idly watching their favorite TV shows, we were having
the time of our lives. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to stay inside on a day like this. I
thought it was a bit unappreciative of the adults to pass up on such an exciting afternoon outdoors. For them,
the snowstorm paused their daily routines and put their rigid schedules off course. But for us, it was the
most exciting day of the entire winter season. It gave our fingers a rest from playing countless hours of
Playstation, and granted our parents with an afternoon free of the parenting hassles they deal with each day.
We filled up our weapons cache with perfectly rolled balls of ammunition. The poor insulation of my ragged
gloves caused my hands to begin to numb slightly. In spite of this, I wasn’t fazed. My bulky figure
graciously supplied me with a few extra pounds of body heat that the other kids weren’t fortunate enough to
have. My water resistant boots planted with ease into the soft ground. Our fort covered my teammates and
me well, disguising us from our enemies on the other side of the mountain.
Like floating grenades the opponents’ ammo sailed over our fortress, homing in on its targets. Relentlessly
we struck back, our arms loaded like cannons, moving swiftly like windmills. The battle commenced, each
team hoping to make the other surrender. One snowball connected flush with my left ear, causing me to
experience a quick but substantial episode of vertigo. “Sorry, bud!” my good friend Nick shouted from
across the way, “it was an accident!” I recovered quickly, not feeling any animosity towards him. “Sorry? No
apologies are accepted on the battlefield!” We resumed the battle, which seemed to go on for hours. We kept
going until our shoulders felt as if they were separated from their sockets. Eventually, the sun retired for the
night and our parents beckoned for us to come in for supper. Satisfied with the events of the afternoon, we

said our goodbyes to each other and returned to our homes famished.
I can’t help but think of how free and liberated I felt when we had those larger-than-life snowball fights. For
those few brief fun-filled hours we had no concerns. We were there for merely one purpose; to have a great
time, and that we did. Now I’m a young adult with responsibilities and a bit more experience under my belt
that naturally comes with age. I hope to chase my dreams and aspirations with the same amount of
persistence and enjoyment I had for this childhood pastime. If you pursue something you’re tremendously
passionate about you can reach your goals that much quicker, and have a great time while doing it.
Another avalanche of slow slides off the church roof, vigorously crashing with a loud thud. The disruptive
sound snaps me out of my reminiscent trance. My mind separates from the recollection of my childhood
memories and returns to the present. I remain standing on the second step of the porch, my hood pushed
back, letting the snowflakes land on my dirty blonde crew cut. The neighborhood kids I was so familiar with
ten years ago have gone off to work and college now, pursuing their careers. The snow mound is larger than
ever, but no kids are anywhere to be found. It saddens me to see such a good time go to waste. My
emotional side surfaces, wishing that I could turn back the clock to 1999 and join my grade school buddies in
our routine winter festivities. Quickly I abandon these thoughts of self pity, and appreciate the blessing that
nature has given to us on such a perfect February weekend.
I revisit my child like behaviors one last time, sticking my tongue out in hopes of catching a few
snowflakes. One lands on the tip of my tongue and dissolves in a hurry. I return to my swing, crossing my
legs and rubbing my hands together to create warmth. Perhaps these harsh winter conditions are a nuisance
to some, but to me they’re all the more enjoyable. Some people only see snow when it’s muddy and brown a
few days after it’s fallen, but they neglect to take the time to watch it as it falls. Each flake is innocent and
charming in its own way. Many of the inhabitants in the quiet suburb of Lakemont won’t even open their
front doors and set foot on their porches. I, on the other hand, have no intentions of going inside anytime
soon. It isn’t so often that God graces Altoona, Pennsylvania with 23 inches of snow. The quiet squeak of the
hinge returns, filling the silent air once again. The snow continues to fall, relentless in its continuity. Content
and grateful, I watch, appreciating each flake that falls to the ground.
Shaking Free
--Nicole Rene Cozzi (LHU Communication Media major)
The frost bites the midmorning fog. My tired legs cut across the ghostly clouds . I can feel the dew soaking
through my boots, awakening my senses. It is a start of another day in this foreign land. I walk along Wister
Street to begin my day in the fields. God’s splendid blessings surround me. His gentle hand caresses the

Appalachian Mountains, waking them, stirring the creatures awake for a new day. I witness of his master
skills in composing the landscape. The green walls of mountains hold and secure the town, blocking the
some of the venomous stench of Philadelphia.
Nestled along God’s greatness the sleepy settlers of Armentown awaken. Shopowners begin to lay out their
tapestries, and the smell of sausage fills the air. I smile and nod at others passing by. I bypass Conrad
Templeman as he sets out his day to aid lost souls’ redemption. His black-rimed hat is well-worn and fitted
like the book grasped in his hand. Concentrating on his feet, he quickly glances up and bids a good
morning. His warm face is etched with lines or stress, sadness and perhaps moments of pleasure.
He presses on for duty, and so do I. I stop and reflect for the guidance found on his book’s pages. Through
its written words I have found my salvation. Seeing his face, I bow my head and begin to reflect on The
Word.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
And to walk humbly with your God.
-- Micah 6:8 (NIV)
Humbly I do walk. Yes today, in every step I feel his blessing, though my journey to this unfamiliar land
started many years before.
Though today my humble cabin and pockets bear no evidence, I was born the son of a Baron in the
enchanting village of Rocbrach, Germany. My father was Baron Hans Michael Phautz. A man noble both in
blood in mind, my father gave me the finest education. Everyone adored my father. At first I was a stubborn
lad with evil and selfish wants. I saw God’s work through my father. His hands hard, cracked, dry from
working, from shaking people’s hands and from helping the servants. He spent extra hours laboring at the
server’s quarters to ensure food and proper shealter- acts most gentlemen didn’t fathom, touching the bad
blood. Growing up in finery, living on a thriving estate and constantly surrounded by the prominent
members of the Greicht, I felt my every step towards development examined. Bearing my father’s name, I had
to live up to his legacy. I must, I must, I must.
To bring honor to the name, I observed my father’s skills, engrossed myself in books, and spent endless hours
contemplating ways to improve myself. While working long hours at my family’s inn, I heard the rumors of
Catholics nearing our lands. Causing nothing but fear and evil in the mask of God, these Catholics seemed to

fight viciously in the name of the Pope, not of God.
The situation in Germany worsened. The Catholic swine grew closer, even middling in the inner circle of our
small village. Their power grew, the streets grew more crowded; violent words sprayed from sinners’
mouths. Soon posts appearing on churches’ doors promised free land and freedoms to live a godly life were
my personal omens. When we had our first son, we made our move. With promises of abundant land,
endless opportunities, and the freedom to worship God rightfully, I fantasized about a life beyond the land of
Kragan. With a new sense of purpose, I devoted all my time and savings towards leaving my country. Only
pausing to dream of my love’s warm embrace.
Ursula Meclandhauser, her name echoed in pureness. A daughter of a minister, she was truly a lady. Her
confident air and loving smile warmed my heart. Looking back, I know she has always been my beloved.
Years later, after countless days of sacrifice and saving, I found myself looking at my beloved’s once clean
face smeared with dirt, with tired arms clutched our son, Hans Michael.
The stone-cobbled streets of the port were greased in sweat, fish, and dreams of a better future from men like
me. Hundreds with nothing but a bag and memories to their name shuffled around the city, almost lost,
waiting for their time to board the ships destined for unforeseen land. I can smelt the yeast from the drunken
breath of sailors, heard the cries from young ones wanting a warm bed. I looked towards Ursula. She, like a
mother bear, clung to protect our child. Her face shows she is determined to stop the poisonous air from
settling on Han Michael’s mouth. Like my Savior’s, my feet were heavy with my cross, doing what I believe I
must to live a life in the light of God’s glory. With all our possessions on the weight of my back, I took one
last look at my homeland and in the early hours of the morning, we boarded the ship William and
Sarah. Three Hundred of my native people were aboard for the journey to America.
With tickets for Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in my pocket, folded and creased from my sweaty palms, I
couldn’t help but wonder what awaited us. The sound of feet shuffling, waiting, eager and frightful of the
journey ahead consumed my ears.
The long days on the ship are a blur. I swayed with the sea with my head between my knees while regretful
thoughts swarmed like odor in the air.
In Philadelphia, English words consumed my ears. Angry expressions spat like the sea air. Eyes judged. I
wondered if it really was the land of promised freedom.

“What is your name?” said the English man with pencil and paper- all of my identity in this land.
“Phautz,” I said proudly, the name of my father’s legacy, my name, the name of my son, the name of my
hopes in this eerily land unclaimed.
Learning of my noble blood, The English grew suspicious of my intentions. Removing my hand from my
Bible, I took a heavy pen and signed my name to the English King. Before the ink could dry on the
Declaration of Allegiance to the King of England, my lie was inscribed on my soul. My heart is alleged to
God alone, far from a fat king, consumed in selfish deeds, a ghastly wig, and little care for his people.
To leave the eyes of the prying red coats, we escaped into the welcoming arms of the country, settling down
in Germantown. With my native tongue in my ears, dark mountains carving the sky, and my family by my
side, I could close my eyes and be sent back to my homeland.
Today, the cold morning fog hits my face, and I walk on. Sometimes the fear of a future unknown shuttles
my soul. I grasp my Bible and repeat
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
And to walk humbly with your God.
-- Micah 6:8 (NIV)
Yes my steps, although shaking, are free. Holding my head high, I begin my day as my feet carry me into the
future.
Dairy Farm
--Elizabeth Kinney (LHU History Major)
Growing up on a dairy farm in Northwest Pennsylvania, and having to deal with your family every day, can
either help you grow as a person or make you go insane. I have had the opportunity to grow as a person, and
I give all the recognition to my family and the hard work that was instilled in me from a very young age.
Although I wanted to scream and get off the farm so much growing up, I would give anything to experience
it all over again.
My family’s dairy farm, Boiled Owl Farms, consists of 200 acres of land and 70 acres rented for crop usage, 75
head of cattle, and various amounts of fowl including chickens, guinea hens, and peacocks. We raise

Registered Holsteins, Black -and -White and Red- and -White, Registered Milking Shorthorns, and one
Registered Brown Swiss. This farm has been in my family for five generations and hopefully will continue
either through my brother or myself. It started out with a herd of nine Ayrshires, and has grown, not by vast
amounts of the milking herd, we only milk 32 animals, but through hard work, patience, and a love of
farming. My father’s crops include field corn, hay, and sweet corn.
There are so many experiences that I could write about, but one that of them has a particular importance to
me. This experience not only made me question my strength, but also tested my ability to give up something
that I loved dearly. Every year since I was 12, I have been an exhibitor at two local county fairs. These county
fairs included McKean and Potter, where I was an exhibitor. Having the opportunity to take my cattle to these
fairs and get them judged in the shows was the greatest experience a young farm girl could take part in. Not
only did my family’s best cattle get to be seen by the general public, but other farms exhibiting could also see
what our small farm has to offer. The county fairs in my area are small and mostly focused on the livestock
being exhibited either strictly for show, or the 4-H livestock animals being shown and sold at an auction at
the end of the fair week. This is where my experience comes into play.
At the age of 13, I became a member of a local Potter county 4-H group. By being a member, I was able to not
only show my dairy cattle in both the Open and 4-H shows, but now I was given the chance to raise a Market
animal to be sold at the 4-H auction at the end of the week. I, being in love with cattle, chose to purchase and
raise a Market Steer, or a castrated bull. The Market Steer that I purchased was from a breeder in Meadville,
PA, who was well known at the Crawford County Fair for his 4-H steers. My first steer was bought for
$500.00 in March, and he was a Black Angus cross with a Maine-Anjou sire. I named him Topper and began
the process of raising him to be shown and sold at the auction at the Potter County Fair. After four months of
carefully feeding him, walking him, and keeping him healthy, we were ready for the fair.
When the week of the Potter Fair came, I was so excited because I not only had my dairy cattle to show, but
could now participate in two other shows that week and eventually sell my Market Steer and get back the
money I spent in buying and raising him.
In a cattle show, especially a Market Steer judging, the animals are split into different weight classes based on
weight. The range, at this fair, was 950-1350, where the classes were divided into three sections. These
sections include Light-Weight (950-1,150), Medium-Weight (1,150-1,250), and Heavy-Weight (1,250-1,350).
Topper qualified for the Heavy-Weight class because he weighed an even 1,200 pounds. His class was the
most popular, and included six other steers competing for the ultimate prize. It was a known fact that the
Grand Champion Market Steers came out of the Heavy-Weight class, so I was still in the running. In all of
these weight classes, the judge bases his decision on the appearance of the steer, with and without their skin

on. What I mean by that is, that these animals are raised to be eaten, so the one that will produce the best cuts
of meat will be the first place animal. The judge also looks to see how well finished the steer is, or how ready
they are to be butchered. For example, if one had a 950 pound steer, that was less than a year old, the steer
was less likely to be butchered because it would not produce as much meat as a 1,300 pound who was over a
year old. Nevertheless, each judge has their own way of judging and knows what they like and do not like,
but most of them are similar in their choices. I was anxious to see how the judge would view Topper and our
competition, and hope for the best.
The day of the Open Beef Show, Topper was not well-liked by the judge, so I did not do as well as I wanted
to. I was placed next to last after the judge made his choices of first and second places. Being disappointed,
but knowing that a new judge would be at the 4-H show the next day, my spirits lifted. The next morning
came and I was up early washing Topper, blowing him dry, combing out his long black hair and cleaning his
ears and feet. Topper was beautiful and as I walked into the show ring, we both walked with a different
stride in our steps. The judge took notice of us as soon as we entered, and I knew I had him. One thing they
teach in 4-H is to smile at the judge until our face hurts, because not only are you showing your animal, you
are presenting yourself as well. My face was killing me, and the smiling could not be wiped off my face as the
judge made his final decision. As the judge made his last placement of the animals, I was told by the
ringmaster to pull into first place, where I set Topper’s feet and made his stand the way that showcased his
best features. When I had him set and was about to make eye contact with the judge, I was surprised by a
voice beside me that said “Nice, the Kinney steers swept the board.” My brother, of all people in the class,
stood next to me as siblings took first and second places with our cross-bred steers. I was shocked that I stood
at the front of the class and was handed my blue ribbon, trophy, and the chance to shake the hand of the man
who just made me Grand Champion of the Market Steer class. This just did not mean I had won my class, but
now as 4-H Grand Champion, I would sell my steer first at the auction and the business people attending the
auction always paid more money for the Grand Champion. I was on the top of the world, about to be rich,
and now had the chance to show others that my family could raise beautiful dairy heifers and champion
Market Steers.
The week continued with the other cattle shows, where my family’s animals did very well indeed, but I was
focused on Friday night. Friday night was the night of the 4-H auction and I was about to get thousands of
dollars for my steer and be able to sell him to someone who would butcher him and eat him. I was completely
aware of the future of Topper, and I knew he was going to die, but I was prepared or so I thought. This is
when I came back to reality and my emotions took over.
6:00, the start of the auction, I walk Topper up the ramp into the gated pen, with bright lights, and people
talking, the auctioneer started the bid. “.50 cents a pound, do I hear .50 cents?” he began. In order to show the

best features of Topper, I walked him slowly around the ring, again smiling, like I had never smiled before.
Every once in a while, I would pause and align Topper’s feet and tighten the halter to force him to pick up his
head. While just standing there and being on display to all those people, I froze, and everything became quiet,
while I became nauseated. A blur of colors filled my irises, the purple of the Grand Champion banner, the
yellow of the bright lights, the shiny black coat of Topper, and the white faces that looked at me as if I were a
caged animal, as they waited for me to do a trick. The smells of French fries, funnel cakes, sweat and manure
filled my nostrils and again I felt sick. The next thing I knew, I was shaking hands with the business man who
just purchased Topper for $3.80 a pound. I think I smiled and thanked him as I left the pen, Topper behind
me on his halter. I then went back to the barn where I secured Topper’s lead-rope and made my way to the
restroom to release my nausea. Feeling a little better, I returned to the barn to find my family and friends
waiting to congratulate me for having sold Topper for a very good price. Still, I had no emotion, just a blank
stare and the thoughts of what was to come for Topper. The only thing on my mind at that point was how
could I have successfully accomplished my ultimate goal in raising a steer, yet feel so cold and empty like the
steel cattle trailer about to take Topper away for good.
That night I said goodbye to my first Market Steer, the one who gave me wealth, respect, and overall pride for
what I had accomplished in those four months we were together. Those four months of hard-work, long
walks, halter training and the responsibility and love I received from this 1,200 pound animal, made it even
harder than expected. As they loaded him on the trailer to be taken to the local slaughter house, I lost it. Tears
poured down my face as my heart was breaking, and I just wanted to rescue him and take him back home
with me. I had to be restrained by my brother and taken back to the barn, where I continued to sob. Having
that money in my pocket still did not let me forget the love I had for Topper and how it was my fault he had
to die.
After this experience of heartache, tears, and regret, I still didn’t stop raising a Market Steer every year until I
was too old to do so anymore. Each year the thought of my steer’s death made me sob, and I continued to put
myself through it. I believe that through these experiences, however hard they were, I was able to show my
love for animals, especially cattle, and to grow as a young woman, with the emotion and the strength to keep
raising steers for slaughter every year for 6 years.
Being a farm girl has given me responsibility, respect for the agricultural industry, and the knowledge
beyond my years of coping with death. I owe who I am today to my parents and family in that rural area of
Northwest Pennsylvania because I would not be who I am today without them and their strength, pride, and
love of farming.

Hike of the Month: Sandy Bottom
--Kevin McKee (LHU English major)
The immediate Lock Haven area has a great deal to offer in terms of hiking, but there are also a vast number
of trails both serene and primal that can be accessed within an afternoon’s traveling. One such is a favorite of
mine that I have been visiting for several years now: Sandy Bottom. Located on Route 87 just past Barbours,
Sandy Bottom lies along the Loyalsock Creek as it winds its way through the Endless Mountains.
To reach it from Lock Haven, head north on Route 220 towards Williamsport. Keep going past Montoursville,
until you see the sign for Route 87 North -- take that exit, and turn left onto 87. From there, drive about
twenty-five to thirty-five minutes until just past Barbours. Although there is a sign, it can be a little tricky to
find the turn-off, as it is located around a sharp bend in the road...it’s very easy to drive right by. The best
advice I can give is to look for a teal/silver colored trailer on the left in a pine forest. When you see that
trailer, slow down and get ready to turn to the left. At that point, a short forest road replete with dodge-able
potholes is all that stands between you and the trailhead.
The trail itself is rather easy. It’s mostly flat creekside walking, and the trail is made up primarily of a sandy
loam that can make you feel as though you’re at the beach. When the creek is low, there are a number of
islands that one can easily fjord out to, and the water is deep enough in places to swim, if that’s to your liking.
Also of note at Sandy Bottom is a gigantic walnut tree, which is where I traditionally end my hike. There is
more trail beyond it, but as I am usually a solo hiker, and the further trail gets pretty rough, I haven’t actually
attempted it. In theory, it is supposed to cross 87 and then scale the mountainside until you reach an overlook
from which you can observe a significant amount of the creek, and the valley that it is located within. Be
warned that I have heard tell that the upward trail is not well maintained, and it can be challenging to find
the way up in places.
Sandy Bottom is a great place to go for an afternoon trip away from the worries of classes, papers, and -- dare
I say it -- social obligations. It is one of the peculiar spots all along Route 87 that is at once park-like and very
wild. As with all of nature, it merits respect; but it can be a wonderful region to visit.
Environmental Focus Group
Bob Myers (Chair), Md. Khalequzzaman, Lenny Long, Jeff Walsh, Danielle Tolton, John Crossen, Sandra
Barney, David White, Tom Ormond, Ralph Harnishfeger, and Barrie Overton. The committee is charged with
promoting and supporting activities, experiences, and structures that encourage students, faculty, and staff to
develop a stronger sense of place for Lock Haven University and central Pennsylvania. Such a sense of place

involves a stewardship of natural resources (environmentalism), meaningful outdoor experiences, and
appreciation for the heritage of the region.