This winter, I went back to the woods. The backwoods.
My homeland is in Central Pennsylvania, and I returned to celebrate Christmas with the family
and to help out with the coal furnace during the bleakest time of year (more on that later). Hunter
S. Thompson spent a stint of his youth in my native neck of the woods “in an abandoned coal
town” and deemed it “barren…[where nobody else] was between the ages of fifteen and fifty.”
He wrote to a friend of the region’s “mountains of coal dust, dirty old people, ancient wrecks of
houses” and called the experience “having a nightmare.”
James Carville famously labeled the stretch of land between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh (known
affectionately and derogatorily, depending on who’s saying it, as “Pennsyltucky”) as
“…Alabama without the blacks. They didn’t film The Deer Hunter there for nothing,” he said.
“The state has the second-highest concentration of NRA members, behind Texas.”
Thompson’s rural Pennsylvania gig was early on in his career, before, I think, his literary
licensing and drug use were really firing in full-force, and I can attest that his descriptions are,
even now, spot-on. As far as Carville’s assessment goes, despite being a Democrat, he’s not too
far off, either. Hunter safety class was a required part of my Catholic school’s curriculum in
second grade. SECOND GRADE. And the first two days of deer season were always school
Central PA is indeed a forgotten part of the country with tired old mountains, dreary weather, a
generally pessimistic populace, an overgrown, unkempt natural beauty, and archaic everything.
But it’s not completely charmless. It is home, after all.
The Eternal Grey
Returning to Pennsyltucky during the winter months means enduring the Eternal Grey – days
you’re not sure are really days exactly, but more like sepia extensions of early dusk. One great
cloud amasses its forces in early November and lingers over the sun until at least Easter, on
which day it habitually snows.
The snow does make the Appalachian dilapidation very pretty – covering rusty, run-down,
soggy, boggy, moldy things with a pure, clean blanket of white stuff. It doesn’t’ last, though.
Like a Catholic fresh from the confessional, a day or two’s time is enough to gather a layer of
grime. Growing up, “Don’t eat the snow” was a rule not because animals made it yellow (though
they did), but because chimneys pouring out rich, black smoke left a layer of soot on top (and
Guns and Religion
Hunting is a popular pastime here and camouflage acceptable year-round and in all
circumstances. Camo is seen at the gym (one boy sports camo knee sleeves), at proms and
weddings, on cars and in them. Camo, like guns, goes with everything. A billboard greets me on my way into town advertising camo coffee cups (If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is.),
and it’s a wonder more people aren’t accidentally colliding with each other all the time!
When hunting season is months away, going to the gun store is another popular regional pastime.
Here you meet the “bitter” people Barack Obama referenced in 2008 who “cling to guns or
religion…” The last time I was at my neighborhood guns and ammo shop, I overheard a gruff
customer justify his purchase of another firearm to his wife by saying, “Trump’s not gonna be in
office forever,” and then, apropos to nothing, he yelled, “LIBERAL A**HOLES!”
The Gym and Prison
Going to the gym in Pennsyltucky is more of a social exercise than it is about actual physical
exercise. Reformed high school steroid users, now in their 40s, leave the local prison where they
all work and reconvene at the local YMCA, where they listen to “Rock Nation,” talking in
dialects between sets about work at the prison from where they just clocked out, sometimes
getting around to lifting the same weight with the same weights they’ve been lifting for 30 years.
Getting out of your car to walk to the Y in the winter, your senses are consumed by an
unmistakable whiff of sulfur (from the nearby coal furnaces), until you actually walk into the Y,
where they’re overcome by the smell of concession stand sauerkraut (just what you want to be
smelling while you’re working out) and the pungent musk of prison men and sweaty workout
equipment, the latter having not been sanitized since their purchase during the glory days of the
‘Burgh’s Steel Curtain.
One time my city friend asked me, “Does your gym have a juice bar?” I literally lol-ed (or is it
“l’ed ol”?) and thought, “No, but we do have half-a- dozen buckets scattered about the weight
room to catch drippings from the leaky ceiling?”
Yuengs and Wings
Allegiance to the Pittsburgh Steelers (or “Stilers,” if you’re a yinzer, meaning you call groups of
people “yinz” instead of “y’all”) and Penn State is assumed, and watching football is what one
does to pass the overcast days between deer and spring gobbler seasons. The best way to
experience both teams is to participate in the cultural phenomenon known as “Yuengs and wings.”
To do so, deposit your camouflaged being in a bar that specializes in serving insanely cheap
pitchers of Yuengling beer and hot wings and then do what comes naturally.
Alternatively, you can make a “Sheetz run,” which means popping down to the beloved local gas
station that is oh-so much more than a gas station and stocking up on provincial goodies. The
Sheetz chain of convenience stores is the glorious heartbeat of Allegheny hickdom, serving the most over-the- top deep-fried delights 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year – perfect for the most imaginative pregnant woman or inspired stoner (“Morning Mac Cheese” anyone?).
Sheetz offers reliably clean restrooms on road trips, caffeinated sustenance, the aforementioned
munchies, cigarettes, chewing tobacco, gasoline, and, if the state (liberal a**holes!) would ever
change our absurd liquor laws, beer and wine too!
Coal Is King
My seasonal existence in Central Pennsylvania is made all the more eccentric and amusing by
the fact that we heat our 200-year- old home with a giant, locomotive-style steam engine powered
by a coal furnace. We (usually my brother or me) tend it several times a day (lots of shoveling),
and my father routinely invites visitors to peek at the blazing inferno in the basement and reflect
upon their immortal souls.
Tuesday is trash and ash day. Some twenty years ago, a black bear visited our trash shed outside,
and ever since, we’ve had an electric zapping mechanism jerry-rigged up to it with barbed wire,
and the trash men have never dared learn how not to get zapped. So we take the trash out to the
road for them. And during the winter, we sludge through snow in the single-digit temperatures
carrying misshapen metal buckets (between 9 and 12, depending on the quality of that week’s
coal) full of coal ashes up to the road for the trash men to haul away along with the trash. We’ve
also been trained never to come into the house empty-handed. Grabbing a log from the woodshed
for the kitchen wood-burner on the way in becomes second-nature by Thanksgiving.
It’s Bygone, by Golly
Coal country is full of backward, blue-collar folk. But they’re tough and independent and want
simply not to be treaded on. There are hard times, hard-core people, and literally a road not far
from me called “Hardscrapple Lane” (perhaps a linguistic ode to the favorite Amish delicacy the
ingredients of which my wise mother refused to tell illiterate 4-year- old me?).
But there are also reasons to love this place. I’m fond of the country people – like me – who
cling to God and their guns. I love that there are more country radio stations to listen to than pre-
sets in my car. I recognize how rare and wonderful it is that I can drive out with my dad, pipe in
his teeth and staticky Rush Limbaugh on the radio of our old Ford truck, to the “strippins”
(abandoned strip mines) to shoot our guns and not be bothered.
It’s not great that the hospital I was born in has since gone bankrupt and been razed, or that our
local newspaper features a “Fugitive of the Week” like it’s the winning Powerball numbers, but I
appreciate the attitude most people possess of cherishing their wild freedom and valuing the
Central Pennsylvania truly is the land time forgot. It’s stuck in the 80s (and in some places, the
1880s). There’s a reason “Groundhog Day” – a movie about Bill Murray being trapped in a time
warp – was so believably set here. But from the looks of the modern world, I can’t help but
wonder, what are we missing?
This article was originally published by The American Conservative.