A few weeks ago, I posted a photo of a dish of Peachy Paterno ice cream from the Creamery and mentioned that it was a taste of heaven here on earth.
Heaven…
Recognition of the advancing years on a long walk got me thinking about what heaven would be like. There is an assumption (no guarantee) that one would get past St. Peter and be given access to the heavenly afterlife.
Granted, heaven probably already has flying cars and things like that, but let’s keep this to what is already part of our earthly existence. And the heaven experience would have to be limited to people who are already dead.
The wardrobe for heaven would be simple. Clothes would all fit perfectly, wash themselves and be functional for every occasion. The shoes would be black Nikes with white swooshes, the pinnacle of shoe fashion across human history.
So where would I live in heaven? The house would have three doors.
One, facing slightly southeast, would open to a street that is beachfront. Early morning sunrises would entail walks on the beach and breakfast at the Fishin’ Pier Grille in Avalon. Matching the earthly perfection of their home fries is a tall order, but we are talking about God here. The water would be the same blue seen in the waters of Southern Italy.
Dogs would be allowed on the beach and everywhere else. Hats off to Pope Francis for letting us know that my late, great dogs Rosey and Bonnie would be frolicking like puppies with me.
Since heading southeast from the house is summery, there would be baseball. The stadiums would start with Fenway Park and Ebbets Field. My dad spent many summer days as an usher at Ebbets Field watching his hometown Brooklyn Dodgers. The rest of the heavenly baseball league would be played in Old Yankee Stadium (not the new one), Wrigley Field and PNC Park – yes PNC Park is THAT good.
I’d sit with my dad to see Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, Jackie Robinson (who, according to my dad, turned the corner from first to second better than anyone), Babe Ruth, Roberto Clemente, Bob Gibson, Ty Cobb… the list could go on and on.
The second door from the house would face north/northeast and open into an Appalachian valley cut by limestone streams and always awash in the fall colors of red, yellow and orange leaves. A grove of aspens would never lose their leaves, and they’d flutter under golden sunlight in a gentle fall breeze. There would be beautiful lakes cut by glaciers. This is where hiking, biking, kayaking and fishing would happen. All framed by God’s great canvas of fall foliage.
It would occasionally get colder here in this part of heaven because fall also means football — meaningful football played in the elements.
And there would be college stadiums: Beaver Stadium (preserved as it was in 2011), Ohio Stadium, Michigan Stadium, Bryant-Denny Stadium, Neyland Stadium, Memorial Stadium (Texas), Husky Stadium (want to tailgate on a boat), The Yale Bowl, The Rose Bowl, Sun Devil Stadium and the old Orange Bowl Stadium.
Some days would include sitting in a coaching staff room game planning with Vince Lombardi, Paul Bryant, Walter Camp, Bill Walsh, Eddie Robinson, Woody Hayes, Bo Schembechler, Jake Gaither, Joe Paterno and Mike Leach.
And this old coach would get to don a headset and call a game one more time in heaven. The situation would always end with us having the last possession, trailing by four on our own 20 with roughly 1:30 to go and one timeout. That alone is enough of a heaven for any former coach, but man cannot live for eternity on football alone.
The last door would open to the west. It would lead to snow-covered streets and nearby mountain peaks where every day would be a powder day. The first peak would be that of Tussey Mountain, where I first learned to carve turns with Stan Hamilton, a family friend and father of three Penn State players. He taught us to ski and shared a life of activism that reinforced values of unity among all people.
Behind Tussey Mountain would be vast expanses of terrain to match the Back Bowls of Vail, the steep tree-lined slopes of Stowe, the harrowing heights of KT-22 at Palisades (formerly Squaw Valley). I’d be skilled enough to race the icy steeps of the Hahnenkamm or drop into the chutes of Corbet’s Couloir at Jackson Hole.
The ski lodge would be from one of the great Italian resorts like Cortina with a lunchtime feast eaten al Fresco on a sun-splashed deck to fuel a long afternoon of epic skiing. The powder would fall each night, and the sun would shine each day.
To the south would be the desert. A place to warm ourselves during winter and a landscape of expansive quiet. The clear skies as the temperature drops provide a canopy of stars to stir awe in any soul.
Among the winter side of the house would be the old Boston Garden. Bill Russell would be squaring off with Wilt Chamberlain, playing over and over. Red Auerbach would be coaching. The arenas would also include Madison Square Garden and the old Montreal Forum to host hockey. The great dynasty of the old-time Montreal Canadiens would rise to battle ancient rivals. The Hartford Whalers would reemerge, and Brass Bonanza would be played after every hockey goal for every team.
While sports play a big part in all this, there are other things. Hunting with Ernest Hemingway. Writing forums with people like Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Wallace Stegner, John O’Hara, John Steinbeck.
Great opera halls like La Scala would see performances written by Mozart and Vivaldi and sung by Pavarotti and Maria Callas. The timeless acoustics of these places would host Frank Sinatra, John Lee Hooker, Jimi Hendrix… .the list goes on and on. Tupac, Biggie and Elvis would be there too (if they’re really dead). Red Rocks Amphitheatre would be the outdoor venue for epic shows.
The art museums would include the greatest works of art with tours guided by DaVinci and Michelangelo. The halls of the heavenly libraries would be places where the philosophy of Martin Luther King would meet Machiavelli, Thomas Jefferson, John Locke, Gandhi, Confucius and others.
There would be quiet moments sitting, like I did as a child, at the drafting table with my grandfather August Pohland teaching me about architecture and about life, or in this case, the afterlife.
Movie night would be in The State Theatre sitting next to John Belushi watching “Animal House” or watching “Casablanca” next to the men who wrote it, including Penn Stater Julius Epstein. You could share popcorn with Marlon Brando, James Earl Jones, Marilyn Monore, Jayne Mansfield, Greta Garbo, Rudolph Valentino or Charlie Chaplin (although he apparently isn’t much of a talker).
And sandwiched around all this fun would be food.
Some days would be BBQ: hickory smoked pulled pork from the Carolinas, mesquite smoked brisket from Texas and a cart with every kind of sauce imaginable. The sides would be my own creations; hickory and cherry smoked mac and cheese or Pigskin Stew. Seafood would be stone crab claws, Copper River salmon and lobster rolls.
Fresh fruits and veggies would all grow in the southeast yard and Honeycrisp apples would always be ripe on the northeast side of the house.
There would be great Italian subs, epic cheesesteaks (not taking any sides in a Philly cheesesteak argument), big meaty sandwiches and humble tomato sandwiches on great bread. The rolls and Italian bread would come from the now-gone Lattanzio’s Bakery in Latrobe. My maternal grandmother, Alma Pohland, would be making her unbeatable Italian sandwiches in a kitchen that smelled like red onions, vinegar and oil.
Chili dogs would have meat sauce, sweet relish, ketchup, mustard and creamy coleslaw.
And of course there would be family meals. My father, my grandparents, ancestors galore all around a table eating big piles of pizza, meatballs, eggplant parmesan. The foundation for everything would be the noble San Marzano tomatoes grown in a part of my yard with Naples’ soil made rich by the ash of Mount Vesuvius.
I would finally meet my grandfather Angelo Paterno, at long last getting to talk to a man who gifted his family a set of values based in justice for all that were decades ahead of his time.
After dinner the desserts would pile high. Key lime pie, Doberge cake from Gambino’s Bakery in New Orleans, Penn State Creamery ice cream, Baked Alaska and much more.
Given all the sports and musical entertainment there would be late nights, and late night grub. Mi Tierra in San Antonio for huevos rancheros, or beignets at Café du Monde. Ye Olde College Diner would feature grilled stickies à la mode.
After all that, there would be a 20-minute nap before rising again fully refreshed for another in the long line of days stretching into eternity.
That just about covers it. But given that extensive wish list, living the life of Mother Teresa may not even cover all that.
