When I was 18, I couldn’t wait to get out of here.
The city of Altoona was built by the Pennsylvania Railroad. When the railroad declined, Altoona declined with it. It never seemed to shake that decline. It stuck to the city. And I always perceived it as a place where you would get stuck if you didn’t get out.
Situated between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, Altoona was a Vaudeville stop in the late 19th century. Long after the joke tellers left, the city became sort of a joke because it never seemed to find a way to move forward and modernize.
Growing up in this town, poverty was right there all the time. You could see it and smell it. It seemed like we could only get so far ahead of it, and it scared me. We were the working poor before that was even a term, and we were broke at the end of the month a lot.
You inherited an accent here that said, “I’m not very sophisticated.” I never realized it until I moved away to college over in neighboring Happy Valley and my peers made fun of me for it. I worked hard to scrub it from the way I talked.
Oh my arrogance.
Yes, my attitude problem about my hometown was (and still is) a reflection of my arrogance. It was also born of a desire to see, do and have more. I can’t fault myself for that. My parents raised me to work hard and pursue. I wanted to pursue life beyond the Allegheny mountain ridges as quickly as possible.
Over the years, when I would come home to visit, this place made me sad in my bones. The drive up North 3rd Street in Juniata only got more and more depressing as the circa 1900 houses deteriorated. I’d see the workers at the locomotive repair shops hunkering deeper into their heavy coats and out into the slush at quitting time. They were the lucky ones, the ones who hadn’t been laid off that year.
When I tell people I just moved back here, they always ask where we were living. Virginia Beach. Then they all inevitably say, “Oh. I’m sorry,” and laugh.
There has literally only been one person who hasn’t said this—a friend from high school who has lived here all her life and thrived. She didn’t say, “I’m sorry.” She said, “It’s not that bad.”
Yep, there was a ringing endorsement that should have made me want to pack up our stuff even faster and break the speed limit to get here.
But something happened pretty quickly after we moved here. I started looking at my hometown with kinder eyes.
It is often gray and cold here. The Penn State meteorologists call it "UK gray." But when the sun comes out, you appreciate it deep in your soul and rejoice in it. As the sun overtakes the clouds on certain mornings, it turns Brush Mountain a mysterious shade of violet blue.
It is still utterly quiet here at night, and you can see deep into the Milky Way because there is so little light pollution.
Nothing is very far away. There is no traffic.
The DMV is almost delightful. You don’t have to wait long and the people who work there are courteous—dare I say friendly—to you.
People are kind. They may be a little hard to warm up at first, as people often are in cold climates, but they have big hearts once they open them to you.
They work hard here in Little Pittsburgh. So very, very hard. And they build lives that are just as worthy and important as any life in any other city or town.
My mother is here. Which means there is rich, extraordinary, unfailing love waiting for me when I go over and make her breakfast.
I’m not sorry we’re here. 40 years later, Altoona’s not bad at all. In fact, it’s pretty good.
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