On a storybook campus, bleeding blue and white

If only it were possible to block out the world’s harshest

realities – the way the people of Happy Valley have done for

decades now – this week’s crystalline skies might have set the

scene for one more perfect chapter in local lore.

A glorious sun bathed Mount Nittany’s fading foliage in a rusty

glow. Hundreds of Penn State students gathered once again in the

protective shadows of Beaver Stadium, pitching 81 tents in the

instant colony called Paternoville. Another Big Game lay just

ahead.

But when Ed Temple, class of `70, put down the convertible top

of his meticulously restored 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air this week and

set out for a drive around the stadium, he came to mourn.

In the back seat of a car usually reserved for alumni parades,

Temple propped up a life-sized cardboard cutout of Joe Paterno,

benevolent ruler of this valley for nearly half a century – but now

the ex-football coach, fired this week in the midst of a spiraling

scandal centered on allegations of child sex abuse by one of his

former assistants.

In the front seat, Temple’s dachshund, Snoopy, gazed out at the

passing campus from his master’s lap. ”Unlike a human, this guy

will never lie to you or deceive you,” Temple said, stroking the

dog’s head.

With an edge heard in the voices of many Penn Staters, Temple –

raised in this town that has long celebrated its seclusion –

recalled life in the House that Joe Built. At first, the phrase was

just a reference to the stadium, which packs in 107,000 on autumn

Saturdays to revel in the words of the Alma Mater: ”May no act of

ours bring shame, to one heart that loves thy name.”

But Temple went on to describe the tree-lined brick campus and

the Valley itself as an oasis ”sort of like Disneyland,” one that

has long drawn on a seemingly bottomless well of virtue and trust

to sustain a family far bigger than any ordinary household could

ever contain.

Now, trying to explain how it feels to be a part of that family,

Temple, who is 65, reached for a parable of his own experience.

Years ago, he said, his father, a local merchant and real estate

developer, was sent to federal prison for four years after being

convicted of tax evasion and mail fraud. Decades later, in a town

where many people stay forever, Temple is certain some still cringe

when he gives his name. Because of one man’s deeds, he says, the

family’s identity is forever tarnished.

”That taints you for the rest of your life,” Temple said,

turning back to the scandal that has sundered Penn State’s

carefully constructed sense of self.

”We all have to live with that now.”

The American landscape is sprinkled with picturesque college

towns. And many are places where football reigns, victory machines

whose glories stir the soul and rake in dollars.

For years, though, Penn State has cast itself as a singular

storybook place. Like other schools, it thrived on a culture of

football. But to bleed blue and white, Penn Staters promised

themselves, was about much more than a game.

It meant putting individual identity aside for the greater

glory, an ethic symbolized by the jerseys players wear that, unlike

those of many teams, bear no name besides that of the school. It

was about a unique bond, founded on knowing that your fellow

Nittany Lions were your family and the coach in the Coke-bottle

glasses and rolled up pants known affectionately as ”JoePa,” your

trusted patriarch. It was about doing things the right way.

”Success with honor,” they called it. It was a slogan, sure,

but one to be believed.

That can all seem like so much hazy nostalgia now, following

former Paterno assistant Jerry Sandusky’s arrest on charges of

molesting eight boys and allegations that Paterno, Penn State

President Graham Spanier and other officials were told about one

such incident in 2002, yet never went to the police.

But understanding the unique role that Penn State and its

hometown assigned themselves in American collegiate life helps make

sense of, if not the tragedy, then at least the tears and the

outrage it has unleashed.

When Paterno became head coach in 1966 after 16 years as an

assistant, he announced a ”Grand Experiment” – a self-appointed

mission for the program and the university to prove that athletic

success and academic achievement could go hand-in-hand.

Some outsiders found it self-righteous. But over the years, the

Nittany Lions garnered two national championships and numerous bowl

victories, all while fielding squads that consistently posted among

the highest graduation rates of any top-ranked program.

That identity was cemented when the 1986 squad triumphed over a

No. 1 University of Miami team for the national championship. The

Miami squad spent the days before the game dressed in battle

fatigues, earning them a reputation as rogues. Penn State’s players

arrived in suits and ties, led by a coach dubbed St. Joe.

”It was the Christians versus the infidels,” said Ron Smith, a

retired Penn State professor of sports history. ”It’s not hard to

have a culture of doing right. But to be righteous about it, when

something goes wrong …”

The Penn State way made admirers of many who started out as

critics.

But nobody bought into the legend like those who lived it.

Paterno’s program generated loyalty and money that were

instrumental in turning a school once focused on agriculture into

one of the nation’s biggest and most respected research

universities and a highly sought destination. Penn State’s alumni

association, with more than 165,000 members, is the largest in the

world. When the Lion Ambassadors lead tours through campus, the

call-and-response cheers that still erupt spontaneously across the

lawns demand the attention of any visitor.

”WE ARE…,” one student will shout. The response is forceful,

immediate and heartfelt – and often draws a chorus of voices from

hundreds of feet away: ”PENN STATE!!”

Penn State’s geography proved the ideal hothouse for nurturing

its self-identity. Until new highways were paved in recent years,

State College remained difficult to reach, hours removed from

either Pittsburgh or Philadelphia and tucked between folds in the

brooding Appalachian ridges. Getting to Penn State is ”a camping

trip,” Indiana University’s irascible basketball coach Bob Knight

once said. ”There is nothing for about 100 miles.”

But people here have long seen that remoteness as a virtue.

”Happy Valley,” reads a T-shirt for sale in one of the

memorabilia shops that line College Avenue. ”Livin’ the Dream

Since 1855. It Doesn’t Get any Better.”

Visiting campus this week, 1974 graduate Dwight Bowie reminisced

about the weekly ”Gentle Thursday” gatherings of his youth, when

students flocked to the lawn in front of Old Main’s clock tower for

”a little bit of smoking, a little bit of drinking and much

music.”

What amazes Bowie, now that he’s older and aware of the events

then taking place at other campuses around the country, is that he

recalls virtually no anti-Vietnam protests at Penn State.

”It was like some things didn’t seem to touch here,” said

Bowie, now an insurance executive who lives in Keene, N.H.

But for those who live in town – the children of university

employees, the graduates who never leave, the many alumni who

return to retire here – the Penn State way is much more than gauzy

memories. In this town, where revered leaders were also friends and

colleagues and neighbors, this week’s revelations are a

betrayal.

Sitting on the steps of Old Main Wednesday holding up a yellow

legal pad with the word ”HEAL,” written in 4-inch high letters,

doctoral student Peter Buckland recalled his childhood as the son

of an English professor and an academic adviser.

Buckland spoke of afternoons playing with friends in Sunset

Park, where they’d frequently see Paterno – whose name and number

are still in the local phone directory – on solitary strolls. Mike

McQueary, the assistant coach who went to Paterno in 2002 after

seeing Sandusky in the locker room showers allegedly molesting a

10-year-old boy, was a year ahead of Buckland at State College Area

High School. When Buckland’s father died last August, 3 of every 4

mourners were people he knew from Penn State.

”You have this identity with this thing and it’s bigger than

you,” said Buckland, who is 35, married to a fellow Penn State

graduate and the father of a 4-year-old. The thought of child abuse

being allowed to continue on the campus where he grew up makes it

”frankly difficult for me – because I’ve been here so much – to

separate what has happened to this place from myself.”

Lou Prato, a 1959 alumnus who has written several books about

Penn State sports history and was the first director of the

university’s All-Sports Museum, describes the valley as a cocoon

and says that has intensified the shock.

”This goes beyond football. What’s going to happen to this

town? Because football has been this town,” Prato said, his voice

polished in the manner of a man who spent years in

broadcasting.

”How did it happen here?” he continues. ”This is like a

nightmare, it really is. This is like your mother died.”

Prato’s voice cracks and tears begin to well.

”I’m sorry,” he says.

All across campus – from the plaza in front of the Paterno

Library to the umbrella-shaded tables outside the Creamery with its

Peachy Paterno ice cream to the tents pitched across the concrete

below the stadium – the people who count themselves as members of

the Penn State family search for a way to explain the way they feel

inside.

The sex abuse allegations, several said, have fueled a sense of

betrayal like the one they imagine many Roman Catholics feel in the

wake of the scandal involving pedophile priests. Only here, the

anger is confined to one community.

Others compared it to the loss of trust in leaders that followed

Watergate or the surrender of security that followed the Sept. 11

terrorist attacks.

”It’s over,” some said, shaking their heads.

David Schwartz, a senior from Doylestown, majoring in energy

business and finance, recalled the adrenaline rush of his first

visit on yet another perfect fall day six years ago when the campus

rang with cheers. Penn State’s football team, coming off two losing

seasons, was resurgent and on its way to a victory in the Orange

Bowl.

”I just couldn’t imagine going to a better school than this,”

Schwartz said, gazing across College Avenue to the green lawns of

campus. ”What was obviously a source of our pride is now a

shattered identity.”

Liz Gallagher, a business major from Scranton, laughed,

recalling how she announced to her parents in seventh grade that

she planned to go to Penn State. When she goes home, her high

school friends always shake their heads when she rhapsodizes about

her college choice. What is it about that place? they ask. It’s

about friendships, she tells them, but it’s also more.

By way of example she points out that this is the annual

”Integrity Week,” at the business school, where every student is

asked to sign a pledge to do the right thing in both their academic

and future professional lives. Gallagher is certain that, even now,

that spirit endures.

”Everybody’s thinking you can’t tear that legacy down,”

Gallagher said. ”One person can’t do that to us. We’re going to

show the world.”

But many others are just as certain that the Penn State

fairytale has been forever rewritten.

Prato compares Happy Valley now to Bedford Falls, the mythical

town from the Jimmy Stewart movie, ”It’s a Wonderful Life.” In

the film, a protective angel shows Stewart, a savings-and-loan

manager who doubts his own self-worth, just how much his tight-knit

town would suffer without him. Now State College is having its

Bedford Falls moment – except that there is no angel to take it

back to the way things were before, Prato said.

Still, close your eyes and breathe in the smell of turning

leaves, and Penn State can still summon storybook memories.

On an afternoon of splendid fall sunshine Wednesday – in the

hours between Paterno’s announcement that he would retire at

season’s end and university trustees’ decision to fire him

immediately – Kathleen Karpov stepped outside to chat with a

neighbor and to take measure of the moment in her hometown.

Karpov, a native of State College whose family bought a weekend

place six years ago directly across McKee Street from Paterno’s

modest ranch-style house, sighed as television news crews paced the

sidewalk bordering her lawn, cameras pointed at Paterno’s

doorstep.

She spoke fondly about growing up the Penn State way, about her

family’s happiness when they found this house, about the

anticipation she and her husband have long shared to one day retire

to a place where the most respected members of the community are

your family, friends and neighbors.

”I think our entire town is bleeding blue and white,” Karpov

said.

That catchphrase, she recalled, used to have such a positive

ring to it.

”Right now, it’s the pain that we feel.”

Adam Geller is a New York-based national writer for The

Associated Press. He can be reached at features(at)ap.org.