I ran away to a place deep in the forest, just to escape for awhile.

Jittery and anxious last Tuesday, I felt overloaded with the latest, unsettling events in an already trying time: Word of a friend who’d been so careful about COVID-19 exposure, yet is battling the virus, and a U.S. president out of the hospital — yet not humbled. 

That news followed a disturbing train wreck of the presidential debate held in my native city, Cleveland, home to more of my loved ones than I dare count. 

For just awhile, I needed nothing else to happen, a break from news alerts and the sense of encroaching chaos.

I needed a road trip adventure — a short one that would have me back home by bedtime.

Not far from my home in central Pennsylvania, there is a natural, conservation area deep within the state forest with old-growth pine and hemlock and an understory of sprawling, 20-foot tall rhododendrons. 

A century ago, the logging industry cut most of Penn’s Woods to the ground, but bypassed these acres. Now it’s protected, with limited human meddling. (This is Alan Seeger Natural Area within Rothrock State Forest. No logging allowed. Hunting is permitted.)

The place is lovely, peaceful and quiet. I visited only once, long ago. My planned mini-escape route would take the really long way, up and over instead of around the mountain, to reach the county north of us, where I had some things to do.

And — it was on the way to a cheeseburger I’ve been craving.

My work lately has me writing a lot about uplifting country drives and delicious food from local farms. (We eat very well here in central Pennsylvania!) 

One pub, in particular, is known for using all local ingredients in its cheeseburgers and milkshakes—two treats that have been dancing around in my head for weeks. Months even. Not exactly sugarplums, but you get the picture. 

Clearly, it was time for my own country drive, so I finished my work and grabbed my keys.

But before I could slip out the door, my phone buzzed with one more news alert, and it was a gut punch.

Sad News

Eddie Van Halen was dead at 65. The news triggered my tears, and immediately flooded me with sadness and good memories. A best friend and I always greet each other with the beginning of a favorite Van Halen song: Helllloooo Baby! 

Four syllables, all dramatically drawn out, that zip us right back to our senior year of high school when the album 5150 was still new and shiny.

Eddie was a “forever-young,” grinning rock star. A guitar god. 

Remember being a teenager and the music that sent you and your friends over the moon into a wild frenzy? Remember those teenage crushes on the fun, famous, gorgeous and talented? Jon Bon Jovi? Luke Bryan? Shania? Keith Urban? Ringo? Paul? Elvis?

To me, Eddie Van Halen is all of that: the music, infatuation and lasting friendships from my teenage years. The soundtrack of my coming-of-age.

(My mom is probably rolling her eyes once again as she reads, recalling the weeks-long, drawn-out argument we had the summer I turned 16 and was determined to go to a Van Halen concert in Cleveland with my boyfriend. But the concert was the same day as the family reunion she insisted we attend somewhere “in the middle of nowhere” in Pennsylvania. She won, of course — and now I live in a “somewhere” not-so-far from that middle-of-nowhere place.)

Eddie had that impish, flirty grin. He made playing music look as easy and delightful as skipping down a sidewalk or jumping rope. His fingers moved crazy-fast and nimble over electric guitar strings and piano keys. 

Yes – I was absolutely infatuated with cute Eddie. I was also in awe of his giant musical talent. I played piano then, and wanted to play just like Eddie.

Fresh, Crisp Air

Now, teary, I pulled out of our driveway and turned north away from the valley and toward the mountain, driving through the state park, into the state forest, past the Christmas tree farm, past fields of cows and goats, then farther into the woods. 

Mile by mile, I breathed more deeply, as longer exhales and inhales settled my nerves and anxiety. Morning fog had yielded to a gorgeous warm autumn afternoon with blazing red, orange and gold leaves and sunshine slicing through the green canopy. 

Among the fresh, crisp air, I found some calm.

Finally, I reached the natural, barely touched area. The quiet, rich and dark coolness comforted me. The scent of fallen leaves turning to new soil on the forest floor among yellowed ferns. Those dark green, leathery leaves of rhododendron grow so tall.

I thought about how these trees have stood strong for hundreds of years, towering toward the sky. They can’t run away, you know — not even for a little country drive. 

I felt small again, cradled in all that glorious beauty in the stability — at least for now — of the forest. The world may feel like it’s going to hell, spinning off its axis. But this forest is still right here, right now. Still very real. Still very solid.

I kept driving, eventually out of the wildest part of the forest and still in the woods, climbing the mountain.

When we were girls

Surprisingly, my phone buzzed a bunch of times.

Veronica, my very first best friend and possibly Eddie Van Halen’s number one fan.

Had I heard the news?

Have you ever not realized a part of you was missing until you were again with that person? With someone you’d once spent most of every day with for several years? That’s what it was like for me to hug Veronica after nearly two decades of drifting. We text from time to time. The last time we got on the phone, three hours flew by.

Then, she texted more than 10 of us, all connected by a time long ago when we were best friends, classmates and many of us were dancing, jumping cheerleaders. 

Soon, Veronica sent a short tribute RIP message and a link to a YouTube video of Jump, the Van Halen classic and lead-single from their 1984 album. I didn’t expect it to play, there on the switchback turns near the top of that mountain in the middle of nowhere. 

But it did.

Joy Ride

Eleven chords from Eddie’s synthesizer returned me to eighth grade at St. Wenceslas and a sleepover in Mary’s living room, where six of us danced and jumped, full of youthful energy and innocence. Mary, our cheerleading coach, hosted her squad: Veronica, Chris, Corina, Donna and Nancy. That night, we watched that Van Halen Jump video over and over again.

As I drove, I played the music as loud as it would go, felt the fresh air rush through the windows and sailed down the mountain on the sheer joy of a fun, driving tune. I was no longer alone in the car, but with all my girlfriends from eighth grade, high school and college in simpler times. Days well before rent and mortgage payments, before anyone was married or divorced, when it’s likely none of us worried about our own parents, our kids or in-laws — and certainly not all of them at the same time. 

A time long before anyone thought to call us “ma’am” — or we could even imagine it.

Lighter, lifted and breathing normally once again, I emerged from the forest into town, ticked off my errands and treated myself to one delicious cheeseburger and peanut butter milkshake. I returned home exhilarated, renewed — and in time to kiss my husband goodnight.

Dancing Queens — once again?

No one knows when we’ll be able to safely gather to blissfully dance the night away. A huge dance party is on my list of plans for when we reach “the other side” of this thing.

(Remember that Dancing Queen scene from Mamma Mia when mature women re-live their disco days? Ours would be with more denim and high-tops than polyester bell bottoms and beads, and a lot of blissful rocking out on air-guitar solos!)

Who knows when we’ll able to safely shimmy and sway and stay on our feet for an entire rock concert, whooping and cheering and waving lighters? 

My sense of collective grief for the people and experiences we have all lost is immense. So heavy. My family, thank goodness has been healthy, so this weight and disruption must be bearable. We have to stay strong. We have to stay up and hopeful.

Yet, that collective grief is still so immense. I must regularly acknowledge that and soothe my soul in the forest. 

And also escape into the uplifting, transportive power of music.

Eddie Van Halen, like many musicians, gave us music that connects me to cherished friends and better, joyful times — a balm for the weight of this world. Godspeed Eddie. Thank you.

The buzzing phone had crashed my sweet, peaceful escape — but delivered an entirely different escape, one of happy connection and shared euphoria. A reminder that the deep joy of beloved music and lifelong friendship is still at my fingertips. Right here. Right now.