Among one thousand Class of ‘77 high school seniors, Glen and I knew only of each other as staunch advocates of the sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll shibboleth of the day. Twelve weeks later, surprise, we connect as Penn State University Park exiles at the Snyder Hall outpost (the furthest colony in the realm). Life beyond our dormitory was limited to grazing farm animals and Nittany Lions six Saturdays a year (aka the football stadium). Being freshmen enrolled in Electrical Engineering, life before PCs and internet was basically a medieval boot camp. Humping 25 lbs. of textbooks daily in a knapsack was not a fashion statement, it was a requisite for survival. Freshmen were forbidden to have a car, so 15 minute double-time marches to and from class across campus was a regular occurrence so as to avoid the egregious 10¢ bus fare in this Happy Valley nirvana. Except during wintertime - the “Happy” reference was the epitome of oxymoronic. Our friendship odyssey had germinated.

Never roommates, Glen spent countless hours in my dorm room balancing the conflict between self-discipline and self-awareness (aka adulting). He was a committed scholar and party animal on a shoestring budget. As students, Glen’s penchant for minutia facilitated his mastering Calculus. He and my Nuclear Engineering roommate took to derivatives like “ducks to water”. They had monk-like discipline to pull all-nighters prior to the exam and binged on complex mathematical formulae with their photographic memories. Glen would pause hourly for a single bong hit and his air guitar or vocal rendition of “Gimme Me Back My Bullets”. We both still mourned Skynyrd’s plane crash during our first trimester. For me, Calculus was my “Achille’s Heel” thus I changed my major to Business. Glen must have channeled inspiration from his older brother, Roger, who was simultaneously pursuing Mechanical Engineering off campus at Theta Chi. Glen’s fraternal connection was a blessing for destitute underage imbibers like us. Frats and keg parties have a reputation for a reason. How we walked two miles back to the dormitory was a recurring “minor” miracle (pun intended).

For junior & senior year, now permitted to live off campus, we embraced life at the Briarwood Apartments. This complex had an annual bash (aka Woodstock or Coachella). Together we flourished in this Xanadu of debauchery. Glen was a steadfast Rush afficionado so I’m compelled to reference one of his favorite bands. Astonishingly, Glen graduated Class of ‘81 with an immediate and enviable IBM job offer in hand.

Glen experienced the stereotypical suburbanite American Dream playbook verbatim – college, white collar job, marriage, two kids, picket fence, divorce. He returned to his original stomping grounds as a mid-life career changer with sandwich generation responsibility. I’m saddened to discover he survived his parents 75 days.

Sincere condolences to his family.

Dr. J