In Loving Memory of Tony Vallone

I remember vividly the first time I met Tony Vallone. At the time, The Watershed Journal Literary Group was still in its infancy and I had been setting up meetings and making calls to local businesses in an effort to drum up support for our emerging enterprise. Most people brushed me off politely. A few were vaguely encouraging of the idea of local publishing. But no one had much faith that the effort would last. I came back empty-handed from every meeting, however someone at Sarvey Insurance convinced me that I needed to talk to Tony Vallone at Penn State DuBois. It was the best tip I could have gotten.

Within the first few minutes of sitting down with Tony Vallone at the Penn State DuBois campus cafeteria, I knew this was a turning point for TWJ. Tony sat across from me, hands folded over his stomach, and kindly offered to buy me a cup of tea. Physically, Tony was a striking man– large build, strong features, and dark eyes. I wonder if, on the first day of class, his freshmen students ever found him to be intimidating. I’ll bet they did. 

But the most attentive students must have realized quickly, as I did, that, in terms of his personality and presence, the most striking characteristic of Tony Vallone was his generosity. He was a generous conversationalist, listening intently while I prattled on excitedly about our vision for Watershed. We wanted to turn the literary world on its head by being an inclusive effort. We wanted to empower writers through our writer’s groups, events, and workshops to help them find and strengthen their voices. We wanted to elevate their work by pairing their writing with thoughtfully-designed spreads, incorporating photography and artwork. We wanted to do something that hadn’t been done before. 

Looking back, I don’t know what I came there to ask of Tony that day. In fact, I don’t think I had a plan for what I would do if I won him over. I just wanted to connect with him, maybe get some advice. But in the span of that conversation, something happened between Tony and me that I can only attribute to a kind of remarkable openness that most people never achieve. It has to do with imagination; it has to do with a willingness to believe in something; it has to do with being truly present with another person and understanding each other. I like to think that years of writing and studying poetry can do that for us. It can make us open to possibilities beyond what other people see. 

From that day forward, Tony was with us in every sense. He became a member of our Board of Directors, lending us his experience in academia and in independent publishing. He had been publishing novels and books of poetry through his own press, MAMMOTH Books, since the 1990’s. MAMMOTH was a labor of love for Tony and he was faithful to it and the writers who found a home there. In 2023, with the incredible help of our Board President, Kirke Wise, we moved all of the MAMMOTH inventory to Watershed Books so that we could store, sell, and manage books. As well as being a member, Tony made donations to TWJ to help support our new bookstore location and our growing community.

Whenever TWJ had an obstacle or a need, Tony was always one of the first to offer help. When we were looking for someone to lead a workshop, Tony volunteered to run a session out of the DuBois campus on writing poetry, free to all participants. When I was overextended with personal and professional obligations, Tony stepped up to edit an edition of The Watershed Journal magazine. When the TWJ team faced some important crossroads, unsure how we would move forward, Tony made time to visit with me over a cup of tea, offering support and advice. 

And all the while, Tony continued to inspire us not just with his generous spirit, but with his beautiful poetry. Even now that he has passed away, we can turn to his poetry for comfort and understanding.  

I’ll leave you all with his words, a poem he submitted to The Watershed Journal in 2020. 

Wild Turkeys at The Cottages

Here, where only the elderly are allowed

to live, my wife saw this morning

six wild turkeys, meandering

on the knoll between our back porch & the neighbors’.

I would say the turkeys are re-embodied ghosts

of former residents who’ve “moved up”

as the lingo’s euphemism goes, & returned, strolling 

from the cemetery to our right

to the assisted living apartments & nursing home to our left

so they might visit friends.

All of life is perception, isn’t it?

The wealthy who see themselves poor.

The imbecile who fancies himself a genius.

The young who believe they will live forever.

My wife’s joy at seeing the turkeys, 

shouting to me about them as she ran to get her camera,

filled me with a joy

that makes me think of the turkeys

here to greet us like a welcoming committee

for life & its Siamese twin, the afterlife.

Pure black through the distance & haze

the turkeys look like early carolers

singing in a strange & beautiful tongue

that the living, like all of us 

in this neighborhood, designed

with its repeated cul-de-sacs,

can’t quite translate yet.