Mongo Mania

This appeared July 30, 2006

You live, you learn.

No, I'm not talking about one of those life lessons that appears on a soft-focus greeting card - you know, "Stay true to your heart," "Always follow your dreams," "Never buy a hamburger from a man dressed as a clown" - but pieces of practical information that you glean for use in your everyday life as you seek to get ahead in this rat-race world we live in.

The meaning of mongo, for instance.

For years I, foolishly enough, believed that Mongo was simply the name of the deputy sheriff in Mel Brook's seminal film, "Blazing Saddles." The one who walks into town and casually punches out a horse, then later tearfully comes to understand that he has been cruelly manipulated by evil forces, confessing, "Mongo only pawn in game of life."

But thanks to old friend and Constant Reader Norman Mawby (See: township manager, Tredyffrin, 1964-1987) I learned this week that mongo is what I spoke of when I wrote earlier about the practice of grabbing trash.

In his book, "Mongo: Adventures in Trash," author Ted Botha identifies mongo as slang for the garbage salvaged from trash cans and other refuse sites. Seems in his adopted city of New York, there is an entire subculture devoted to grabbing mongo and making it work for you. People score mongo to decorate their homes and offices and to clothe themselves and their loved ones. They use it as currency, as in the money they receive for discarded cans and bottles. They subsist off edible mongo from restaurants and delis. They even use it to acquire wealth, as in those scavengers who look for Hemingway first editions in the garbage or Rembrandts on the curbside.

According to a review of Botha's book in The New York Times, the compulsion to acquire mongo "may be explained psychologically as a 'hedge against mortality' - we die, but our stuff lives on."

But I'm not going to assign those motives to my newest favorite group of people in Chester County. May I introduce to you the ChesterCountyFreecyclers, a bunch of mongo distributors and collectors organized around the principle that if you keep usable items that are lying around your house gathering dust out of the county landfill by giving it away free to someone who can really use the darn thing, you are building a sense of community.

Anyway, that's what Debbie Kiehl, the lead moderator for the group, told me. They formed in March and have about 1,360 members, mostly women, and grow by 40 or 50 each week.

The deal is simple: if you have something you don't want, you offer it to the group free. If someone wants it, they ask for it and pick it up wherever you leave it. A check of the recent posting on the Web site (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ChesterCntyPAFreecycle/) showed offers of kittens, vertical blinds, two wooden desks, a jogging stroller, Tonka trucks, three 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzles, and some nail polish.

Recently, I was able to give away a tent I got on eBay, not realizing it didn't have a rain fly to keep the water out. I didn't want it, but some fellow named Tom did. I left it at my door and eight hours later it was gone.

No muss, no fuss. Mongo now tool in world of camping.

Not A Normal Night

This appeared July 23, 2006

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."

I was reminded of that sentence, the opening of George Orwell's "1984," on Wednesday as I strolled the streets of West Chester surveying damage from the evening's storm and power outage.

Not because of any notion that Big Brother was watching, but rather because as I walked, my watch read 8:30 and the chimes on the clock on top of the Chester County Courthouse were cheerily pealing out the count of 10.

That's the way things were in Chester County the past few days - not quite in order, sometimes way off the mark.

It began with the heat, was punctuated by a swift thunderstorm that wiped out the power grid and ended with a shared experience that gave us something to talk about with family, friends and strangers. The whole experience was not unlike those snow days we have in winter, when the normal rules of social engagement don't seem to apply.

Except, of course, that the mercury in the thermometer was flirting with 100 degrees Tuesday.

It is well documented, not only in these pages but in hundreds of comments and missives that I've made and sent to people I know, that I am not a hot weather person. I've made it known that I would sell my not inconsiderable influence in the editorial department of the Daily Local News to anyone who would build a public swimming pool within easy walking distance of my home on South Church Street.

So, I was not feeling happy that evening, trying to erase the heat with an ice bath, when the lights went out, the fans went dead, the air conditioner stopped running, and everything got a little quiet.

That's what I noticed most, as the lightless evening faded into moonless night: It was quiet.

Usually, we've got the university kids to contend with - those jolly folk who need an excuse as trivial as coming to a complete stop at three stop signs in a row to declare party time and begin howling at the moon. But they're away this time of year and so I had only the whoosh of a passing car or the thumping of a free-spirited jogger going by to break the quiet as I sat on the stoop.

I was drawn outside, too, because frankly it was cooler out there. The air doesn't move well in my second floor unit without some heavyweight industrial circulation machinery to help it, so I stayed outdoors past midnight - again, a time I am rarely awake to see.

Later, drifting off to sweaty sleep, I quite expected that any moment I'd be woken by the sound of appliances coming back on as the power was restored. But, by the time the birds started announcing that it was a new day and time for them to start feeding, nothing had changed: no lights, no air.

I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to see who the electric company gods had smiled on. That's the way it is when the power goes out in West Chester. Nothing comes back on all at once; each block has it's own time, and we all go crazy wondering why the folks across the street got their power back and we didn't. It's a jealousy thing.

Along an alleyway off Dean Street, I saw something that said it all for me about the long powerless night: A fellow curled up contentedly asleep on a couch on his porch.

Perfect, I thought. When normal life goes out the window, the best thing to do is change course and adapt. And if the clock strikes 10 o'clock at 8:30, adjust your watch accordingly.

An Odd Exchange

This appeared on July 16, 2006


Recognizing that many of you readers are pressed for time today as you get ready to make appearances at both the annual Turk's Head Music Festival (Motto: "We Sing, You Sweat") and the Grand Opening ceremonies at West Goshen's new Robert E. Lambert Park, I'll try to keep this as brief as possible.

West Chester is by its nature not a singularly odd place. It was first inhabited, I think, by Quakers, and despite what you've heard, that group of people is about as edgy as sugar free vanilla pudding.

Nonetheless, there are times when curious events occur in our fair borough, and one has to be ready to face them.

Case in point: On Friday, I was taking care of a few errands on my way to work when I found myself at the intersection of East Gay and North Matlack streets, confronted by a group of somewhat disheveled men.

In case you are interested, I was on my way to the post office to send off the latest issues of "Rolling Stone" magazine for my two nieces out in Cincinnati. Their parents won't get them a subscription, so it's left to me to provide them with the latest news from the world of rock 'n roll debauchery.

And yes, I know that I am slowly but surely corrupting them by doing this. But I would rather it be me that corrupts them than say, ex-Philadelphia Councilman Rick Marino. After all, I'm not going to climb to the top of City Hall if the feds catch me.

So, I'm stopped at the traffic light at Gay and Matlack and looking right at me are these three guys sitting on a stoop there.

Now, let me say I don't like to judge people. But while I may not like to, I do it anyway. Sort of like flossing, or talking to politicians. And I judged these guys to be of the "street" variety, a class of borough residents I generally have little interaction with.

But one of these guys shouts out, "Hey! Yo! Mister!" obviously in my direction, and I am forced to ask myself, "Do I maintain my "I-don't-see-you-I-don't-hear-you-na-na-na-na-na!" bland facial expression and stare straight ahead, or do I respond?"

For whatever reason, I turned and looked at him, and he said, "Yo! What do you get when you multiply one half times one half?"

So I blinked for a nano-second or two and, after giving it some thought, replied, in a vague, yet casual, sort of way: "One-quarter."

"THANK you!" he said, sounding as though he was glad to finally meet an educated man, then turned to his mates as if to say, "See? What'd I tell you?"

The light changed, and I drove off.

As I got out of the car at the post office, I thought to myself three things:

*What could the conversation among those three street guys possibly have been about that they had to ask a passing motorist to settle a math equation?

*How in the name of all that is holy did I remember how to multiply fractions? After all, I proudly maintained a straight "D" average in math all the way through 10th grade, when I gave up its study forever.

*No way am I going to the Lambert Park opening Sunday. It's too much fun here in the borough.

The Readers Speak

This appeared Sunday, July 2, 2006

(Editor's note: For those of you who don't get around West Chester too much, the names of the judges on the Court of Common Pleas who made the commissioner's decision are artfully hidden in this column. The person chosen was ex-Commissioner Patrick O'Donnell.)


So I didn't get the job.

Surprisingly enough, in choosing who would become the next minority commissioner in Chester County the Common Pleas Court judges decided to go for someone whose qualifications seem to include actual experience in the position instead of someone, like me, who has vision, verve, vitality and a semi-valid security pass to the courthouse (expiration date July 1.)

But rather than wallow in self-pity, I say let's go to the mailbag and see how the readers reacted to my campaign!

Dear Mr. Rellahan:
I don't like your ideas. I don't like your jokes. I don't like your photo. Frankly, I don't like you, and don't think you should be put in any position of responsibility. Oh, and my parents don't like you, my husband doesn't like you, and I'm pretty sure my dog has grievous misgivings.
Paula O.
West Chester.

Dear News Editor:
If we're going to have a slightly overweight Irishman with facial hair sitting in the chair as minority commissioner, I think that at the very least we should have one who was educated in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
Howard F. R. Jr.
North High Street

Dear Mr. Relish-ham:
Stupid, is what you are. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Believe me, I talk to lawyers all the time and I know stupid when I see it. And you can't cure stupid.
Robert S.
Big House with a Clock

Hey Rellahan:
You think you're funny? You think you could get a judge to give you a job just because you might get them a 30G iPod? I say you're brazen! You gotta go 60G U2 version to get anywhere with that crowd.
Anthony S.
Don't Call Me,
I'll Call You

Dear M.P. Rellahan,
Does the "P" stand for "Perfectly Clueless"? I don't care what my cousin Tom says about you, I don't think you should even be allowed in the courthouse without clearance from the Department of Homeland Security.
Jacqueline C.
Nowhere Near You

Dear Sir:
What we need in this county are more people who wore the proud uniform of the military of the United States, preferably the Marine Corps.
Semper Fi!
Thomas G.,
West Chester

Dear Mr. Rellahan:
I don't know you, but everybody I work with says it would be a disaster that would call for intervention by the Federal Emergency Management Agency if you were appointed minority commissioner. And from what I know, most of them have never been wrong.
Rusty G.
Between Gay and Market

Dear Mike:
You're the finest, bravest, most lovable man I ever met. But you can't quote me. Sorry.
John H.
West Chester

Dear Rellahan:
Nyahh, nyah-nyah, nyaahhh, nyahh!
Patrick O'D.
Fifth Floor

Welcome Home....

This appeared on June 25, 2006

There are people in Chester County who don't know where they live.

Not that they've forgotten what their house looks like, what their address is or how to get home in the dark. Rather, they don't realize that they live in a tiny hamlet, village or neighborhood that owns a distinctive proper name, but which has been lost to time or erased by the savagery of modern development.

Having gone out of fashion, some places here now may be known only by their greater geographic location. And while it's certainly chic to say one saddles up one's horse in West Marlborough, how much more lyrical would it be to say you're putting the ol' feed bag on in Springdell?

Everybody knows Chester Springs, Ludwigs Corner, Exton, Paoli, Mendenhall, whatever. But how many of us have had friends report that they were enjoying life at their new home in Trythall, Cossart or Steelville?

Those are bonafide place names I found looking at Franklin's Five County Metro Street Atlas, (6th ed., $33.95, plus tax). My research came before embarking on a few weekend jaunts driving the circumference of Chester County, a labor of love I assigned myself some time ago, having gotten back behind the wheel of an automobile after a layoff of about 10 years.

Tracing the route of my journey on Franklin's map, I grew fascinated by the names of the places I'd be visiting, or other locations nearby. Where the names came from, I didn't know; how they came to be, I could only guess.

For example, Peacedale. It's in Elk Township, down around the Maryland border on the Lewisville Road, just nigh east of Hickoryhill. (You start to talk like that when you read maps.)

You'd be a fool not to imagine that Peacedale got its name from a gaggle of Quakers who decided to put down roots there after having fled the religious persecution they faced in, oh, say, Kemblesville. Although I can only assume that people living there today don't know they live in Peacedale, wouldn't it be a perfect address to share with the fresh-faced U.S. Army recruiters who now find themselves going door to door to fill out the next plane-load to Baghdad?

"Sorry, sonny," you'd say. "This here's be Peacedale, and we got our own ways of doin' things."

There are curious names all across the county map, places like Cream in Lower Oxford and Chrome in East Nottingham. Do country folks in Honey Brook know they live in Cambridge, or suburban Bobos in Tredyffrin realize they've taken up residence in New Centerville?

Could Talcose, in East Bradford, have been the area where Squire Smedley Talcose owned a few acres and folks just started referring to it by his name after he passed? Clearly, a hamlet like Rocky Hill in East Goshen, had near the corner of North Chester and Strasburg roads, had a hill that was a trifle rocky, and, well, if you wanted to tell people how to get to your house . . .

I'd love to live in Tweedale, or Five Points, or Fremont, or Rockville or, best of all, Pine Swamp, just to be able to put that on my return address.

It would be heaven, knowing exactly where my home was.