This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 29, 2008
My friend Mike O’Rourke has taken to calling West Chester the “Peyton Place of Pennsylvania,” and not just because he has an innate fondness for alliteration. From miles away in Jacksonville, Fla., he reads my weekly columns and revels in the small-town dramas I describe.
So he’s going to love the Tale of the Missing Benches.
The benches, which sat in front of Mickey and Marina Cugino’s newsstand on West Gay Street until a few weeks ago, are not missing in the sense that a missing cat is missing. We know where they are, probably; they’re most likely at the West Chester Public Works utility yard, scattered in several pieces. We just don’t know exactly why they’re there.
The benches were among the last vestiges of the wooden pews that dotted each block of Gay Street at the time of its formal revitalization, circa 1980. They were placed along the downtown main drag to present a relaxed, village feel that would attract shoppers, give the weary a place to cool their heels, or provide skateboarders with something to jump off.
Over the years, however, the wooden benches were removed one by one because they became a haven not for the momentarily weary but for the continually tired. That is, people who sat in them all day, every day, because they had no place else to go. The benches became the borough’s Statue of Liberty, beckoning poor, huddled masses to our teeming shore. The homeless were sent, tempest-tost — or at least by police in Upper Darby wishing them out of their jurisdiction — to Gay Street.
And that’s where they sat, smoked and drank until they made a nuisance of themselves. Today, the only people who sit, smoke, drink and make nuisances of themselves on Gay Street pay the local saloon keepers good money to do so.
But not outside Cuginos. The benches at Cuginos stayed put for years, used primarily by the local folks for whom they were intended: The senior citizens taking a walk uptown to buy a lottery ticket. The local shopkeepers who wanted a break from behind the counter. The courthouse kibitzers who took a coffee break in the afternoon to slurp down some Italian water ice. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Now the twin benches are gone. When I called to inquire, a helpful fellow at the borough’s public works office said they’d been “destroyed” in a weekend vandalism spree and had to be removed for safety’s sake, although that may have come as news to the people who were sitting on them moments before the Public Work staff showed up to saw them in half and cart them away.
The helpful fellow promised that the option of replacing the benches was being “looked into,” although he warned that financial pressures might delay their replacement for the discernible future, by which he could have meant “when hell freezes over.” He suggested that the Cuginos could buy their own benches and assume the liability for sitters therein. His attitude was about as welcoming toward the return of the benches as the Arizona Minutemen are to illegal Mexican immigrants.
But questions remain. Do we want to enhance the feel of our small town with the simple accessory of a park bench? Is there a message that we are sending by taking them away with no promise of a return? How important were the benches in front of Cuginos to the mission of providing downtown with a sense of community, no matter how small, limited or transient?
And, who will play Mia Farrow’s role in the upcoming production of “The Benches of Peyton Place?” Tune in tomorrow.
Editor’s note: This column was written Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, the borough installed a replacement bench in front of the newsstand. One down, one to go.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Shredding, and Whomping, For A Good Cause
This column originally appeared on June 22, 2008
The Downingtown Friends Meetinghouse has stood humbly but elegantly on Lancaster Avenue since 1806. Through its 200-plus years it has watched as horse-and-carriages went and motorized automobiles came, has heard graceful and joyful words of prayer spoken within its walls, and has gazed as grey-haired worshipers it recognized once as tow-headed babes sat in devoted silence.
Chances are, however, that the meetinghouse had never seen the likes of Kalico Jack, until Friday evening.
That would be Kalico Jack the fledgling rock band put together by three young but surprisingly accomplished musicians: Kieran Ferris, John Thayer and Nathaniel Vito.
The trio delighted a crowd of about 40 people who gathered in the driveway of the meetinghouse as they shredded and whomped and strummed through a set of about a dozen songs, from covers of cuts by Velvet Revolver and Blink-182 to a good number of originals, and one oldie, Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl.” The band members — friends and relatives of one another — chatted amiably with the crowd, wondering what songs they liked the most, recalling stories about past gigs, and describing how they came up with the title to their soon-to-be-chart-topping song, “Kiwi Blossom.”
And as much fun as the audience had seeing the band wail on in the shadow of the stately meetinghouse, the experience was made all the more enjoyable for its underlying purpose. The members of Kalico Jack had asked to put on the show to help raise money for an Iraqi exchange student who is trying to stay here in Chester County and out of the harm that almost surely awaits him if he were to return home to Baghdad.
The teenager, who lives with his host family in Chester Springs, came to the United States last fall for his junior year of high school through a U.S. State Department program that was designed to improve relations between Muslim countries and America. But after living here awhile, he learned that other Iraqi students who had participated in this program in past years found themselves and their families in grave danger upon returning home.
According to the teen’s host mother, “one young man was abducted and his family forced to pay a ransom, and he now lives in Spain without his family. Another young man’s brother was shot and killed. He now lives in Pennsylvania without his family.” The teen realized that it would be too dangerous to return to Iraq, and has applied for political asylum.
His plight came to the attention of the Downingtown Meeting, and its members agreed (“wildly,” according to one source) to support the young man in his quest to stay. Fundraisers like the Kalico Jack concert have been held, and the Downingtown members have ponied up to defray the costs of the teen’s attendance at Westtown School in the fall.
It says something frightening about our world that a young person who travels to another country to bridge a gap between two cultures could be subjected to violence and hatred for the simple act of traveling there. And it says something comforting that a small community like the Downingtown Friends Meeting could embrace that same young person and help him stay alive and well. As the Iraqi teen’s host mother said in her thanks to the meeting: “Your help has prevented one more casualty of war.”
If you would like to help, donations can be sent to Downingtown Friends Meeting, 800 E. Lancaster Ave., Downingtown, PA 19335. Let them know it’s for the Iraqi Student Program.
And by the way, it’s pronounced Ka-LEE-co Jack. Just so you know.
The Downingtown Friends Meetinghouse has stood humbly but elegantly on Lancaster Avenue since 1806. Through its 200-plus years it has watched as horse-and-carriages went and motorized automobiles came, has heard graceful and joyful words of prayer spoken within its walls, and has gazed as grey-haired worshipers it recognized once as tow-headed babes sat in devoted silence.
Chances are, however, that the meetinghouse had never seen the likes of Kalico Jack, until Friday evening.
That would be Kalico Jack the fledgling rock band put together by three young but surprisingly accomplished musicians: Kieran Ferris, John Thayer and Nathaniel Vito.
The trio delighted a crowd of about 40 people who gathered in the driveway of the meetinghouse as they shredded and whomped and strummed through a set of about a dozen songs, from covers of cuts by Velvet Revolver and Blink-182 to a good number of originals, and one oldie, Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl.” The band members — friends and relatives of one another — chatted amiably with the crowd, wondering what songs they liked the most, recalling stories about past gigs, and describing how they came up with the title to their soon-to-be-chart-topping song, “Kiwi Blossom.”
And as much fun as the audience had seeing the band wail on in the shadow of the stately meetinghouse, the experience was made all the more enjoyable for its underlying purpose. The members of Kalico Jack had asked to put on the show to help raise money for an Iraqi exchange student who is trying to stay here in Chester County and out of the harm that almost surely awaits him if he were to return home to Baghdad.
The teenager, who lives with his host family in Chester Springs, came to the United States last fall for his junior year of high school through a U.S. State Department program that was designed to improve relations between Muslim countries and America. But after living here awhile, he learned that other Iraqi students who had participated in this program in past years found themselves and their families in grave danger upon returning home.
According to the teen’s host mother, “one young man was abducted and his family forced to pay a ransom, and he now lives in Spain without his family. Another young man’s brother was shot and killed. He now lives in Pennsylvania without his family.” The teen realized that it would be too dangerous to return to Iraq, and has applied for political asylum.
His plight came to the attention of the Downingtown Meeting, and its members agreed (“wildly,” according to one source) to support the young man in his quest to stay. Fundraisers like the Kalico Jack concert have been held, and the Downingtown members have ponied up to defray the costs of the teen’s attendance at Westtown School in the fall.
It says something frightening about our world that a young person who travels to another country to bridge a gap between two cultures could be subjected to violence and hatred for the simple act of traveling there. And it says something comforting that a small community like the Downingtown Friends Meeting could embrace that same young person and help him stay alive and well. As the Iraqi teen’s host mother said in her thanks to the meeting: “Your help has prevented one more casualty of war.”
If you would like to help, donations can be sent to Downingtown Friends Meeting, 800 E. Lancaster Ave., Downingtown, PA 19335. Let them know it’s for the Iraqi Student Program.
And by the way, it’s pronounced Ka-LEE-co Jack. Just so you know.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Stormy Weather
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 15, 2008
Our friend Judy was happy. Judy was ecstatic. If Judy was a movie, she'd have been “Happy Gilmore.” If she was a song, she'd have been “Don't Worry, Be Happy.” If she was a member of the “Black Sox” baseball team that threw the 1919 World Series, she'd have been Oscar “Happy” Felsch (1891-1964; OF. 38 HR, 446 RBI, .293 BA, lifetime).
And all because she got to sit through a thunderstorm on Tuesday evening.
Judy, Judy, Judy.
Judy was visiting from her home in Vermont (Motto: “Freedom, Unity and 101 Inches of Annual Snowfall”) and stayed long enough to hear the first rumblings of the storm as it made its way across West Vincent's tweed, cheese and horse-dung country. She reacted to the noise as if Christmas had come early and she was 8 years old again. She reacted as if Thor, the god of thunder, had been her favorite Marvel Comic Books character and the Norse Super Hero was making a personal visit after all these years.
“We just don't get storms like these in Vermont,” she explained, as the rest of us sat around the kitchen table and wondered if the storms in Vermont are accompanied by the sounds of kittens purring and babies cooing in their cribs. Whaddaya mean? Have they moved the Maple Syrup State into a new meteorological region that eschews liquid precipitation mixed with static electricity? Does the lack of a storm-themed Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream flavor mean the climate in Vermont up and dumps the whole concept? (Note to Ben: Suggested flavor: “Chocolate Thunder Thighs.” Check with Darryl Dawkins for promotional tie-in.)
“Oooooh, the tops of the trees look like they're fighting one another!” Judy exclaimed to the actual chronological children in the room, Trevor and Emma, standing next to her quivering like wet dogs in the cold. “Isn't it breathtaking!” she squealed.
Yes, we thought quietly to ourselves, breathtaking in the sense that in a couple of minutes the air conditioning is going to go dead and we are going to be inhaling stale, moisture-laden air that reminds us of the last time we took a steam at the Y.
Sure enough, within moments of her declaration that the lightning bolts on the horizon suggested the ultimate majesty of Nature harnessed by man for civilization's progress that would ultimately result in free health care for all, the power went out. We guessed that the folks in Vermont who don't get to see these kind of summer storms also don't get to stare at a light bulb that went out 20 minutes ago waiting for it to come back on, only to be teased by a momentary flicker and then 48 straight hours of no TV.
We left Judy with a big hug and a loving wish to come back sometime when we can show her how emotionally fulfilling freezing rain can be, and headed home. We wanted to make certain that our neighbors on South Church Street all had plenty of power to keep them cool and crisp and television-enabled. We wished that for them because our recent spiritual enlightenment had taught us to pray for others' happiness and not our own.
We were rewarded richly for our entreaties, because the folks across the street from us had their living rooms lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve, whilst our quarters were as dark as a Norse cave. On South Church Street, you remember, the folks across the street always have power.
As Tuesday faded, we sat outside on the porch before going into the microwave oven that we once knew as our bedroom, watching as the neighbors happily turned their light switches on and off regularly, just for the visceral pleasure of having the light bulbs respond.
The flashes typed out a Morse Code message. It read, “Happy, Judy?”
Our friend Judy was happy. Judy was ecstatic. If Judy was a movie, she'd have been “Happy Gilmore.” If she was a song, she'd have been “Don't Worry, Be Happy.” If she was a member of the “Black Sox” baseball team that threw the 1919 World Series, she'd have been Oscar “Happy” Felsch (1891-1964; OF. 38 HR, 446 RBI, .293 BA, lifetime).
And all because she got to sit through a thunderstorm on Tuesday evening.
Judy, Judy, Judy.
Judy was visiting from her home in Vermont (Motto: “Freedom, Unity and 101 Inches of Annual Snowfall”) and stayed long enough to hear the first rumblings of the storm as it made its way across West Vincent's tweed, cheese and horse-dung country. She reacted to the noise as if Christmas had come early and she was 8 years old again. She reacted as if Thor, the god of thunder, had been her favorite Marvel Comic Books character and the Norse Super Hero was making a personal visit after all these years.
“We just don't get storms like these in Vermont,” she explained, as the rest of us sat around the kitchen table and wondered if the storms in Vermont are accompanied by the sounds of kittens purring and babies cooing in their cribs. Whaddaya mean? Have they moved the Maple Syrup State into a new meteorological region that eschews liquid precipitation mixed with static electricity? Does the lack of a storm-themed Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream flavor mean the climate in Vermont up and dumps the whole concept? (Note to Ben: Suggested flavor: “Chocolate Thunder Thighs.” Check with Darryl Dawkins for promotional tie-in.)
“Oooooh, the tops of the trees look like they're fighting one another!” Judy exclaimed to the actual chronological children in the room, Trevor and Emma, standing next to her quivering like wet dogs in the cold. “Isn't it breathtaking!” she squealed.
Yes, we thought quietly to ourselves, breathtaking in the sense that in a couple of minutes the air conditioning is going to go dead and we are going to be inhaling stale, moisture-laden air that reminds us of the last time we took a steam at the Y.
Sure enough, within moments of her declaration that the lightning bolts on the horizon suggested the ultimate majesty of Nature harnessed by man for civilization's progress that would ultimately result in free health care for all, the power went out. We guessed that the folks in Vermont who don't get to see these kind of summer storms also don't get to stare at a light bulb that went out 20 minutes ago waiting for it to come back on, only to be teased by a momentary flicker and then 48 straight hours of no TV.
We left Judy with a big hug and a loving wish to come back sometime when we can show her how emotionally fulfilling freezing rain can be, and headed home. We wanted to make certain that our neighbors on South Church Street all had plenty of power to keep them cool and crisp and television-enabled. We wished that for them because our recent spiritual enlightenment had taught us to pray for others' happiness and not our own.
We were rewarded richly for our entreaties, because the folks across the street from us had their living rooms lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve, whilst our quarters were as dark as a Norse cave. On South Church Street, you remember, the folks across the street always have power.
As Tuesday faded, we sat outside on the porch before going into the microwave oven that we once knew as our bedroom, watching as the neighbors happily turned their light switches on and off regularly, just for the visceral pleasure of having the light bulbs respond.
The flashes typed out a Morse Code message. It read, “Happy, Judy?”
Monday, June 09, 2008
Little Known, Hard To Prove
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 8, 2008.
Here are some things you may not know about Chester County.
These little-known and hard-to-substantiate tidbits of information may have escaped you during the history portion of your high school education — either because you didn’t live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study and the teachers in Kansas City, Mo., didn’t think to include a syllabus item on an obscure-though-wealthy southeastern Pennsylvania county, or because you did live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study but your teachers were more intent on clueing you in to the history of the Phoenicians or the Hammurabians or the Mesopotamians or other surging, vital cultures, knowledge of which is essential for understanding the current energy situation.
First, did you know that West Chester was the number two pick for county seat? The top pick? Tredyffrin, of course.
It seems that William Penn was quite partial to the Welsh who populated the eastern portion of Chester County back in the day. (And by “back in the day,” I don’t mean the Earl Baker-Bob Thompson-and-Pat O’Donnell day. I mean the Everybody-Dresses-Like-The-Guy-On-The-Quaker-Oats-Box day.) He proposed to local Welsh leaders Owain Glyndwr and Gruff Rhys that they pick a site where they would like the county seat of Chester to be located, within the bounds of their native Tredyffrin. Someplace along the beaten path where farmers could come and pay their taxes or take out a marriage license, and preferably a place whose name contained as few vowels as possible. (Consonant-to-Vowel Ratio, CVR, in name Tredyffrin — 8:2.)
Rhys and Glyndwr (CVR — 11:0), unfortunately, personified the great Welsh character trait of being exceedingly proscratinatory and were forever putting the decision off. “Coda i’n gynnar for,” Glyndwr could be heard to say when Penn asked him to name a suitable place. (Translated, “I’ll get up early tomorrow and let you know.”) “Na’i godi’n gynnar fory,” reiterated Rhys, when Penn sought him out. (Translated, “It’s at the top of my list, I swear.”)
Meanwhile, farmers were pressuring Penn to designate a county seat because they had no place to pay their taxes or take out marriage licenses, and what with being unable to balance their checkbooks because of the non-payment of taxes and a certain level of frustration over not being able to settle down with a wife and kids, they asked him to make a decision like, yesterday. So legend has it that Penn took a dart, aimed it at a map and decreed that wherever the dart landed, so would that be the county seat. Thwunmp! Hello, Dub-C, as they say.
(Five inches to the left? Hello, downtown Modena.)
Second, did you know that of all the elected county officials in Chester County listed on Wikipedia, from district attorney to jury commissioner, only one person’s name is a hyperlink that will direct you to more information on said person? And did you know that said person is Sheriff Carolyn Bunny Welsh? And that “Bunny” is not encased in quotation marks, like George Herman “Babe” Ruth or Eliot “Emperor’s Club” Spitzer? And that if you Google “Sheriff Bunny” the second link you see is to “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley and the (Bunny) Wailers?
Third, did you know that the police public affairs specialists in West Goshen speak only the Welsh English language (colloquially known as “Wenglish”) and that’s why they never tell us anything?
Here are some things you may not know about Chester County.
These little-known and hard-to-substantiate tidbits of information may have escaped you during the history portion of your high school education — either because you didn’t live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study and the teachers in Kansas City, Mo., didn’t think to include a syllabus item on an obscure-though-wealthy southeastern Pennsylvania county, or because you did live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study but your teachers were more intent on clueing you in to the history of the Phoenicians or the Hammurabians or the Mesopotamians or other surging, vital cultures, knowledge of which is essential for understanding the current energy situation.
First, did you know that West Chester was the number two pick for county seat? The top pick? Tredyffrin, of course.
It seems that William Penn was quite partial to the Welsh who populated the eastern portion of Chester County back in the day. (And by “back in the day,” I don’t mean the Earl Baker-Bob Thompson-and-Pat O’Donnell day. I mean the Everybody-Dresses-Like-The-Guy-On-The-Quaker-Oats-Box day.) He proposed to local Welsh leaders Owain Glyndwr and Gruff Rhys that they pick a site where they would like the county seat of Chester to be located, within the bounds of their native Tredyffrin. Someplace along the beaten path where farmers could come and pay their taxes or take out a marriage license, and preferably a place whose name contained as few vowels as possible. (Consonant-to-Vowel Ratio, CVR, in name Tredyffrin — 8:2.)
Rhys and Glyndwr (CVR — 11:0), unfortunately, personified the great Welsh character trait of being exceedingly proscratinatory and were forever putting the decision off. “Coda i’n gynnar for,” Glyndwr could be heard to say when Penn asked him to name a suitable place. (Translated, “I’ll get up early tomorrow and let you know.”) “Na’i godi’n gynnar fory,” reiterated Rhys, when Penn sought him out. (Translated, “It’s at the top of my list, I swear.”)
Meanwhile, farmers were pressuring Penn to designate a county seat because they had no place to pay their taxes or take out marriage licenses, and what with being unable to balance their checkbooks because of the non-payment of taxes and a certain level of frustration over not being able to settle down with a wife and kids, they asked him to make a decision like, yesterday. So legend has it that Penn took a dart, aimed it at a map and decreed that wherever the dart landed, so would that be the county seat. Thwunmp! Hello, Dub-C, as they say.
(Five inches to the left? Hello, downtown Modena.)
Second, did you know that of all the elected county officials in Chester County listed on Wikipedia, from district attorney to jury commissioner, only one person’s name is a hyperlink that will direct you to more information on said person? And did you know that said person is Sheriff Carolyn Bunny Welsh? And that “Bunny” is not encased in quotation marks, like George Herman “Babe” Ruth or Eliot “Emperor’s Club” Spitzer? And that if you Google “Sheriff Bunny” the second link you see is to “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley and the (Bunny) Wailers?
Third, did you know that the police public affairs specialists in West Goshen speak only the Welsh English language (colloquially known as “Wenglish”) and that’s why they never tell us anything?
Monday, June 02, 2008
Adventures in Education
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 1, 2008
“Monsignor Edward Deliman, the pastor of St. Agnes Church, said he was very disappointed that the borough allowed the shop to open. ‘It’s very close to our school in a highly traveled part of town, next to a pizza shop. It’s distressing to us.’ ...
“Owner Jill McDevitt has a Bachelor of Arts degree in sexuality, marriage and family and is pursuing a Master of Education degree in human sexuality. She gives workshops and seminars on human sexuality as well as other topics.”
-- From Daily Local News, “Residents pack meeting to protest adult store,” May 29, 2008
****
SEMINAR TITLE: Current Topics in Human Sexuality and Selected Pizza Toppings.
INSTRUCTOR: J. McDevitt, B.A., Human Sexuality; M.E., Family Therapy (proposed); A.D., Culinary Arts, Baking and Pastry.
CREDITS: 35
DESCRIPTION: Human Sexuality and Pizza Toppings is a 10-week classroom-and-kitchen course that presents the student with an overview of current issues in human sexuality and the correct approach toward choosing proper pizza toppings, focusing on behavioral, sociological, environmental and gastronomical factors.
Topics will cover the basics of human anatomy, sexual cycles/phases, the family life cycle, gender/topping identity, roles of meat versus vegetable toppings, an understanding of sexual research, sexual orientation, proper cooking times, and the importance of sauces and fresh mozzarella.
Students will be expected to have experience in the field at an introductory or intermediate level. Previous courses in Biology 101, Introduction to Family Therapy and/or Popular Italian Foods 301 would be considered sufficient for admission to the seminar, although Professor McDevitt will also consider as proper credentials any time spent working as dough prep assistant at Grimaldi’s or Lombardi’s pizza restaurants in Brooklyn and New York City, respectively. Evidence of frozen pizza entree cooking experience will not be accepted.
OBJECTIVES: Students will learn to have a greater understanding about the social and biological implications of the sexual life/cycle in social and behavioral contexts, from childhood to adulthood; to be aware of the social complexities of human sexuality in modern life; to witness firsthand the obstacles of locating sexual novelty stores in formerly rural city-centers; and to discuss openly their choices of pepperoni, sausage and mushrooms over more advanced pizza toppings, such as raw eel, chicken tikka or roasted cauliflower.
While understanding that the way to a lover’s heart may be through the stomach, there should be a recognition by graduates that various modern, nontraditional forms of sexual behaviors — including homosexuality, bisexuality, transgendered sexuality, “lonely guy” syndrome, having a nice quart of ice cream before bedtime and cold-shower obsessive compulsive disorder — can work within the current structure of having the pizza crust soft but still crunchy enough to accommodate multiple toppings and extra cheese.
In addition, focusing on types of love, attraction, roles, relationships and delivery times will be essential for course success. It will be important for the student to understand the relationship between sex and love, to be aware of white versus red sauces, to grasp the importance of letting the pizza cool down enough so it does not burn the roof of your mouth, and to explore the different dynamics that couples have in selecting toppings for an intimate dinner for two with some salad and Chianti on the side, as opposed having the gang over for the Super Bowl party or Fantasy Baseball League get-together.
Ultimately, the graduate will search for and discover a personal definition of love that best suits his/her/their personal values and favorite blend of crust, cheese, and topping. Bon appetit!
REQUIRED READING: Hyde, J. S. & DeLamater, J. D. (2000). Understanding Human Sexuality (7th Ed.). Boston; McGraw-Hill; Steig, W. (1998). Pete’s A Pizza (Hardcover Ed.), New York City; HarperCollins.
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