This column originally appeared on Sunday, March 9 2008
They tell me that it is going to get fairly intense over the next few weeks as Hillary and Barack descend on Pennsylvania, in general and Chester County in particular, as the make their run for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
But while we may have gotten to know them fairly well over the past few months — the way she likes to wear pant suits and he likes to go without a tie; the way she likes to take credit for bringing peace to Northern Ireland and he likes to take credit for blue skies and sunny days; the way she digs on KT Tunstall and he grooves to Natasha Bedingfield — they likely have been too busy to really get to know us.
So I thought I’d give them a small primer on what Chester County is all about, so they won’t make any stupid mistakes while going door to door in Malvern — like saying, “So how do you like living in Modena?”
The Revolutionary War came to Chester County in 1777, via the Battle of the Brandywine and the Paoli Massacre — and that is the last time anything revolutionary has happened here. We like to take our time about things and not get caught up in radically new or innovative procedures or principles. We are sort of the Dewey Decimal System to the rest of the world’s Google. For instance, school lunches here only recently started featuring brown mustard on hot dogs, I am given to understand. It took intervention by an ecumenical council of elders, but we finally gave in. Not so, however, for green catsup.
We have a number of local high school graduates who have actually contributed to the fine arts and culture of our great land. That’s right, we’re not just about Bam Margera and skateboarding naked into brick walls. For example, there is Matisyahu, the only (I think) Orthodox Hebrew rap artist and Henderson High alum. And Daryl Hall, rock and roll singer of “Out of Touch” (No. 33 on a list of worst songs of all time), Owen J. Roberts Class of 1965. And Douglas Brown, author of the soon-to-be-published book: “Just Do It: How One Couple Turned Off the TV and Turned On Their Sex Lives for 101 Days” (You’ll have to read it to find out.) The pride of West Chester East.
The tourist highlights here are not just Valley Forge, the Brandywine River Museum and Longwood Gardens. Longtime residents of our county know that when people want to see what we are really about, we take our out of town guests to one place and one place only. The Herr’s Snack Co. Plant Tour. Where else can you see the actual process of turning unflavored potato chips into Buffalo Wing Kettle Chips? Or regular nachos into Green Chile Monterey Jack dippers? And all within distance of the sweetest smelling mushroom composting operations you’d ever want to turn your nose up at.
Philly has Geno’s Steaks. Pottsville has Yuengling Brewery. Pittsburgh has, well, we’re sure that the Iron City has something but we just don’t know what. West Chester has Wally’s Weiner World, the best place in the state to buy a hot sausage from a man who can stop the blades of a fan with his tongue.
There’s more, but since Hills and Barry are going to be here awhile, I’ll save the rest for later.
Showing posts with label Chester County. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chester County. Show all posts
Monday, March 10, 2008
Monday, December 24, 2007
Will The Real Chester County Stand Up?
This column originally appeared on Dec. 23, 2007
Have you ever closed the refrigerator door and wondered whether the light inside has actually gone off, or is rather still burning, illuminating all the leftover meatloaf and pasta with pesto and rapidly deteriorating lettuce that is taking up space in there?
Ever shut the front door behind you on the way to work and imagined your kids had stopped running around like 5-year-olds and had sat down calmly on the sofa to discuss options for reducing the family household’s carbon footprint, rather than tracking actual carbon footprints from the Webber grill detritus through the living room?
Then you can understand the way I feel at this time of year, when I leave Chester County behind and travel to my original hometown.
I have spent the past 25 years as a resident and registered voter in Chester County, and have stayed relatively put during that quarter century. I don't move much. Suffice to say, the state constables know where to find me if -- or more accurately, when -- my parking ticket warrants reach maturity.
But I have never spent a single Christmas Day in Chester County. Each year I make the sojourn back over the Alleghenies and across the Monongahila and the Ohio to Cincinnati, Ohio, to visit my family. I may stay only a day or two, sometimes as long as a week, but I have never failed to return there for Dec. 25.
And that has me thinking, as you do when you shut that refrigerator door, what in the world goes on in Chester County when I’m gone? What if it’s nothing like I'm used to? What if everything changes? Could it be that for the few days I’m absent from the Brandywine Valley, the lay of the land reverts to some other reality that only exists just after the Winter Solstice?
Could it be that all of those quaint Revolutionary War stone farmhouses that dot East Bradford are replaced by cheesy Yeadon-style rowhomes? That the breathtaking beauty of Route 162 through Unionville transmorphs into a streetscape comparable with the Golden Outlet Mile outside Lancaster?
Could it be that for a few days the Democrats start running the county courthouse, and that they vote to replace the Ten Commandments plaque with a framed copy of “It Takes a Village?” That Bill Scott and Andy Dinniman have a quick holiday luncheon at Rex’s Bar and not a word passes between them besides, “How ‘bout that Bam?”
Could it be that former Commissioner Colin Hanna whips up a batch of tacos and margaritas and invites his favorite atheist, Margaret Downey, over to the family manse to join him in a few verses of “Feliz Navidad?”
Could it be that while I’m sitting down to a plate of Skyline Chili (onions, no cheese, and two Coneys on the side, please), noted defense counsel John Duffy is standing up in a courtroom somewhere and saying, “Now that I think about it, You Honor, my worthy adversary on the prosecution just might have a point there?”
I don’t know if any of these things actually happens, but if they do and you know about it, keep it to yourself, please. I’ve got one reality and I’d like to stick to it.
Have you ever closed the refrigerator door and wondered whether the light inside has actually gone off, or is rather still burning, illuminating all the leftover meatloaf and pasta with pesto and rapidly deteriorating lettuce that is taking up space in there?
Ever shut the front door behind you on the way to work and imagined your kids had stopped running around like 5-year-olds and had sat down calmly on the sofa to discuss options for reducing the family household’s carbon footprint, rather than tracking actual carbon footprints from the Webber grill detritus through the living room?
Then you can understand the way I feel at this time of year, when I leave Chester County behind and travel to my original hometown.
I have spent the past 25 years as a resident and registered voter in Chester County, and have stayed relatively put during that quarter century. I don't move much. Suffice to say, the state constables know where to find me if -- or more accurately, when -- my parking ticket warrants reach maturity.
But I have never spent a single Christmas Day in Chester County. Each year I make the sojourn back over the Alleghenies and across the Monongahila and the Ohio to Cincinnati, Ohio, to visit my family. I may stay only a day or two, sometimes as long as a week, but I have never failed to return there for Dec. 25.
And that has me thinking, as you do when you shut that refrigerator door, what in the world goes on in Chester County when I’m gone? What if it’s nothing like I'm used to? What if everything changes? Could it be that for the few days I’m absent from the Brandywine Valley, the lay of the land reverts to some other reality that only exists just after the Winter Solstice?
Could it be that all of those quaint Revolutionary War stone farmhouses that dot East Bradford are replaced by cheesy Yeadon-style rowhomes? That the breathtaking beauty of Route 162 through Unionville transmorphs into a streetscape comparable with the Golden Outlet Mile outside Lancaster?
Could it be that for a few days the Democrats start running the county courthouse, and that they vote to replace the Ten Commandments plaque with a framed copy of “It Takes a Village?” That Bill Scott and Andy Dinniman have a quick holiday luncheon at Rex’s Bar and not a word passes between them besides, “How ‘bout that Bam?”
Could it be that former Commissioner Colin Hanna whips up a batch of tacos and margaritas and invites his favorite atheist, Margaret Downey, over to the family manse to join him in a few verses of “Feliz Navidad?”
Could it be that while I’m sitting down to a plate of Skyline Chili (onions, no cheese, and two Coneys on the side, please), noted defense counsel John Duffy is standing up in a courtroom somewhere and saying, “Now that I think about it, You Honor, my worthy adversary on the prosecution just might have a point there?”
I don’t know if any of these things actually happens, but if they do and you know about it, keep it to yourself, please. I’ve got one reality and I’d like to stick to it.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Alien Astronauts Around?
This column appeared on Sunday, Sept. 2, 2007
Saturday had an air of discovery about it, so I went looking for a little island of Chester County that plays host to a place called Point Lookout. Ultimately, however, the journey took me to Nazca Lines of Peru and taught me the meaning of the word geoglyph.
Discoveries often come during searches for something you’re not looking for. Christopher Columbus discovered the New World while looking for a route to the West Indies. Frank W. Epperson was simply being forgetful when he left that stick in some flavored water on his back porch overnight but, when it froze, he still had discovered the Popsicle. So understand that I was looking for Point Lookout when I came across the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford.
The lookout sits on a triangular piece of land that sticks up like a pyramid along the Brandywine Creek, on the border between Pennsylvania and Delaware. The area is detached from Chester County, surrounded by Chadds Ford on two sides and Delaware on the third, but remains a part of our fair county nonetheless.
Parking my car, ducking a fence, crossing a meadow and following some railroad tracks, I came to a spot that I guessed was the Point, all the while wondering what the purpose of the lookout could have been. Early settlers scouting for marauding Lenape Indians? Colonial troops spying on the British Army? Or just wary Chester County gentry trying to catch Delaware County riff-raff sneaking into the county to open greasy pizza parlors.
I left the area without any resolution, but not really disappointed. I’d taken a quiet walk through a sunlit forest on a cool morning, and on the way back I came across a roadside vegetable stand that had great freshly picked corn and tomatoes. At home, I sat at my computer and tried to find any sign of the Point on an aerial map.
When the program loaded, however, what amazed me was not by an image of the lookout, but something nearby.
Across the Brandywine was a field of clearly visible lines cut into the ground in a strange, interconnected series of loops and circles. I stared at the image dumbfounded, struck suddenly by the memory of that 1970s sensationalist hoax “The Ancient Astronauts.” You remember: the book that sold us on the theory that structures like the pyramids of Egypt and the Andes village of Maccu Picchu were created with the help of visiting aliens?
One “proof” of this theory is the presence of the Nazca Lines, etchings carved into rock on a high South American desert plateau — figures called geoglyphs, I learned. The characters they depict can only be coherently visualized from high above, so the argument goes that their creators must have had help from a spaceship full of bored alien doodlers. But had they stopped off here to do the same thing, I asked myself. Could there be alien communities still operating in Chester County? Has Hollywood director M. Night Shyamalan anything to do with this?
In the end I indeed answered the mystery of the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford, but am keeping the information largely to myself. Some discoveries are just worth savoring in private, like a nice Popsicle.
Saturday had an air of discovery about it, so I went looking for a little island of Chester County that plays host to a place called Point Lookout. Ultimately, however, the journey took me to Nazca Lines of Peru and taught me the meaning of the word geoglyph.
Discoveries often come during searches for something you’re not looking for. Christopher Columbus discovered the New World while looking for a route to the West Indies. Frank W. Epperson was simply being forgetful when he left that stick in some flavored water on his back porch overnight but, when it froze, he still had discovered the Popsicle. So understand that I was looking for Point Lookout when I came across the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford.
The lookout sits on a triangular piece of land that sticks up like a pyramid along the Brandywine Creek, on the border between Pennsylvania and Delaware. The area is detached from Chester County, surrounded by Chadds Ford on two sides and Delaware on the third, but remains a part of our fair county nonetheless.
Parking my car, ducking a fence, crossing a meadow and following some railroad tracks, I came to a spot that I guessed was the Point, all the while wondering what the purpose of the lookout could have been. Early settlers scouting for marauding Lenape Indians? Colonial troops spying on the British Army? Or just wary Chester County gentry trying to catch Delaware County riff-raff sneaking into the county to open greasy pizza parlors.
I left the area without any resolution, but not really disappointed. I’d taken a quiet walk through a sunlit forest on a cool morning, and on the way back I came across a roadside vegetable stand that had great freshly picked corn and tomatoes. At home, I sat at my computer and tried to find any sign of the Point on an aerial map.
When the program loaded, however, what amazed me was not by an image of the lookout, but something nearby.
Across the Brandywine was a field of clearly visible lines cut into the ground in a strange, interconnected series of loops and circles. I stared at the image dumbfounded, struck suddenly by the memory of that 1970s sensationalist hoax “The Ancient Astronauts.” You remember: the book that sold us on the theory that structures like the pyramids of Egypt and the Andes village of Maccu Picchu were created with the help of visiting aliens?
One “proof” of this theory is the presence of the Nazca Lines, etchings carved into rock on a high South American desert plateau — figures called geoglyphs, I learned. The characters they depict can only be coherently visualized from high above, so the argument goes that their creators must have had help from a spaceship full of bored alien doodlers. But had they stopped off here to do the same thing, I asked myself. Could there be alien communities still operating in Chester County? Has Hollywood director M. Night Shyamalan anything to do with this?
In the end I indeed answered the mystery of the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford, but am keeping the information largely to myself. Some discoveries are just worth savoring in private, like a nice Popsicle.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Chester B. DeMille
This column originally appeared on Aug. 12, 2007
Maybe you saw the news that a New Mexico production company is proposing building a multi-million dollar film and television studio in the Philadelphia area. Maybe you didn’t. But then again, maybe you saw the major motion picture “Chubb-Chubbs Save Xmas,” and maybe you didn’t. I will tell you that from what I can gather, both productions rate about one star on my grading scale — out of a possible 100.
It’s not that I don’t love the idea of saving Xmas, or the whole Mid-Winter Holiday Season Concept for those of you atheists and pagans celebrating at home. Nor do I object to the idea of locating a film and television production facility in the Philadelphia area, for that matter.
No, when I read the story, the sentence that struck me as something for the cutting room floor was this one: “Pacifica” — that’s the name of the production company from New Mexico — “is looking at sites in Bucks, Delaware and Philadelphia counties.”
“Cut!” as they used to say in those Hollywood movies about Hollywood movies.
Never mind the fact that we’re dealing here with a company named Pacifica that’s located in a state that does not currently border the Pacific Ocean, or any ocean that I’m aware of. But here they are practically slapping us folks in Chester County who are of the firm belief that our hometown would make the perfect place for a studio, slapping us like Moe would slap Curly.
The announcement comes about a month after state lawmakers approved $75 million in film tax credits for the fiscal year that started July 1. Gov. Ed Rendell said at a news conference with the film production company’s chief, who is trying to put together a $10 million incentive package to get the studio project off the ground, that the idea was a natural for the Philly area.
Rendell said the Philadelphia region should be attractive to filmmakers for its variety of shooting locations, from rural farms to the gritty neighborhoods of the inner city. “This area has unlimited capacity for different scenes,” said Rendell, the former Philadelphia mayor and current Eagles acolyte. “You can't get urban grime in Albuquerque.”
Hey, yo, Ed! If you hadn’t looked, we got it all. You want rural, we’ve got rolling hillsides that roll into other rolling hillsides. You want grime, take a walk around Phoenixville sometime and see what ends up on the soles of your shoes. You want drama like the Western standoff in “High Noon”? Check out the battle between Borough Council in West Chester and their historic preservation comrades. You want comedy like the confused townsfolk in “Blazing Saddles”? Do the words, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Council of the City of Coatesville is now in session!” strike your funny bone?
According to the Associated Press, the Delaware Valley studio would need to grow to about 1 million square feet, comprising sound stages, production offices and other space. One million square feet is about the average size of a foyer in a Mcmansion in Upper Uwchlan. We’ve got square feet just sitting around waiting to be used — a lot of it in strip shopping centers that have nearby Quiznos, so catering wouldn’t be a problem.
And did I mention that Bam’s all set for his close-up?
Maybe you saw the news that a New Mexico production company is proposing building a multi-million dollar film and television studio in the Philadelphia area. Maybe you didn’t. But then again, maybe you saw the major motion picture “Chubb-Chubbs Save Xmas,” and maybe you didn’t. I will tell you that from what I can gather, both productions rate about one star on my grading scale — out of a possible 100.
It’s not that I don’t love the idea of saving Xmas, or the whole Mid-Winter Holiday Season Concept for those of you atheists and pagans celebrating at home. Nor do I object to the idea of locating a film and television production facility in the Philadelphia area, for that matter.
No, when I read the story, the sentence that struck me as something for the cutting room floor was this one: “Pacifica” — that’s the name of the production company from New Mexico — “is looking at sites in Bucks, Delaware and Philadelphia counties.”
“Cut!” as they used to say in those Hollywood movies about Hollywood movies.
Never mind the fact that we’re dealing here with a company named Pacifica that’s located in a state that does not currently border the Pacific Ocean, or any ocean that I’m aware of. But here they are practically slapping us folks in Chester County who are of the firm belief that our hometown would make the perfect place for a studio, slapping us like Moe would slap Curly.
The announcement comes about a month after state lawmakers approved $75 million in film tax credits for the fiscal year that started July 1. Gov. Ed Rendell said at a news conference with the film production company’s chief, who is trying to put together a $10 million incentive package to get the studio project off the ground, that the idea was a natural for the Philly area.
Rendell said the Philadelphia region should be attractive to filmmakers for its variety of shooting locations, from rural farms to the gritty neighborhoods of the inner city. “This area has unlimited capacity for different scenes,” said Rendell, the former Philadelphia mayor and current Eagles acolyte. “You can't get urban grime in Albuquerque.”
Hey, yo, Ed! If you hadn’t looked, we got it all. You want rural, we’ve got rolling hillsides that roll into other rolling hillsides. You want grime, take a walk around Phoenixville sometime and see what ends up on the soles of your shoes. You want drama like the Western standoff in “High Noon”? Check out the battle between Borough Council in West Chester and their historic preservation comrades. You want comedy like the confused townsfolk in “Blazing Saddles”? Do the words, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Council of the City of Coatesville is now in session!” strike your funny bone?
According to the Associated Press, the Delaware Valley studio would need to grow to about 1 million square feet, comprising sound stages, production offices and other space. One million square feet is about the average size of a foyer in a Mcmansion in Upper Uwchlan. We’ve got square feet just sitting around waiting to be used — a lot of it in strip shopping centers that have nearby Quiznos, so catering wouldn’t be a problem.
And did I mention that Bam’s all set for his close-up?
Fear Strikes
This column appperaed on July 8, 2007 (weeks befor the Minnesota tragedy)
I can cite for you at least 15 reasons why I appreciate life in Chester County, and those are the 15 covered bridges that call this place home.
But lest you think that I love them for their antiquity, their unique architecture or their rough-hewn grandeur, let me steer you off that path before you get too misty-eyed. No, I love covered bridges because when you go over them you can easily pretend you are not driving over a bridge.
I have an unreasonable fear of crossing bridges.
The people who know call this gephyrophobia, and here’s what I learned about it from the good folks at MedicineNet.com (Motto: “We Bring Doctors’ Knowledge To You”).
“Fear of crossing bridges is a relatively common phobia, although most people with it do not know they have something called ‘gephyrophobia.’ However, the derivation of the word ‘gephyrophobia’ is perfectly straightforward (if you know Greek); it is derived from the Greek words ‘gephyra’ (bridge) and ‘phobos’ (fear).”
Why thank you, MedicineNet.com, for being so helpful and so condescending, all at the same time.
If you think for a moment that knowing my fear is “a relatively common phobia” or that its name is derived from the “perfectly straightforward” Greek is going to help me the next time I’m confronted with the impending upstroke of some upcoming span, you are sorely mistaken.
Every Greek in the world, common or not, would not be able to convince me that the moment that this particular bridge would completely come apart and dissolve like steam, plunging me into the emptiness of the abyss, would be the exact moment that I am at its apex, helpless and alone.
I am going camping in Delaware this week and that means two things: One, that it will rain sometime between now and when I decamp and two, that I have been mentally preparing myself for a forced bridge crossing over the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal for about three weeks. And it is not going to help.
When I drive over a bridge I keep my eyes locked on the blacktop in front of me and both hands firmly on the steering wheel. I sweat and hum a lot, too. If my eyes drift over the side and glimpse an instant of the space and water below, I am convinced that my subconscious will involuntarily jerk the car to the right over the edge and into the water below.
Here’s MedicineNet.com again. “High bridges over waterways and gorges can be especially intimidating, as can be very long or very narrow bridges.”
Yes, and bridges where traffic gets jammed and you are stuck at the top of the span and with each passing of a semi you can feel the bridge shake and roll and you think that in another five minutes the only thing to do is put the car in park, get out and crawl on your belly to the other side.
I have friends who also have this affliction and we keep it mostly to ourselves, the fear of embarrassment being almost as gripping as the gephyrophobia itself. Except when we get together and share the joy of living in a county where bridges have covers.
I can cite for you at least 15 reasons why I appreciate life in Chester County, and those are the 15 covered bridges that call this place home.
But lest you think that I love them for their antiquity, their unique architecture or their rough-hewn grandeur, let me steer you off that path before you get too misty-eyed. No, I love covered bridges because when you go over them you can easily pretend you are not driving over a bridge.
I have an unreasonable fear of crossing bridges.
The people who know call this gephyrophobia, and here’s what I learned about it from the good folks at MedicineNet.com (Motto: “We Bring Doctors’ Knowledge To You”).
“Fear of crossing bridges is a relatively common phobia, although most people with it do not know they have something called ‘gephyrophobia.’ However, the derivation of the word ‘gephyrophobia’ is perfectly straightforward (if you know Greek); it is derived from the Greek words ‘gephyra’ (bridge) and ‘phobos’ (fear).”
Why thank you, MedicineNet.com, for being so helpful and so condescending, all at the same time.
If you think for a moment that knowing my fear is “a relatively common phobia” or that its name is derived from the “perfectly straightforward” Greek is going to help me the next time I’m confronted with the impending upstroke of some upcoming span, you are sorely mistaken.
Every Greek in the world, common or not, would not be able to convince me that the moment that this particular bridge would completely come apart and dissolve like steam, plunging me into the emptiness of the abyss, would be the exact moment that I am at its apex, helpless and alone.
I am going camping in Delaware this week and that means two things: One, that it will rain sometime between now and when I decamp and two, that I have been mentally preparing myself for a forced bridge crossing over the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal for about three weeks. And it is not going to help.
When I drive over a bridge I keep my eyes locked on the blacktop in front of me and both hands firmly on the steering wheel. I sweat and hum a lot, too. If my eyes drift over the side and glimpse an instant of the space and water below, I am convinced that my subconscious will involuntarily jerk the car to the right over the edge and into the water below.
Here’s MedicineNet.com again. “High bridges over waterways and gorges can be especially intimidating, as can be very long or very narrow bridges.”
Yes, and bridges where traffic gets jammed and you are stuck at the top of the span and with each passing of a semi you can feel the bridge shake and roll and you think that in another five minutes the only thing to do is put the car in park, get out and crawl on your belly to the other side.
I have friends who also have this affliction and we keep it mostly to ourselves, the fear of embarrassment being almost as gripping as the gephyrophobia itself. Except when we get together and share the joy of living in a county where bridges have covers.
Monday, March 26, 2007
All Things Elk
This appeared Sunday, March 25, 2007.
Elk Township has 10.4 square miles of land within its borders.
Elk Township has, as of the national census taken in 2000, 1,485 people living there.
Elk Township, located along the Mason-Dixon line in southern Chester County, east of East Nottingham, from which it was carved in 1857, and west of Franklin, has 27¼ miles of paved roads. The local government has claim to about 15½ miles of those roads, and the state owns the rest. It is a place you have to want to go to get there. You are not going to stumble upon Elk Township. You are not going to find yourself suddenly in Elk Township, all the while thinking you were driving to Wegman‘s, or the Herr’s Snack Co. for the factory tour. You have to get off the main road, and several smaller roads after that, to get to Elk Township.
Elk Township has, on my count, five villages: Elk Mills, Mount Rocky , Hickory Hill, Lewisville and Peacedale. I am going to live in Peacedale someday, even if it’s the last thing I do, because I can think of no better return address on my letters than "Peacedale PA." There is a house in Peacedale with a sign at the front of its driveway that reads: "Hope Hill."
Elk Township has real property assessed at $94,574,830, as of the last countywide reassessment. It has houses that were more than likely built sometime after Elk Township was carved out of the eastern portion of East Nottingham, and which when you drive by them remind you this was originally a county of farms and farmers, not developments and developers. It has ranch houses that you would not be surprised to see dotted along the suburban landscape of the 1960s, and at least one log cabin with an enormous American flag in the front yard. It also has some homes whose owners would likely be described as leading "secluded" lives, and some that would be completely at ease resting on the inside pages of Architectural Digest.
Elk Township has three covered bridges — the Glen Hope Bridge, the Rudolph and Arthur, and the Linton Stevens Bridge. The Glen Hope crosses the Little Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 10‘6“. The Rudolph and Arthur crosses the Big Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 9'0". It also has a house sitting next to it with a "No Trespassing" sign on a tree and a wooden mailbox that looks like a covered bridge. Both of these bridges do not allow bicycles to cross them, although I do not believe that rule to be strictly enforced. Once you cross the Linton Stevens Bridge you have to turn your car around immediately and go back unless you have a permit to drive on the road ahead. The Big Elk Creek is deeper and wider than the Little Elk Creek.
What Elk Township does not have is any number of large, wild, antlered, hooved members of the red deer family, known scientifically as Cervus canadensis and by Native Americans as wapiti, or "white rump."
That is to say, there are no elk in Elk.
Elk Township has 10.4 square miles of land within its borders.
Elk Township has, as of the national census taken in 2000, 1,485 people living there.
Elk Township, located along the Mason-Dixon line in southern Chester County, east of East Nottingham, from which it was carved in 1857, and west of Franklin, has 27¼ miles of paved roads. The local government has claim to about 15½ miles of those roads, and the state owns the rest. It is a place you have to want to go to get there. You are not going to stumble upon Elk Township. You are not going to find yourself suddenly in Elk Township, all the while thinking you were driving to Wegman‘s, or the Herr’s Snack Co. for the factory tour. You have to get off the main road, and several smaller roads after that, to get to Elk Township.
Elk Township has, on my count, five villages: Elk Mills, Mount Rocky , Hickory Hill, Lewisville and Peacedale. I am going to live in Peacedale someday, even if it’s the last thing I do, because I can think of no better return address on my letters than "Peacedale PA." There is a house in Peacedale with a sign at the front of its driveway that reads: "Hope Hill."
Elk Township has real property assessed at $94,574,830, as of the last countywide reassessment. It has houses that were more than likely built sometime after Elk Township was carved out of the eastern portion of East Nottingham, and which when you drive by them remind you this was originally a county of farms and farmers, not developments and developers. It has ranch houses that you would not be surprised to see dotted along the suburban landscape of the 1960s, and at least one log cabin with an enormous American flag in the front yard. It also has some homes whose owners would likely be described as leading "secluded" lives, and some that would be completely at ease resting on the inside pages of Architectural Digest.
Elk Township has three covered bridges — the Glen Hope Bridge, the Rudolph and Arthur, and the Linton Stevens Bridge. The Glen Hope crosses the Little Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 10‘6“. The Rudolph and Arthur crosses the Big Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 9'0". It also has a house sitting next to it with a "No Trespassing" sign on a tree and a wooden mailbox that looks like a covered bridge. Both of these bridges do not allow bicycles to cross them, although I do not believe that rule to be strictly enforced. Once you cross the Linton Stevens Bridge you have to turn your car around immediately and go back unless you have a permit to drive on the road ahead. The Big Elk Creek is deeper and wider than the Little Elk Creek.
What Elk Township does not have is any number of large, wild, antlered, hooved members of the red deer family, known scientifically as Cervus canadensis and by Native Americans as wapiti, or "white rump."
That is to say, there are no elk in Elk.
Monday, July 03, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Me and The Babe
This appeared May 14, 2006
Before there was Bam, there was The Bambino.
Mr. Margera of West Chester, star of his own "reality" television series on MTV, may owe his nickname to Mr. George Herman "Babe" Ruth, late of Baltimore, Boston and New York City.
Back before there was a cult of celebrity in America, there was a cult of Americans who fed off the celebrity of baseball's greatest player, instantly known as Babe.
There's been much talk lately about The Babe, what with Barry Bonds making his way up the home run ladder toward Ruth's 714 mark. All that chatter pleases me no end, because I love Babe Ruth, and I love hearing stories about him.
And, of course, because of the connection he has with Chester County.
I first learned of that connection when I read Robert Creamer's marvelous 1974 biography, "Babe: The Legend Comes to Life." Creamer digs past the old chestnuts about Ruth and his love of hot dogs, his orphanage background and his called shot home run against the Cubs, and weaves some wonderful little-known tales about Ruth into the mix.
One that caught my attention concerned Ruth's weaving road trip in July 1920, just after he'd joined the New York Yankees. He put his young wife, a few fellow players and an older coach in the passenger seats of his four-door touring sedan and set out from Washington, where the Yankees had played, back to New York.
Now, remember, this was in the day when automobile driving was in its infancy, and drivers really hadn't come to understand how the rules of physics matched with the laws of physiology in determining how your car could stay upright. So Ruth, as was his habit, refreshed himself along the road with sips of bootleg whiskey.
By the time the crew passed into Pennsylvania, one can assume that Ruth's blood alcohol level was something like a point-Avogadro's Number (6.022 times 10 to the 23rd). And so when he tried to round a curve in the road outside Wawa, Creamer said, Ruth flipped the car and sent everyone sprawling.
No one was seriously hurt - the newspapers got it wrong anyhow, reporting "RUTH REPORTED KILLED IN CAR CRASH" - and The Babe continued his marvelous 1920 season. But it got me thinking: Driving north from Baltimore to Wawa, he must have driven through Southern Chester County.
The thought of Ruth tooling up Route 1 in the middle of the night, drunk behind the wheel, while mushroom farmers were asleep in their beds filled me with a great glimpse of how close you can be to history without you even knowing it.
I read elsewhere that later in life, Ruth attended a street fair in Kennett Square hosted by Herb Pennock, his Yankees teammate and a native of mushroom country. After dinner, Ruth and his teammates began winning prizes at one of those booths where you knock down milk bottles with a light baseball.
It was a piece of cake for the crew, even throwing curve balls, but one of the players found the next morning that his arm had swollen to three times its normal size - the fault of the lightweight balls and the curves.
The teammate's name? Why, Waite Hoyt, of course. Hoyt's post-baseball career? Why, Cincinnati Reds' radio announcer, of course.
Hoyt's biggest fan? Why, me, of course.
Get the connection, Bam?
Before there was Bam, there was The Bambino.
Mr. Margera of West Chester, star of his own "reality" television series on MTV, may owe his nickname to Mr. George Herman "Babe" Ruth, late of Baltimore, Boston and New York City.
Back before there was a cult of celebrity in America, there was a cult of Americans who fed off the celebrity of baseball's greatest player, instantly known as Babe.
There's been much talk lately about The Babe, what with Barry Bonds making his way up the home run ladder toward Ruth's 714 mark. All that chatter pleases me no end, because I love Babe Ruth, and I love hearing stories about him.
And, of course, because of the connection he has with Chester County.
I first learned of that connection when I read Robert Creamer's marvelous 1974 biography, "Babe: The Legend Comes to Life." Creamer digs past the old chestnuts about Ruth and his love of hot dogs, his orphanage background and his called shot home run against the Cubs, and weaves some wonderful little-known tales about Ruth into the mix.
One that caught my attention concerned Ruth's weaving road trip in July 1920, just after he'd joined the New York Yankees. He put his young wife, a few fellow players and an older coach in the passenger seats of his four-door touring sedan and set out from Washington, where the Yankees had played, back to New York.
Now, remember, this was in the day when automobile driving was in its infancy, and drivers really hadn't come to understand how the rules of physics matched with the laws of physiology in determining how your car could stay upright. So Ruth, as was his habit, refreshed himself along the road with sips of bootleg whiskey.
By the time the crew passed into Pennsylvania, one can assume that Ruth's blood alcohol level was something like a point-Avogadro's Number (6.022 times 10 to the 23rd). And so when he tried to round a curve in the road outside Wawa, Creamer said, Ruth flipped the car and sent everyone sprawling.
No one was seriously hurt - the newspapers got it wrong anyhow, reporting "RUTH REPORTED KILLED IN CAR CRASH" - and The Babe continued his marvelous 1920 season. But it got me thinking: Driving north from Baltimore to Wawa, he must have driven through Southern Chester County.
The thought of Ruth tooling up Route 1 in the middle of the night, drunk behind the wheel, while mushroom farmers were asleep in their beds filled me with a great glimpse of how close you can be to history without you even knowing it.
I read elsewhere that later in life, Ruth attended a street fair in Kennett Square hosted by Herb Pennock, his Yankees teammate and a native of mushroom country. After dinner, Ruth and his teammates began winning prizes at one of those booths where you knock down milk bottles with a light baseball.
It was a piece of cake for the crew, even throwing curve balls, but one of the players found the next morning that his arm had swollen to three times its normal size - the fault of the lightweight balls and the curves.
The teammate's name? Why, Waite Hoyt, of course. Hoyt's post-baseball career? Why, Cincinnati Reds' radio announcer, of course.
Hoyt's biggest fan? Why, me, of course.
Get the connection, Bam?
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