Up My Alley

This appeared on Sunday, Jan. 21, 2006

The alleys of West Chester are being disrespected.

It’s not that they’re not clean, or that they’re allowed to crumble, or that no one uses them.

Quite the contrary. As more and more homeowners look at the carriage houses and two-story garages with their alley access as secondary living units, the liveliness and livability of the alleys in the borough has, to my mind, never been more apparent.

I’ve written about these marvels of small town life before, and my mind is unchanged. Having alleys running through your town is a benefit not to be taken lightly.

Walking them, you gain insight into the character of the people who live in your town (seeing children’s toys lining the backyard of one of your neighbors gives you an idea that good things are going on nearby, and chatting with an acquaintance who’s firing up the Webber off the back porch is a great alternative in a town that hasn’t entirely grasped the notion of stoop sitting.)

Alleys have a historical place in the Philadelphia region and, by extension, the nation, as the cobblestones of Elfreth’s Alley in the city will attest.

And frankly, alleys make a great short cut if you’re 15 years old and late for dinner. Or if you’re 49 years old and finding yourself blocked from your normal route to the office by street repairs.

But disrespected they are, nevertheless.

How so, you ask? Signage, is my reply.

Take a drive around the borough sometime and see whether you can identify the myriad alleys that intersect and bisect the main streets running north and south, east and west. Nope. No can do. There are no street signs telling you what byway you’re traveling on.

It’s a shame, since most of the alleys have wonderful names that should be boasted about, shown to all who travel here. Holly Alley, Juniper Alley, Mulberry Alley, Ebbs and Current alleys, Weaver and Corcoran alleys, Potter and Birds Eye and School and Britnton and Helen – all lilting names that deserve to be noticed.

It’s not just a matter, however, of a regard for semantics. As more and more people come to live on alleys in the borough it becomes a matter of practicality as well. Right around the corner from where I live if a very beautiful, very red brick, very expensive set of town homes set on an alley.

The residents there all keep their homes neat and tidy, recycle their plastic and glass, pay their taxes on time (I assume), and in return couldn’t find a street sign identifying their street as Clinton Alley to save a former president’s neck.

The surprising thing is that the borough generally has as much reluctance to put up signs as a West Chester University freshman has in tapping a keg. In West Chester, there are signs giving directions to everything, including other signs, so you’d think there could be a few dollars in the budget for our alleys.

So at the next Borough Council meeting, I’m hoping that a few of your readers will demand that the council form a “Friends of the Alleys” group that can raise money to start signing the backyard byways. First on the list? Rambo Alley, between Nields and Sharpless.

The Signs of Fall

This appeared Oct. 8, 2006

A news editor at a paper the size of the Daily Local News gets the chance to talk with a lot of very interesting, knowledgeable, charming and erudite people on a regular basis. Then we come to the office and never know what we‘re going to get.

I‘ve said it before: Picking up a ringing telephone in this newsroom is akin to playing Russian roulette. There‘s always a chance something bad is going to come out of the instrument in question, and it‘s pointed at your head.


Like the ”stolen election sign“ call.

Tell the truth: You‘ve either made one of these calls, or you‘ve felt like making one.

You decide after a long summer of a careful political analysis -- including checking position papers, reading newspaper articles, scanning the Internet and conducting face-to-face interviews -- that you are going to come out wholly in support of Candidate A.

You feel good because it‘s the first time in your life you‘re absolutely clear that this candidate is The Best Person for the Job, whatever the job is. And you want to tell the world about it, or at least that portion of the world that drives by your house.

So what do you do? You hie yourself to the candidate‘s local headquarters and get yourself a ”Vote For“ sign, and you plant it front and center in your yard, right next to the asters. You‘re proud of yourself, and you feel that you are finally playing a vital role in the civic life of your community.

And the next morning you look out the window and the sign is gone. Vanished. Stolen. Ripped off. All that‘s left are the asters.

So what‘s the first thing you do? Of course, you pick up the phone and call me.

You inform me breathlessly that there‘s nefarious work afoot by the forces of evil, or at least supporters of Candidate B, and that it‘s time the paper put an investigative reporter, or maybe even a team of investigative reporters, on this abridgement of the rights of a citizen under the First, Fifth and possibly 31st amendments to the U.S. Constitution.

And what do you hear? "(Yawn)."

The theft of campaign signs, I inform you, is about as much a news story as grass being green. It‘s not the Chinese Cultural Revolution, or the rise of Soviet gulags, in the scope of infringement of civil liberties. It‘s a childish prank. Get over it and call me when they do something really nefarious. Like dig up the asters.

So what do you do after hanging up and decrying the lack of integrity at the local newspaper? Why, you go out and steal a sign from your neighbor‘s yard supporting Candidate B. Don‘t worry about admitting it; it‘s the American way!
I‘ve often thought about those people who steal election signs. Do they believe that by stealing their candidate‘s opponent‘s yard sign that they will swing the election? And what of the people whose signs are stolen? Do they think that‘ll affect the outcome of the vote count at the courthouse?

No. I think the sign/steal/call/howl cycle is all just part of the international conspiracy to keep me from doing my job. Or from talking to erudite people.

West Chester Olympics Games

This appeared on May 28, 2006


I don’t think that we have to argue over the proposition that I’m one of the better parallel parkers in Chester County. No, I don’t think that we have to waste our time quibbling over that.


I think that there are enough of the right kind of people who have seen my work and, having seen it, describe my technique as "most righteous." So I think we’ve established that when it comes to the task, nay, the art of parking, I’m up there with the Renoirs, the Picassos, the Wyeths, dare I say, the Sculthorpes of the world.

But living in a town like West Chester takes more skills than just parallel parking. It takes timing, agility, bravado, know-how, focus – all the qualities that would make up a successful Olympic athlete.

Because you have to compete at living here in West Chester if you want to lead a satisfying life.

You can believe me or not.

But just as a sort of academic exercise I’d like to go through some of the lifestyle events I participate in on a weekly basis here in the burr-ah, as Mayor Tom used to say.

The Gay Street Slalom: I don’t have to explain this to anyone who has tried to make it from the east end of the borough to the west end directly on Gay Street through the central business district on a weekday morning say, around 9 a.m. The restaurant delivery trucks are lined up on the curb like they’re waiting to hit the English Channel on D-Day, and there are cars in back, front and to the side of you.

To be successful in getting through, you have to weave your way from one land to another like skier Bode Miller, sans hangover. I can do that. I can get from Iron Hill to Ryan’s in the blink of an eye, spilling not even a drop of my morning tea.

The Post Office Dash: This is a bit of a little known event, but one that has its rewards. Running to get in line at the post office at Gay and Walnut as soon as possible after it opens is important because if you get stuck behind say six or seven other customers, you may find yourself standing in line all day, until the branch closes.

For some reason the staffing level at this branch seems stuck in the period of time when only Ben Franklin actually used the postal service in this country. The thought of having two or more clerks on duty at the same time apparently was discarded as "too risky" by the plant managers.

Need I say I average two minutes waiting time per trip? I didn’t think I did.

The Seated Half Gainer Turnaround: Particularly in play while driving in from the suburbs and encountering another one of those annoying signs telling you are entering the borough. My latest whiplash moment was the double take I did after seeing a new blue and yellow sign on Lenape Road proclaiming "Borough of West Chester" standing directly in front of an older blue and white sign proclaiming, well, "Borough of West Chester."

You tax payers are getting your moneys worth on these expenditures, I assure you.

The Beer Can Toss: Not what you think it is. It’s not chucking the can on your neighbor’s front lawn that gets you recognized in this event. No, it’s picking up the numerous cans deposited on your block the morning after the latest Golden Rams game and either shot-putting or jump-shooting them into the nearest garbage can you find on your morning walk that gets you noticed.

And the applause from your neighbors is just the icing on the cake.