This appeared Aug. 27, 2006
During the past week, while you and the rest of the Chester County public have been glued to whatever news outlet strikes your fancy these days - newspaper, television, radio, blogosphere, press releases from the desk of state Sen. Andy "47 Days Since Last Quoted in Daily Local News, And Counting" Dinniman - in hopes of learning the fate of the Former Planet Pluto, you might have missed some truly important news.
Summer's over.
I know you still have August on the calendar, that you still see green leaves on the trees, still fill your shopping bags with sweet corn at the West Chester Growers Market and still wait for the Phillies to take a swan dive, but, trust me, summer's gone.
How do I know? School starts this week.
It didn't always used to be this way, but this is the age of "post" America. You know, post-Watergate, post-Reagan, post 9/11, post-Katrina. The new seasonal calendar began whatever day it was that the planners in school districts across the country decided that students needed to get back to their books before Labor Day Weekend. Call it "post-Age of Reason" America.
Monday will be the first day of school for students in a majority of county school districts. Instead of having that one last weekend splurge down at the beach or camping trip up in the mountains, students will have to lug their 75-pound backpacks to class a week before September starts.
No more final breath of summer at the amusement park on Labor Day; for anyone under the age of 25, it's time to sit down and shut up and listen to the first few lessons of Algebra I of the new school year.
If the kids went to school in vacuum chambers instead of multi-million dollar buildings with state-of-the-art cafeterias, this wouldn't be so bad. We adults could go on pretending that we were surrounded by the carefree days of summer. Yes, there would still be time to get that deep tropical tan we've been thinking of since May 31, or to get that vegetable garden planted in the backyard as we've promised to do for lo these many years.
But school rules all. It's hard to keep up the pretense that summer is still here when you're stuck in traffic behind a bright yellow school bus - the kids inside taking their ADD aggressive frustrations out by flashing the kind of sign language which usually gets you beaten with a baseball bat in certain sections of Upper Darby out the back window in your direction.
"Back to School" sales started, I'm told, sometime in June, about two weeks after graduation. You can believe me or not.
I feel sorry for the kids because, frankly, its hard to concentrate on the business of learning when its 95 degrees inside the classroom and there's not a breeze in sight. And I feel sorry for the teachers, too, because they grew up in a world where Aug. 15 meant there was still three weeks of freedom left. These days, Aug. 15 means you'd better have completed your first six weeks of lesson plans or you'll be hopelessly behind the kids who have been brushing up on their critiques of "Beowulf" in between visits to MySpace.com all summer.
But mostly I feel sorry us, as we lose more time to the Gods of Planning. And for Pluto, who never meant no one no harm.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Ironically Speaking
This appeared Aug. 13, 2006
Not that I am what anyone would reasonably call a combative person, but I do find myself occasionally berating random people over their incorrect word usage. "Irony" versus "coincidence," for example.
Irony, I explain in as kind a voice as I can muster, is when the firehouse burns down. Coincidence -- the remarkable occurrence of events -- is, well ...
Let me tell you a story.
Recently, a neighbor stopped by on her way up the street to politely inform me that I was a born fool if I ever thought the judges would give me the commissionership, but that in her opinion, not all of what I'd written over the months was complete rubbish.
She especially liked the homage I paid to the dawn redwood that stands across the street from our homes, and pointed me to Sebastian Koh, a retired math professor from West Chester University, who had a connection to the tree.
Koh, a soft-spoken and kindly fellow, explained in a telephone conversation that the dawn redwood, or metasequoia, had been discovered in China back in the 1940s by an expeditionary team sent to search for uncatalogued species of trees by his father, Shau Tong Koh, who, at the time, was head of the Department of Reforestation in the country's forestry ministry.
Let me tell you that the metasequoia is a wonderful, unique species of giant trees that, unlike its cousins in the redwood family, is deciduous. Its bright green leaves turn a reddish brown in the fall and shed to the ground. In China, whole valleys of the tree grow wild.
The species was the subject of some controversy in China, since both the elder Koh's crew, led by Zhang Wang, and a professor at Central University, Toh Kan, claimed credit for its discovery. But that debate was long over when the younger Koh arrived at the campus of the then- West Chester State College in 1970.
In his first days here, discussing his life and family and interest in horticulture, he learned that a previous mathematics scholar at the school, Robert Anderson, had had similar interests and had imported a number of species of exotic plants for his home across from the school's main campus. Touring those grounds later, he was disappointed that many of the plants had died from neglect.
But then, he said, came a surprise.
"I spotted this huge metasequoia, one of the first to be imported (to the U.S.), judging by its size," growing on amid the horticultural ruins, he said. He soon noticed others around the area, and showed them to his father when the elderly man came to visit West Chester. "He was very pleased," Koh said.
Today, Koh has three dawn redwoods - or water spruces as they are known in his native country - in his backyard in Downingtown. The first one he planted there in 1972 has grown to a height of more than 70 feet.
Judging by the fossil record, Koh told me, the dawn redwood once spread across the northern hemisphere. "In a way, they are recovering now from their former distribution," he said.
So that's it. I like the thought of someone "discovering" a tree that had grown for epochs, and then having someone else later "discover" that "discovery" half a world a way. So I am certain that the story of the dawn redwood will come up in my next conversation with the neighbor who pointed me to Sebastain Koh.
Her name? That would be Dawn L'Heureux.
And that's what I call a coincidence.
Not that I am what anyone would reasonably call a combative person, but I do find myself occasionally berating random people over their incorrect word usage. "Irony" versus "coincidence," for example.
Irony, I explain in as kind a voice as I can muster, is when the firehouse burns down. Coincidence -- the remarkable occurrence of events -- is, well ...
Let me tell you a story.
Recently, a neighbor stopped by on her way up the street to politely inform me that I was a born fool if I ever thought the judges would give me the commissionership, but that in her opinion, not all of what I'd written over the months was complete rubbish.
She especially liked the homage I paid to the dawn redwood that stands across the street from our homes, and pointed me to Sebastian Koh, a retired math professor from West Chester University, who had a connection to the tree.
Koh, a soft-spoken and kindly fellow, explained in a telephone conversation that the dawn redwood, or metasequoia, had been discovered in China back in the 1940s by an expeditionary team sent to search for uncatalogued species of trees by his father, Shau Tong Koh, who, at the time, was head of the Department of Reforestation in the country's forestry ministry.
Let me tell you that the metasequoia is a wonderful, unique species of giant trees that, unlike its cousins in the redwood family, is deciduous. Its bright green leaves turn a reddish brown in the fall and shed to the ground. In China, whole valleys of the tree grow wild.
The species was the subject of some controversy in China, since both the elder Koh's crew, led by Zhang Wang, and a professor at Central University, Toh Kan, claimed credit for its discovery. But that debate was long over when the younger Koh arrived at the campus of the then- West Chester State College in 1970.
In his first days here, discussing his life and family and interest in horticulture, he learned that a previous mathematics scholar at the school, Robert Anderson, had had similar interests and had imported a number of species of exotic plants for his home across from the school's main campus. Touring those grounds later, he was disappointed that many of the plants had died from neglect.
But then, he said, came a surprise.
"I spotted this huge metasequoia, one of the first to be imported (to the U.S.), judging by its size," growing on amid the horticultural ruins, he said. He soon noticed others around the area, and showed them to his father when the elderly man came to visit West Chester. "He was very pleased," Koh said.
Today, Koh has three dawn redwoods - or water spruces as they are known in his native country - in his backyard in Downingtown. The first one he planted there in 1972 has grown to a height of more than 70 feet.
Judging by the fossil record, Koh told me, the dawn redwood once spread across the northern hemisphere. "In a way, they are recovering now from their former distribution," he said.
So that's it. I like the thought of someone "discovering" a tree that had grown for epochs, and then having someone else later "discover" that "discovery" half a world a way. So I am certain that the story of the dawn redwood will come up in my next conversation with the neighbor who pointed me to Sebastain Koh.
Her name? That would be Dawn L'Heureux.
And that's what I call a coincidence.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
A Tribute to Judge Sugerman
This appeared on Aug. 6, 2006
Sitting on my front stoop last week, watching the asphalt on South Church Street melt like a bar of cheap chocolate, I found myself thinking of another August.
Nine years ago this month, Leonard Sugerman spent his last full day on the Chester County Common Pleas Court bench. I sat in the courtroom that day, writing down as much of what he had to say as I could capture, as I had been doing since taking over the courthouse beat for the Daily Local News some years before.
On Wednesday, looking over the story I wrote about that final day, I smiled at the memory of Judge Sugerman walking from the bench to his chambers, in the sort of half-step shuffle his 69-year-old legs had grown accustomed to.
"Well, that was exciting," he said dryly, of the rudimentary tasks he completed that day -granting a continuance, checking on an attorney-client status, conducting a quick sentencing. I asked him if he thought there should have been more fireworks for his finale. He chuckled. "I've had 25 years of fireworks," he said.
He did.
You can believe me or not, but for my money he was the most compelling and significant figure in the world of Chester County law for the last half of the 20th century, at least. Look at his case list: The trial of the murderous, infamous Johnston Gang. The hearings on Richard Griest's sanity. A precedent setting First Amendment case. The contentious first Byrne murder trial.
He had his faults, of course. Sugerman joked from the bench quite a bit, especially when he saw a local reporter sitting in the audience. He could be as courteous as a blushing schoolboy when someone he respected came in the courtroom, but bitingly caustic when someone he didn't entered.
Just a few days before he stepped down, I watched as he sentenced a man who had taken the life of a promising West Chester University student in a pathetic drunken driving accident. The prosecutor was demanding hard time, but the defense attorney made an eloquent, forceful plea for leniency.
Sugerman spent more than 10 minutes telling everyone in the courtroom how deeply impressed he had been with the defense's argument. Then he calmly ordered the man sent to state prison for 10- to- 20 years, the maximum allowed by law, the term to start immediately. "We hope that the defendant will learn something from this sentence, as well as the public at large," he said.
"That was the most polite, gentle, considerate mule kicking I've ever seen," I thought to myself after the man was led from the courtroom in cuffs. He's probably still wondering what happened.
Four months after his last day, Sugerman was dead. Figuratively speaking, it was as if he couldn't live without the bench.
Next year maybe, the county's new court building will open. When it does, the day-to-day judicial life of Courtroom One, where Sugerman spent the pinnacle years of his leadership on the court, will come to an end, I'm told. All the judges will move from the courthouse to the 200 block of W. Market St., and only on ceremonial occasions will the red-cushioned seats of that wonderful courtroom be filled.
They're calling the new courthouse the Chester County Justice Center. You will excuse me while I state for the record how much I despise that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It reminds me of something the folks in Uzbeckistan would call the newest state brainwashing structure.
So, I'm proposing right now that the county pay its respects to his legacy by naming the building the Leonard O. Sugerman Courthouse, and that in its grandest courtroom - the one where future president judges will sit to hear cases - a portrait of Sugerman hang for all to regard.
I've got the photo they can use as a model right here on my desk.
Sitting on my front stoop last week, watching the asphalt on South Church Street melt like a bar of cheap chocolate, I found myself thinking of another August.
Nine years ago this month, Leonard Sugerman spent his last full day on the Chester County Common Pleas Court bench. I sat in the courtroom that day, writing down as much of what he had to say as I could capture, as I had been doing since taking over the courthouse beat for the Daily Local News some years before.
On Wednesday, looking over the story I wrote about that final day, I smiled at the memory of Judge Sugerman walking from the bench to his chambers, in the sort of half-step shuffle his 69-year-old legs had grown accustomed to.
"Well, that was exciting," he said dryly, of the rudimentary tasks he completed that day -granting a continuance, checking on an attorney-client status, conducting a quick sentencing. I asked him if he thought there should have been more fireworks for his finale. He chuckled. "I've had 25 years of fireworks," he said.
He did.
You can believe me or not, but for my money he was the most compelling and significant figure in the world of Chester County law for the last half of the 20th century, at least. Look at his case list: The trial of the murderous, infamous Johnston Gang. The hearings on Richard Griest's sanity. A precedent setting First Amendment case. The contentious first Byrne murder trial.
He had his faults, of course. Sugerman joked from the bench quite a bit, especially when he saw a local reporter sitting in the audience. He could be as courteous as a blushing schoolboy when someone he respected came in the courtroom, but bitingly caustic when someone he didn't entered.
Just a few days before he stepped down, I watched as he sentenced a man who had taken the life of a promising West Chester University student in a pathetic drunken driving accident. The prosecutor was demanding hard time, but the defense attorney made an eloquent, forceful plea for leniency.
Sugerman spent more than 10 minutes telling everyone in the courtroom how deeply impressed he had been with the defense's argument. Then he calmly ordered the man sent to state prison for 10- to- 20 years, the maximum allowed by law, the term to start immediately. "We hope that the defendant will learn something from this sentence, as well as the public at large," he said.
"That was the most polite, gentle, considerate mule kicking I've ever seen," I thought to myself after the man was led from the courtroom in cuffs. He's probably still wondering what happened.
Four months after his last day, Sugerman was dead. Figuratively speaking, it was as if he couldn't live without the bench.
Next year maybe, the county's new court building will open. When it does, the day-to-day judicial life of Courtroom One, where Sugerman spent the pinnacle years of his leadership on the court, will come to an end, I'm told. All the judges will move from the courthouse to the 200 block of W. Market St., and only on ceremonial occasions will the red-cushioned seats of that wonderful courtroom be filled.
They're calling the new courthouse the Chester County Justice Center. You will excuse me while I state for the record how much I despise that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It reminds me of something the folks in Uzbeckistan would call the newest state brainwashing structure.
So, I'm proposing right now that the county pay its respects to his legacy by naming the building the Leonard O. Sugerman Courthouse, and that in its grandest courtroom - the one where future president judges will sit to hear cases - a portrait of Sugerman hang for all to regard.
I've got the photo they can use as a model right here on my desk.
Monday, July 31, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, July 17, 2006
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
(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
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
It's All In The Resume
This appeared on June 18, 2006
Dear Common Pleas Board of Judges:
(Scratch that.)
Dear Guys and Gals:
Some of you I know, some I'm meeting for the first time. But I know there is a deadline of Monday for the resumes of those seeking the venerable office of Minority Commissioner and let me assure you, as a newspaperman of 26 years and counting, I know the meaning of a deadline.
So if I don't get to grease your palm, er, meet with you personally in delivering my resume, please forgive me and accept this column in its place. I'm just trying to be timely.
Let's get started.
Born: Cincinnati, Ohio.
Favorite food: Cincinnati chili three-way, two Coneys on the side, with (onions, of course.)
High School: Walnut Hills High School, 1973-1975. School motto: "High on the Hill," but we don't really need to go there, do we? Senior photo with shoulder length hair and Grateful Dead T-shirt supplied upon request.
College: Earlham College, Richmond, Ind. B.S. Political Science, 1979. Team nickname, Hustlin' Quakers. Team mascot, bearded protester wearing "Boycott Grapes" T-shirt.
Professional experience: As stated, newspaperman 1979-present.
Professional accomplishments: Honorable mention, Pennsylvania Newspaper Publishers' Association, Keystone Press Award, for series exposing confusion on Common Pleas Court surrounding career of controversial judge and subsequent disorder in the courts.
(Hmmm, strike that.)
Professional accomplishments: Wrote series of laudatory profiles of (let's see, one, two, three, four, what the heck call it) five current Common Pleas Court judges. And darn proud of it.
Career high point: Called "a gentleman" by former First Lady Barbara Bush during 1992 presidential campaign appearance, simply for standing up when she came in the interview room.
Career low point: Had unfortunate weight gain commented on by soon-to-be-former state Rep. Elinor Z. Taylor, R-156th, of West Goshen.
Career notable point: Wrote story about alleged UFO sighting at former Lukens Steel Co. plant. (Never actually disproven, however.)
Qualifications: Punctual. Familiar with layout of Chester County Courthouse. Possess courthouse security card (expires, July 1, 2006.) Able, and willing, to vote "no" on any proposal by GOP colleagues, day or night, 24/7/365, with sole exception of enormous budget increases for judiciary departments of county government, which may or may not include line item for new 60G iPods for current Common Pleas Court members.
Political aspirations: It's not about me. I'm just here to help the team.
Platform: It is far past time to free the citizens of Chadds Ford from the cruel yoke of tyranny in Delaware County, in which it is lumped in with slouching municipalities such as Folcroft and Yeadon and Havertown, instead of standing proudly alongside Birmingham, Pocopson, Thornbury, Coatesville and Modena. When we cut Delco loose back in 17-whatever, how were we supposed to know that the masterful genius of the Wyeth clan would choose that township to settle in? We was hoodwinked, and its time to make what's wrong right.
Possible campaign slogan: "I've paid my dues, and most of my parking tickets."
Dear Common Pleas Board of Judges:
(Scratch that.)
Dear Guys and Gals:
Some of you I know, some I'm meeting for the first time. But I know there is a deadline of Monday for the resumes of those seeking the venerable office of Minority Commissioner and let me assure you, as a newspaperman of 26 years and counting, I know the meaning of a deadline.
So if I don't get to grease your palm, er, meet with you personally in delivering my resume, please forgive me and accept this column in its place. I'm just trying to be timely.
Let's get started.
Born: Cincinnati, Ohio.
Favorite food: Cincinnati chili three-way, two Coneys on the side, with (onions, of course.)
High School: Walnut Hills High School, 1973-1975. School motto: "High on the Hill," but we don't really need to go there, do we? Senior photo with shoulder length hair and Grateful Dead T-shirt supplied upon request.
College: Earlham College, Richmond, Ind. B.S. Political Science, 1979. Team nickname, Hustlin' Quakers. Team mascot, bearded protester wearing "Boycott Grapes" T-shirt.
Professional experience: As stated, newspaperman 1979-present.
Professional accomplishments: Honorable mention, Pennsylvania Newspaper Publishers' Association, Keystone Press Award, for series exposing confusion on Common Pleas Court surrounding career of controversial judge and subsequent disorder in the courts.
(Hmmm, strike that.)
Professional accomplishments: Wrote series of laudatory profiles of (let's see, one, two, three, four, what the heck call it) five current Common Pleas Court judges. And darn proud of it.
Career high point: Called "a gentleman" by former First Lady Barbara Bush during 1992 presidential campaign appearance, simply for standing up when she came in the interview room.
Career low point: Had unfortunate weight gain commented on by soon-to-be-former state Rep. Elinor Z. Taylor, R-156th, of West Goshen.
Career notable point: Wrote story about alleged UFO sighting at former Lukens Steel Co. plant. (Never actually disproven, however.)
Qualifications: Punctual. Familiar with layout of Chester County Courthouse. Possess courthouse security card (expires, July 1, 2006.) Able, and willing, to vote "no" on any proposal by GOP colleagues, day or night, 24/7/365, with sole exception of enormous budget increases for judiciary departments of county government, which may or may not include line item for new 60G iPods for current Common Pleas Court members.
Political aspirations: It's not about me. I'm just here to help the team.
Platform: It is far past time to free the citizens of Chadds Ford from the cruel yoke of tyranny in Delaware County, in which it is lumped in with slouching municipalities such as Folcroft and Yeadon and Havertown, instead of standing proudly alongside Birmingham, Pocopson, Thornbury, Coatesville and Modena. When we cut Delco loose back in 17-whatever, how were we supposed to know that the masterful genius of the Wyeth clan would choose that township to settle in? We was hoodwinked, and its time to make what's wrong right.
Possible campaign slogan: "I've paid my dues, and most of my parking tickets."
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Going, Going ... Gone!
This appeared June 11, 2006
This was supposed to be a column about the monstrosity township officials in West Goshen are attempting to pass off to the unsuspecting public as their latest "park" - that steel-caged nightmare motorists on Route 100 can view under construction just outside West Chester.
That is, if they can stand the sight of it without screaming and shielding their children's eyes, like you would a particularly grim traffic accident.
And it still is about that, in a way. But more, it's about backyard softball, shady summer evenings, hitting your first home run and an inevitable loss of innocence.
Oh yeah, and beer.
Back in the middle of the Reagan Era, I used to play softball in a coed league with colleagues from the Daily Local News and various friends. The league didn't have a field of its own, and many of the games were scattered across the county - Lionville, Embreeville, a lot across from Schramm's manufacturing plant on Virginia Avenue near Henderson High, wherever.
But the favorite place for all of us to play was a lot we called Ashbridge Field, located in the Green Hills Farm section of West Goshen on, appropriately enough, Ashbridge Road.
We affectionately nicknamed the place "The Bandbox," because of its relatively tiny dimensions. People who had never dreamed of ever being able to jack one over the fence looked at the field and started doing their best Babe Ruth imitation.
It wasn't a formal baseball field, really. I thought of it mostly as some guy's backyard.
Sure, it had a backstop and benches for the players, a few bleacher seats and cutouts for home plate and the bases. But it was a little lopsided and you had to park your car on the grass, and every once in a while a foul ball would find its way into the next-door neighbor's hedges and you'd have to go root around for the ball for 10 minutes or so while everybody else waited.
In other words, it was the perfect place to play a softball game on an August night, then spend 45 minutes replaying the game over a few cold beers as twilight came on.
I decided to visit the field recently for the first time in decades, my idea being to compare its informal glory with the new Park on Route 100. But to my dismay, Ashbridge is gone.
In its place is Richard C. Cloud Park - Mr. Cloud, I assume, being the guy who built the field in his backyard. Ashbridge had been taken over by West Goshen, and is now part of its Recreational Gulag.
As I pulled into the new macadam parking lot and stared in disbelief at the concrete block dugouts, steel fences and regulation baselines, I spotted with horror the ultimate symbol that the party was over for my Field of Dreams: A sign grandly proclaimed the field's "Rules and Regulations."
Closed at dusk. Crowds must register with township. No open burning. All goofing off prosecuted. And, most depressingly: "Alcoholic beverages are prohibited in the parks."
Driving away from the field, I remember President Reagan once saying something about government being the problem and not the solution. Never have I agreed with him more.
The only benefit I took away from the change? One of the rules of the field stated plainly:
"Golf is prohibited."
This was supposed to be a column about the monstrosity township officials in West Goshen are attempting to pass off to the unsuspecting public as their latest "park" - that steel-caged nightmare motorists on Route 100 can view under construction just outside West Chester.
That is, if they can stand the sight of it without screaming and shielding their children's eyes, like you would a particularly grim traffic accident.
And it still is about that, in a way. But more, it's about backyard softball, shady summer evenings, hitting your first home run and an inevitable loss of innocence.
Oh yeah, and beer.
Back in the middle of the Reagan Era, I used to play softball in a coed league with colleagues from the Daily Local News and various friends. The league didn't have a field of its own, and many of the games were scattered across the county - Lionville, Embreeville, a lot across from Schramm's manufacturing plant on Virginia Avenue near Henderson High, wherever.
But the favorite place for all of us to play was a lot we called Ashbridge Field, located in the Green Hills Farm section of West Goshen on, appropriately enough, Ashbridge Road.
We affectionately nicknamed the place "The Bandbox," because of its relatively tiny dimensions. People who had never dreamed of ever being able to jack one over the fence looked at the field and started doing their best Babe Ruth imitation.
It wasn't a formal baseball field, really. I thought of it mostly as some guy's backyard.
Sure, it had a backstop and benches for the players, a few bleacher seats and cutouts for home plate and the bases. But it was a little lopsided and you had to park your car on the grass, and every once in a while a foul ball would find its way into the next-door neighbor's hedges and you'd have to go root around for the ball for 10 minutes or so while everybody else waited.
In other words, it was the perfect place to play a softball game on an August night, then spend 45 minutes replaying the game over a few cold beers as twilight came on.
I decided to visit the field recently for the first time in decades, my idea being to compare its informal glory with the new Park on Route 100. But to my dismay, Ashbridge is gone.
In its place is Richard C. Cloud Park - Mr. Cloud, I assume, being the guy who built the field in his backyard. Ashbridge had been taken over by West Goshen, and is now part of its Recreational Gulag.
As I pulled into the new macadam parking lot and stared in disbelief at the concrete block dugouts, steel fences and regulation baselines, I spotted with horror the ultimate symbol that the party was over for my Field of Dreams: A sign grandly proclaimed the field's "Rules and Regulations."
Closed at dusk. Crowds must register with township. No open burning. All goofing off prosecuted. And, most depressingly: "Alcoholic beverages are prohibited in the parks."
Driving away from the field, I remember President Reagan once saying something about government being the problem and not the solution. Never have I agreed with him more.
The only benefit I took away from the change? One of the rules of the field stated plainly:
"Golf is prohibited."
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Bridgid for Burgess?
This appeared June 4, 2006
I'm at the Market Street Grill and Kerry walks by. He owns the place.
"How am I going to kick start this campaign for minority commissioner?" I say. "The ground hasn't even puffed, let alone swelled."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "Phils are in it for a playoff spot, maybe two! Rollins wins the batting title and Howard takes the home run prize. Could be sweet!"
"Did the doctors decide to up your meds or something?" I say. "Look, I put people on notice two weeks ago that I'm the perfect choice, and not one call! Best I got was a good luck note from 'Amy in Texas,' but I don't think she's even registered."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "The Braves are a pushover, and the Mets are a fabrication of the sportswriting media. By the time July 4 rolls around, we could be in sole possession of first place, and maybe even second, too! Oooh, sweet!"
"I hear they are making lots of progress in treating illnesses of the mind these days," I say. "Look, I've carved out a policy niche that no one else seems to have tapped. No one has even come close to calling for the annexation of Chadds Ford, but what do I get? Not even an old 'I'm proud to be a Chester County Democrat' badge."
Bridgid, the manager, walks by. She's now playing forward for the Philadelphia Pirates of the Women's Premier Soccer League.
"Change your name," she says. "I'd go with Smedley, as in Smedley Darlington, 1827-1899. He was kin to the other Darlingtons - Issac, William, Edward, that lot - and spent four glorious years representing the old 6th Congressional District. Plus, Smedley Butler's named after him. He may never have been elected, but Ol' Gimlet Eye knew a thing or two about politics."
I look at Kerry. He blinks. Hard. Ever since she scored the winning goal over the Northhampton Laurels, the girl's got delusions of grandeur.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "August, I figure 22, 23 wins, no problem. We wrap up home field advantage by Labor Day and just wait for the Cards to hand us the first three of five. Sweet-ness!"
"You should lie down when the furies come," I say. "Look, I can't just go around thinking that just because I've met the president judge's parents and can find my way to the fifth floor of the courthouse without an escort that I'm a shoo-in. I need a campaign strategy. Something like Dinniman's 'I'll-even-wax-your-car-if-you-vote-for-me' plan."
Mr. Handforth - Bridgid's dad - pokes his head out from the kitchen.
"You should be a burgess," he says. "Like Channing Way, 1877-1954, son of Marshall and Anna Eliza Smedley Way. Dad served as burgess of West Chester from '95 to '96 - 1895, you understand - and sonny boy took over the family businesses, so to speak, in 1919."
Kerry looks at me. I blink. Very hard. Mr. Handforth must think his daughter's going to start in the World Cup this week.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "I could get field level seats, maybe even on the field, for the World Series and ..."
Kerry keeps talking but I stop listening. I need a campaign manager, somebody who can get this thing off the ground.
I leave the grill, wondering who it could be. Then I see him across the street.
"Hey, Freddie Gusz!" says I.
I'm at the Market Street Grill and Kerry walks by. He owns the place.
"How am I going to kick start this campaign for minority commissioner?" I say. "The ground hasn't even puffed, let alone swelled."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "Phils are in it for a playoff spot, maybe two! Rollins wins the batting title and Howard takes the home run prize. Could be sweet!"
"Did the doctors decide to up your meds or something?" I say. "Look, I put people on notice two weeks ago that I'm the perfect choice, and not one call! Best I got was a good luck note from 'Amy in Texas,' but I don't think she's even registered."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "The Braves are a pushover, and the Mets are a fabrication of the sportswriting media. By the time July 4 rolls around, we could be in sole possession of first place, and maybe even second, too! Oooh, sweet!"
"I hear they are making lots of progress in treating illnesses of the mind these days," I say. "Look, I've carved out a policy niche that no one else seems to have tapped. No one has even come close to calling for the annexation of Chadds Ford, but what do I get? Not even an old 'I'm proud to be a Chester County Democrat' badge."
Bridgid, the manager, walks by. She's now playing forward for the Philadelphia Pirates of the Women's Premier Soccer League.
"Change your name," she says. "I'd go with Smedley, as in Smedley Darlington, 1827-1899. He was kin to the other Darlingtons - Issac, William, Edward, that lot - and spent four glorious years representing the old 6th Congressional District. Plus, Smedley Butler's named after him. He may never have been elected, but Ol' Gimlet Eye knew a thing or two about politics."
I look at Kerry. He blinks. Hard. Ever since she scored the winning goal over the Northhampton Laurels, the girl's got delusions of grandeur.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "August, I figure 22, 23 wins, no problem. We wrap up home field advantage by Labor Day and just wait for the Cards to hand us the first three of five. Sweet-ness!"
"You should lie down when the furies come," I say. "Look, I can't just go around thinking that just because I've met the president judge's parents and can find my way to the fifth floor of the courthouse without an escort that I'm a shoo-in. I need a campaign strategy. Something like Dinniman's 'I'll-even-wax-your-car-if-you-vote-for-me' plan."
Mr. Handforth - Bridgid's dad - pokes his head out from the kitchen.
"You should be a burgess," he says. "Like Channing Way, 1877-1954, son of Marshall and Anna Eliza Smedley Way. Dad served as burgess of West Chester from '95 to '96 - 1895, you understand - and sonny boy took over the family businesses, so to speak, in 1919."
Kerry looks at me. I blink. Very hard. Mr. Handforth must think his daughter's going to start in the World Cup this week.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "I could get field level seats, maybe even on the field, for the World Series and ..."
Kerry keeps talking but I stop listening. I need a campaign manager, somebody who can get this thing off the ground.
I leave the grill, wondering who it could be. Then I see him across the street.
"Hey, Freddie Gusz!" says I.
Monday, May 29, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Rellahan for Commissioner
This appeared on May 21, 2006
Now that the ground has stopped shaking and the sky has stopped raining frogs and the sun is back to rising in the east, it looks as though we are going to need a new minority commissioner.
For those of you who were out of the loop last week, the Big Gambler in Heaven rolled the dice on Election Day and came up Andy Dinniman. Not that it should have surprised anyone, because as I understand it, Andy went to all the homes in the 19th Senate District and promised every registered voter he would help clean out the garage, polish the silver or de-frag the computer - whatever - if they would just please, please, PLEASE vote for him.
So he's got his work cut out for him over the next couple weeks.
Meanwhile, someone has to take his seat at the boardroom table. And while I don't want to be too forward about it, I think I have the perfect choice.
Me.
Don't look that way. There are several very good reasons why I should be the next county commissioner, and if you would just stop laughing for a few minutes we could discuss them.
First, if the adage that 50 percent of the job is just showing up is true, I'm a natural. I only live a few blocks from the courthouse, I have a pass to go around the security monitors, I know where the elevators are, and I can find my way to the fifth floor. How many other people can say that?
Second, I know how to do the job. Over the years, I've seen lots of minority commissioners in action - Pat O'Donnell, Patty Baldwin, Andy - and I think I can put together a public face that blends a little bit of each. I can tell a good Irish story before voting "no" on everything but the reading of the minutes like Pat; be punctual and stay in the office in case someone has to answer the phones like Patty; and talk about the wonders of Chester County until everyone else in the room wants to throw up like, well, you know who.
As for a political platform, I've got that covered. I think readers of this column will know that I stand for, among other things, annexing Chadds Ford Township from Delaware County, building a public swimming pool within walking distance of my home on South Church Street, coming up with a suitable motto for West Chester (my new favorite: "Better Organic Lettuce Than Phoenixville"), and eliminating fake Cincinnati-style chili from local restaurant menus.
A little help from commissioners Carol and Don and I think we can get all those things accomplished in no time.
You might think there are people out there who have an edge over me because they've, oh, actually been active in Democratic Party politics over the years, but consider this: Not only do I know the president judge by her first name, but I've met her parents. Since the judges in the county make the pick, need I say more?
So I think if we just accept the notion that I'm The Man, we can wrap up this whole thing rather quickly.
Just one thing: I don't have to pose in all those photos with the Marching Band Parent of the Year, do I?
Now that the ground has stopped shaking and the sky has stopped raining frogs and the sun is back to rising in the east, it looks as though we are going to need a new minority commissioner.
For those of you who were out of the loop last week, the Big Gambler in Heaven rolled the dice on Election Day and came up Andy Dinniman. Not that it should have surprised anyone, because as I understand it, Andy went to all the homes in the 19th Senate District and promised every registered voter he would help clean out the garage, polish the silver or de-frag the computer - whatever - if they would just please, please, PLEASE vote for him.
So he's got his work cut out for him over the next couple weeks.
Meanwhile, someone has to take his seat at the boardroom table. And while I don't want to be too forward about it, I think I have the perfect choice.
Me.
Don't look that way. There are several very good reasons why I should be the next county commissioner, and if you would just stop laughing for a few minutes we could discuss them.
First, if the adage that 50 percent of the job is just showing up is true, I'm a natural. I only live a few blocks from the courthouse, I have a pass to go around the security monitors, I know where the elevators are, and I can find my way to the fifth floor. How many other people can say that?
Second, I know how to do the job. Over the years, I've seen lots of minority commissioners in action - Pat O'Donnell, Patty Baldwin, Andy - and I think I can put together a public face that blends a little bit of each. I can tell a good Irish story before voting "no" on everything but the reading of the minutes like Pat; be punctual and stay in the office in case someone has to answer the phones like Patty; and talk about the wonders of Chester County until everyone else in the room wants to throw up like, well, you know who.
As for a political platform, I've got that covered. I think readers of this column will know that I stand for, among other things, annexing Chadds Ford Township from Delaware County, building a public swimming pool within walking distance of my home on South Church Street, coming up with a suitable motto for West Chester (my new favorite: "Better Organic Lettuce Than Phoenixville"), and eliminating fake Cincinnati-style chili from local restaurant menus.
A little help from commissioners Carol and Don and I think we can get all those things accomplished in no time.
You might think there are people out there who have an edge over me because they've, oh, actually been active in Democratic Party politics over the years, but consider this: Not only do I know the president judge by her first name, but I've met her parents. Since the judges in the county make the pick, need I say more?
So I think if we just accept the notion that I'm The Man, we can wrap up this whole thing rather quickly.
Just one thing: I don't have to pose in all those photos with the Marching Band Parent of the Year, do I?
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?
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Roadside Shrines
This appeared May 7, 2006
Another fatal car crash last week brought another roadside tribute.
This time the makeshift shrine appeared on Pigeon Creek Road in South Coventry, the site of an accident that claimed the life of a 17-year-old Owen J. Roberts student one week ago today.
Over the years, the custom of creating memorials to a loved one killed in crashes has taken root across Chester County. One recalls seeing them on North High Street across from the West Chester Golf and Country Club, the site of two fatalities last August, as well as at the intersection of New and Gay streets outside St. Agnes, where a young motorcyclist was killed that same month.
The flowers and photos and letters that marked those memorials were gone within a few weeks after the accidents. But driving along the county's roads, a driver's eye might still catch sight of a shrine that has stood for years, and whose presence is a mystery to all but those loved ones for whom it is a marker of pain and of remembrance.
I have in mind one such site, at an intersection I pass through regularly.
At the spot where Valley Creek Road becomes Quarry Road as it crosses Boot Road, just past the so-called "twin tunnels" in East Caln, stands a white cross dedicated to the memory of two young men who did not know one another but who died in the same accident in November 1991.
Richard Cabott, then 23 years old, and Gregory Brownback, then 24, died because a 26-year-old Exton man had too much to drink that night and ran through the stop sign at the intersection, taking the back roads home to hide his drunkeness from police.
Cabott was a passenger in the drunken man's car; Brownback was driving his 1989 GMC pickup home.
I first noticed the cross after meeting the families of the victims of that crash, and writing the story of their anger and pain over the loss of life. For years I lost track of it, not having any reason to pass by the location, but now have come to see it regularly and view it as a stark reminder of loss.
The cross is well-kept and sturdy. It is planted well into the ground, giving you the sense that it is not coming down anytime soon.
Some states are taking action against such shrines, seeing them as safety concerns and a distraction to drivers. The folks at PennDOT say they have no regulations as to how long roadside shrines stay up - temporary ones with flowers and photos generally are removed by the families of the dead soon afterwards.
Crosses like the one paying tribute to Richard Cabott and Gregory Brownback may never come down; only if they become a safety hazard will officials take action.
I've thought hard trying to understand why the memorials go up in the first place. What draws the crowd to the scene of a tragic crash? How much grief can be eased by the placement of a cross at a crossroads? Why tributes only to those who die violently?
Then I remembered my visit to Cincinnati last month.
Driving back to my sister's house after an errand to the local grocery store, I took a right turn when I should have continued straight, and stopped a block away at a nondescript two- story building.
I gently left the car running and crossed the street so I could see a dark window close to the corner of the building. I stayed for only a moment, turned and left.
Seeing the place where my mother died always connects me to her, even if I don't leave flowers.
Another fatal car crash last week brought another roadside tribute.
This time the makeshift shrine appeared on Pigeon Creek Road in South Coventry, the site of an accident that claimed the life of a 17-year-old Owen J. Roberts student one week ago today.
Over the years, the custom of creating memorials to a loved one killed in crashes has taken root across Chester County. One recalls seeing them on North High Street across from the West Chester Golf and Country Club, the site of two fatalities last August, as well as at the intersection of New and Gay streets outside St. Agnes, where a young motorcyclist was killed that same month.
The flowers and photos and letters that marked those memorials were gone within a few weeks after the accidents. But driving along the county's roads, a driver's eye might still catch sight of a shrine that has stood for years, and whose presence is a mystery to all but those loved ones for whom it is a marker of pain and of remembrance.
I have in mind one such site, at an intersection I pass through regularly.
At the spot where Valley Creek Road becomes Quarry Road as it crosses Boot Road, just past the so-called "twin tunnels" in East Caln, stands a white cross dedicated to the memory of two young men who did not know one another but who died in the same accident in November 1991.
Richard Cabott, then 23 years old, and Gregory Brownback, then 24, died because a 26-year-old Exton man had too much to drink that night and ran through the stop sign at the intersection, taking the back roads home to hide his drunkeness from police.
Cabott was a passenger in the drunken man's car; Brownback was driving his 1989 GMC pickup home.
I first noticed the cross after meeting the families of the victims of that crash, and writing the story of their anger and pain over the loss of life. For years I lost track of it, not having any reason to pass by the location, but now have come to see it regularly and view it as a stark reminder of loss.
The cross is well-kept and sturdy. It is planted well into the ground, giving you the sense that it is not coming down anytime soon.
Some states are taking action against such shrines, seeing them as safety concerns and a distraction to drivers. The folks at PennDOT say they have no regulations as to how long roadside shrines stay up - temporary ones with flowers and photos generally are removed by the families of the dead soon afterwards.
Crosses like the one paying tribute to Richard Cabott and Gregory Brownback may never come down; only if they become a safety hazard will officials take action.
I've thought hard trying to understand why the memorials go up in the first place. What draws the crowd to the scene of a tragic crash? How much grief can be eased by the placement of a cross at a crossroads? Why tributes only to those who die violently?
Then I remembered my visit to Cincinnati last month.
Driving back to my sister's house after an errand to the local grocery store, I took a right turn when I should have continued straight, and stopped a block away at a nondescript two- story building.
I gently left the car running and crossed the street so I could see a dark window close to the corner of the building. I stayed for only a moment, turned and left.
Seeing the place where my mother died always connects me to her, even if I don't leave flowers.
Finding Her Way
This story appeared Oct. 31, 2005. It was awarded a First Place prize for Personality Profile in the Pennsylvania Newspaper Publishers Association's Keystone Press Awards contest.
By MICHAEL P. RELLAHAN
Staff Writer
WEST CHESTER - To borrow a timeworn phrase that nonetheless fit her well, Mary Catherine "Marie" Lynch was a survivor.
She survived the hard life of the streets, official indifference, terrifying violence, a crippling addiction to alcohol and personal demons that nearly destroyed her. She survived by her own force of will, with quite a bit of luck and through the kindness of people in her adopted hometown of West Chester.
But even survivors do not live forever. Lynch, diagnosed in 2003 with throat cancer, died Thursday morning at 12:15 a.m. in the Main Line Nursing Home in Paoli. She was 63.
"Even though she was a street person, she had some dignity," said Susan Baldwin, a former caseworker at West Chester's Safe Harbor shelter, who became her close friend. "I think she had a spunk about her. She asked that you give her the respect that she thought she deserved."
"Her recovery was one of the greatest turnarounds we ever saw," said Art Zadrozny, the former director of Safe Harbor who helped oversee Lynch's withdrawal from alcohol addiction and made her a part of the shelter's extended family.
Lynch went from living alone on the street, pushing her meager belongings in a shopping cart, drinking heavily and debasing herself, to kicking her habit, putting order in her life and eventually volunteering for others at Safe Harbor.
"There are definitely lessons to be learned from her," Zadrozny said in an interview Friday. "If anyone says they've had a bad hand dealt them, take a look at Marie's life. You can recover. You can change your life, because she did."
Lynch's personal history is punctuated mainly by gaps. She was born on Sept. 19, 1942, in Pennsylvania, but exactly where and to whom remains unknown. After her recovery, when Baldwin received a copy of her birth certificate in preparation for registering her for Social Security and official identification, the document didn't list either a place of birth or names of her parents.
She spent the first 20 years of her life as a ward of the state, living in an institution whose antiquated name was the Laurelton School for Feebleminded Girls of Childbearing Years. She endured violence there and may have been forcibly sterilized.
After leaving the school, she worked for two decades in a box-and-cup factory on the north side of West Chester until the factory burned down. With nowhere to go, Lynch spent the better part of the next 15 years on the streets of West Chester, a homeless woman with a slight frame and a rough, scarred face.
Those familiar with the town would see her sitting on a bench on South Church Street, pushing her cart along the sidewalks or keeping warm near a radiator in the Gay Street post office.
Baldwin said she did not know exactly how Lynch kept herself alive in those days. She worked occasionally doing cleaning work at area businesses such as Whirlaway Travel and Penn's Table, where the owners would give her $20 or so for her efforts, but it was nothing like a true job.
"The people of West Chester really kept her alive for a number of years," Baldwin declared. The money she earned went primarily to buy alcohol. "Beer, whiskey and wine, that's all I thought about," Lynch told a reporter in 2003. The alcohol and life on the street frequently got her in trouble with the law, and she developed a reputation as a nasty, vulgar, mean-spirited woman.
Summing her up during those years succinctly, Zadrozny said: "When she was drunk, she was a nasty drunk."
Her legs were scarred from rat bites she'd gained from sleeping in alleys and back ways. She lost all her teeth and had her nose broken. Already mentally handicapped, she was considered incompetent because of persistent deafness caused by wax build-up in her ears. Lynch was also prone to hearing voices and becoming paranoid, thinking that helicopters were out to harm her, Baldwin said.
"Everyone just assumed she was ignorant," Baldwin said.
Lynch's life was becoming worse when Baldwin started working with her in the late 1990s. Her alcohol addiction grew fearsome, and she began acting out in public more often. Although Safe Harbor, opened in 1985, had offered help to homeless people like Lynch, she had largely stayed away, being reclusive and suspicious, Baldwin said.
It took weeks of speaking to her on the street before Lynch began responding to Baldwin, then a counselor with Northwestern Human Services assigned to Safe Harbor. But even as Baldwin gained her trust, Lynch remained certain that she would disappear from her life.
Sometimes, Baldwin said, she would move too fast, ask too much of Lynch, and Lynch would pull back and stop showing up at Safe Harbor. "I slowed down, and she came back," the caseworker said.
The turning point for Lynch came on Easter Sunday in 2000. Still living on the streets, she was pistol-whipped by an assailant, who stole what little money she had in her pockets. "That was her wake-up call," Baldwin said. "She knew that she had better get off the street or she would end up dead. Now she had to go the extra mile."
Zadrozny met her then, and he saw her begin to change. "She started to realize that there was a better life. I remember her telling me it felt good to be clean."
But Baldwin and Zadrozny also pushed her forcefully to give up her drinking. For several months, she was put out of the shelter for being overly intoxicated.
"Marie was someone you could rationalize with, but it had to be on a basic level," Zadrozny said. "'You want a safe, warm bed? You want to be clean?' It was like a bargain with her."
She entered an alcohol recovery program in 2001 and later entered a hospital where her mental illness was diagnosed and medication prescribed to control her paranoia. She took a room at a Coatesville boarding house and commuted back and forth from there to West Chester, where she felt comfortable.
Along the way, she was treated to a new social life with Baldwin. "She had never seen an airplane up close, never been on one, so I took her to the Philadelphia airport and we sat down to dinner and watched the planes land," Baldwin said. Later, Baldwin was able to arrange for Lynch to walk through an empty airliner, looking into the cockpit and strolling up and down its aisle.
"She was amazed at how large they were, and how they could get up in the air," Baldwin said. "She also thought the pillows on the seats were cute."
Lynch began shopping with Baldwin for new clothes, and they visited the grounds at Embreeville Center where they watched for wildlife. She planned a trip to the New Jersey shore because Lynch had never seen the ocean, but the trip never occurred because of her illness.
"We couldn't have been two more opposite people," Baldwin said. "But we both had a mutual respect, and a fire for living."
Zadrozny said Lynch's daily life was "a simple one" - volunteering at Safe Harbor, attending church services at the Salvation Army on East Market Street, working for area businesses and taking the bus back and forth to Coatesville.
"But for her it was a purposeful life, and she took pride in her work. That made you feel good," he said.
Both said, however, that there was still a hard side to Lynch that she displayed up until the end of her life. Battling the awful pain of throat cancer, she nevertheless refused to stop smoking her unfiltered Pall Malls.
"Even at the end, she didn't give up quietly," Baldwin said, noting that she had tried to escape her room at Main Line Nursing to catch a smoke outside two days before she died.
"She had that feistiness inside her, and that was what kept her going, what allowed her to survive out on the street for so long," Zadrozny said. "She was a tough woman."
A funeral will be held for Lynch at 10 a.m. Wednesday at St. Agnes Church in West Chester.
Although the Salvation Army, St. Agnes Church, Halladay Florists and the Boyd Funeral Home, among others, have made contributions to her funeral costs, further contributions may be made at the Salvation Army, Zadrozny said.
By MICHAEL P. RELLAHAN
Staff Writer
WEST CHESTER - To borrow a timeworn phrase that nonetheless fit her well, Mary Catherine "Marie" Lynch was a survivor.
She survived the hard life of the streets, official indifference, terrifying violence, a crippling addiction to alcohol and personal demons that nearly destroyed her. She survived by her own force of will, with quite a bit of luck and through the kindness of people in her adopted hometown of West Chester.
But even survivors do not live forever. Lynch, diagnosed in 2003 with throat cancer, died Thursday morning at 12:15 a.m. in the Main Line Nursing Home in Paoli. She was 63.
"Even though she was a street person, she had some dignity," said Susan Baldwin, a former caseworker at West Chester's Safe Harbor shelter, who became her close friend. "I think she had a spunk about her. She asked that you give her the respect that she thought she deserved."
"Her recovery was one of the greatest turnarounds we ever saw," said Art Zadrozny, the former director of Safe Harbor who helped oversee Lynch's withdrawal from alcohol addiction and made her a part of the shelter's extended family.
Lynch went from living alone on the street, pushing her meager belongings in a shopping cart, drinking heavily and debasing herself, to kicking her habit, putting order in her life and eventually volunteering for others at Safe Harbor.
"There are definitely lessons to be learned from her," Zadrozny said in an interview Friday. "If anyone says they've had a bad hand dealt them, take a look at Marie's life. You can recover. You can change your life, because she did."
Lynch's personal history is punctuated mainly by gaps. She was born on Sept. 19, 1942, in Pennsylvania, but exactly where and to whom remains unknown. After her recovery, when Baldwin received a copy of her birth certificate in preparation for registering her for Social Security and official identification, the document didn't list either a place of birth or names of her parents.
She spent the first 20 years of her life as a ward of the state, living in an institution whose antiquated name was the Laurelton School for Feebleminded Girls of Childbearing Years. She endured violence there and may have been forcibly sterilized.
After leaving the school, she worked for two decades in a box-and-cup factory on the north side of West Chester until the factory burned down. With nowhere to go, Lynch spent the better part of the next 15 years on the streets of West Chester, a homeless woman with a slight frame and a rough, scarred face.
Those familiar with the town would see her sitting on a bench on South Church Street, pushing her cart along the sidewalks or keeping warm near a radiator in the Gay Street post office.
Baldwin said she did not know exactly how Lynch kept herself alive in those days. She worked occasionally doing cleaning work at area businesses such as Whirlaway Travel and Penn's Table, where the owners would give her $20 or so for her efforts, but it was nothing like a true job.
"The people of West Chester really kept her alive for a number of years," Baldwin declared. The money she earned went primarily to buy alcohol. "Beer, whiskey and wine, that's all I thought about," Lynch told a reporter in 2003. The alcohol and life on the street frequently got her in trouble with the law, and she developed a reputation as a nasty, vulgar, mean-spirited woman.
Summing her up during those years succinctly, Zadrozny said: "When she was drunk, she was a nasty drunk."
Her legs were scarred from rat bites she'd gained from sleeping in alleys and back ways. She lost all her teeth and had her nose broken. Already mentally handicapped, she was considered incompetent because of persistent deafness caused by wax build-up in her ears. Lynch was also prone to hearing voices and becoming paranoid, thinking that helicopters were out to harm her, Baldwin said.
"Everyone just assumed she was ignorant," Baldwin said.
Lynch's life was becoming worse when Baldwin started working with her in the late 1990s. Her alcohol addiction grew fearsome, and she began acting out in public more often. Although Safe Harbor, opened in 1985, had offered help to homeless people like Lynch, she had largely stayed away, being reclusive and suspicious, Baldwin said.
It took weeks of speaking to her on the street before Lynch began responding to Baldwin, then a counselor with Northwestern Human Services assigned to Safe Harbor. But even as Baldwin gained her trust, Lynch remained certain that she would disappear from her life.
Sometimes, Baldwin said, she would move too fast, ask too much of Lynch, and Lynch would pull back and stop showing up at Safe Harbor. "I slowed down, and she came back," the caseworker said.
The turning point for Lynch came on Easter Sunday in 2000. Still living on the streets, she was pistol-whipped by an assailant, who stole what little money she had in her pockets. "That was her wake-up call," Baldwin said. "She knew that she had better get off the street or she would end up dead. Now she had to go the extra mile."
Zadrozny met her then, and he saw her begin to change. "She started to realize that there was a better life. I remember her telling me it felt good to be clean."
But Baldwin and Zadrozny also pushed her forcefully to give up her drinking. For several months, she was put out of the shelter for being overly intoxicated.
"Marie was someone you could rationalize with, but it had to be on a basic level," Zadrozny said. "'You want a safe, warm bed? You want to be clean?' It was like a bargain with her."
She entered an alcohol recovery program in 2001 and later entered a hospital where her mental illness was diagnosed and medication prescribed to control her paranoia. She took a room at a Coatesville boarding house and commuted back and forth from there to West Chester, where she felt comfortable.
Along the way, she was treated to a new social life with Baldwin. "She had never seen an airplane up close, never been on one, so I took her to the Philadelphia airport and we sat down to dinner and watched the planes land," Baldwin said. Later, Baldwin was able to arrange for Lynch to walk through an empty airliner, looking into the cockpit and strolling up and down its aisle.
"She was amazed at how large they were, and how they could get up in the air," Baldwin said. "She also thought the pillows on the seats were cute."
Lynch began shopping with Baldwin for new clothes, and they visited the grounds at Embreeville Center where they watched for wildlife. She planned a trip to the New Jersey shore because Lynch had never seen the ocean, but the trip never occurred because of her illness.
"We couldn't have been two more opposite people," Baldwin said. "But we both had a mutual respect, and a fire for living."
Zadrozny said Lynch's daily life was "a simple one" - volunteering at Safe Harbor, attending church services at the Salvation Army on East Market Street, working for area businesses and taking the bus back and forth to Coatesville.
"But for her it was a purposeful life, and she took pride in her work. That made you feel good," he said.
Both said, however, that there was still a hard side to Lynch that she displayed up until the end of her life. Battling the awful pain of throat cancer, she nevertheless refused to stop smoking her unfiltered Pall Malls.
"Even at the end, she didn't give up quietly," Baldwin said, noting that she had tried to escape her room at Main Line Nursing to catch a smoke outside two days before she died.
"She had that feistiness inside her, and that was what kept her going, what allowed her to survive out on the street for so long," Zadrozny said. "She was a tough woman."
A funeral will be held for Lynch at 10 a.m. Wednesday at St. Agnes Church in West Chester.
Although the Salvation Army, St. Agnes Church, Halladay Florists and the Boyd Funeral Home, among others, have made contributions to her funeral costs, further contributions may be made at the Salvation Army, Zadrozny said.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The Signs of West Chester
This appeared Janurary 26, 2006
By now you've seen the signs, and you may be as bewildered about the whole thing as I am. I mean the "West Chester" signs that have popped up, seemingly from nowhere, all across the borough.
They direct you to parking. They direct you to the Chester County Courthouse. They tell you you're entering the borough. They thank you for leaving the borough. They do everything except give you a recipe for a nice pot roast.
I didn't start bothering about them, though, until I paid a visit to the West Chester Library on North Church Street a few weeks ago. The stately old building has a huge turret tower that overlooks the street, and around which the words "Public Library" are emblazoned in bold wrought iron. Down below, a pleasant wooden sign announces that the West Chester Public Library was established in 1872. Symbols of books decorate the windows.
And now it has a cutesy little blue and yellow sign along the curb reconfirming that, yes, indeed, you're not mistaken, this is an actual library. Oh. Thanks. I was a little dubious.
(Note to borough sign officials: Blue and yellow are Downingtown colors; it's garnet and white at good old B. Reed Henderson High. This whole Devlin thing is out of control.)
Then I noticed the banners hanging from every street lamp on Gay Street. They must come in very handy on Friday and Saturday nights, when out-of-town revelers wake up face up on the brick sidewalks, after a few hours of revelry, and wonder where they are.
"Oh," they say, reading the banners. "West Chester. Thanks. Thought it was Manayunk."
All the new signs remind me of the flap a few years ago when the county commissioners decided to blow a few grand on signs, and planted an ugly gray stump of a sign in front of the courthouse that read: "Chester County Courthouse." They should have added: "Erected by the county Department of Redundancy Dept."
What this town needs isn't a sign letting you know that you just left town. What this town needs is a motto.
Mottoes are cool, like nicknames. You know, "San Francisco: The city by the bay." "New York: The city that never sleeps." "Philadelphia: Leave the money on the dresser."
We used to have a pretty serviceable one: "West Chester: The Athens of Pennsylvania." It had historical cache for all those radical preservationists who consider it a sin against God and Paul Rodebaugh to tear down any building older than their Aunt Charlotte, but it didn't seem to catch on with the public.
We tried, "West Chester: Little town, big art," but with the galleries closing right and left these days, it's more like, "Little town, Art who?"
I tried to get people interested in my own personal favorite during the garbage wars - "West Chester: Come grab our trash" - but the powers that be shut that one down.
So here's a few more suggestions I'll pass along to the folks at Gay and Adams streets. Use them as you see fit.
For the West Chester University set: "West Chester: Pat Croce didn't graduate, so don't sweat it."
For the aforementioned out-of-town revelers: "West Chester: More bars than barbers."
For in-town merchants: "West Chester: Plenty of parking. Really."
For the anxious: "West Chester: Don't worry, Coatesville's 10 miles to the west."
By now you've seen the signs, and you may be as bewildered about the whole thing as I am. I mean the "West Chester" signs that have popped up, seemingly from nowhere, all across the borough.
They direct you to parking. They direct you to the Chester County Courthouse. They tell you you're entering the borough. They thank you for leaving the borough. They do everything except give you a recipe for a nice pot roast.
I didn't start bothering about them, though, until I paid a visit to the West Chester Library on North Church Street a few weeks ago. The stately old building has a huge turret tower that overlooks the street, and around which the words "Public Library" are emblazoned in bold wrought iron. Down below, a pleasant wooden sign announces that the West Chester Public Library was established in 1872. Symbols of books decorate the windows.
And now it has a cutesy little blue and yellow sign along the curb reconfirming that, yes, indeed, you're not mistaken, this is an actual library. Oh. Thanks. I was a little dubious.
(Note to borough sign officials: Blue and yellow are Downingtown colors; it's garnet and white at good old B. Reed Henderson High. This whole Devlin thing is out of control.)
Then I noticed the banners hanging from every street lamp on Gay Street. They must come in very handy on Friday and Saturday nights, when out-of-town revelers wake up face up on the brick sidewalks, after a few hours of revelry, and wonder where they are.
"Oh," they say, reading the banners. "West Chester. Thanks. Thought it was Manayunk."
All the new signs remind me of the flap a few years ago when the county commissioners decided to blow a few grand on signs, and planted an ugly gray stump of a sign in front of the courthouse that read: "Chester County Courthouse." They should have added: "Erected by the county Department of Redundancy Dept."
What this town needs isn't a sign letting you know that you just left town. What this town needs is a motto.
Mottoes are cool, like nicknames. You know, "San Francisco: The city by the bay." "New York: The city that never sleeps." "Philadelphia: Leave the money on the dresser."
We used to have a pretty serviceable one: "West Chester: The Athens of Pennsylvania." It had historical cache for all those radical preservationists who consider it a sin against God and Paul Rodebaugh to tear down any building older than their Aunt Charlotte, but it didn't seem to catch on with the public.
We tried, "West Chester: Little town, big art," but with the galleries closing right and left these days, it's more like, "Little town, Art who?"
I tried to get people interested in my own personal favorite during the garbage wars - "West Chester: Come grab our trash" - but the powers that be shut that one down.
So here's a few more suggestions I'll pass along to the folks at Gay and Adams streets. Use them as you see fit.
For the West Chester University set: "West Chester: Pat Croce didn't graduate, so don't sweat it."
For the aforementioned out-of-town revelers: "West Chester: More bars than barbers."
For in-town merchants: "West Chester: Plenty of parking. Really."
For the anxious: "West Chester: Don't worry, Coatesville's 10 miles to the west."
A Park Sprawls In West Goshen
This appeared February 19, 2006
Just a few hundred feet south of the corner of Green Hill Road and Pottstown Pike in West Goshen, you can see the future.
There's even a sign telling you: "Future West Goshen Township Park Site."
But if the past is prologue in West Goshen, the future may hold no treat for park lovers.
Just look at what the folks in West Goshen did when they got their hands on a piece of property on Fern Hill Road. They created something called West Goshen Community Park, acres of land about as far away from what you want from a park as Modena is from Malvern. It's a parceled-out wasteland of segmented recreation areas that, taken together, form the suburban sprawl of a place to play.
Over here are the tennis courts. Over there is the Little League field. Here's the adult league field. Here's the regular youth soccer league field. Here's the concrete block amphitheater. Here's the asphalt walking path, 0.8 miles long, if you are counting.
Even the name gives you the creeps. "Community Park?" Reminds you of the beer bottles in old sitcoms whose labels read, plainly, "Beer." "Community Park" is a name that makes generic drugs stand up and take pride in their individuality.
It isn't as though they couldn't have found a good name. "Fern Hill Park" conjures up pictures of glistening green rolling fields, a place you linger with the dog just one more minute after the sun goes down, because it's just so darned nice outside.
Nearby is the site of the township's historic weeping beech tree (a sign tells you that). You can't find a more appealing name than "Historic Weeping Beech Tree Park." I see that, and my picnic basket is packed and ready.
Contrast that recreational monstrosity with West Chester's signature park, Everhart Park, at the western edge of the borough. In a quiet one-square-block area, you have everything you want in a place to go play, or walk, or cook out, or sit at a picnic table on a cool day in July, have a turkey and Swiss sandwich and read the paper.
Everhart, opened in 1920, when the world apparently had not come under the spell of "organized recreation," has meandering walkways, old-fashioned swing sets, shaded groves and a field the perfect size for a game of Frisbee.
And trees. Oh my, has it trees. Towering sycamores line one side on Brandywine Avenue. There are crab apples and tulip poplars, Kwanzan cherries and dawn sequoias. Ask an expert what trees are at Everhart and you get told, "You want it, we got it."
Whereas Community Park has a lovely view of the parking lot at Animas Corp., motto: "Bringing New Life to Insulin Therapy."
Everhart is a place to go have fun, not to recreate. You could tell that this past week, when a foot of snow blanketed the borough, yet footprints lined almost every inch of the fields at Everhart.
Even when outdoor recreation wasn't in season, according to the schedule posted at Community Park, people wanted to go to Everhart to play.
Just a few hundred feet south of the corner of Green Hill Road and Pottstown Pike in West Goshen, you can see the future.
There's even a sign telling you: "Future West Goshen Township Park Site."
But if the past is prologue in West Goshen, the future may hold no treat for park lovers.
Just look at what the folks in West Goshen did when they got their hands on a piece of property on Fern Hill Road. They created something called West Goshen Community Park, acres of land about as far away from what you want from a park as Modena is from Malvern. It's a parceled-out wasteland of segmented recreation areas that, taken together, form the suburban sprawl of a place to play.
Over here are the tennis courts. Over there is the Little League field. Here's the adult league field. Here's the regular youth soccer league field. Here's the concrete block amphitheater. Here's the asphalt walking path, 0.8 miles long, if you are counting.
Even the name gives you the creeps. "Community Park?" Reminds you of the beer bottles in old sitcoms whose labels read, plainly, "Beer." "Community Park" is a name that makes generic drugs stand up and take pride in their individuality.
It isn't as though they couldn't have found a good name. "Fern Hill Park" conjures up pictures of glistening green rolling fields, a place you linger with the dog just one more minute after the sun goes down, because it's just so darned nice outside.
Nearby is the site of the township's historic weeping beech tree (a sign tells you that). You can't find a more appealing name than "Historic Weeping Beech Tree Park." I see that, and my picnic basket is packed and ready.
Contrast that recreational monstrosity with West Chester's signature park, Everhart Park, at the western edge of the borough. In a quiet one-square-block area, you have everything you want in a place to go play, or walk, or cook out, or sit at a picnic table on a cool day in July, have a turkey and Swiss sandwich and read the paper.
Everhart, opened in 1920, when the world apparently had not come under the spell of "organized recreation," has meandering walkways, old-fashioned swing sets, shaded groves and a field the perfect size for a game of Frisbee.
And trees. Oh my, has it trees. Towering sycamores line one side on Brandywine Avenue. There are crab apples and tulip poplars, Kwanzan cherries and dawn sequoias. Ask an expert what trees are at Everhart and you get told, "You want it, we got it."
Whereas Community Park has a lovely view of the parking lot at Animas Corp., motto: "Bringing New Life to Insulin Therapy."
Everhart is a place to go have fun, not to recreate. You could tell that this past week, when a foot of snow blanketed the borough, yet footprints lined almost every inch of the fields at Everhart.
Even when outdoor recreation wasn't in season, according to the schedule posted at Community Park, people wanted to go to Everhart to play.
When Special People Die
This appeared February 19, 2006
What happens when special people die?
That question has been weighing more heavily in the past month or so, as every passing day seem to be marked by the passing away of someone of unique experience or ability or devotion or personality.
Nationally, we've just buried Coretta Scott King, the woman who personified the modern civil rights movement and the link to one of the 20th century's greatest men. But locally, funerals have been held recently for Bob Thompson and Terry Muzzy and Colin Fitzpatrick and Sherry Franklin.
Thompson's was arguably Chester County's most popular politician; trying to find someone who had something bad to say about him - even as he was working against their personal political goals - was next to impossible. Muzzy was among the county's most revered counselors - a man who looked into the eyes of teenagers in crisis with drugs or alcohol or other personal demons and made them see the good in themselves.
Perhaps less well known were Fitzgerald and Franklin, but they touched more lives around them than anyone could reasonably expect: Fitzgerald as a captain on the Unionville High School hockey team, where his peers raised him to near-idol status, and Franklin as a counselor at Brian's House and Big Brothers/Big Sisters and Handicrafters, where her friendly hand helped steer the lives of those who found themselves challenged emotionally and mentally.
So what, collectively, do we do now that they are gone? How do we compensate for the loss of people who are, in some way, irreplaceable?
It seems at first blush an impossible task. I read reporter Anne Pickering's account of Muzzy's memorial service in which one student said flatly that Muzzy, "taught me how to live." Another called him, "an angel put on earth by God to help us."
Forgive me, but if someone walks up to me and says: "You're going to have to pick up the slack now that Mr. Muzzy is gone," I'm not going to be able to answer the bell.
Or at least, not in the way that people like he did. Put it this way: They are going to hold a special election in May to find the person to fill the 19th state Senate District's seat. They are not going to find someone to replace Bob Thompson.
But I put the question to people I know, who in turn knew these people. How do we go on without them? I wondered. Do we have an obligation to improve ourselves, to meet their standards? Do we wait for someone else to come along and take their place?
To my shock, the responses I received were not full of fear for the future, but rather with optimism.
"When really great people leave us the only thing we can do is what they would want us to do, and that is to follow their lead. As role models they would want nothing more than for us to take what they've given us and continue the work," said one friend.
About those people who follow in their footsteps, one person wrote: "Hopefully, the new person, taking all they've seen and been taught .... can in turn push the bar a little higher still, so we are all constantly leaving the world in a better place than when we 'found' it."
Good advice.
What happens when special people die?
That question has been weighing more heavily in the past month or so, as every passing day seem to be marked by the passing away of someone of unique experience or ability or devotion or personality.
Nationally, we've just buried Coretta Scott King, the woman who personified the modern civil rights movement and the link to one of the 20th century's greatest men. But locally, funerals have been held recently for Bob Thompson and Terry Muzzy and Colin Fitzpatrick and Sherry Franklin.
Thompson's was arguably Chester County's most popular politician; trying to find someone who had something bad to say about him - even as he was working against their personal political goals - was next to impossible. Muzzy was among the county's most revered counselors - a man who looked into the eyes of teenagers in crisis with drugs or alcohol or other personal demons and made them see the good in themselves.
Perhaps less well known were Fitzgerald and Franklin, but they touched more lives around them than anyone could reasonably expect: Fitzgerald as a captain on the Unionville High School hockey team, where his peers raised him to near-idol status, and Franklin as a counselor at Brian's House and Big Brothers/Big Sisters and Handicrafters, where her friendly hand helped steer the lives of those who found themselves challenged emotionally and mentally.
So what, collectively, do we do now that they are gone? How do we compensate for the loss of people who are, in some way, irreplaceable?
It seems at first blush an impossible task. I read reporter Anne Pickering's account of Muzzy's memorial service in which one student said flatly that Muzzy, "taught me how to live." Another called him, "an angel put on earth by God to help us."
Forgive me, but if someone walks up to me and says: "You're going to have to pick up the slack now that Mr. Muzzy is gone," I'm not going to be able to answer the bell.
Or at least, not in the way that people like he did. Put it this way: They are going to hold a special election in May to find the person to fill the 19th state Senate District's seat. They are not going to find someone to replace Bob Thompson.
But I put the question to people I know, who in turn knew these people. How do we go on without them? I wondered. Do we have an obligation to improve ourselves, to meet their standards? Do we wait for someone else to come along and take their place?
To my shock, the responses I received were not full of fear for the future, but rather with optimism.
"When really great people leave us the only thing we can do is what they would want us to do, and that is to follow their lead. As role models they would want nothing more than for us to take what they've given us and continue the work," said one friend.
About those people who follow in their footsteps, one person wrote: "Hopefully, the new person, taking all they've seen and been taught .... can in turn push the bar a little higher still, so we are all constantly leaving the world in a better place than when we 'found' it."
Good advice.
The land of Big Eats
This appeared on February 26, 2006
Crossing the border into Lancaster County is something we all should do once every while, for a change of perspective if nothing else.
After all, swimming in the sea of Chester County without dipping your toes in other ponds is akin to eating filet from the finest restaurant every day.
Sometimes, you need a little roast chicken. Or meat loaf. Or chicken pot pie. Or prime rib. Or hot bacon dressing. Or mashed potatoes. Or shoofly pie.
You go to Lancaster County because it is truly The Land of the Big Eats. Everyone there, it seems, wants you to eat, and eat big. You can't drive for more than 100 yards down Route 340 without seeing a sign saying just ahead is the biggest amount of food ever assembled for retail purchase, all yours.
And you don't have to feel the least bit guilty about exercising your nonreligious, constitutional right to gluttony. They call it "Family Style" or "Home Style" dining, although most homes in America wouldn't have the space needed on the kitchen table to serve this much food.
It's a way of leading you back to a time when calories were not counted and extra portions were just a matter of course. In SuburbanSprawlLand, the sight of a 240-pound man tucking in his bib for another round of pork chops with macaroni and cheese might be cause for alarm, or at the very least an emergency meeting of the Fox Run Farm Homeowners Association to discuss the possibility of a weight restriction on new ownership.
But not in Paradise. We're speaking of Paradise, Lancaster County, mind you, just around the corner from Smoketown and within easy driving distance of Bird In Hand, two places just made to remind you of eating big.
Paradise is where you can catch up with a big breakfast from Waffle House, where time hasn't changed much in terms of portions served since it opened in 1955. Paradise it may be, but to Big Hungry People, paradise is instead found a few miles away in East Earl.
There, on the top of a hill like a heavenly shrine, is the Shady Maple Farm Market and Smorgasbord. Shady Maple Smorgasbord is built for comfort, as they say, not for speed.
It is enormous. It is bigger than an average high school, and handles about the same number of buses everyday - all full of folks wanting to eat.
Inside is a testament to gastronomical opulence, with lines of brilliantly shiny steam tables and heat lamps, advertising the allure of over 100 different menu items. You can eat all you want there for a price, the nonmonetary version being a sense of satiation that will have you lolling in an overstuffed chair in the lobby until someone pulls you to your feet and tells you they've just brought out a new dessert cart.
On a recent trip back from Lancaster I passed through Honey Brook, where once I stopped at a roadside stand and bought ingredients for a wonderfully cholesterol-filled lunch of tomato-and-mayo sandwiches and butter-laden corn on the cob.
The stand isn't there anymore, but a new shopping center is, complete with its own restaurant.
It serves sushi, I think.
Crossing the border into Lancaster County is something we all should do once every while, for a change of perspective if nothing else.
After all, swimming in the sea of Chester County without dipping your toes in other ponds is akin to eating filet from the finest restaurant every day.
Sometimes, you need a little roast chicken. Or meat loaf. Or chicken pot pie. Or prime rib. Or hot bacon dressing. Or mashed potatoes. Or shoofly pie.
You go to Lancaster County because it is truly The Land of the Big Eats. Everyone there, it seems, wants you to eat, and eat big. You can't drive for more than 100 yards down Route 340 without seeing a sign saying just ahead is the biggest amount of food ever assembled for retail purchase, all yours.
And you don't have to feel the least bit guilty about exercising your nonreligious, constitutional right to gluttony. They call it "Family Style" or "Home Style" dining, although most homes in America wouldn't have the space needed on the kitchen table to serve this much food.
It's a way of leading you back to a time when calories were not counted and extra portions were just a matter of course. In SuburbanSprawlLand, the sight of a 240-pound man tucking in his bib for another round of pork chops with macaroni and cheese might be cause for alarm, or at the very least an emergency meeting of the Fox Run Farm Homeowners Association to discuss the possibility of a weight restriction on new ownership.
But not in Paradise. We're speaking of Paradise, Lancaster County, mind you, just around the corner from Smoketown and within easy driving distance of Bird In Hand, two places just made to remind you of eating big.
Paradise is where you can catch up with a big breakfast from Waffle House, where time hasn't changed much in terms of portions served since it opened in 1955. Paradise it may be, but to Big Hungry People, paradise is instead found a few miles away in East Earl.
There, on the top of a hill like a heavenly shrine, is the Shady Maple Farm Market and Smorgasbord. Shady Maple Smorgasbord is built for comfort, as they say, not for speed.
It is enormous. It is bigger than an average high school, and handles about the same number of buses everyday - all full of folks wanting to eat.
Inside is a testament to gastronomical opulence, with lines of brilliantly shiny steam tables and heat lamps, advertising the allure of over 100 different menu items. You can eat all you want there for a price, the nonmonetary version being a sense of satiation that will have you lolling in an overstuffed chair in the lobby until someone pulls you to your feet and tells you they've just brought out a new dessert cart.
On a recent trip back from Lancaster I passed through Honey Brook, where once I stopped at a roadside stand and bought ingredients for a wonderfully cholesterol-filled lunch of tomato-and-mayo sandwiches and butter-laden corn on the cob.
The stand isn't there anymore, but a new shopping center is, complete with its own restaurant.
It serves sushi, I think.
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