This appeared on Sunday, Jan. 21, 2006
The alleys of West Chester are being disrespected.
It’s not that they’re not clean, or that they’re allowed to crumble, or that no one uses them.
Quite the contrary. As more and more homeowners look at the carriage houses and two-story garages with their alley access as secondary living units, the liveliness and livability of the alleys in the borough has, to my mind, never been more apparent.
I’ve written about these marvels of small town life before, and my mind is unchanged. Having alleys running through your town is a benefit not to be taken lightly.
Walking them, you gain insight into the character of the people who live in your town (seeing children’s toys lining the backyard of one of your neighbors gives you an idea that good things are going on nearby, and chatting with an acquaintance who’s firing up the Webber off the back porch is a great alternative in a town that hasn’t entirely grasped the notion of stoop sitting.)
Alleys have a historical place in the Philadelphia region and, by extension, the nation, as the cobblestones of Elfreth’s Alley in the city will attest.
And frankly, alleys make a great short cut if you’re 15 years old and late for dinner. Or if you’re 49 years old and finding yourself blocked from your normal route to the office by street repairs.
But disrespected they are, nevertheless.
How so, you ask? Signage, is my reply.
Take a drive around the borough sometime and see whether you can identify the myriad alleys that intersect and bisect the main streets running north and south, east and west. Nope. No can do. There are no street signs telling you what byway you’re traveling on.
It’s a shame, since most of the alleys have wonderful names that should be boasted about, shown to all who travel here. Holly Alley, Juniper Alley, Mulberry Alley, Ebbs and Current alleys, Weaver and Corcoran alleys, Potter and Birds Eye and School and Britnton and Helen – all lilting names that deserve to be noticed.
It’s not just a matter, however, of a regard for semantics. As more and more people come to live on alleys in the borough it becomes a matter of practicality as well. Right around the corner from where I live if a very beautiful, very red brick, very expensive set of town homes set on an alley.
The residents there all keep their homes neat and tidy, recycle their plastic and glass, pay their taxes on time (I assume), and in return couldn’t find a street sign identifying their street as Clinton Alley to save a former president’s neck.
The surprising thing is that the borough generally has as much reluctance to put up signs as a West Chester University freshman has in tapping a keg. In West Chester, there are signs giving directions to everything, including other signs, so you’d think there could be a few dollars in the budget for our alleys.
So at the next Borough Council meeting, I’m hoping that a few of your readers will demand that the council form a “Friends of the Alleys” group that can raise money to start signing the backyard byways. First on the list? Rambo Alley, between Nields and Sharpless.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Invasion of the Internet Barbies
This appeared Jan. 14, 2007
The Internet has given us many fine things. Access to valuable information on personal health, for example. The expense records of local politicians. Even the occasional eBay auction for human body parts.
Now it has given us one more diamond to add to our cultural jewel box: The Chester County Barbie.
If you’re in the loop, you’ve already gotten this mass chain e-mail in your Yahoo Inbox. It’s a purported announcement from the Mattel Corporation of the release of a “limited edition” set of Barbie dolls tied to specific communities in Chester County. (The release says there are Philly and New Jersey versions on the way for Christmas 2007, but I’m sure we won’t have to wait that long.)
The Chester County Barbies come in 10 versions. The Berwin Barbie. The West Chester Barbie. The Phoenixville Barbie. The Exton Barbie. You get the drift. Each has a description of what accessories come with the doll, and characteristics that are meant to – humorously, in the mind of the e-mail author -- link Barbie to that particular community.
The Downingtown Barbie, for example, comes with a Ford Windstar and a matching gym outfit. “She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation of secondary education,” we learn. West Chester Barbie comes with a choice of a BMW or a Hummer H2 and has her own Starbucks card and country club membership.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Some of the Barbie descriptions dive too quickly into the cesspool of clumsy stereotypes. (I’m not going to repeat those here; they’re all too sordid.) And you have to remember that none of this is real. The Mattel people are probably in the midst of a corporate PR meltdown over the matter right now.
But, frankly, I’m not interested in that. What I’m interested in is who started this, and the way in which the Internet helped CCB circle the globe in less time than it takes a Coatesville City Hall employee to turn in their resignation letter.
You see, I got my copy of the e-mail on Thursday. Or actually, my copies. First came a version from Constant Reader Jamie McVickar in West Vincent, who commented on the nature of the e-mail by addressing it: “Amazing.” Minutes later came a second version from former WCHE-AM news reporter Joan Pitt, now happily toiling away at a cushy job in Great Britain.
How had these two people come across the same e-mail from thousands of miles of separation? Simple. They passed it on from other sources, who had received the e-mail from other, other sources.
I’m not naïve enough to claim shock that “Chester County Barbie” can spin around the world in a matter of minutes. But this just struck me as odd. And wrong, too, in some vague, “has-it-all-come-to-this?” sort of way.
So I’d like to talk with the creator of Chester County Barbie. I’d like to know how he or she came up with the idea, and how he or she decided that Exton Barbie would be an “acid jeans and ’84 Firebird” dumb blonde and Phoenixville Barbie would be a hippie nicknamed “Willow.”
And I’d also like to ask CCB’s creator how West Chester Barbie could have “her own Starbucks cup,” when we all know that West Chester has no Starbucks.
The Internet has given us many fine things. Access to valuable information on personal health, for example. The expense records of local politicians. Even the occasional eBay auction for human body parts.
Now it has given us one more diamond to add to our cultural jewel box: The Chester County Barbie.
If you’re in the loop, you’ve already gotten this mass chain e-mail in your Yahoo Inbox. It’s a purported announcement from the Mattel Corporation of the release of a “limited edition” set of Barbie dolls tied to specific communities in Chester County. (The release says there are Philly and New Jersey versions on the way for Christmas 2007, but I’m sure we won’t have to wait that long.)
The Chester County Barbies come in 10 versions. The Berwin Barbie. The West Chester Barbie. The Phoenixville Barbie. The Exton Barbie. You get the drift. Each has a description of what accessories come with the doll, and characteristics that are meant to – humorously, in the mind of the e-mail author -- link Barbie to that particular community.
The Downingtown Barbie, for example, comes with a Ford Windstar and a matching gym outfit. “She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation of secondary education,” we learn. West Chester Barbie comes with a choice of a BMW or a Hummer H2 and has her own Starbucks card and country club membership.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Some of the Barbie descriptions dive too quickly into the cesspool of clumsy stereotypes. (I’m not going to repeat those here; they’re all too sordid.) And you have to remember that none of this is real. The Mattel people are probably in the midst of a corporate PR meltdown over the matter right now.
But, frankly, I’m not interested in that. What I’m interested in is who started this, and the way in which the Internet helped CCB circle the globe in less time than it takes a Coatesville City Hall employee to turn in their resignation letter.
You see, I got my copy of the e-mail on Thursday. Or actually, my copies. First came a version from Constant Reader Jamie McVickar in West Vincent, who commented on the nature of the e-mail by addressing it: “Amazing.” Minutes later came a second version from former WCHE-AM news reporter Joan Pitt, now happily toiling away at a cushy job in Great Britain.
How had these two people come across the same e-mail from thousands of miles of separation? Simple. They passed it on from other sources, who had received the e-mail from other, other sources.
I’m not naïve enough to claim shock that “Chester County Barbie” can spin around the world in a matter of minutes. But this just struck me as odd. And wrong, too, in some vague, “has-it-all-come-to-this?” sort of way.
So I’d like to talk with the creator of Chester County Barbie. I’d like to know how he or she came up with the idea, and how he or she decided that Exton Barbie would be an “acid jeans and ’84 Firebird” dumb blonde and Phoenixville Barbie would be a hippie nicknamed “Willow.”
And I’d also like to ask CCB’s creator how West Chester Barbie could have “her own Starbucks cup,” when we all know that West Chester has no Starbucks.
A Cool Reaction to El Nino
This appeared Jan. 7, 2006
Here’s a story that appeared on Friday.
“LONDON (AP) -- Deepening drought in Australia. Stronger typhoons in Asia. Floods in Latin America. British climate scientists predict that a resurgent El Niño climate trend combined with higher levels of greenhouse gases could touch off a fresh round of ecological disasters -- and make 2007 the world's hottest year on record.”
The writer might have added – “Increasing frustration in West Chester.”
It has been more than a year since I urged the politicians who are supposed to be watching out for their constituents to take action and build a public recreation pool in the borough.
Preferably in a shaded location. Preferably with an air conditioned clubhouse. Preferably within walking distance of my home. Despite the eminent reason of my recommendation, to date I have heard nothing.
There are public and private construction projects springing up on seemingly every street corner of West Chester, yet no pool. There are courthouses being built, and banks, and office buildings with fine dining restaurants that have, um, not actually appeared yet, but nothing that says, “Come on in. The water’s fine.”
Wasn’t the whole Democratic takeover thing supposed to bring a new sense of urgency over the needs of the average American public? I’m not sure what new Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi thinks she’s supposed to be doing in her First 100 Days, but I suggest she start accepting bids on an in-ground swimming facility somewhere in the vicinity of South Church and Dean streets, 19382. Speaking for myself, we don’t need a hike in the minimum wage; we need a deep end with a diving board.
I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I’m obsessed with the heat. I spend countless hours in the summer trying to get the maximum cool out of a collection of air conditioners and floor fans and open windows. Last July, during one particularly intense period of sweltering, I tramped over to the 7-Eleven and bought two 16-pound bags of ice.
“Planning a nice backyard barbeque?” the overly cheerful checkout clerk inquired, smilingly.
“No, I’m planning to dump these babies into my bathtub and fill it up with the coldest water available, and then I’m going to sit in it until my body looks like a blue prune,” I snarled.
“Have a nice day!” she said, not missing a beat.
It used to be worse. I used to live on the third floor of my building, and the southern exposure and the flat tin roof would combine to heat the place up like a microwave. And I, not content on just feeling hot, would put indoor/outdoor thermometers in strategic locations throughout the apartment. That way, I could factually verify that while it was only 89 degrees outside, it was a searing 97 degree indoors. At 12:30 a.m.
All of this fixation would end in a matter of minutes if I could simply stroll down the block to a nice pool, shaded, with a comfortable air conditioned clubhouse, and a deep end for diving, and a 15-minute “adults only” period, during which the British climate scientists and I could talk about El Nino. Cooly.
Here’s a story that appeared on Friday.
“LONDON (AP) -- Deepening drought in Australia. Stronger typhoons in Asia. Floods in Latin America. British climate scientists predict that a resurgent El Niño climate trend combined with higher levels of greenhouse gases could touch off a fresh round of ecological disasters -- and make 2007 the world's hottest year on record.”
The writer might have added – “Increasing frustration in West Chester.”
It has been more than a year since I urged the politicians who are supposed to be watching out for their constituents to take action and build a public recreation pool in the borough.
Preferably in a shaded location. Preferably with an air conditioned clubhouse. Preferably within walking distance of my home. Despite the eminent reason of my recommendation, to date I have heard nothing.
There are public and private construction projects springing up on seemingly every street corner of West Chester, yet no pool. There are courthouses being built, and banks, and office buildings with fine dining restaurants that have, um, not actually appeared yet, but nothing that says, “Come on in. The water’s fine.”
Wasn’t the whole Democratic takeover thing supposed to bring a new sense of urgency over the needs of the average American public? I’m not sure what new Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi thinks she’s supposed to be doing in her First 100 Days, but I suggest she start accepting bids on an in-ground swimming facility somewhere in the vicinity of South Church and Dean streets, 19382. Speaking for myself, we don’t need a hike in the minimum wage; we need a deep end with a diving board.
I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I’m obsessed with the heat. I spend countless hours in the summer trying to get the maximum cool out of a collection of air conditioners and floor fans and open windows. Last July, during one particularly intense period of sweltering, I tramped over to the 7-Eleven and bought two 16-pound bags of ice.
“Planning a nice backyard barbeque?” the overly cheerful checkout clerk inquired, smilingly.
“No, I’m planning to dump these babies into my bathtub and fill it up with the coldest water available, and then I’m going to sit in it until my body looks like a blue prune,” I snarled.
“Have a nice day!” she said, not missing a beat.
It used to be worse. I used to live on the third floor of my building, and the southern exposure and the flat tin roof would combine to heat the place up like a microwave. And I, not content on just feeling hot, would put indoor/outdoor thermometers in strategic locations throughout the apartment. That way, I could factually verify that while it was only 89 degrees outside, it was a searing 97 degree indoors. At 12:30 a.m.
All of this fixation would end in a matter of minutes if I could simply stroll down the block to a nice pool, shaded, with a comfortable air conditioned clubhouse, and a deep end for diving, and a 15-minute “adults only” period, during which the British climate scientists and I could talk about El Nino. Cooly.
Random Thoughts
This appeared on Dec. 31, 2006
A few random thoughts while waiting for the first snow of the winter:
* I’m assuming that the good folks over at the Chester County Office of Voter Services haven’t found those missing votes in the 156th count off, but I think we all know who those ballots would have gone to, and why they went missing.
That’s right. Those had my name on them.
I will freely admit that my campaign for county commissioner didn’t go so well, sort of like Napolean’s invasion of Russia didn’t go so well. But in its final days, I could sense that my nascent ideas for a reformed Chester County had caught on with some members of the public, and that they were organizing to draft me for an even more important and influential post – that of a freshman state representative in the political Athens that is Harrisburg, Pa.
Of course, the powers that be would have none of that. They certainly recognized that once news leaked that there were voters willing to cast their ballots for me, a powerful groundswell could not be stopped to place me in some strategic governmental post – say, county Director of Weights and Measures or U.S. Passport Applications Clerk. And they couldn’t handle that.
So the votes went “missing” -- as in they’re hidden in somebody’s desk drawer in a file marked “Do Not Show To Press.”
I am certain that when the truth comes out, there will be hell to pay at the Government Services Building. But for now, I’ll just have to accept the fact that my quest for political office goes on.
*Given the penchant over at the West Chester Borough Municipal Building for putting up signs, I’m shocked that the Borough Council hasn’t held an emergency session to draft a request for multiple directional signs to be placed on the front lawn of the Chester County Courthouse.
After all, in allowing a menorah and a crèche to be erected at High and Market, the commissioners basically opened the front door and said, “Hey, everybody! Come on down! Put your cheesy markers all over our historic example of classic Greek architecture!” I would have thought the borough would have been first in line to put up a sign or two, either proclaiming the borough as the best place on Earth, or just a daily count of the number of new liquor licenses approved for Gay Street.
(Which of course begs the question as to when the borough is going to require all shopkeepers on Gay Street to obtain liquor licenses, whether they currently sell liquor or not. What the heck; we’re already got barbers dispensing beer, why not record store owners? Why not top off your purchase of a newspaper and a hot dog at Cugino’s with a shot of Jagermeister? But that’s a topic for another day.)
*I truly believe that writing a newspaper column for the Daily Local News is the best job on the planet, next to groundskeeper for a Major League baseball team. After all, where else would I have the opportunity to use the word “nascent” in a sentence?
A few random thoughts while waiting for the first snow of the winter:
* I’m assuming that the good folks over at the Chester County Office of Voter Services haven’t found those missing votes in the 156th count off, but I think we all know who those ballots would have gone to, and why they went missing.
That’s right. Those had my name on them.
I will freely admit that my campaign for county commissioner didn’t go so well, sort of like Napolean’s invasion of Russia didn’t go so well. But in its final days, I could sense that my nascent ideas for a reformed Chester County had caught on with some members of the public, and that they were organizing to draft me for an even more important and influential post – that of a freshman state representative in the political Athens that is Harrisburg, Pa.
Of course, the powers that be would have none of that. They certainly recognized that once news leaked that there were voters willing to cast their ballots for me, a powerful groundswell could not be stopped to place me in some strategic governmental post – say, county Director of Weights and Measures or U.S. Passport Applications Clerk. And they couldn’t handle that.
So the votes went “missing” -- as in they’re hidden in somebody’s desk drawer in a file marked “Do Not Show To Press.”
I am certain that when the truth comes out, there will be hell to pay at the Government Services Building. But for now, I’ll just have to accept the fact that my quest for political office goes on.
*Given the penchant over at the West Chester Borough Municipal Building for putting up signs, I’m shocked that the Borough Council hasn’t held an emergency session to draft a request for multiple directional signs to be placed on the front lawn of the Chester County Courthouse.
After all, in allowing a menorah and a crèche to be erected at High and Market, the commissioners basically opened the front door and said, “Hey, everybody! Come on down! Put your cheesy markers all over our historic example of classic Greek architecture!” I would have thought the borough would have been first in line to put up a sign or two, either proclaiming the borough as the best place on Earth, or just a daily count of the number of new liquor licenses approved for Gay Street.
(Which of course begs the question as to when the borough is going to require all shopkeepers on Gay Street to obtain liquor licenses, whether they currently sell liquor or not. What the heck; we’re already got barbers dispensing beer, why not record store owners? Why not top off your purchase of a newspaper and a hot dog at Cugino’s with a shot of Jagermeister? But that’s a topic for another day.)
*I truly believe that writing a newspaper column for the Daily Local News is the best job on the planet, next to groundskeeper for a Major League baseball team. After all, where else would I have the opportunity to use the word “nascent” in a sentence?
Warm Hearts, Warm Homes
This appeared Dec. 17, 2006
The weather almanac that I check on-line every morning says it has been a mild winter, and you probably don‘t need me to tell you that.
Temperatures are hovering around spring levels, people are wearing shorts to the mall for Christmas shopping, and not a trace of snow has been spotted on even the highest peaks hereabouts.
But there are those of us in Chester County for whom the current mild weather offers little consolation. It still gets cold at night, and April is still far in the future. If you look very hard, you will find people who go through the winter without any heat in their homes. Many elderly people, many not, make choices every November that you and I do not ever consider: Should I cut back on groceries, or turn off the heat?
That‘s right. Not everyone in Chester County is wealthy enough to enjoy a McMansion in DevelopmentLand with a 72-degree heated living room. Go off the main road in towns from Malvern to Marshallton and you will find folks who can‘t keep pace with the rising costs of things like food and fuel.
That is where the creatively charitable folks at United Way of Chester County enter the picture.
Teaming up with equally large-hearted workers at the Housing Partnership of Chester County and Good Works, United Way last year started a comfy little program called Share the Warmth.
In addition to all the other work that United Way takes on to better the quality of life in the county, last winter the agency raised money to help keep people from being cold in their homes.
It sounds simple, and really it is; there aren‘t any socio-political issues here to grapple over — just install a new furnace or winterize some windows and somebody‘s life takes a step forward.
United Way started with $150,000 and turned that into $165,000 with the help of National Penn Bank, the Concerned Citizens of Chester County, Siemens, and QVC. (Imagine: Buying another set of Diamonique earrings may actually be a good thing! Ain‘t life grand?) Then they found 41 families who needed help keeping warm.
The people who got the help have real problems, not imagined.
Kevin, for example, has multiple sclerosis and can‘t work, but he‘s got four children and wants to maintain the home his mother and father lived in. Share the Warmth made sure he got a new roof and a tank of oil. James is an 83-year-old widower who went cold for two years for fear of burdening his family. He got a new heater.
In the end it looked like this: 22 roofs repaired, 16 windows winterized, 12 tanks of fuel oil delivered, 12 heaters replaced, 6 sets of insulation installed, and five doors installed. They probably would have thrown in a partridge in a pear tree, too, but partridges don‘t come cheap around these parts.
So you might want to give the folks at United Way a call at 610-429-9400 and ask how you could contribute to Share the Warmth. They‘re trying to up the ante this year to help even more families stay warm.
And that, in a word, is cool.
The weather almanac that I check on-line every morning says it has been a mild winter, and you probably don‘t need me to tell you that.
Temperatures are hovering around spring levels, people are wearing shorts to the mall for Christmas shopping, and not a trace of snow has been spotted on even the highest peaks hereabouts.
But there are those of us in Chester County for whom the current mild weather offers little consolation. It still gets cold at night, and April is still far in the future. If you look very hard, you will find people who go through the winter without any heat in their homes. Many elderly people, many not, make choices every November that you and I do not ever consider: Should I cut back on groceries, or turn off the heat?
That‘s right. Not everyone in Chester County is wealthy enough to enjoy a McMansion in DevelopmentLand with a 72-degree heated living room. Go off the main road in towns from Malvern to Marshallton and you will find folks who can‘t keep pace with the rising costs of things like food and fuel.
That is where the creatively charitable folks at United Way of Chester County enter the picture.
Teaming up with equally large-hearted workers at the Housing Partnership of Chester County and Good Works, United Way last year started a comfy little program called Share the Warmth.
In addition to all the other work that United Way takes on to better the quality of life in the county, last winter the agency raised money to help keep people from being cold in their homes.
It sounds simple, and really it is; there aren‘t any socio-political issues here to grapple over — just install a new furnace or winterize some windows and somebody‘s life takes a step forward.
United Way started with $150,000 and turned that into $165,000 with the help of National Penn Bank, the Concerned Citizens of Chester County, Siemens, and QVC. (Imagine: Buying another set of Diamonique earrings may actually be a good thing! Ain‘t life grand?) Then they found 41 families who needed help keeping warm.
The people who got the help have real problems, not imagined.
Kevin, for example, has multiple sclerosis and can‘t work, but he‘s got four children and wants to maintain the home his mother and father lived in. Share the Warmth made sure he got a new roof and a tank of oil. James is an 83-year-old widower who went cold for two years for fear of burdening his family. He got a new heater.
In the end it looked like this: 22 roofs repaired, 16 windows winterized, 12 tanks of fuel oil delivered, 12 heaters replaced, 6 sets of insulation installed, and five doors installed. They probably would have thrown in a partridge in a pear tree, too, but partridges don‘t come cheap around these parts.
So you might want to give the folks at United Way a call at 610-429-9400 and ask how you could contribute to Share the Warmth. They‘re trying to up the ante this year to help even more families stay warm.
And that, in a word, is cool.
Driving While Wet
This appeared Dec. 10, 2006
The news release came across my desk via fax on Tuesday, dated Dec. 1, 2006.
Titled “For Immediate Release” by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Department of Transportation, it read:
HARRISBURG -- “The Department of Transportation announced that a new law, which goes into effect in January, will require motorists to turn on their headlights anytime their wipers are in continuous or intermittent use due to weather or other atmospheric conditions such as fog or mist.
“Motorists who do not comply with the law could face a fine of $25, but with fees and other associated costs, the penalty would approach $100.
Let’s review:
May: Andy Dinniman is elected to the state Senate, the first Democrat since the War Between the States to be so chosen..
December: Pennsylvanians’ civil rights while driving go to Hell in a handbasket.
Q.E.D.
I mean, what’s next? The state telling us that we have to honk the horn every time we put our turn signals on? That we have to pat our heads and rub our stomachs while we use the air conditioning? That we have to put on the emergency flashers while applying lipstick using the vanity mirror? Is there no end to the state’s interference with our right to drive by our own wits?
Duh! You turn the headlights on when it’s dark, not when it’s wet. You gonna tell me I now am required by law to turn on the windshield defroster when there’s a full moon, penalty approaching $100?
I love the wording the folks at PennDOt use, too: “…due to weather, or other atmospheric conditions.” As if there is a day when there isn’t weather. Or an atmosphere, for that matter. How about “…due to pigeon droppings on the windshield?”
I should not be surprised, however, that the folks in Harrisburg are up to nonsense. It’s been that way for years. A little research shows that Pennsylvania has a history of crafting silly motor vehicle laws.
For example, in the not-too-distant past automobiles traveling on country roads at night were told to send up a rocket every mile, then wait ten minutes for the road to clear. If a driver saw a team of horses, he had to pull to one side of the road and drape a blanket that had been painted to blend into the scenery over his Chevy.
Can you imagine driving along Lenape Road and shooting off a Roman candle every time the odometer clicked? The repercussions from neighbors would be immediate and vociferous, not to mention Bam Margera getting another bright idea to keep his name in the news.
I know what you’re saying, especially if you’re a member of local law enforcement. “Safety first.” But here in Chester County, we don’t need headlights to be safe. We’re suburbanites! We drive Hummers. We drive Expeditions. We drive pickup trucks so big they classify as small Third World nations. Other motorists can see us coming home from Philly all the way up in Eagle, rainy day or bright sunshine.
The next thing you know the do-gooders in this country will try to intrude on other facets of our lives, like, say, outlawing trans-fats in the junk food we get at the drive through.
Say what?
The news release came across my desk via fax on Tuesday, dated Dec. 1, 2006.
Titled “For Immediate Release” by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Department of Transportation, it read:
HARRISBURG -- “The Department of Transportation announced that a new law, which goes into effect in January, will require motorists to turn on their headlights anytime their wipers are in continuous or intermittent use due to weather or other atmospheric conditions such as fog or mist.
“Motorists who do not comply with the law could face a fine of $25, but with fees and other associated costs, the penalty would approach $100.
Let’s review:
May: Andy Dinniman is elected to the state Senate, the first Democrat since the War Between the States to be so chosen..
December: Pennsylvanians’ civil rights while driving go to Hell in a handbasket.
Q.E.D.
I mean, what’s next? The state telling us that we have to honk the horn every time we put our turn signals on? That we have to pat our heads and rub our stomachs while we use the air conditioning? That we have to put on the emergency flashers while applying lipstick using the vanity mirror? Is there no end to the state’s interference with our right to drive by our own wits?
Duh! You turn the headlights on when it’s dark, not when it’s wet. You gonna tell me I now am required by law to turn on the windshield defroster when there’s a full moon, penalty approaching $100?
I love the wording the folks at PennDOt use, too: “…due to weather, or other atmospheric conditions.” As if there is a day when there isn’t weather. Or an atmosphere, for that matter. How about “…due to pigeon droppings on the windshield?”
I should not be surprised, however, that the folks in Harrisburg are up to nonsense. It’s been that way for years. A little research shows that Pennsylvania has a history of crafting silly motor vehicle laws.
For example, in the not-too-distant past automobiles traveling on country roads at night were told to send up a rocket every mile, then wait ten minutes for the road to clear. If a driver saw a team of horses, he had to pull to one side of the road and drape a blanket that had been painted to blend into the scenery over his Chevy.
Can you imagine driving along Lenape Road and shooting off a Roman candle every time the odometer clicked? The repercussions from neighbors would be immediate and vociferous, not to mention Bam Margera getting another bright idea to keep his name in the news.
I know what you’re saying, especially if you’re a member of local law enforcement. “Safety first.” But here in Chester County, we don’t need headlights to be safe. We’re suburbanites! We drive Hummers. We drive Expeditions. We drive pickup trucks so big they classify as small Third World nations. Other motorists can see us coming home from Philly all the way up in Eagle, rainy day or bright sunshine.
The next thing you know the do-gooders in this country will try to intrude on other facets of our lives, like, say, outlawing trans-fats in the junk food we get at the drive through.
Say what?
Old Fashioned Party
This appeared on Dec. 3, 2006
When participating in the annual Old Fashioned Christmas in West Chester, the more imaginative of us might want to picture in our minds that we‘re walking through the streets of the borough as they existed during the 19th century and the reign of Queen Victoria.
Over there, we see Thomas U. Walter admiring the completion of his new courthouse on North High Street. Down the block goes young Benjamin Everhart, playing in the snow-swept street and dreaming of the day he‘ll give land to the borough for a public park (named after him).
Maybe you could even get a glimpse of Old Gimlet Eye, Smedly Darlington Butler, the future Marine general, as he marches in military time to a brass band.
That is partly the purpose of the annual event: to connect residents of the West Chester area, old and new, with the history that that lends the borough part of its aura. And when you think about it, how many times do you get to see your neighbors dressed in Victorian splendor, or bump into the mayor all dolled up in a top hat and embroidered vest like a cross between a New York dandy and a steamboat gambler?
But if you were stuck concentrating on the ”old“ in Old Fashioned Christmas this past Friday, you would have missed a lot of the fun.
I‘m not certain what Queen Victoria or the West Chestrians of her age would have thought of the Lenape Grass playing in the front window of Halladay Florist, but I really don‘t care. For me, it was more than treat to see a bunch of grey-haired pickers standing in a faux snowscape, wearing jeans and Santa Claus caps, jamming on bluegrass tunes for a crowd of well-wishers on South Church Street.
Nick Halladay — of the West Chester Halladays, of course — called me on Friday to tip me off to the band‘s appearance. A consummate booster of the borough and constant reader of the Daily Local News, Nick normally doesn‘t call unless he‘s got another request for the return of Spiderman to the daily comics page. But his pronouncement about the band got me intrigued, and served as a great opening to the OFC celebration.
Truth to tell, I have not been to the Christmas celebration uptown for several years, and the rain that drenched the borough Friday kept me from getting my fill of the traditional parade and the tree lighting.
The late entry, however, had its advantages. By the time eight o‘clock rolled around and the center of town was emptying out, over at Banknorth at High and Market, the members of the West Chester University Gospel Choir had the stately old building‘s interior rocking and lit up like a 1,000 watt Christmas light display.
I had not expected a performance like the one the 20 or so member of the choir put on. You think of Christmas carols, you think of someone looking vaguely like Charles Dickens intoning O Little Town of Bethlehem with a muffler draped around his neck.
The WCU gospel singers, however, amped their carols up with all the clapping and jumping and shouting and swaying that one would expect from any respectful followers of Mahalia Jackson or Professor Thomas Dorsey.
I did not catch the name of the choir director, but would not be surprised if her middle name was Spirit, since that is what she brought to the party.
And I suspect that even Victoria would have been moved to say amen at the end of the party.
When participating in the annual Old Fashioned Christmas in West Chester, the more imaginative of us might want to picture in our minds that we‘re walking through the streets of the borough as they existed during the 19th century and the reign of Queen Victoria.
Over there, we see Thomas U. Walter admiring the completion of his new courthouse on North High Street. Down the block goes young Benjamin Everhart, playing in the snow-swept street and dreaming of the day he‘ll give land to the borough for a public park (named after him).
Maybe you could even get a glimpse of Old Gimlet Eye, Smedly Darlington Butler, the future Marine general, as he marches in military time to a brass band.
That is partly the purpose of the annual event: to connect residents of the West Chester area, old and new, with the history that that lends the borough part of its aura. And when you think about it, how many times do you get to see your neighbors dressed in Victorian splendor, or bump into the mayor all dolled up in a top hat and embroidered vest like a cross between a New York dandy and a steamboat gambler?
But if you were stuck concentrating on the ”old“ in Old Fashioned Christmas this past Friday, you would have missed a lot of the fun.
I‘m not certain what Queen Victoria or the West Chestrians of her age would have thought of the Lenape Grass playing in the front window of Halladay Florist, but I really don‘t care. For me, it was more than treat to see a bunch of grey-haired pickers standing in a faux snowscape, wearing jeans and Santa Claus caps, jamming on bluegrass tunes for a crowd of well-wishers on South Church Street.
Nick Halladay — of the West Chester Halladays, of course — called me on Friday to tip me off to the band‘s appearance. A consummate booster of the borough and constant reader of the Daily Local News, Nick normally doesn‘t call unless he‘s got another request for the return of Spiderman to the daily comics page. But his pronouncement about the band got me intrigued, and served as a great opening to the OFC celebration.
Truth to tell, I have not been to the Christmas celebration uptown for several years, and the rain that drenched the borough Friday kept me from getting my fill of the traditional parade and the tree lighting.
The late entry, however, had its advantages. By the time eight o‘clock rolled around and the center of town was emptying out, over at Banknorth at High and Market, the members of the West Chester University Gospel Choir had the stately old building‘s interior rocking and lit up like a 1,000 watt Christmas light display.
I had not expected a performance like the one the 20 or so member of the choir put on. You think of Christmas carols, you think of someone looking vaguely like Charles Dickens intoning O Little Town of Bethlehem with a muffler draped around his neck.
The WCU gospel singers, however, amped their carols up with all the clapping and jumping and shouting and swaying that one would expect from any respectful followers of Mahalia Jackson or Professor Thomas Dorsey.
I did not catch the name of the choir director, but would not be surprised if her middle name was Spirit, since that is what she brought to the party.
And I suspect that even Victoria would have been moved to say amen at the end of the party.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
May-December Romance
This appeared Sunday, Nov. 19, 2006
The dark days are upon us.
No, I‘m not talking about the coming reign of Nancy Pelosi, or the possibility that the state House of Representatives will remain in GOP hands. I‘m talking about something with direct, immediate and dire implications for West Chestrians everywhere.
The West Chester Growers Market is set to close down for the season next month.
Ever heard the expression, ”a May-December romance“? This is one of those.
Every May, the growers market opens at the corner of North Church and West Chestnut streets and We Who Know Its Pleasures flock there to get our weekly ration of organic greens, perfect tomatoes, sugary baked goods, free range chicken breasts and ever so ripe peaches, among other etceteras.
And by ”we“ I mean everybody from mothers and daughters to fathers and sons, dogs and their owners, owners and their dogs, off-duty criminal defense attorneys, off-duty police officers, on-duty folk musicians, retired gentlemen, retiring ladies, and every now and then a Goth or two from the local coffeehouse. It can get downright crowded -- and I‘m talking Restaurant Festival crowded -- in the early hours of the day when everybody is angling for the best looking squash and the freshest loaf of French bread.
Then, every December, as the wind blows the last leaf from the last branch and the sun struggles to keep the temperature above 40, they shut the place down. You‘ve seen it coming but it still breaks your heart, like the cruelest end to the grandest love affair you can imagine.
Winter in West Chester is dark, but it is made even darker when you wake on Saturday morning and realize you‘re going to have to get your mixed greens from the supermarket veggie case instead of the friendly guy with the Amish straw hat.
No more chow chow and canned peaches from Lizzie‘s Bakery. No more whoopee pies, either. Gone is the chance of scoring a wedge of garlic and chive cheese from the guys at Oak Shade Cheeses. Not a bloody chance of resupplying the Lemon Calendula soap bars from Ellen April soaps.
It strikes me as criminal that the good things in life in West Chester have to go into hibernation just because the calendar page turns. In my home town, Cincinnati, there‘s a farmers‘ market that is open year-round because the city decided to build it an enclosed space.
So I was thinking that perhaps it‘s time for the powers that be in West Chester to start pressuring those developers who want to build 40-story hotels on Chestnut Street to include prime space for the market in the building so the growers could operate from New Years to Christmas.
That‘s right. I say perhaps it‘s time for everyone to demand a growers market provision in the redevelopment authority‘s bylaws. I say we speak out with petitions and letters and late-night prank telephone calls and e-mail Internet blogging campaigns.
Right? I ask Keith Fahnestock, owner of Fahnestock Fruits, the market‘s gateway table stand.
”Well, you get kinda glad when it‘s done,“ Keith replied, somewhat sheepishly, about the approaching closing date. ”It‘s nice to take a break.“
Oh. Well. Maybe you‘re right.
Anyway, see you in the springtime.
The dark days are upon us.
No, I‘m not talking about the coming reign of Nancy Pelosi, or the possibility that the state House of Representatives will remain in GOP hands. I‘m talking about something with direct, immediate and dire implications for West Chestrians everywhere.
The West Chester Growers Market is set to close down for the season next month.
Ever heard the expression, ”a May-December romance“? This is one of those.
Every May, the growers market opens at the corner of North Church and West Chestnut streets and We Who Know Its Pleasures flock there to get our weekly ration of organic greens, perfect tomatoes, sugary baked goods, free range chicken breasts and ever so ripe peaches, among other etceteras.
And by ”we“ I mean everybody from mothers and daughters to fathers and sons, dogs and their owners, owners and their dogs, off-duty criminal defense attorneys, off-duty police officers, on-duty folk musicians, retired gentlemen, retiring ladies, and every now and then a Goth or two from the local coffeehouse. It can get downright crowded -- and I‘m talking Restaurant Festival crowded -- in the early hours of the day when everybody is angling for the best looking squash and the freshest loaf of French bread.
Then, every December, as the wind blows the last leaf from the last branch and the sun struggles to keep the temperature above 40, they shut the place down. You‘ve seen it coming but it still breaks your heart, like the cruelest end to the grandest love affair you can imagine.
Winter in West Chester is dark, but it is made even darker when you wake on Saturday morning and realize you‘re going to have to get your mixed greens from the supermarket veggie case instead of the friendly guy with the Amish straw hat.
No more chow chow and canned peaches from Lizzie‘s Bakery. No more whoopee pies, either. Gone is the chance of scoring a wedge of garlic and chive cheese from the guys at Oak Shade Cheeses. Not a bloody chance of resupplying the Lemon Calendula soap bars from Ellen April soaps.
It strikes me as criminal that the good things in life in West Chester have to go into hibernation just because the calendar page turns. In my home town, Cincinnati, there‘s a farmers‘ market that is open year-round because the city decided to build it an enclosed space.
So I was thinking that perhaps it‘s time for the powers that be in West Chester to start pressuring those developers who want to build 40-story hotels on Chestnut Street to include prime space for the market in the building so the growers could operate from New Years to Christmas.
That‘s right. I say perhaps it‘s time for everyone to demand a growers market provision in the redevelopment authority‘s bylaws. I say we speak out with petitions and letters and late-night prank telephone calls and e-mail Internet blogging campaigns.
Right? I ask Keith Fahnestock, owner of Fahnestock Fruits, the market‘s gateway table stand.
”Well, you get kinda glad when it‘s done,“ Keith replied, somewhat sheepishly, about the approaching closing date. ”It‘s nice to take a break.“
Oh. Well. Maybe you‘re right.
Anyway, see you in the springtime.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Saturdays With Peirce
This appeared Sunday, Nov. 12, 2006
Your best bet on a visit to Longwood Gardens on a Saturday morning is to start everything off with an early breakfast at Hank‘s Place in downtown Chadds Ford -- the place ”Where Hungry People Eat and Friendly People Meet.”
Or so I‘ve been told.
Get there early, however, because Hank‘s has a tendency to fill up quickly; there are only about a dozen or so tables in the joint, and about as many stools at the counter. Follow my advice and get the eggs and Voula‘s Corned Beef Hash. Take your time reading the paper because the gardens don‘t open until nine.
But don‘t overstay your welcome; check out the number of people who are standing in line on the front stoop to get in if you want a hint on the amount of time you can linger.
You want to get to Longwood as soon after opening because the place is one of the top ten tourist spots on the East Coast, non-theme park division, and therefore tends to get as crowded as Hank‘s dining room after a few hours, especially if the weather is nice.
You want to pick the right time of year to go there, but that depends on who you are in that regard. Some prefer the heat-height of summer, when the Flower Walk is decked out in full regalia and the fountains are spouting off like Old Faithful. Others want that chill in the air as they walk through the lighted grove of beeches on the way to the Conservatory‘s Christmas display.
One Mother‘s Day, I swear the walkways were jammed like a NASCAR race for baby buggies on the first turn.
For my money, however, autumn is when the best comes out of the gardens.
That‘s when you realize how many colors are in nature‘s spectrum, confronted as you are with the different shades of yellow and pale green and deep red and dusty purple that the falling leaves contain. It‘s when you realize that the yellow ginkos that dot your street are pipsqueaks in comparison with the towering species that stand in front of the Peirce duPont House.
On Saturday, I made it over the Longwood for a quick trip around the place. In the Beech Grove, above the Italian Water Gardens, I sat for awhile thinking about how you couldn‘t pay for a nicer morning to recharge yourself. Mid-60s, sunny blue sky, with enough of a breeze to scatter the leaves around your feet now and then, but not too windy. Not to mention Election Day being over and the phones not ringing any more with the threat of a politician demanding some publicity.
It was a day for discovery, too. Walking from the Visitors‘ Center, I noticed for the first time the peculiar shade of reddish brown that the foliage on the bald cypresses turn when their leaves -- deciduous conifers, if you prefer -- start to drop. I‘d never seen the trees that color, or maybe just never paid attention. It was as through the leaves had rusted like metal, and were oxidizing themselves to the ground.
All in all, a visit to Longwood Gardens certainly makes one‘s life a little better. For less then the price of an Eagles ticket, you can place yourself in a world of peace and quiet, of natural beauty unsurpassed, with amazing sights around each bend.
And you don‘t have to worry about having to rake the leaves afterwards.
No 'Bucks in the Boro
This appeared on Sunday, Nov. 5, 2006
At the Canine Care Center in Frazer, they advertise their services right on the front windows. To wit: They provide dog grooming, doggie day care and wonderful, exotic dog food, all at reasonable prices.
And in addition, they proudly proclaim that they have coffee, and it‘s really, really good.
Leave aside the question of whether the coffee is for the dog owners or the dogs. What I want to point out is that the availability of coffee has gotten out of control.You can get a cup of coffee anywhere.
You can get one in the supermarket. You can get one at the gas station. You can get one at the optometrist‘s. And, from what I now learn, you can get it while your Pomeranian is being clipped.
I suppose that this is representative of the fascination America has developed with coffee. My father used to get up in the middle of the night to fix himself a big hot cup of coffee -- caffeinated, mind you. I found that strange, but in 2006, I can only assume that the general populace would not blink an eye.
My boss, after all, doesn‘t leave the cozy confines of his office here in LocalLand without his stainless steel coffee container. Lord knows, he might get trapped between the news desk and the sports desk and need a shot of joe.
I say this to get to the big news: Last month, Starbucks announced they had set a goal of having 40,000 stores worldwide -- 27,500 more than now. They apparently need more stores because the coffee drinkers of the world can‘t be bothered with searching more than five square feet for their next cup.
The story that I read about this noted that in Seattle there is an office building that has a Starbucks on the first floor, a Starbucks on the 40th floor, and a Starbucks across the street. In Vancouver, Canada, there are Starbucks on opposite sides of the street at one intersection.
As Launi Skinner, senior vice president of Starbucks‘ store development, put it: ”Going to the other side of the street can be a barrier."
So Starbucks is going to have a barrista in 40,000 locations across the globe, with the exception, of course, of one place. West Chester.
That‘s right. It‘s almost 2007, and still no mocha lattes from the ’Bucks in W.C.
P.S. to Launi Skinner: Come on, lady! You can‘t find a slot in your quest for world domination to put in a store somewhere in the four corners of the best borough on the planet? The fact that there are Starbucks outlets surrounding the town doesn‘t cut it.
If you can‘t expect Vancouverans to cross the street to grab a grande, how can you expect us to hop in the Subuaru and high-tail it on over to West Goshen? And don‘t tell me about Route 202 in Birmingham. In Seattle, they only have to ride the elevator 20 floors for Ethiopean Kampuchea Roast. There are stinkin‘ traffic jams on 202!
Actually, I shouldn‘t worry about this; I‘m mostly concerned for my friends and neighbors and bosses. See, I don‘t drink coffee. I drink Irish tea.
I get it at the mall.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Five Miles of Bad Road
This appeared Oct. 29, 2006
If you look at Route 100 as it winds through West Vincent and East Nantmeal and South Coventry, it doesn‘t look ominous. Just a red stripe on the page, with that benign circular ”100“ posted on its spine.
But earlier this month, that stretch of Route 100 that runs north from Ludwig‘s Corner to Pughtown swallowed another human being, as it has with sad regularity over the years.
This time it was 17-year-old Austin Dilanni who skidded on the wet road as he tried to make the curve of the road just north of Horseshoe Trail. The senior at Bishop Shanahan was pronounced dead at the scene.
There are bad roads in Chester County, and there are dangerous intersections, too. But none stand out in the minds of people who drive it every day, or who have read these pages about its hazards, like that run of Route 100.
Since 2001, the 4.85 miles of highway between Route 401 and Route 23 has claimed seven lives -- two in 2002, one in 2003, two again in 2004, one in 2005, as well as Dilanni‘s this year.
I got those figures from Gene Blaum, the man who has been the spokesman for the local district of the state Department of Transportation since the very idea of transportation became popular. The numbers are just statistics to Blaum; he‘s very aware of the fatalities on Route 100, and spent a few moments with me talking about the tragedy of Dilanni‘s death.
Dilanni, you see, was a hockey player at Shanahan, someone Blaum‘s own children were aware of. Blaum guessed he had been coming home from practice in West Goshen that night and lost control on the S-curve that had become slick with rain..
There have been attempts made to calm the situation on that stretch of Route 100. State Rep. Curt Schroder, R-155th, of East Brandywine, has taken charge of the situation as best he could to try to get changes made to the road‘s structure, and township officials have spoken about the need for safety enhancements there, but there is only so much politicians can do, even in Chester County.
I received an e-mail from a man last week, obviously distressed about the situation on Route 100, given Dilanni‘s death. Couldn‘t we publicize the nature of the road there to warn drivers and alert residents to the dangers?
We‘ve been doing that for years, I responded. I don‘t know what more we can do, I thought.
Then I remembered the weekend trip I made to the Laurel Highlands of western Pennsylvania.
Driving aimlessly and enjoying the fall foliage, I found myself at the summit of Laurel Mountain.
Along the side of the highway was one of the largest road signs I‘d ever encountered -- a warning about the dangerous hill ahead that seemingly came complete with exclamation points. Pull over now! Check your brakes, it ordered truckers! Go slow, it warned the rest of us! This is a long, windy, steep hill that is going to eat you alive if you‘re not careful!!
So I was.
Perhaps that‘s what we need just north of the Ludwig‘s Corner Fire Co. -- a 20 foot tall sign that tells drivers about the danger ahead, about the chance that Route 100 won‘t just be an annoyance today but a full-fledged tragedy. Something with big red flashing lights.
It can‘t hurt. Because that snake of a road should not swallow another soul.
If you look at Route 100 as it winds through West Vincent and East Nantmeal and South Coventry, it doesn‘t look ominous. Just a red stripe on the page, with that benign circular ”100“ posted on its spine.
But earlier this month, that stretch of Route 100 that runs north from Ludwig‘s Corner to Pughtown swallowed another human being, as it has with sad regularity over the years.
This time it was 17-year-old Austin Dilanni who skidded on the wet road as he tried to make the curve of the road just north of Horseshoe Trail. The senior at Bishop Shanahan was pronounced dead at the scene.
There are bad roads in Chester County, and there are dangerous intersections, too. But none stand out in the minds of people who drive it every day, or who have read these pages about its hazards, like that run of Route 100.
Since 2001, the 4.85 miles of highway between Route 401 and Route 23 has claimed seven lives -- two in 2002, one in 2003, two again in 2004, one in 2005, as well as Dilanni‘s this year.
I got those figures from Gene Blaum, the man who has been the spokesman for the local district of the state Department of Transportation since the very idea of transportation became popular. The numbers are just statistics to Blaum; he‘s very aware of the fatalities on Route 100, and spent a few moments with me talking about the tragedy of Dilanni‘s death.
Dilanni, you see, was a hockey player at Shanahan, someone Blaum‘s own children were aware of. Blaum guessed he had been coming home from practice in West Goshen that night and lost control on the S-curve that had become slick with rain..
There have been attempts made to calm the situation on that stretch of Route 100. State Rep. Curt Schroder, R-155th, of East Brandywine, has taken charge of the situation as best he could to try to get changes made to the road‘s structure, and township officials have spoken about the need for safety enhancements there, but there is only so much politicians can do, even in Chester County.
I received an e-mail from a man last week, obviously distressed about the situation on Route 100, given Dilanni‘s death. Couldn‘t we publicize the nature of the road there to warn drivers and alert residents to the dangers?
We‘ve been doing that for years, I responded. I don‘t know what more we can do, I thought.
Then I remembered the weekend trip I made to the Laurel Highlands of western Pennsylvania.
Driving aimlessly and enjoying the fall foliage, I found myself at the summit of Laurel Mountain.
Along the side of the highway was one of the largest road signs I‘d ever encountered -- a warning about the dangerous hill ahead that seemingly came complete with exclamation points. Pull over now! Check your brakes, it ordered truckers! Go slow, it warned the rest of us! This is a long, windy, steep hill that is going to eat you alive if you‘re not careful!!
So I was.
Perhaps that‘s what we need just north of the Ludwig‘s Corner Fire Co. -- a 20 foot tall sign that tells drivers about the danger ahead, about the chance that Route 100 won‘t just be an annoyance today but a full-fledged tragedy. Something with big red flashing lights.
It can‘t hurt. Because that snake of a road should not swallow another soul.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Sugerman update
This appeared on Oct. 22, 2006
Two months ago, I reminded you faithful readers that the county‘s construction of new court space on West Market Street in West Chester is proceeding apace without the benefit of a suitable name for the finished product.
When one studies the signs in front of the building, all we are told is that the edifice will be known as the Chester County Justice Center.
At that time, I also asked for your forgiveness for stating that I have only contempt for that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It is my considered opinion that one of the foremost problems in America today is the unwillingness of our municipal governments to name any new building after anybody or anything -- witness the blandness of Downingtown West High School and West Goshen Community Park. (Thank goodness for the brave folks on the West Chester Area School Board for going out on that Bayard Rustin limb. Go Golden Knights!)
I firmly believe that the general lack of creativity or historical acknowledgement in the act of building-naming is another example of the failure of the country‘s educational system, but that is a column for another day.
At the time, I had been remembering the late Judge Leonard Sugerman, and proposed that in his honor, the county undertake to christen the new building when it opens after him.
My proposal was greeted with a brief flurry of positive reaction one Constant Reader generously offered to help me in my campaign; I received a nice note about the idea from Sugerman‘s widow Carol; and a former clerk to the judge who was passing through town and saw the column kindly said, ”I think what you have proposed is brilliant.“
Then, nothing.
My idea took off with as much momentum as the 1973 Volkswagen I used to drive had going up Blackhorse Hill in West Vincent. But the thought of the ”Justice Center“ stuck in my craw, so last week I made some gentle inquiries with the folks I hoped would be most inclined to join me in my quest: his former colleagues on the bench.
Their reaction? As one might expect: reasoned, articulate, and ”Here‘s your hat, Mr. Rellahan, what‘s your hurry?“
President Judge Paula Francisco Ott, Sugerman‘s successor in Courtroom One, put it bluntly: You can‘t name the new courthouse after any judge from Chester County , because it would be too hard to choose. After all, how do you pick the tallest redwood in the forest?
But leave it to current judge and ex-DA James P. MacElree II to slap me across the face for proposing the idea. Figuratively speaking, of course.
To put it mildly, he said, Sugerman would have been ”uncomfortable“ with the very notion of the new courthouse, moved as it is from the historic location of the county‘s current center of justice. He was a creature of Thomas U. Walter‘s courthouse, a lover of its beauty and majesty, and would have had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the new building, had he lived long enough to occupy one of its courtrooms.
He would have looked at anyone who suggested putting his name on that building and with a withering glance, said simply: ”How utterly ridiculous. Next case.“
Two months ago, I reminded you faithful readers that the county‘s construction of new court space on West Market Street in West Chester is proceeding apace without the benefit of a suitable name for the finished product.
When one studies the signs in front of the building, all we are told is that the edifice will be known as the Chester County Justice Center.
At that time, I also asked for your forgiveness for stating that I have only contempt for that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It is my considered opinion that one of the foremost problems in America today is the unwillingness of our municipal governments to name any new building after anybody or anything -- witness the blandness of Downingtown West High School and West Goshen Community Park. (Thank goodness for the brave folks on the West Chester Area School Board for going out on that Bayard Rustin limb. Go Golden Knights!)
I firmly believe that the general lack of creativity or historical acknowledgement in the act of building-naming is another example of the failure of the country‘s educational system, but that is a column for another day.
At the time, I had been remembering the late Judge Leonard Sugerman, and proposed that in his honor, the county undertake to christen the new building when it opens after him.
My proposal was greeted with a brief flurry of positive reaction one Constant Reader generously offered to help me in my campaign; I received a nice note about the idea from Sugerman‘s widow Carol; and a former clerk to the judge who was passing through town and saw the column kindly said, ”I think what you have proposed is brilliant.“
Then, nothing.
My idea took off with as much momentum as the 1973 Volkswagen I used to drive had going up Blackhorse Hill in West Vincent. But the thought of the ”Justice Center“ stuck in my craw, so last week I made some gentle inquiries with the folks I hoped would be most inclined to join me in my quest: his former colleagues on the bench.
Their reaction? As one might expect: reasoned, articulate, and ”Here‘s your hat, Mr. Rellahan, what‘s your hurry?“
President Judge Paula Francisco Ott, Sugerman‘s successor in Courtroom One, put it bluntly: You can‘t name the new courthouse after any judge from Chester County , because it would be too hard to choose. After all, how do you pick the tallest redwood in the forest?
But leave it to current judge and ex-DA James P. MacElree II to slap me across the face for proposing the idea. Figuratively speaking, of course.
To put it mildly, he said, Sugerman would have been ”uncomfortable“ with the very notion of the new courthouse, moved as it is from the historic location of the county‘s current center of justice. He was a creature of Thomas U. Walter‘s courthouse, a lover of its beauty and majesty, and would have had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the new building, had he lived long enough to occupy one of its courtrooms.
He would have looked at anyone who suggested putting his name on that building and with a withering glance, said simply: ”How utterly ridiculous. Next case.“
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
The Signs of Fall
This appeared Oct. 8, 2006
A news editor at a paper the size of the Daily Local News gets the chance to talk with a lot of very interesting, knowledgeable, charming and erudite people on a regular basis. Then we come to the office and never know what we‘re going to get.
I‘ve said it before: Picking up a ringing telephone in this newsroom is akin to playing Russian roulette. There‘s always a chance something bad is going to come out of the instrument in question, and it‘s pointed at your head.
Like the ”stolen election sign“ call.
Tell the truth: You‘ve either made one of these calls, or you‘ve felt like making one.
You decide after a long summer of a careful political analysis -- including checking position papers, reading newspaper articles, scanning the Internet and conducting face-to-face interviews -- that you are going to come out wholly in support of Candidate A.
You feel good because it‘s the first time in your life you‘re absolutely clear that this candidate is The Best Person for the Job, whatever the job is. And you want to tell the world about it, or at least that portion of the world that drives by your house.
So what do you do? You hie yourself to the candidate‘s local headquarters and get yourself a ”Vote For“ sign, and you plant it front and center in your yard, right next to the asters. You‘re proud of yourself, and you feel that you are finally playing a vital role in the civic life of your community.
And the next morning you look out the window and the sign is gone. Vanished. Stolen. Ripped off. All that‘s left are the asters.
So what‘s the first thing you do? Of course, you pick up the phone and call me.
You inform me breathlessly that there‘s nefarious work afoot by the forces of evil, or at least supporters of Candidate B, and that it‘s time the paper put an investigative reporter, or maybe even a team of investigative reporters, on this abridgement of the rights of a citizen under the First, Fifth and possibly 31st amendments to the U.S. Constitution.
And what do you hear? "(Yawn)."
The theft of campaign signs, I inform you, is about as much a news story as grass being green. It‘s not the Chinese Cultural Revolution, or the rise of Soviet gulags, in the scope of infringement of civil liberties. It‘s a childish prank. Get over it and call me when they do something really nefarious. Like dig up the asters.
So what do you do after hanging up and decrying the lack of integrity at the local newspaper? Why, you go out and steal a sign from your neighbor‘s yard supporting Candidate B. Don‘t worry about admitting it; it‘s the American way!
I‘ve often thought about those people who steal election signs. Do they believe that by stealing their candidate‘s opponent‘s yard sign that they will swing the election? And what of the people whose signs are stolen? Do they think that‘ll affect the outcome of the vote count at the courthouse?
No. I think the sign/steal/call/howl cycle is all just part of the international conspiracy to keep me from doing my job. Or from talking to erudite people.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
A Bank Shot
This appeared Oct. 1, 2006
The construction hole had been growing on the south side of the 400 block of East Market Street for weeks, and I had wondered what sort of business would be locating there. Art gallery? eBay outlet? Brian McFadden's mythical Fine Dining Restaurant?
Nope. According to the sign that went up the other day, we're getting another bank. Of course we are! Because if you live in Chester County in the early days of the 21st century, the two things you apparently cannot have enough of are ugly overpriced new homes and banks.
And if you live in West Chester you're spared the one, but inundated with the other.
You cannot spit in the business sector of West Chester without hitting the front door of a new bank. Anytime someone puts up a new building in the borough, the first thing you absolutely know is going to be located there is something requiring a vault and safe deposit boxes.
You can believe me or not.
It makes you recall the joke about the ubiquity of the Starbucks chain (an everywhere-ness that as of 1 p.m. Saturday, Sept. 30, 2006, still had not extended itself to the borough, I might add). Only instead of a new coffeehouse, in West Chester, we kid that they're opening a new bank in the men's room of an old bank.
Not that we even talk about it that much. It's a fact of life that you just accept without really thinking about it, like seeing discarded beer bottles in the parking lot of Lincoln Financial Field on Eagles game day.
But I know people who come in to work in West Chester every day who look at these financial institutions and just want to punch somebody wearing a three-piece suit. There's a secretary at the Chester County Courthouse who swears she can open a free checking account every 200 yards while taking a noon stroll on her lunch hour, but has to drive 10 miles to get a new pair of hose if she gets a run in her stocking.
It doesn't seem fair. I can list five things the borough needs more than another bank:
A tropical fish store.
A bike repair shop.
A camping equipment outlet.
A (bigger) used book store.
A Cincinnati-style chili parlor, preferably Skyline, that would be open 24/7/365 and would deliver free of charge to customers who can prove they were born in Ohio.
What do we need these banks for anyway? Technically speaking, I haven't seen the inside of a bank since the early days of the Clinton administration. I have direct deposit, I make withdrawals at the ATM, I pay my bills online, and I do my miscellaneous banking chores on my bank's Web site.
Does anyone actually go inside a bank anymore? For all I know, the banks that have been opening in West Chester might not even be banks. They could be insurance companies, or clandestine massage parlors.
It used to be that if you lived in West Chester you had the prefect ratio of banks to Chinese restaurants, which if I remember my notes from college is 4:1. Now we've gone way out of balance with banks and haven't made the necessary moral and financial commitment to keep up the pace with the Chinese restaurants. I say if the Borough Council is going start tackling quality of life issues, that's one they should start with - not this height issue thing.
I have spent countless hours of my personal time trying to come up with a town motto that would serve West Chester now that the original one - "West Chester: The Athens of Pennsylvania" has been discarded I've described them here: "Come Grab Our Trash;" "More Bars Than Barbers" and "Don't Worry, Coatesville is 10 Miles to the West." None have seemed to resonate with the public, or gotten me noticed by the folks on Madison Avenue. Until now.
How about it? "West Chester: A Town Willie Sutton Would Love."
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Sweet Smell of Excess
This appeared on Sept. 17, 2006
Ah, the coming of fall in West Chester! A hint of crispness in the air, wind-blown leaves appearing on the cool brick sidewalks, college students rushing to and from their drunken par ..., er, classes -- all are sure signs that the autumnal equinox can't be too far away.
Not to mention, of course, the biggest local signal that fall is just around the corner - the annual Chester County Restaurant Festival in West Chester. With its 60 different restaurants - serving everything from hot dogs to crab cakes, as the brochure says - its more than 100 craft and organization booths, live bands and a popular beer and wine court, it always brings thousands of enthusiastic Chester Countians to the shining jewel called Gay Street on a (hopefully) warm and sunny Sunday afternoon.
And to each and every one of you 10- to 15-thousand visitors, we longtime borough residents have but one thing to say:
Call us when you've gone home!
Not to put too fine a point on it, but today's restaurant festival is about as popular to us in the borough as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are at the Aniston family Thanksgiving dinner table.
Take, for instance, my friend Ruth Wright Hurford, birthright West Chestrian and ex-catcher with the Daily Local News Headliners Co-ed Softball Team, circa 1985. Since she's spent nearly every minute of her waking life in the borough, you figure Ruth is the sort of person who would know how the natives act. Think of her as sort of the Baedecker Guide to West Chester.
I checked with Ruth last week and found out that, true to form, she won't be dining today on the Gay Street pavement. She'll be around the corner at a friend's house engaging in the last great barbecue of the season. She gets the ambiance of the day, the flavorful aromas of the festival grills, yet none of the waiting and slow shuffling from block to block.
Make no mistake about it, it's the very fact that the festival is so popular that makes it so disliked by borough residents. The lines! The crowds! All we want is a crab cake and a hot dog and to go home and watch the second half of the Eagles loss/game. Instead, we're pushed up against some dog-leash-holding stockbroker from Developmentland who can't decide on whether to get the crab cake sandwich or the crab cake ice cream cone, while his blond second trophy wife pesters him about the fresh fruit crab cake cup. Or whatever.
I don't know about you, but if there is a line of more than five people at the gates of heaven, I'm going to straight to hell.
I've written and edited stories about the festival since I arrived here in the early 1980s and used to look forward to the event. In one of its first incarnations, the restaurant festival was when about 15 restaurateurs would push a few tables onto closed-off Gay Street, fire up the Webers, Donohue's would empty the tavern of tables and chairs, and the ale would flow evenly with the tartar sauce on the crab cakes.
It was a simpler, more sanguine time, when you could stand on the corner of High and Gay Streets with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief. If you stand on that corner with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief these days, you might get 11 1/2 to 23 months of probation and a lecture from Judge Gavin.
But don't let our ambivalence to the festival deter you from having fun. We'll survive.
By 10 o'clock tonight, Gay Street will be free of litter and empty of restaurant booths and by early Monday we will be able to take our morning constitutional from Matlack to New Street without being squeezed like a Philadelphia building contractor.
You'll be gone, and we'll be here. Enjoying our crab cakes.
Monday, September 11, 2006
The (Yawn) Commissioners
This appeared on Sept. 10, 2006
I found myself on the fifth floor of the Chester County Courthouse last week. For those of you who don't know, that's where the three county commissioners set up shop and once or twice a week, come out of their plush offices and hold a public meeting.
For those of you who do know, things aren't the same as they used to be.
In some way, after attending the meeting I'm actually heartened that the judges on the Court of Common Pleas decided to pass over my application for Appointed Minority Commissioner in favor of that other guy - you know, the one with the actual governing experience.
In fact, I was reminded of a scene from the movie "The Freshman," in which Marlon Brando essays his comic take on a Mafia chieftain, Carmine Sabatini, and acts as mentor to young Clark Kellogg, from Vermont, played by the endearing Matthew Broderick.
It's the one where Carmine visits Clark in his dorm room at NYU, where Clark has gone to study film. Concluding his visit, Mr. Sabatini - "Jimmy the Toucan" to his friends - gets up, looks around at the concrete block walls, the stick furniture, the creaky bedsprings, and says: "So this is college? I didn't miss nuttin'."
To say that the commissioners meeting was lacking in drama and political import is to say that Terrell Owens has a strong self-image.
I'm not going to complain that the discussions held by the commissioners on Thursday lacked the fire and crackle of the prime minister's question session in British parliament. That would be unfair, pitting the amateurs against the pros.
But I expected something more than a debate over whether to accept the low bid on a contract for masonry restoration and caulking. Or a recitation on the history of the Chester County Economic Development Council and the purposes of the Industrial development Assistance Law.
If I had been selected to replace Andy What's-His-Name, I would have brought whole bunches of controversial topics to the forum. Issues like the elimination of fake Cincinnati chili from the menus of West Chester-area restaurants and the reclamation of the township of Chadds Ford into the boundaries of Chester County would play a lot more lively in the press than the allocation of $10,712.57 to the borough of Modena (Motto: "Just South of South Coatesville") for use in improvements at the Union Pump Station.
Back in the days when I covered the commissioners as a reporter, there was at least some newsworthy action from the front of the room. Irene Brooks would casually propose floating $15 billion in bonds to protect her neighbor's backyard, or D.T. Marrone might offhandedly remark that the county should reassess all property in sight every six months. If you were lucky, Karen Martynick and Joe Kenna would hold a glare-down contest.
What did the commissioners do Thursday? They proclaimed the day of Saturday, Sept. 16, 2006 as "Responsible Dog Ownership Day" in Chester County. You can believe me or not.
According to the proclamation, that day will now be devoted entirely to "enhancing the human-dog relationship," promoting the benefits of "Puppy Kindergarten" and educating the public about training for "obedience, agility and Earthdog."
Has it come to Earthdog training on the fifth floor? What would Jimmy the Toucan think?
I found myself on the fifth floor of the Chester County Courthouse last week. For those of you who don't know, that's where the three county commissioners set up shop and once or twice a week, come out of their plush offices and hold a public meeting.
For those of you who do know, things aren't the same as they used to be.
In some way, after attending the meeting I'm actually heartened that the judges on the Court of Common Pleas decided to pass over my application for Appointed Minority Commissioner in favor of that other guy - you know, the one with the actual governing experience.
In fact, I was reminded of a scene from the movie "The Freshman," in which Marlon Brando essays his comic take on a Mafia chieftain, Carmine Sabatini, and acts as mentor to young Clark Kellogg, from Vermont, played by the endearing Matthew Broderick.
It's the one where Carmine visits Clark in his dorm room at NYU, where Clark has gone to study film. Concluding his visit, Mr. Sabatini - "Jimmy the Toucan" to his friends - gets up, looks around at the concrete block walls, the stick furniture, the creaky bedsprings, and says: "So this is college? I didn't miss nuttin'."
To say that the commissioners meeting was lacking in drama and political import is to say that Terrell Owens has a strong self-image.
I'm not going to complain that the discussions held by the commissioners on Thursday lacked the fire and crackle of the prime minister's question session in British parliament. That would be unfair, pitting the amateurs against the pros.
But I expected something more than a debate over whether to accept the low bid on a contract for masonry restoration and caulking. Or a recitation on the history of the Chester County Economic Development Council and the purposes of the Industrial development Assistance Law.
If I had been selected to replace Andy What's-His-Name, I would have brought whole bunches of controversial topics to the forum. Issues like the elimination of fake Cincinnati chili from the menus of West Chester-area restaurants and the reclamation of the township of Chadds Ford into the boundaries of Chester County would play a lot more lively in the press than the allocation of $10,712.57 to the borough of Modena (Motto: "Just South of South Coatesville") for use in improvements at the Union Pump Station.
Back in the days when I covered the commissioners as a reporter, there was at least some newsworthy action from the front of the room. Irene Brooks would casually propose floating $15 billion in bonds to protect her neighbor's backyard, or D.T. Marrone might offhandedly remark that the county should reassess all property in sight every six months. If you were lucky, Karen Martynick and Joe Kenna would hold a glare-down contest.
What did the commissioners do Thursday? They proclaimed the day of Saturday, Sept. 16, 2006 as "Responsible Dog Ownership Day" in Chester County. You can believe me or not.
According to the proclamation, that day will now be devoted entirely to "enhancing the human-dog relationship," promoting the benefits of "Puppy Kindergarten" and educating the public about training for "obedience, agility and Earthdog."
Has it come to Earthdog training on the fifth floor? What would Jimmy the Toucan think?
The Power and the Envy
This appeared on Sept. 3, 2006
The woman told the waitress at the Magnolia Grill the only reason she and her husband were having breakfast out Saturday morning was bad luck.
"Every time a raindrop falls on our house, the power goes out," she said.
Her exaggeration may only be minimal. As Chester County's population grows and the number of PECO lines intersecting the landscape follows, it seems now that whenever Mother Nature so much as sneezes, thousands of lights go off from East Bradford to East Pikeland.
And as the darkness encircles them, people all across the county get up, look out the window and say the same thing that the woman did:
"The people across the street have power," she intoned into a cell phone on which she was registering her complaint with someone she imagined had the authority to turn hers back on. "The people across the street always have power."
It is like a rule of thumb around here: You're in the dark, and the neighbors are safe and well-lit.
Friday night's Ernesto-blown wind-and-rain storm proved that maxim once again to my neighbors and I in the 300 block of South Church Street. As we sat out on our porches after the lights had gone out, trading candles and firing up Coleman lanterns, we gazed across the street and saw comforting yellow windows of lights burning brightly.
"The people across the street have power," we told one another. "Why do the people across the street always have power?"
I've spoken before about this after-storm jealousy that infects us in West Chester. When it quits raining and the wind has died down, we go out on foot searching for the areas of town that either have power or don't have power.
Finding a block as dark as our own, we feel vindicated. "Thank the Lord I'm not the only one without electricity," we say. "I thought I was being singled out by the PECO-gods."
Finding a block with the lights lit up like a Las Vegas showgirl's wedding, on the other hand, we feel angry and cheated. "What're they, Exelon execs? They better than we are? Somebody paying somebody off?"
I don't know if there is a rational explanation as to why the people across the street always have power. I don't even know if the people across the street always do have power. After all, if my power stays on during a storm I don't go around checking whether my neighbors have had their circuits blown. I just turn up the volume on the hi-fi and sing along with Dylan.
And, truth be told, sometimes getting your power blown can be a good thing. When the power went out in June, my friend Jamie's wife Cheryl engineered a system for keeping the food cold and the water fresh that would have made Rube Goldberg gasp in astonishment. When the lights went back on, she was almost sad; she'd have to resort to simply flipping a switch to get things going rather than dropping a bowling ball in the laundry basket, or however the contraption worked.
As for me, I think my neighbors and I have gotten to known one another a little better because of our shared experience on the front porch during power outages. We get to share a glass of wine, catch up on gossip, re-tell stories from the last storm, and maybe even meet one another's family or friends as they stop by to commiserate.
So you see, lady, maybe the people across the street aren't so lucky. After all, that Magnolia Grill breakfast looked awful good.
The woman told the waitress at the Magnolia Grill the only reason she and her husband were having breakfast out Saturday morning was bad luck.
"Every time a raindrop falls on our house, the power goes out," she said.
Her exaggeration may only be minimal. As Chester County's population grows and the number of PECO lines intersecting the landscape follows, it seems now that whenever Mother Nature so much as sneezes, thousands of lights go off from East Bradford to East Pikeland.
And as the darkness encircles them, people all across the county get up, look out the window and say the same thing that the woman did:
"The people across the street have power," she intoned into a cell phone on which she was registering her complaint with someone she imagined had the authority to turn hers back on. "The people across the street always have power."
It is like a rule of thumb around here: You're in the dark, and the neighbors are safe and well-lit.
Friday night's Ernesto-blown wind-and-rain storm proved that maxim once again to my neighbors and I in the 300 block of South Church Street. As we sat out on our porches after the lights had gone out, trading candles and firing up Coleman lanterns, we gazed across the street and saw comforting yellow windows of lights burning brightly.
"The people across the street have power," we told one another. "Why do the people across the street always have power?"
I've spoken before about this after-storm jealousy that infects us in West Chester. When it quits raining and the wind has died down, we go out on foot searching for the areas of town that either have power or don't have power.
Finding a block as dark as our own, we feel vindicated. "Thank the Lord I'm not the only one without electricity," we say. "I thought I was being singled out by the PECO-gods."
Finding a block with the lights lit up like a Las Vegas showgirl's wedding, on the other hand, we feel angry and cheated. "What're they, Exelon execs? They better than we are? Somebody paying somebody off?"
I don't know if there is a rational explanation as to why the people across the street always have power. I don't even know if the people across the street always do have power. After all, if my power stays on during a storm I don't go around checking whether my neighbors have had their circuits blown. I just turn up the volume on the hi-fi and sing along with Dylan.
And, truth be told, sometimes getting your power blown can be a good thing. When the power went out in June, my friend Jamie's wife Cheryl engineered a system for keeping the food cold and the water fresh that would have made Rube Goldberg gasp in astonishment. When the lights went back on, she was almost sad; she'd have to resort to simply flipping a switch to get things going rather than dropping a bowling ball in the laundry basket, or however the contraption worked.
As for me, I think my neighbors and I have gotten to known one another a little better because of our shared experience on the front porch during power outages. We get to share a glass of wine, catch up on gossip, re-tell stories from the last storm, and maybe even meet one another's family or friends as they stop by to commiserate.
So you see, lady, maybe the people across the street aren't so lucky. After all, that Magnolia Grill breakfast looked awful good.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
The Summertime Blues
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.
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.
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.
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