This column originally appeared on Aug. 12, 2007
Maybe you saw the news that a New Mexico production company is proposing building a multi-million dollar film and television studio in the Philadelphia area. Maybe you didn’t. But then again, maybe you saw the major motion picture “Chubb-Chubbs Save Xmas,” and maybe you didn’t. I will tell you that from what I can gather, both productions rate about one star on my grading scale — out of a possible 100.
It’s not that I don’t love the idea of saving Xmas, or the whole Mid-Winter Holiday Season Concept for those of you atheists and pagans celebrating at home. Nor do I object to the idea of locating a film and television production facility in the Philadelphia area, for that matter.
No, when I read the story, the sentence that struck me as something for the cutting room floor was this one: “Pacifica” — that’s the name of the production company from New Mexico — “is looking at sites in Bucks, Delaware and Philadelphia counties.”
“Cut!” as they used to say in those Hollywood movies about Hollywood movies.
Never mind the fact that we’re dealing here with a company named Pacifica that’s located in a state that does not currently border the Pacific Ocean, or any ocean that I’m aware of. But here they are practically slapping us folks in Chester County who are of the firm belief that our hometown would make the perfect place for a studio, slapping us like Moe would slap Curly.
The announcement comes about a month after state lawmakers approved $75 million in film tax credits for the fiscal year that started July 1. Gov. Ed Rendell said at a news conference with the film production company’s chief, who is trying to put together a $10 million incentive package to get the studio project off the ground, that the idea was a natural for the Philly area.
Rendell said the Philadelphia region should be attractive to filmmakers for its variety of shooting locations, from rural farms to the gritty neighborhoods of the inner city. “This area has unlimited capacity for different scenes,” said Rendell, the former Philadelphia mayor and current Eagles acolyte. “You can't get urban grime in Albuquerque.”
Hey, yo, Ed! If you hadn’t looked, we got it all. You want rural, we’ve got rolling hillsides that roll into other rolling hillsides. You want grime, take a walk around Phoenixville sometime and see what ends up on the soles of your shoes. You want drama like the Western standoff in “High Noon”? Check out the battle between Borough Council in West Chester and their historic preservation comrades. You want comedy like the confused townsfolk in “Blazing Saddles”? Do the words, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Council of the City of Coatesville is now in session!” strike your funny bone?
According to the Associated Press, the Delaware Valley studio would need to grow to about 1 million square feet, comprising sound stages, production offices and other space. One million square feet is about the average size of a foyer in a Mcmansion in Upper Uwchlan. We’ve got square feet just sitting around waiting to be used — a lot of it in strip shopping centers that have nearby Quiznos, so catering wouldn’t be a problem.
And did I mention that Bam’s all set for his close-up?
Saturday, August 25, 2007
My Gift To The Midwest
This column originally appeared Aug. 5, 2007
The folks in Hawarden, Iowa, and Centerville, S.D., might think about sending me an invitation to come out their way for a quick camping trip.
Since they have little-to-virtually no precipitation at all during the month of July and are suffering a Stage Two Drought as a result, my presence there with a tent and a sleeping bag could be counted on to change things overnight, bringing cool buckets of rain to their parched landscape.
It is, after all, axiomatic: Wherever I camp, it rains.
If you think I am exaggerating, then I hasten to point to the family vacation the Rellahan family took in the summer of 1973 to Old Orchard Beach, Maine. Word had it they’d been having a dry spell that summer until my family pulled up in our 1972 Dodge Dart. It was past dark when we arrived, but I confidently pitched by canvas pop tent out in a field near the resort hotel where we would be staying.
I woke up about six hours later in both darkness and about two inches of water. The point in the field where my tent was situated was the outdoor equivalent to the bottom center of a swimming pool, with me acting as a drain plug. Things have ever been thus when I venture out into the world of outdoor recreation.
It is not simply that it rains where and when I camp. It rains when I make reservations to go camping, my actual physical presence not being needed to open up the heavens.
Don’t believe me? Ask the rangers at Bowman Lake State Park in Oxford, N.Y., who had not had appreciable rain the third weekend of August since the late 1990s. But when I paid my fee for a camp site for that weekend last week, the front started moving in almost immediately. The town got 2.73 inches of rain in one day — the day I was scheduled to arrive.
Ask my friend Julia about the weekend when we were supposed to spend a relaxing weekend in September 2005 at Worlds End State Park in central Pennsylvania and instead spent an afternoon dodging the overflowing banks of the Saucon River. They tell me that folks up in Sullivan County had never seen rain clouds so big and black and wet.
Coincidence? Is it a coincidence that sales at local beer distributors increase when West Chester University opens for its fall session? Is it a coincidence that when the phone rings at 1520 WCHE-AM that Tony Polito is on the other end? I think not.
The point hit home again last weekend when I made my way to New York for a go at camping at Bowman Lake. (Last year I saw the writing on the wall, or the storm centers on the weather radar, take your pick, and stayed home.) Thursday evening was cool and dry, Friday dawned with blue skies, the noontime crowd at Cooperstown outside the Baseball Hall of Fame was bathed in sunshine, and by 2:30 p.m. there was enough rain, hail, thunder, winds, fallen trees and lightning to make a television weather broadcaster reach for his GoreTex jacket and waterproof microphone.
Take note, thus, you residents of Hawarden, Iowa and Centerville, S.D. My services can be arranged, for a nominal fee. Just keep the umbrellas handy.
The folks in Hawarden, Iowa, and Centerville, S.D., might think about sending me an invitation to come out their way for a quick camping trip.
Since they have little-to-virtually no precipitation at all during the month of July and are suffering a Stage Two Drought as a result, my presence there with a tent and a sleeping bag could be counted on to change things overnight, bringing cool buckets of rain to their parched landscape.
It is, after all, axiomatic: Wherever I camp, it rains.
If you think I am exaggerating, then I hasten to point to the family vacation the Rellahan family took in the summer of 1973 to Old Orchard Beach, Maine. Word had it they’d been having a dry spell that summer until my family pulled up in our 1972 Dodge Dart. It was past dark when we arrived, but I confidently pitched by canvas pop tent out in a field near the resort hotel where we would be staying.
I woke up about six hours later in both darkness and about two inches of water. The point in the field where my tent was situated was the outdoor equivalent to the bottom center of a swimming pool, with me acting as a drain plug. Things have ever been thus when I venture out into the world of outdoor recreation.
It is not simply that it rains where and when I camp. It rains when I make reservations to go camping, my actual physical presence not being needed to open up the heavens.
Don’t believe me? Ask the rangers at Bowman Lake State Park in Oxford, N.Y., who had not had appreciable rain the third weekend of August since the late 1990s. But when I paid my fee for a camp site for that weekend last week, the front started moving in almost immediately. The town got 2.73 inches of rain in one day — the day I was scheduled to arrive.
Ask my friend Julia about the weekend when we were supposed to spend a relaxing weekend in September 2005 at Worlds End State Park in central Pennsylvania and instead spent an afternoon dodging the overflowing banks of the Saucon River. They tell me that folks up in Sullivan County had never seen rain clouds so big and black and wet.
Coincidence? Is it a coincidence that sales at local beer distributors increase when West Chester University opens for its fall session? Is it a coincidence that when the phone rings at 1520 WCHE-AM that Tony Polito is on the other end? I think not.
The point hit home again last weekend when I made my way to New York for a go at camping at Bowman Lake. (Last year I saw the writing on the wall, or the storm centers on the weather radar, take your pick, and stayed home.) Thursday evening was cool and dry, Friday dawned with blue skies, the noontime crowd at Cooperstown outside the Baseball Hall of Fame was bathed in sunshine, and by 2:30 p.m. there was enough rain, hail, thunder, winds, fallen trees and lightning to make a television weather broadcaster reach for his GoreTex jacket and waterproof microphone.
Take note, thus, you residents of Hawarden, Iowa and Centerville, S.D. My services can be arranged, for a nominal fee. Just keep the umbrellas handy.
What A Beach!
This column appeared on July 22, 2007
We consider this column to be, among all other things, an extension of the Daily Local News’ commitment to public service.
Over the years, we have endeavored to bring attention to various social, environmental and gastrological needs that have gone unmet in the general West Chester/Chester County area.
It is well established that we have campaigned vigorously for the addition of the township of Chadds Ford to our county’s boundaries, unchaining it from the tyrannical yoke of Delaware County; that we have urged the powers that be to open a public swimming pool within walking distance of the 300 block of South Church Street, preferably one with a diving board and a cool, shaded area for sitting; and that we have decried the absence of authentic Cincinnati chili from the menus of restaurants across the county’s landscape.
Although to date none — give or take — of those causes has received so much as a passing nod from cartographers, politicians or restaurant owners, we are proud to have raised them as issues of concern.
But now we come to an even more pressing need that has yet to be addressed by any responsible party involved in county government or business.
Folks, we need a beach.
Chester County has been around for more than 300 years (I checked), and although it has amenities such as a world-class public gardens, a historical Revolutionary War battle site and a potato chip factory tour, it does not have a large expanse of sand and shells and horseshoe crabs that sits beside a large body of water, one that features waves.
We, meaning I, recently spent several days at two beaches that find themselves attached to the Atlantic Ocean — one in Delaware, one in New Jersey — and we can say with confidence that days spent lounging on a beach with the sun overhead and a breeze at one’s back is good for the soul. Maybe bad for the skin, but good for the soul.
Why, we would even venture to suggest that the estimable former county Commissioner Colin Hanna would declare, “¡Estoy teniendo un tiempo muy, muy bueno! ¿Puedo tener otro mojito?” (Translation: “I am having a very, very good time! Can I have another mojito?”) if he were sitting on a beach in the county.
But we hear you say that Chester County does have a beach already, up at Marsh Creek State Park, right next to the snack bar. We have seen this beach. We have spent time on this beach.
We, however, do not consider it worthy of the name “beach” and would suggest that anyone who does has spent too much time in the sun.
(Besides, we have it on good terms that the lake at Marsh Creek is going to be drained soon to make way for additional open space in the county.)
We are confident that once this idea gets in the hands of the proper authorities at the Army Corps of Engineers that the day will come soon when we can all enjoy a day at the beach without having to drive to New Jersey or Delaware.
Or having to cross any large bridges on the way.
We consider this column to be, among all other things, an extension of the Daily Local News’ commitment to public service.
Over the years, we have endeavored to bring attention to various social, environmental and gastrological needs that have gone unmet in the general West Chester/Chester County area.
It is well established that we have campaigned vigorously for the addition of the township of Chadds Ford to our county’s boundaries, unchaining it from the tyrannical yoke of Delaware County; that we have urged the powers that be to open a public swimming pool within walking distance of the 300 block of South Church Street, preferably one with a diving board and a cool, shaded area for sitting; and that we have decried the absence of authentic Cincinnati chili from the menus of restaurants across the county’s landscape.
Although to date none — give or take — of those causes has received so much as a passing nod from cartographers, politicians or restaurant owners, we are proud to have raised them as issues of concern.
But now we come to an even more pressing need that has yet to be addressed by any responsible party involved in county government or business.
Folks, we need a beach.
Chester County has been around for more than 300 years (I checked), and although it has amenities such as a world-class public gardens, a historical Revolutionary War battle site and a potato chip factory tour, it does not have a large expanse of sand and shells and horseshoe crabs that sits beside a large body of water, one that features waves.
We, meaning I, recently spent several days at two beaches that find themselves attached to the Atlantic Ocean — one in Delaware, one in New Jersey — and we can say with confidence that days spent lounging on a beach with the sun overhead and a breeze at one’s back is good for the soul. Maybe bad for the skin, but good for the soul.
Why, we would even venture to suggest that the estimable former county Commissioner Colin Hanna would declare, “¡Estoy teniendo un tiempo muy, muy bueno! ¿Puedo tener otro mojito?” (Translation: “I am having a very, very good time! Can I have another mojito?”) if he were sitting on a beach in the county.
But we hear you say that Chester County does have a beach already, up at Marsh Creek State Park, right next to the snack bar. We have seen this beach. We have spent time on this beach.
We, however, do not consider it worthy of the name “beach” and would suggest that anyone who does has spent too much time in the sun.
(Besides, we have it on good terms that the lake at Marsh Creek is going to be drained soon to make way for additional open space in the county.)
We are confident that once this idea gets in the hands of the proper authorities at the Army Corps of Engineers that the day will come soon when we can all enjoy a day at the beach without having to drive to New Jersey or Delaware.
Or having to cross any large bridges on the way.
Fear Strikes
This column appperaed on July 8, 2007 (weeks befor the Minnesota tragedy)
I can cite for you at least 15 reasons why I appreciate life in Chester County, and those are the 15 covered bridges that call this place home.
But lest you think that I love them for their antiquity, their unique architecture or their rough-hewn grandeur, let me steer you off that path before you get too misty-eyed. No, I love covered bridges because when you go over them you can easily pretend you are not driving over a bridge.
I have an unreasonable fear of crossing bridges.
The people who know call this gephyrophobia, and here’s what I learned about it from the good folks at MedicineNet.com (Motto: “We Bring Doctors’ Knowledge To You”).
“Fear of crossing bridges is a relatively common phobia, although most people with it do not know they have something called ‘gephyrophobia.’ However, the derivation of the word ‘gephyrophobia’ is perfectly straightforward (if you know Greek); it is derived from the Greek words ‘gephyra’ (bridge) and ‘phobos’ (fear).”
Why thank you, MedicineNet.com, for being so helpful and so condescending, all at the same time.
If you think for a moment that knowing my fear is “a relatively common phobia” or that its name is derived from the “perfectly straightforward” Greek is going to help me the next time I’m confronted with the impending upstroke of some upcoming span, you are sorely mistaken.
Every Greek in the world, common or not, would not be able to convince me that the moment that this particular bridge would completely come apart and dissolve like steam, plunging me into the emptiness of the abyss, would be the exact moment that I am at its apex, helpless and alone.
I am going camping in Delaware this week and that means two things: One, that it will rain sometime between now and when I decamp and two, that I have been mentally preparing myself for a forced bridge crossing over the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal for about three weeks. And it is not going to help.
When I drive over a bridge I keep my eyes locked on the blacktop in front of me and both hands firmly on the steering wheel. I sweat and hum a lot, too. If my eyes drift over the side and glimpse an instant of the space and water below, I am convinced that my subconscious will involuntarily jerk the car to the right over the edge and into the water below.
Here’s MedicineNet.com again. “High bridges over waterways and gorges can be especially intimidating, as can be very long or very narrow bridges.”
Yes, and bridges where traffic gets jammed and you are stuck at the top of the span and with each passing of a semi you can feel the bridge shake and roll and you think that in another five minutes the only thing to do is put the car in park, get out and crawl on your belly to the other side.
I have friends who also have this affliction and we keep it mostly to ourselves, the fear of embarrassment being almost as gripping as the gephyrophobia itself. Except when we get together and share the joy of living in a county where bridges have covers.
I can cite for you at least 15 reasons why I appreciate life in Chester County, and those are the 15 covered bridges that call this place home.
But lest you think that I love them for their antiquity, their unique architecture or their rough-hewn grandeur, let me steer you off that path before you get too misty-eyed. No, I love covered bridges because when you go over them you can easily pretend you are not driving over a bridge.
I have an unreasonable fear of crossing bridges.
The people who know call this gephyrophobia, and here’s what I learned about it from the good folks at MedicineNet.com (Motto: “We Bring Doctors’ Knowledge To You”).
“Fear of crossing bridges is a relatively common phobia, although most people with it do not know they have something called ‘gephyrophobia.’ However, the derivation of the word ‘gephyrophobia’ is perfectly straightforward (if you know Greek); it is derived from the Greek words ‘gephyra’ (bridge) and ‘phobos’ (fear).”
Why thank you, MedicineNet.com, for being so helpful and so condescending, all at the same time.
If you think for a moment that knowing my fear is “a relatively common phobia” or that its name is derived from the “perfectly straightforward” Greek is going to help me the next time I’m confronted with the impending upstroke of some upcoming span, you are sorely mistaken.
Every Greek in the world, common or not, would not be able to convince me that the moment that this particular bridge would completely come apart and dissolve like steam, plunging me into the emptiness of the abyss, would be the exact moment that I am at its apex, helpless and alone.
I am going camping in Delaware this week and that means two things: One, that it will rain sometime between now and when I decamp and two, that I have been mentally preparing myself for a forced bridge crossing over the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal for about three weeks. And it is not going to help.
When I drive over a bridge I keep my eyes locked on the blacktop in front of me and both hands firmly on the steering wheel. I sweat and hum a lot, too. If my eyes drift over the side and glimpse an instant of the space and water below, I am convinced that my subconscious will involuntarily jerk the car to the right over the edge and into the water below.
Here’s MedicineNet.com again. “High bridges over waterways and gorges can be especially intimidating, as can be very long or very narrow bridges.”
Yes, and bridges where traffic gets jammed and you are stuck at the top of the span and with each passing of a semi you can feel the bridge shake and roll and you think that in another five minutes the only thing to do is put the car in park, get out and crawl on your belly to the other side.
I have friends who also have this affliction and we keep it mostly to ourselves, the fear of embarrassment being almost as gripping as the gephyrophobia itself. Except when we get together and share the joy of living in a county where bridges have covers.
Enjoying The Show
This column originally appeared on July 1, 2007
Take it from me: Old news stories never die. They get recycled, reprinted and rediscovered. Then they become not news, but history.
The notion occurred to me recently as I revisited two stories from my past. One you’ve heard of endlessly. The other, you haven’t, unless you were born and lived somewhere near Morganfield, Ky.
The better known of the stories is that surrounding the anniversary of the release of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” the psychedelic album by The Beatles that may or may not be the most widely regarded rock music accomplishment in rock’s brief history.
The album came out 40 years ago this summer, and critics have been jumping all over themselves to relive the album’s meaning, its impact on the music world and its true place in rock history. I’ve been revisiting the story because it was one of the last albums I had to plead with my parents to buy me.
In 1967, Sgt. Pepper cost $4.19 cents at the Air-Waye Record store on Ludlow Avenue in Cinncinnati, Ohio, and you could have told me it cost 50,000 gold pieces at the Inn of the Seventh Happiness in Shangi-La, Himalaya and I would have had about as much chance of buying it.
Ten-year-olds in 1967 just did not have $4.19 lying around to spend on a record, even if it was the most monumental achievement in the world of rock music.
It occurred to me after reading the story of the making of Sgt. Pepper one more time that though there is little more new to be added, reading about it still makes me as happy as the day my father brought it home and I dropped our record player’s needle on the rotating vinyl and started singing along.
The other story came jumping back at me a few weeks ago after having slept undisturbed in my memory for the better part of three decades.
At the daily news meeting at the Daily Local News, at which we review the stories available for the next day, an editor began summarizing a wire story about a group of families in Kentucky who were fighting the government to get compensation for the land that had been taken away from them in the days before World War II.
The more the editor read, the more I remembered. I had covered this same story myself in 1980 as a neophyte reporter for the Sturgis, Ky., News, circulation 3,000, just down the road from Morganfield, Ky., the county seat, where the army had built a base on land taken from farmers.
The case was in legal limbo then, and still is, I gather. But it fell to me to write something about the case month after month because, well, that is what passed for news in Sturgis, Ky., population 3,000 -- and one fewer after I’d finally had it with stories about forfeited farms and packed up for Pennsylvania and, ultimately, to writing stories about Andy Dinniman.
Nostalgic nonetheless, I went through my old news clippings from Sturgis looking for whatever I had filed on the Morganfield families. I found much to revisit and rediscover, but nothing of their case. I had indeed left it all behind.
I do, however, have a copy of Sgt. Pepper’s, and I’m still enjoying the show.
Take it from me: Old news stories never die. They get recycled, reprinted and rediscovered. Then they become not news, but history.
The notion occurred to me recently as I revisited two stories from my past. One you’ve heard of endlessly. The other, you haven’t, unless you were born and lived somewhere near Morganfield, Ky.
The better known of the stories is that surrounding the anniversary of the release of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” the psychedelic album by The Beatles that may or may not be the most widely regarded rock music accomplishment in rock’s brief history.
The album came out 40 years ago this summer, and critics have been jumping all over themselves to relive the album’s meaning, its impact on the music world and its true place in rock history. I’ve been revisiting the story because it was one of the last albums I had to plead with my parents to buy me.
In 1967, Sgt. Pepper cost $4.19 cents at the Air-Waye Record store on Ludlow Avenue in Cinncinnati, Ohio, and you could have told me it cost 50,000 gold pieces at the Inn of the Seventh Happiness in Shangi-La, Himalaya and I would have had about as much chance of buying it.
Ten-year-olds in 1967 just did not have $4.19 lying around to spend on a record, even if it was the most monumental achievement in the world of rock music.
It occurred to me after reading the story of the making of Sgt. Pepper one more time that though there is little more new to be added, reading about it still makes me as happy as the day my father brought it home and I dropped our record player’s needle on the rotating vinyl and started singing along.
The other story came jumping back at me a few weeks ago after having slept undisturbed in my memory for the better part of three decades.
At the daily news meeting at the Daily Local News, at which we review the stories available for the next day, an editor began summarizing a wire story about a group of families in Kentucky who were fighting the government to get compensation for the land that had been taken away from them in the days before World War II.
The more the editor read, the more I remembered. I had covered this same story myself in 1980 as a neophyte reporter for the Sturgis, Ky., News, circulation 3,000, just down the road from Morganfield, Ky., the county seat, where the army had built a base on land taken from farmers.
The case was in legal limbo then, and still is, I gather. But it fell to me to write something about the case month after month because, well, that is what passed for news in Sturgis, Ky., population 3,000 -- and one fewer after I’d finally had it with stories about forfeited farms and packed up for Pennsylvania and, ultimately, to writing stories about Andy Dinniman.
Nostalgic nonetheless, I went through my old news clippings from Sturgis looking for whatever I had filed on the Morganfield families. I found much to revisit and rediscover, but nothing of their case. I had indeed left it all behind.
I do, however, have a copy of Sgt. Pepper’s, and I’m still enjoying the show.
Feeling Free At Night
This column originally apperaed on June 24, 2007
Last night, something called the Great American Backyard Campout occurred — presumably, since the National Wildlife federation has been promoting it vigorously — in communities across the country.
The purpose of the event is to acquaint, or reacquaint, American children, with nature, by tuning off the Xbox, turning on the flashlight and dropping off to sleep outside where they can see the stars. It’s supposed to be a time when parents and kids and neighbors and communities can all converge upon one another and bond for a few hours in the presence of trees, grass and a firefly or two.
I’m not certain how this all works in the urban world of downtown Coatesville, but I’m not here to pour water on the campfire, so to speak. Hearing of the event simply made me shake my head once again at how different things have become since my childhood.
In August 1969, Danny Biehl, Bernard Frank — my two best friends since nursery school — and I did not need any national organization to tell us of the pleasures of a sleeping bag on a summer’s night.
We had been pestering our parents to let us sleep out since the summer began, and they let us do it not for any high-minded purpose, but simply because they were sick of hearing us ask.
That is the difference between then and now. About as close as we got to exploring the ways of nature was picking green tomatoes off the vines in Danny’s next door neighbor’s garden. And if our parents had suggested that the whole family would join in the night’s activities, we would have called the whole thing off immediately. Bonding with nature or our families was not the point.
The purpose behind our campout was to finally experience a world we had been waiting for all our lives — the grownup world of the night. We wanted a respite from the supervision of adults, a liberation from normal rules, and, most of all, a chance to stay up late and walk around in the dark.
We got all we had hoped for.
After seeing the lights in Dan’s house go out, we made our way off the property, flashlights in hand. This was dangerous territory, being outside on the street after the world had gone to sleep. It was as close to crime as we had ever come, and it felt great.
We prowled the neighborhood, shining our lights at unsuspecting windows. We broke off tree branches and whacked each other as if in swordfights. We jumped behind bushes at the sound of a car engine and sight of headlights, believing that any adult would have rounded us up and turned us in to whatever authorities existed that governed midnight rambling by 12-year-olds on a moment’s notice. We had fun with an exclamation point.
I am certain that the memory makes the conditions that night more idyllic than they truly were. I doubt that the night was as starry, that the moon was as full, or that the air was as warm as I think of it now.
But I am convinced that the laughs we shared were as loud, the excitement was as tangible, and the sense of freedom was real as I remember.
Last night, something called the Great American Backyard Campout occurred — presumably, since the National Wildlife federation has been promoting it vigorously — in communities across the country.
The purpose of the event is to acquaint, or reacquaint, American children, with nature, by tuning off the Xbox, turning on the flashlight and dropping off to sleep outside where they can see the stars. It’s supposed to be a time when parents and kids and neighbors and communities can all converge upon one another and bond for a few hours in the presence of trees, grass and a firefly or two.
I’m not certain how this all works in the urban world of downtown Coatesville, but I’m not here to pour water on the campfire, so to speak. Hearing of the event simply made me shake my head once again at how different things have become since my childhood.
In August 1969, Danny Biehl, Bernard Frank — my two best friends since nursery school — and I did not need any national organization to tell us of the pleasures of a sleeping bag on a summer’s night.
We had been pestering our parents to let us sleep out since the summer began, and they let us do it not for any high-minded purpose, but simply because they were sick of hearing us ask.
That is the difference between then and now. About as close as we got to exploring the ways of nature was picking green tomatoes off the vines in Danny’s next door neighbor’s garden. And if our parents had suggested that the whole family would join in the night’s activities, we would have called the whole thing off immediately. Bonding with nature or our families was not the point.
The purpose behind our campout was to finally experience a world we had been waiting for all our lives — the grownup world of the night. We wanted a respite from the supervision of adults, a liberation from normal rules, and, most of all, a chance to stay up late and walk around in the dark.
We got all we had hoped for.
After seeing the lights in Dan’s house go out, we made our way off the property, flashlights in hand. This was dangerous territory, being outside on the street after the world had gone to sleep. It was as close to crime as we had ever come, and it felt great.
We prowled the neighborhood, shining our lights at unsuspecting windows. We broke off tree branches and whacked each other as if in swordfights. We jumped behind bushes at the sound of a car engine and sight of headlights, believing that any adult would have rounded us up and turned us in to whatever authorities existed that governed midnight rambling by 12-year-olds on a moment’s notice. We had fun with an exclamation point.
I am certain that the memory makes the conditions that night more idyllic than they truly were. I doubt that the night was as starry, that the moon was as full, or that the air was as warm as I think of it now.
But I am convinced that the laughs we shared were as loud, the excitement was as tangible, and the sense of freedom was real as I remember.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Steal This Paper!
This column originally appeared in June , 2005. It re-appeared on June 17, 2007.
Our days begin with trouble here.
By here, I mean the normally placid sidewalks of South Church Street, which of course I have already identified as the greatest street in Chester County. And by trouble, I mean the sudden presence of a wicked, hidden figure who has disrupted our peaceful lives.
Someone, you see, is stealing our newspapers.
Well, OK, not my newspaper. My newspaper sits on my desk in this office, safe as can be, guarded not only by the crack early morning staff of Jane and Sue, but also by the simple fact of supply. There are dozens of copies of today‘s daily in the building, so if you want one you don‘t really have to go to the length of appropriating one that belongs to somebody else. You probably have one sitting on your desk when you walk in anyway; why steal what you already have?
No, the purloined copies belong to my neighbors. For several days now, they emerge from their twin homes expecting to begin their day with a taste of community, nation and world goings on, only an empty delivery. Calls to circulation managers confirm that the paper was thrown; deduction proves that the papers were stolen.
We know things about the thief, and intend to find out more until apprehension is made.
Our days begin with trouble here.
By here, I mean the normally placid sidewalks of South Church Street, which of course I have already identified as the greatest street in Chester County. And by trouble, I mean the sudden presence of a wicked, hidden figure who has disrupted our peaceful lives.
Someone, you see, is stealing our newspapers.
Well, OK, not my newspaper. My newspaper sits on my desk in this office, safe as can be, guarded not only by the crack early morning staff of Jane and Sue, but also by the simple fact of supply. There are dozens of copies of today‘s daily in the building, so if you want one you don‘t really have to go to the length of appropriating one that belongs to somebody else. You probably have one sitting on your desk when you walk in anyway; why steal what you already have?
No, the purloined copies belong to my neighbors. For several days now, they emerge from their twin homes expecting to begin their day with a taste of community, nation and world goings on, only an empty delivery. Calls to circulation managers confirm that the paper was thrown; deduction proves that the papers were stolen.
We know things about the thief, and intend to find out more until apprehension is made.
- The thief is a morning person: the papers are gone before the clock strikes seven. Strange, because it is daylight at that time of morning now, so there is not even the cover of darkness to aid the crime.
- The thief has broad tastes: Not only does he/she take the Daily Local News — of which I am secretly proud — but then stops to pick up a copy of the New York Times as well. I am sure he/she dives into the Local first, getting a fix on the hometown community first, then runs off to the larger world.
- The thief may be reading this right now: Of course, it could be that he/she skips the news pages completely and goes right to the sports pages to check on the latest boy‘s lacrosse tilt, but I‘d prefer to think otherwise. If you are going to go to the trouble of stealing something, you might as well make the best use of it.
The situation has left a bad taste in our mouths. We‘ve largely avoided such problems here. I‘ve lived on the block for better than 20 years — my neighbors longer — and can‘t remember more than one break-in. I had a backpack lifted from my car once, but I admit to having left the window rolled down, more or less inviting the theft.
We don‘t have a lot of rowdiness or car-scratching or vandalism, and the trash that is left on the doorsteps tends to get disposed of rather quickly. As I said, it‘s pretty much a perfect world.
So what are we doing to stop this? Sorry, I can‘t give out that information. Rest assured, however, we are narrowing our suspects.
But just as an aside, I‘d like to offer a token of redemption to the thief: 610-430-1172. That‘s the Daily Local's circulation department‘s phone number. They‘ll be happy to help.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
This appeared on Sunday, June 10, 2007
I know what you‘re thinking. I hear what you‘re saying. But if you think that I‘m going to join in the chorus and sing along to the same tune, you should take a deep breath, lie down, and let the notion pass.
You say that the streets of West Chester are a bit torn up. You say that ”a bit torn up“ is just a polite way of saying that the surface of the moon provides a better ride than the streets of West Chester. You say that driving in downtown Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, is a smoother commute than trying to make it around the streets of West Chester.
You think that the fact that the ruts on our streets here in West Chester look like the canals of Venice without the water makes life here unpleasant. You think that the fact that our potholes have developed potholes is something that the borough elders should be concerned about. You think that we West Chester residents must dread making our way up West Market Street the way U.S. Attorney General Albert Gonzalez dreads walking into the U.S. Senate Judicial Committee hearing room.
But all of that just proves that you don‘t know us.
We don‘t complain that the streets are a bit torn up. We don‘t complain that making a quick trip on the borough‘s blacktop is something like jumping on one of those electric ”Bucking Bronco“ rides outside the local K-Mart, with its endless back-and-forth and up-and-down rocking motion, only more expensive. We don‘t complain that, because of the roadwork detours in the borough, our path from one end of the town to the other now resembles the route taken by the mouse who gets put in a maze and has to find the block of cheese without getting an electric shock.
We don‘t complain, because we quit complaining about our streets sometime in the late years of the George H.W. Bush administration. Complaining about the street conditions in West Chester is by its own nature the very definition of pointlessness. When new neighbors who have moved here from the relatively well-maintained streets of Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, start to complain about street conditions in West Chester, we look at them and smile the sad smile of a wizened parent about to tell their child that simply asking Santa to bring you a wide-screen, flat-panel, wall-hanging HDTV with TiVo access and satellite dish hookup doesn‘t necessarily mean that it‘s going to be sitting underneath the tree on Christmas morning.
More than that, however, is that we know that at some point all this trouble is going to lead to something beautiful. We know that, like the aging starlet who has bandages wrapped all around her face from the tuck ‘n‘ lift performed at Dr. 90210‘s office, soon everything is going to look 20 years younger and a whole lot smoother.
We know this because every winter the snow piles up over our cars and the ice forms in chunks over the roads and we can‘t find a parking space without plowing through a small mountain of slush. And within the span of just a few short months, it‘s all gone and we‘re back to life as we love it.
Dodging potholes.
I know what you‘re thinking. I hear what you‘re saying. But if you think that I‘m going to join in the chorus and sing along to the same tune, you should take a deep breath, lie down, and let the notion pass.
You say that the streets of West Chester are a bit torn up. You say that ”a bit torn up“ is just a polite way of saying that the surface of the moon provides a better ride than the streets of West Chester. You say that driving in downtown Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, is a smoother commute than trying to make it around the streets of West Chester.
You think that the fact that the ruts on our streets here in West Chester look like the canals of Venice without the water makes life here unpleasant. You think that the fact that our potholes have developed potholes is something that the borough elders should be concerned about. You think that we West Chester residents must dread making our way up West Market Street the way U.S. Attorney General Albert Gonzalez dreads walking into the U.S. Senate Judicial Committee hearing room.
But all of that just proves that you don‘t know us.
We don‘t complain that the streets are a bit torn up. We don‘t complain that making a quick trip on the borough‘s blacktop is something like jumping on one of those electric ”Bucking Bronco“ rides outside the local K-Mart, with its endless back-and-forth and up-and-down rocking motion, only more expensive. We don‘t complain that, because of the roadwork detours in the borough, our path from one end of the town to the other now resembles the route taken by the mouse who gets put in a maze and has to find the block of cheese without getting an electric shock.
We don‘t complain, because we quit complaining about our streets sometime in the late years of the George H.W. Bush administration. Complaining about the street conditions in West Chester is by its own nature the very definition of pointlessness. When new neighbors who have moved here from the relatively well-maintained streets of Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, start to complain about street conditions in West Chester, we look at them and smile the sad smile of a wizened parent about to tell their child that simply asking Santa to bring you a wide-screen, flat-panel, wall-hanging HDTV with TiVo access and satellite dish hookup doesn‘t necessarily mean that it‘s going to be sitting underneath the tree on Christmas morning.
More than that, however, is that we know that at some point all this trouble is going to lead to something beautiful. We know that, like the aging starlet who has bandages wrapped all around her face from the tuck ‘n‘ lift performed at Dr. 90210‘s office, soon everything is going to look 20 years younger and a whole lot smoother.
We know this because every winter the snow piles up over our cars and the ice forms in chunks over the roads and we can‘t find a parking space without plowing through a small mountain of slush. And within the span of just a few short months, it‘s all gone and we‘re back to life as we love it.
Dodging potholes.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
How Earl's Phone Changed the World
This appeared on Sunday, June 3, 2007
Roger Lerch, perhaps my favorite teacher, told us students in his Modern European History course at Walnut Hills High School in Cincinnati, Ohio, back in September 1974, that the world had changed more in the past 150 years than it had in the previous 2,000.
And at the time, he hadn‘t even ordered a sandwich at Wawa without ever having to actually speak a single, solitary word.
The memory of Mr. Lerch, and of his remark, came to me upon the visit to the Daily Local News of Molly Morrison, the president of the Natural Lands Trust and former head chef and chief bottle washer on the fifth floor of the Chester County Courthouse, the aerie of the commissioners and their staff.
I hadn‘t seen Molly in a long while, and she hadn‘t been to the Daily Local News offices in a decade or more. So with others in the room, our reunion led to a series of memories about past tribulations between the newspaper, me, Molly and, of course, Commissioner Extrordinaire Earl M. Baker, Molly‘s original patron.
The story we both remembered and liked the best was the saga of Earl‘s car phone.
The year being 1984 or so, mobile telephones were something new to the landscape. And Earl, being a man who craved communication of any kind, (He once told me the sentence he least liked reading in the newspaper was: ”Baker could not be reached for comment.“) decided he needed one. So he got the county to ante up.
For us in the press, it seemed the story of a lifetime. A phone for his car? Who did Earl think he was — the president of the United States?
So we took the ball and ran with it. Story after story, day after day. Who else in government had car phones? Who did Earl talk to on the thing? What were the Chester County taxpayers shelling out for him to jabber whilst cruising down the Schuylkill? We even got a cartoonist to draw a picture of a Princess Phone on wheels, with Earl‘s photo superimposed on the dial.
The phone itself was — so I have heard — enormous, bigger than a small dog and about as easy to manipulate.
And today? Governments hand out taxpayer-funded cell phones like politicians used to hand out lollypops. If the Daily Local News were to opine on the nonessential nature of government-paid cell phones, readers would look at us like we were publishing from the planet Neptune, not Lionville.
So I thought about how times had changed, and how technology has sped up so incredibly that something which was shockingly unnecessary 20 years ago is today considered hopelessly out of date — like Earl‘s massive car phone.
The next day, I found myself standing in line at the Wawa wanting to order a sandwich, and being completely ignored by the deli staff. I noticed a screen or two near the counter and realized that ordering now had to be done by means of a touch menu. Within a few moments I had my salami with provolone paid for and in a bag and out the door.
But I had not spoken a single, solitary word to anyone involved in the process, nor did they expect me to.
And that, Mr. Lerch, makes me yearn just a little for the days before the world changed.
Roger Lerch, perhaps my favorite teacher, told us students in his Modern European History course at Walnut Hills High School in Cincinnati, Ohio, back in September 1974, that the world had changed more in the past 150 years than it had in the previous 2,000.
And at the time, he hadn‘t even ordered a sandwich at Wawa without ever having to actually speak a single, solitary word.
The memory of Mr. Lerch, and of his remark, came to me upon the visit to the Daily Local News of Molly Morrison, the president of the Natural Lands Trust and former head chef and chief bottle washer on the fifth floor of the Chester County Courthouse, the aerie of the commissioners and their staff.
I hadn‘t seen Molly in a long while, and she hadn‘t been to the Daily Local News offices in a decade or more. So with others in the room, our reunion led to a series of memories about past tribulations between the newspaper, me, Molly and, of course, Commissioner Extrordinaire Earl M. Baker, Molly‘s original patron.
The story we both remembered and liked the best was the saga of Earl‘s car phone.
The year being 1984 or so, mobile telephones were something new to the landscape. And Earl, being a man who craved communication of any kind, (He once told me the sentence he least liked reading in the newspaper was: ”Baker could not be reached for comment.“) decided he needed one. So he got the county to ante up.
For us in the press, it seemed the story of a lifetime. A phone for his car? Who did Earl think he was — the president of the United States?
So we took the ball and ran with it. Story after story, day after day. Who else in government had car phones? Who did Earl talk to on the thing? What were the Chester County taxpayers shelling out for him to jabber whilst cruising down the Schuylkill? We even got a cartoonist to draw a picture of a Princess Phone on wheels, with Earl‘s photo superimposed on the dial.
The phone itself was — so I have heard — enormous, bigger than a small dog and about as easy to manipulate.
And today? Governments hand out taxpayer-funded cell phones like politicians used to hand out lollypops. If the Daily Local News were to opine on the nonessential nature of government-paid cell phones, readers would look at us like we were publishing from the planet Neptune, not Lionville.
So I thought about how times had changed, and how technology has sped up so incredibly that something which was shockingly unnecessary 20 years ago is today considered hopelessly out of date — like Earl‘s massive car phone.
The next day, I found myself standing in line at the Wawa wanting to order a sandwich, and being completely ignored by the deli staff. I noticed a screen or two near the counter and realized that ordering now had to be done by means of a touch menu. Within a few moments I had my salami with provolone paid for and in a bag and out the door.
But I had not spoken a single, solitary word to anyone involved in the process, nor did they expect me to.
And that, Mr. Lerch, makes me yearn just a little for the days before the world changed.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A Way To Name That Creek!
This appeared on May 27, 2007
The plight of the Orphan Creeks of Chester County has been well documented, at least in this space. They are the creeks and streams and runs scattered throughout the county that —while making a real contribution to the community and its environment, by way of playing the role of tributary to larger creeks and streams and runs — have been left off the map, if you will, by going unnamed.
And while our local politicians have seen fit this election season to weigh in on supposedly more weighty topics such as property tax reform, liquor tax implementation and turnpike privatization, they have been strangely silent on the issue of giving names to those proud but officially ignored bodies of water.
Not one of the recently nominated candidates for county commissioner, Democrat or Republican, for instance, bothered to make even passing reference to the Orphan Creek Scandal in his or her acceptance speech. Their message, thus far, has seemed to be: "Millions, no … billions, no … umptydumptygazillions!!! for open space; not one dime for creek names."
How sad and ineffectual they all must find themselves when their children look to them for true leadership and see only abject failure.
But citizens, I am here to tell you that it is not too late, nor in any way impossible, for us to take matters into our own hands and begin to right this wrong of monumental proportions. You, me and your Aunt Sarah can all take part in naming the Orphan Creeks of Chester County. All it takes is a trip to the Web site for the U.S. Board on Geographic Names; its got a form there for just that purpose.
Water Resources Executive Director Jan Bowers, aka ”The Stream Queen of Chester County,“ assures me that although all of the large creeks and most of the medium sized ones here have names, many do not. Or if they do, they are ”local“ names, not known outside of a few villagers and people through whose backyards the creeks cut, streams flow and the runs, well, run. So it wouldn‘t be like you‘d slap a name like ”Dinniman Run“ on that trickle that runs through your West Nottingham neighborhood, only to find that it already has been named Hog Run.
There‘s a list of the names already taken, so you can check to make sure your nomination wouldn‘t trample on others' toes. Like Massacre Run or Leech Run or Dennis Run or Pigeon Creek or Trout Creek or Two Log Run or Jug Hollow. Just use your imagination.
I started this quest a few weeks ago by wondering what was the name of the stream that flows in back of the Downingtown Friends Meeting. One caller suggested that she knew it as a child as Park Run, but no such name exists on my BGN list. The caller suggested that I check with Francis Brown, the local historian and eminent Quaker, whose property through which the stream runs.
But knowing what I know of Mr. Brown, his place in the community and love for that stream, I think the better choice would be to fill out the BGN naming form in his honor.
That‘s : http://geonames.usgs.gov/bgn.html.
The plight of the Orphan Creeks of Chester County has been well documented, at least in this space. They are the creeks and streams and runs scattered throughout the county that —while making a real contribution to the community and its environment, by way of playing the role of tributary to larger creeks and streams and runs — have been left off the map, if you will, by going unnamed.
And while our local politicians have seen fit this election season to weigh in on supposedly more weighty topics such as property tax reform, liquor tax implementation and turnpike privatization, they have been strangely silent on the issue of giving names to those proud but officially ignored bodies of water.
Not one of the recently nominated candidates for county commissioner, Democrat or Republican, for instance, bothered to make even passing reference to the Orphan Creek Scandal in his or her acceptance speech. Their message, thus far, has seemed to be: "Millions, no … billions, no … umptydumptygazillions!!! for open space; not one dime for creek names."
How sad and ineffectual they all must find themselves when their children look to them for true leadership and see only abject failure.
But citizens, I am here to tell you that it is not too late, nor in any way impossible, for us to take matters into our own hands and begin to right this wrong of monumental proportions. You, me and your Aunt Sarah can all take part in naming the Orphan Creeks of Chester County. All it takes is a trip to the Web site for the U.S. Board on Geographic Names; its got a form there for just that purpose.
Water Resources Executive Director Jan Bowers, aka ”The Stream Queen of Chester County,“ assures me that although all of the large creeks and most of the medium sized ones here have names, many do not. Or if they do, they are ”local“ names, not known outside of a few villagers and people through whose backyards the creeks cut, streams flow and the runs, well, run. So it wouldn‘t be like you‘d slap a name like ”Dinniman Run“ on that trickle that runs through your West Nottingham neighborhood, only to find that it already has been named Hog Run.
There‘s a list of the names already taken, so you can check to make sure your nomination wouldn‘t trample on others' toes. Like Massacre Run or Leech Run or Dennis Run or Pigeon Creek or Trout Creek or Two Log Run or Jug Hollow. Just use your imagination.
I started this quest a few weeks ago by wondering what was the name of the stream that flows in back of the Downingtown Friends Meeting. One caller suggested that she knew it as a child as Park Run, but no such name exists on my BGN list. The caller suggested that I check with Francis Brown, the local historian and eminent Quaker, whose property through which the stream runs.
But knowing what I know of Mr. Brown, his place in the community and love for that stream, I think the better choice would be to fill out the BGN naming form in his honor.
That‘s : http://geonames.usgs.gov/bgn.html.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Coconut Soda, and Other Mysteries
This appeared on Sunday, May 20, 2007
They say the difference between young people and old folks is the level of self-awareness one gathers as one gains in years. Perhaps it is the result of making mistakes over the years, seeing others do so, or just because we‘ve lived with ourselves for so long, but as we enter the second half of our lives we come to know better what makes us who we are.
So now that I‘ve reached that stage in life when people ask me how I‘m feeling because they want to know if the arthritis has kicked in yet, I want to let you know the one truth I am most certain about concerning myself.
That is that I should never be left alone in an ethnic grocery store with a pocketful of cash, or a working credit card.
The phrase "kid in a candy store" is as picture-perfect an image for me wandering the aisles of a Latino or Asian or Indian market as you are going to get. I put things in my shopping cart I‘ve never seen before, and buy way too many things I already have at home.
Consider: On a recent morning, as an excuse for research for this column, I drove over to the Qualy (I think they mean "Quality," but I could be wrong) Food Asian Market in Frazier, just to get the sense of some of the things one might find on the shelves of such a store. Just need to jot down a few names of things, I told myself. Be in and out in five minutes. Ten tops. Fifteen at the outside.
Half an hour later, I left with a shopping bag full of frozen shrimp springs rolls, two family-size tubes of wasabe paste, three bottles of chili-sesame oil, and two packages of Korean Pan Cakes, instructions: "1. Heat in toaster or oven until they are hot. 2. Eat with any kind of dish or butter or cheese." I like that — ”Eat with any kind of dish.“ Makes dinner preparation a snap.
I realize that this proclivity for purchasing exotic items is not altogether without its benefits. I‘ve discovered a lot of very good foods just by throwing things in the basket because they look interesting — soba noodles, chorizo sausage and gyoza of every description, for starters.
But there is also a part of me that simply revels in the wonder of these markets when everything is foreign, even the advertising posters on the walls, and yet located just down the street from me. I mean, what are dried olive kernels used for anyway? I haven‘t a clue, but there they are on the shelf at Qualy, right next to something called "Dried Lillium Lancifolum Thunb."
"Thunb?"
I‘d like someone familiar with ethnic foodstuffs and cooking to accompany me on my trips, just so I can ask them what you actually do with crispy soybean sauce, or chu hou sauce, or black fungus in a can. What are these odd looking strands of fiber packaged in cellophane in the noodle section of the store? What do Coco Rico Coconut Soda and Fried Round Gluten taste like?
Thanks goodness that when I left Qualy that Purvis Indian Market was closed, or I‘d still be there, wondering why they package chick peas in lychee syrup.
They say the difference between young people and old folks is the level of self-awareness one gathers as one gains in years. Perhaps it is the result of making mistakes over the years, seeing others do so, or just because we‘ve lived with ourselves for so long, but as we enter the second half of our lives we come to know better what makes us who we are.
So now that I‘ve reached that stage in life when people ask me how I‘m feeling because they want to know if the arthritis has kicked in yet, I want to let you know the one truth I am most certain about concerning myself.
That is that I should never be left alone in an ethnic grocery store with a pocketful of cash, or a working credit card.
The phrase "kid in a candy store" is as picture-perfect an image for me wandering the aisles of a Latino or Asian or Indian market as you are going to get. I put things in my shopping cart I‘ve never seen before, and buy way too many things I already have at home.
Consider: On a recent morning, as an excuse for research for this column, I drove over to the Qualy (I think they mean "Quality," but I could be wrong) Food Asian Market in Frazier, just to get the sense of some of the things one might find on the shelves of such a store. Just need to jot down a few names of things, I told myself. Be in and out in five minutes. Ten tops. Fifteen at the outside.
Half an hour later, I left with a shopping bag full of frozen shrimp springs rolls, two family-size tubes of wasabe paste, three bottles of chili-sesame oil, and two packages of Korean Pan Cakes, instructions: "1. Heat in toaster or oven until they are hot. 2. Eat with any kind of dish or butter or cheese." I like that — ”Eat with any kind of dish.“ Makes dinner preparation a snap.
I realize that this proclivity for purchasing exotic items is not altogether without its benefits. I‘ve discovered a lot of very good foods just by throwing things in the basket because they look interesting — soba noodles, chorizo sausage and gyoza of every description, for starters.
But there is also a part of me that simply revels in the wonder of these markets when everything is foreign, even the advertising posters on the walls, and yet located just down the street from me. I mean, what are dried olive kernels used for anyway? I haven‘t a clue, but there they are on the shelf at Qualy, right next to something called "Dried Lillium Lancifolum Thunb."
"Thunb?"
I‘d like someone familiar with ethnic foodstuffs and cooking to accompany me on my trips, just so I can ask them what you actually do with crispy soybean sauce, or chu hou sauce, or black fungus in a can. What are these odd looking strands of fiber packaged in cellophane in the noodle section of the store? What do Coco Rico Coconut Soda and Fried Round Gluten taste like?
Thanks goodness that when I left Qualy that Purvis Indian Market was closed, or I‘d still be there, wondering why they package chick peas in lychee syrup.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Message For Readers
Some people may want to go to the www.dailylocal.com Website and look for my blog posts there. Good luck!
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
The Creeks With No Name
This appeared on Sunday, May 6, 2007
If you call up Google maps on the Internet and type in Downingtown, Pa., with a little trial and error you can see a satellite image of the creek that runs behind the Downingtown Friends Meetinghouse.
Not to be a wiseacre about it, but it‘s a friendly creek — big enough not to be a mere drainage ditch but small enough for children to splash around in on a hot summer day while their parents do whatever it is adults do after Quaker meeting is over, without them getting in deep trouble. Or hot water, if you will.
But here‘s the rub. So far as I can tell, it does not have a name. It is a tributary of the East Branch of the Brandywine Creek, so it has a purpose in life. It makes a contribution to the greater good, to the larger whole, and yet it is left nameless — at least on printed maps.
And it is not alone. Looking at the latest edition of Franklin Maps‘ atlas for Chester and Delaware counties, I found countless examples of identifiable bodies of water that have no identity ascribed to them. (Well, countless only in the respect that I really didn‘t feel like counting them.) There they are, drawn onto the map like small blue veins stringing along the countryside of West Whiteland or East Nantmeal or whichever Coventry you care to examine, and they are as nameless as Clint Eastwood‘s character in "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly."
They are the Orphan Creeks of Chester County.
Now, I am certain that everyone reading this has their own favorite creek in Chester County, although I‘m going to bet that a good 65 percent immediately go with the Brandywine, east or west branch, as their personal favorite. Fine. If you want to go with the obvious choice — if you want to root for the Yankees or the Cowboys or one of the easy winners — I‘m not going to denegrate you. What some people lack in creative selectivity I‘m sure they make up for in other ways, like an acute passion for dusting or dishwashing.
Me, I go Valley Creek. Not the Valley Creek in Valley Forge, mind you, but the East Bradford-West Whiteland Valley Creek. If the Brandywine Creek is the Pennsylvania Turnpike of Chester County creeks — flat, straight, wide, well-trafficked, boring — then Valley Creek is San Francisco‘s Lombard Street.
It curves and weaves and twists its way through the woods, emerging here and disappearing there, only to turn up crossing your path just a few yards up the road when you least expect it. It‘s clean and swift and bubbly and full of trout, enviable characteristics for any creek.
And it‘s is a lucky creek, too, because it has a name. Just like the Big Elk or the Octoraro or the Red Clay or the White Clay or the Crum or the Ridley or the Radley French Pickering Bucktoe or Marsh, you can talk about it like it‘s a person in the room.
The Orphan Creeks don‘t have that same luck, and I say it‘s time to correct that. I say the next time one of the candidates for county commissioner knocks on your door, you bring up the Orphan Creeks to them.
See what they say.
If you call up Google maps on the Internet and type in Downingtown, Pa., with a little trial and error you can see a satellite image of the creek that runs behind the Downingtown Friends Meetinghouse.
Not to be a wiseacre about it, but it‘s a friendly creek — big enough not to be a mere drainage ditch but small enough for children to splash around in on a hot summer day while their parents do whatever it is adults do after Quaker meeting is over, without them getting in deep trouble. Or hot water, if you will.
But here‘s the rub. So far as I can tell, it does not have a name. It is a tributary of the East Branch of the Brandywine Creek, so it has a purpose in life. It makes a contribution to the greater good, to the larger whole, and yet it is left nameless — at least on printed maps.
And it is not alone. Looking at the latest edition of Franklin Maps‘ atlas for Chester and Delaware counties, I found countless examples of identifiable bodies of water that have no identity ascribed to them. (Well, countless only in the respect that I really didn‘t feel like counting them.) There they are, drawn onto the map like small blue veins stringing along the countryside of West Whiteland or East Nantmeal or whichever Coventry you care to examine, and they are as nameless as Clint Eastwood‘s character in "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly."
They are the Orphan Creeks of Chester County.
Now, I am certain that everyone reading this has their own favorite creek in Chester County, although I‘m going to bet that a good 65 percent immediately go with the Brandywine, east or west branch, as their personal favorite. Fine. If you want to go with the obvious choice — if you want to root for the Yankees or the Cowboys or one of the easy winners — I‘m not going to denegrate you. What some people lack in creative selectivity I‘m sure they make up for in other ways, like an acute passion for dusting or dishwashing.
Me, I go Valley Creek. Not the Valley Creek in Valley Forge, mind you, but the East Bradford-West Whiteland Valley Creek. If the Brandywine Creek is the Pennsylvania Turnpike of Chester County creeks — flat, straight, wide, well-trafficked, boring — then Valley Creek is San Francisco‘s Lombard Street.
It curves and weaves and twists its way through the woods, emerging here and disappearing there, only to turn up crossing your path just a few yards up the road when you least expect it. It‘s clean and swift and bubbly and full of trout, enviable characteristics for any creek.
And it‘s is a lucky creek, too, because it has a name. Just like the Big Elk or the Octoraro or the Red Clay or the White Clay or the Crum or the Ridley or the Radley French Pickering Bucktoe or Marsh, you can talk about it like it‘s a person in the room.
The Orphan Creeks don‘t have that same luck, and I say it‘s time to correct that. I say the next time one of the candidates for county commissioner knocks on your door, you bring up the Orphan Creeks to them.
See what they say.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Twin Churches of Chester Springs
This appeared on Sunday, April 29, 2007
When I was 10 or 11, my father, a chemistry professor, brought home a vial of mercury for me to play with. I found it fascinating. When I poured some of it out and tried to put my finger on it, it squirted away. You could not pin it down.
Sort of like Chester Springs, in northern Chester County.
I find that Chester Springs — that tweed, cheese and horse-dung community referred to as ”one of the most affluent and desirable locations in Southeast Pennsylvania‘“ — keeps moving, stretching its limits like mercury on a glass table. Supposed to contain only parts Upper Uwchlan, West Pikeland, East Nantmeal and West Vincent, I find that people who live in East Pikeland or Uwchlan or Charlestown are creepingly beginning to answer ”Chester Springs“ when someone asks where they live. Soon it will extend to the outskirts of Exton.
It‘s the Postal Desirability Factor at work. You can‘t blame people who would rather have the distinction of having a Chester Springs address than one from say, Phoenixville or Royersford.
Finding the limits of Chester Springs may be difficult, but for me the heart of the place is right where Conestoga Road meets Fellowship Road. It‘s there that years ago I stumbled across a trio of spiritual symbols of Chester Springs.
Two still stand, the third is no more.
The first two I like to call the Twin Churches of Chester Springs, although they do not resemble one another, not in any physical sense, but rather by the saint from whom they took their names — St. Matthew. On one side of the road you‘ve got St. Matthew‘s United Church of Christ, a comfortable looking, homey sort of a building that just exudes a sense of history.
A few hundred yards up the road you‘ve got St. Matthew‘s Evangelical Lutheran Church, a stately building that would not look out of place among the grand churches of Old City, Philadelphia.
You‘d think that there might be a copycat name-calling game going on between the two congregations, but those I spoke with assure me that‘s not the case. The two churches sprung, you see, from the same source, back when congregations shared buildings for convenience sake.
The Lutheran and Reformed churches went their separate ways in 1879, when the Lutherans decided to build their own house of worship.
The split was supposed to be amicable, and I see no reason to believe otherwise, seeing as the Reformed folks threw in $1,000, a wood stove and half the books in the church library to seal the deal. But I do note that the Reformers took their sweet time granting the dissolution — putting it off once owing to the weather being ”very rainy“ and again because, according to a church history, ”the matter escaped notice.“
Diane Myer, the church secretary at St. Matthew‘s United, told me that the two congregations get together sometimes for joint outdoor services, and I‘m sure the Lutherans do like to come down for the chicken barbeque dinners the Uniteds sell in the summer. There‘s some ambiguity, though, about who is who, and Myers told me that travelers confuse one church for the other ”all the time.“
Oh, and the third part of my Chester Springs triumvirate? That would be the Fellowship Road barn that used to hold a private squash court. Playing squash inside a barn is the height of the tweed, cheese and horse-dung life, it seems to me.
When I was 10 or 11, my father, a chemistry professor, brought home a vial of mercury for me to play with. I found it fascinating. When I poured some of it out and tried to put my finger on it, it squirted away. You could not pin it down.
Sort of like Chester Springs, in northern Chester County.
I find that Chester Springs — that tweed, cheese and horse-dung community referred to as ”one of the most affluent and desirable locations in Southeast Pennsylvania‘“ — keeps moving, stretching its limits like mercury on a glass table. Supposed to contain only parts Upper Uwchlan, West Pikeland, East Nantmeal and West Vincent, I find that people who live in East Pikeland or Uwchlan or Charlestown are creepingly beginning to answer ”Chester Springs“ when someone asks where they live. Soon it will extend to the outskirts of Exton.
It‘s the Postal Desirability Factor at work. You can‘t blame people who would rather have the distinction of having a Chester Springs address than one from say, Phoenixville or Royersford.
Finding the limits of Chester Springs may be difficult, but for me the heart of the place is right where Conestoga Road meets Fellowship Road. It‘s there that years ago I stumbled across a trio of spiritual symbols of Chester Springs.
Two still stand, the third is no more.
The first two I like to call the Twin Churches of Chester Springs, although they do not resemble one another, not in any physical sense, but rather by the saint from whom they took their names — St. Matthew. On one side of the road you‘ve got St. Matthew‘s United Church of Christ, a comfortable looking, homey sort of a building that just exudes a sense of history.
A few hundred yards up the road you‘ve got St. Matthew‘s Evangelical Lutheran Church, a stately building that would not look out of place among the grand churches of Old City, Philadelphia.
You‘d think that there might be a copycat name-calling game going on between the two congregations, but those I spoke with assure me that‘s not the case. The two churches sprung, you see, from the same source, back when congregations shared buildings for convenience sake.
The Lutheran and Reformed churches went their separate ways in 1879, when the Lutherans decided to build their own house of worship.
The split was supposed to be amicable, and I see no reason to believe otherwise, seeing as the Reformed folks threw in $1,000, a wood stove and half the books in the church library to seal the deal. But I do note that the Reformers took their sweet time granting the dissolution — putting it off once owing to the weather being ”very rainy“ and again because, according to a church history, ”the matter escaped notice.“
Diane Myer, the church secretary at St. Matthew‘s United, told me that the two congregations get together sometimes for joint outdoor services, and I‘m sure the Lutherans do like to come down for the chicken barbeque dinners the Uniteds sell in the summer. There‘s some ambiguity, though, about who is who, and Myers told me that travelers confuse one church for the other ”all the time.“
Oh, and the third part of my Chester Springs triumvirate? That would be the Fellowship Road barn that used to hold a private squash court. Playing squash inside a barn is the height of the tweed, cheese and horse-dung life, it seems to me.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Boro' to 'Bucks: Drop Dead
This appeared on Sunday, April 22, 2007
Remember when you were a freshman in college and there was this person, this beautiful blond, who you really wanted to meet? Maybe get to know them, maybe start a relationship, maybe propose, maybe settle down, maybe raise a family and buy a mortgage and send the kids to college and celebrate each other‘s 50th birthday and retire to the South of France with? Remember that?
But they weren‘t having any of you. They were just way too cool for you, and they had other friends to be with and places to go and Spring Break vacations to take, and you, well, you just weren‘t up to their speed. Remember that?
Then you made a splash in the college newspaper because you had been cast in whatever MTV reality show was debuting that September (or whatever the 1960s equivalent of the MTV reality shows were), and all of a sudden your dream person started showing up at your dorm room around 7:30 a.m. wanting to know if you could accompany them to the cafeteria for breakfast and maybe have a ”study break“ later and then send the kids to college and retire to the South of France with. Remember that?
Then you will know how we felt when we heard the news that Starbucks is planning to open a café in West Chester.
After all this time, the Starbucks folks have decided that we here in West Chester are classy enough to be part of their ultra-hip, ubiquitous coffee culture. Not only will Starbucks come to town, but they‘ll be plopping down right smack dab in the middle of the borough, at the corner of High and Gay, where nobody can miss them, not even a West Chester University student walking home at 2:30 a.m. from a ”study break“ at Rex‘s Bar.
We are not amused.
Remember, this is the coffee company that decided it was better to open cafes in Paoli, Chester Springs, Kennett Square, Exton and Downingtown before coming to our fair borough. Remember, this is the coffee company that opened four, count ‘em, four outlets in Johore Bahru, Malaysia, before it opened one in downtown West Chester.
You think we‘re happy? You think we are going to start counting down the days until we can order up a grande of Ethiopean Yergachefee and crank up the Norah Jones on our iPods at the ‘Bucks? You couldn‘t be farther from the truth if you were Albert Gonzalez trying to explain the attorney general firings.
Read our lips, Starbucks folks: We don‘t want you anymore. We are not going to fall for your newly discovered attraction for our brick sidewalks, our historical county courthouse, our brightly painted street signs, our newly elected Democratic state legislators, and just roll over and order whatever size Breakfast Blend you tell us to, like we fell for that beautiful blond back in college.
You had your chance. We asked, nearly begged, for you to come here years ago and you ignored us. Coffee love has a small window of opportunity, and for you we have slammed it shut.
Now The Gap, on the other hand ...
Remember when you were a freshman in college and there was this person, this beautiful blond, who you really wanted to meet? Maybe get to know them, maybe start a relationship, maybe propose, maybe settle down, maybe raise a family and buy a mortgage and send the kids to college and celebrate each other‘s 50th birthday and retire to the South of France with? Remember that?
But they weren‘t having any of you. They were just way too cool for you, and they had other friends to be with and places to go and Spring Break vacations to take, and you, well, you just weren‘t up to their speed. Remember that?
Then you made a splash in the college newspaper because you had been cast in whatever MTV reality show was debuting that September (or whatever the 1960s equivalent of the MTV reality shows were), and all of a sudden your dream person started showing up at your dorm room around 7:30 a.m. wanting to know if you could accompany them to the cafeteria for breakfast and maybe have a ”study break“ later and then send the kids to college and retire to the South of France with. Remember that?
Then you will know how we felt when we heard the news that Starbucks is planning to open a café in West Chester.
After all this time, the Starbucks folks have decided that we here in West Chester are classy enough to be part of their ultra-hip, ubiquitous coffee culture. Not only will Starbucks come to town, but they‘ll be plopping down right smack dab in the middle of the borough, at the corner of High and Gay, where nobody can miss them, not even a West Chester University student walking home at 2:30 a.m. from a ”study break“ at Rex‘s Bar.
We are not amused.
Remember, this is the coffee company that decided it was better to open cafes in Paoli, Chester Springs, Kennett Square, Exton and Downingtown before coming to our fair borough. Remember, this is the coffee company that opened four, count ‘em, four outlets in Johore Bahru, Malaysia, before it opened one in downtown West Chester.
You think we‘re happy? You think we are going to start counting down the days until we can order up a grande of Ethiopean Yergachefee and crank up the Norah Jones on our iPods at the ‘Bucks? You couldn‘t be farther from the truth if you were Albert Gonzalez trying to explain the attorney general firings.
Read our lips, Starbucks folks: We don‘t want you anymore. We are not going to fall for your newly discovered attraction for our brick sidewalks, our historical county courthouse, our brightly painted street signs, our newly elected Democratic state legislators, and just roll over and order whatever size Breakfast Blend you tell us to, like we fell for that beautiful blond back in college.
You had your chance. We asked, nearly begged, for you to come here years ago and you ignored us. Coffee love has a small window of opportunity, and for you we have slammed it shut.
Now The Gap, on the other hand ...
Monday, April 09, 2007
Recalling Bitter/Better Days
This appeared on Sunday, April 8, 2007
It was one of the oddest stories I have ever covered.
In August 1988, my editor dispatched me to Valley Forge National Park, where the Ku Klux Klan was holding a hate rally.
I remember being miserable, and not simply because I would have to spend several hours covering what essentially was a non-event. It was a typical summer afternoon in northeast Chester County — hot and muggy, or what we journalists like to refer to as ”sun drenched“ — the type of afternoon I‘d rather spend sitting in an air conditioned theater watching the latest Scorsese.
I say non-event because there really was no news taking place that afternoon, in the sense that no one was being elected, no flooding had occurred, no politicians were being indicted. The news had already passed, after the Klan announced that they were going to rally at the park and the Park Service let them.
What remained was a bunch of slightly overweight white men dressed in the strange garb of the Klan, standing on an amphitheater that bore a vague resemblance to Stonehenge (prompting more than one droll aside from reporters about the intelligence of those participating in the rally), and saying not really much of anything.
If I dug out the story I wrote that day I could find a quote or two to share with you — something dealing with superiority or separation or subjugation or some such. But what struck me at the time was the lack of interest the Klan folks who spoke seemed to have for what they themselves were saying. They didn‘t put much passion into their declarations, and they drifted from one subject to another haphazardly.
Their main interest came from getting a reaction from the few people who gathered to protest their appearance. The crowd, such as it was, was separated from the Klansmen by a storm fence the park people had erected to keep the sides apart. The fence was 50 or more feet from the stage, I recall, so you had two groups yelling at one another from a block away. Not much excitement there.
The whole situation quickly became ridiculous, and I stayed only as long as I needed to, filling up about less than half my notebook before flipping it shut.
The scene came back to me last week after I took an afternoon drive to Valley Forge, hoping to see the park‘s flowering trees in full blossom. They weren‘t, so instead my mind wandered back to other days spent there.
I remember touring the historical aspects of the park with my mother, who never met a vacation that didn‘t involve some educational opportunity. I also remember a summer picnic with a young woman I was enamored with at the time, and who I thought would be impressed with my ability to wrap cold chicken in Saran Wrap and open a bottle of white wine with a corkscrew. (She wasn‘t.) I remember also seeing the flowering trees on Gulph Road Hill tinted with snow after a freak storm one late April morning.
And I felt better letting those memories overtake all that hate I had seen, that one hot summer day in August 1988.
It was one of the oddest stories I have ever covered.
In August 1988, my editor dispatched me to Valley Forge National Park, where the Ku Klux Klan was holding a hate rally.
I remember being miserable, and not simply because I would have to spend several hours covering what essentially was a non-event. It was a typical summer afternoon in northeast Chester County — hot and muggy, or what we journalists like to refer to as ”sun drenched“ — the type of afternoon I‘d rather spend sitting in an air conditioned theater watching the latest Scorsese.
I say non-event because there really was no news taking place that afternoon, in the sense that no one was being elected, no flooding had occurred, no politicians were being indicted. The news had already passed, after the Klan announced that they were going to rally at the park and the Park Service let them.
What remained was a bunch of slightly overweight white men dressed in the strange garb of the Klan, standing on an amphitheater that bore a vague resemblance to Stonehenge (prompting more than one droll aside from reporters about the intelligence of those participating in the rally), and saying not really much of anything.
If I dug out the story I wrote that day I could find a quote or two to share with you — something dealing with superiority or separation or subjugation or some such. But what struck me at the time was the lack of interest the Klan folks who spoke seemed to have for what they themselves were saying. They didn‘t put much passion into their declarations, and they drifted from one subject to another haphazardly.
Their main interest came from getting a reaction from the few people who gathered to protest their appearance. The crowd, such as it was, was separated from the Klansmen by a storm fence the park people had erected to keep the sides apart. The fence was 50 or more feet from the stage, I recall, so you had two groups yelling at one another from a block away. Not much excitement there.
The whole situation quickly became ridiculous, and I stayed only as long as I needed to, filling up about less than half my notebook before flipping it shut.
The scene came back to me last week after I took an afternoon drive to Valley Forge, hoping to see the park‘s flowering trees in full blossom. They weren‘t, so instead my mind wandered back to other days spent there.
I remember touring the historical aspects of the park with my mother, who never met a vacation that didn‘t involve some educational opportunity. I also remember a summer picnic with a young woman I was enamored with at the time, and who I thought would be impressed with my ability to wrap cold chicken in Saran Wrap and open a bottle of white wine with a corkscrew. (She wasn‘t.) I remember also seeing the flowering trees on Gulph Road Hill tinted with snow after a freak storm one late April morning.
And I felt better letting those memories overtake all that hate I had seen, that one hot summer day in August 1988.
Monday, April 02, 2007
A Modest Proposal
This appeared on Sunday, April 1, 2007
Although I am certain he means well, the new legislation that state Sen. Andy Dinniman, D-19th, of West Whiteland, introduced at a sparsely attended session of the Legislature last week seems to me to be, well, shall we say, a trifle odd.
His legislation, SB 90210, is termed the ”Chester County Open Space Creation Act of 2007.“ When you get past most of the legislative gobbledygook that these documents always include (”Whereas …“ ”Be it therefore resolved …“ ”The General Assembly of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania hereby enacts ...“ ”The term ’Dinniman‘ shall refer to the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful Legislator from Exton …“) what it comes down to is that Sen. Andy is tired of seeing open space in Chester County simply preserved; he now wants to actually make more of it.
Which I admit is a pretty nifty idea on its face. But somehow draining Marsh Creek State Park Lake and filling it in with prime topsoil from Carbon County appears to pose some engineering obstacles that might prove nettlesome, to say the least.
To his credit, Dinniman is optimistic about his plan.
"What a worthy goal this extensively researched legislation aspires to," the county‘s lone Democratic senator said in prepared comments. "For far too long, the waters of Marsh Creek Lake have taken up too much room, when that acreage could instead be a fertile plain among the landscape of Uwchlan Township, giving homeowners a place to walk their dogs, provided they are leashed.
"We all know that we can‘t just sit idly by while developers rape and pillage our hills and valleys and meadows and compost farms," Dinniman continued. "We‘ve got to be pro-active about this. What better way to start creating new open space than by also creating a massive civil service project that would bring new jobs to the underemployed in northern Chester County. Like, those so-called ’soccer‘ moms I see sipping Starbucks at Exton Square in the middle of the day. Don‘t they have a game to go to?"
Regarding the environmental impact of draining a 535-acre lake, Dinniman stated: "Impact, schmimpact. We‘ll grow grass there, and in my book green is good. Except for that moldy stuff that forms on my dog‘s teeth when we don‘t give him the right snacks."
At this point, it appears the biggest fallout over Dinniman‘s bill has been the introduction by state Rep. Carole Rubley of another piece of legislation, seemingly put together to keep her potential rival from getting the lead in the fast-developing Open Space Race.
Rubley, R-157th, of Tredyffrin, said her bill, HB 4-01-2007, the ”Even Better Chester County Open Space Creation Act“ would tackle two problems at once — making more open space and reducing rush-hour traffic.
"I know it would be expensive to tear down the entire Great Valley Corporate Center and return it to the farmland it once was," Rubley said. "But come on! How many cars would that take off 202 at the worst time of day, and how many more ears of corn could it put in the stalls at the West Chester Growers‘ Market? You do the math."
Me, I‘m reserving judgment on the entire thing.
P.S. Check the date on this posting.
Monday, March 26, 2007
All Things Elk
This appeared Sunday, March 25, 2007.
Elk Township has 10.4 square miles of land within its borders.
Elk Township has, as of the national census taken in 2000, 1,485 people living there.
Elk Township, located along the Mason-Dixon line in southern Chester County, east of East Nottingham, from which it was carved in 1857, and west of Franklin, has 27¼ miles of paved roads. The local government has claim to about 15½ miles of those roads, and the state owns the rest. It is a place you have to want to go to get there. You are not going to stumble upon Elk Township. You are not going to find yourself suddenly in Elk Township, all the while thinking you were driving to Wegman‘s, or the Herr’s Snack Co. for the factory tour. You have to get off the main road, and several smaller roads after that, to get to Elk Township.
Elk Township has, on my count, five villages: Elk Mills, Mount Rocky , Hickory Hill, Lewisville and Peacedale. I am going to live in Peacedale someday, even if it’s the last thing I do, because I can think of no better return address on my letters than "Peacedale PA." There is a house in Peacedale with a sign at the front of its driveway that reads: "Hope Hill."
Elk Township has real property assessed at $94,574,830, as of the last countywide reassessment. It has houses that were more than likely built sometime after Elk Township was carved out of the eastern portion of East Nottingham, and which when you drive by them remind you this was originally a county of farms and farmers, not developments and developers. It has ranch houses that you would not be surprised to see dotted along the suburban landscape of the 1960s, and at least one log cabin with an enormous American flag in the front yard. It also has some homes whose owners would likely be described as leading "secluded" lives, and some that would be completely at ease resting on the inside pages of Architectural Digest.
Elk Township has three covered bridges — the Glen Hope Bridge, the Rudolph and Arthur, and the Linton Stevens Bridge. The Glen Hope crosses the Little Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 10‘6“. The Rudolph and Arthur crosses the Big Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 9'0". It also has a house sitting next to it with a "No Trespassing" sign on a tree and a wooden mailbox that looks like a covered bridge. Both of these bridges do not allow bicycles to cross them, although I do not believe that rule to be strictly enforced. Once you cross the Linton Stevens Bridge you have to turn your car around immediately and go back unless you have a permit to drive on the road ahead. The Big Elk Creek is deeper and wider than the Little Elk Creek.
What Elk Township does not have is any number of large, wild, antlered, hooved members of the red deer family, known scientifically as Cervus canadensis and by Native Americans as wapiti, or "white rump."
That is to say, there are no elk in Elk.
Elk Township has 10.4 square miles of land within its borders.
Elk Township has, as of the national census taken in 2000, 1,485 people living there.
Elk Township, located along the Mason-Dixon line in southern Chester County, east of East Nottingham, from which it was carved in 1857, and west of Franklin, has 27¼ miles of paved roads. The local government has claim to about 15½ miles of those roads, and the state owns the rest. It is a place you have to want to go to get there. You are not going to stumble upon Elk Township. You are not going to find yourself suddenly in Elk Township, all the while thinking you were driving to Wegman‘s, or the Herr’s Snack Co. for the factory tour. You have to get off the main road, and several smaller roads after that, to get to Elk Township.
Elk Township has, on my count, five villages: Elk Mills, Mount Rocky , Hickory Hill, Lewisville and Peacedale. I am going to live in Peacedale someday, even if it’s the last thing I do, because I can think of no better return address on my letters than "Peacedale PA." There is a house in Peacedale with a sign at the front of its driveway that reads: "Hope Hill."
Elk Township has real property assessed at $94,574,830, as of the last countywide reassessment. It has houses that were more than likely built sometime after Elk Township was carved out of the eastern portion of East Nottingham, and which when you drive by them remind you this was originally a county of farms and farmers, not developments and developers. It has ranch houses that you would not be surprised to see dotted along the suburban landscape of the 1960s, and at least one log cabin with an enormous American flag in the front yard. It also has some homes whose owners would likely be described as leading "secluded" lives, and some that would be completely at ease resting on the inside pages of Architectural Digest.
Elk Township has three covered bridges — the Glen Hope Bridge, the Rudolph and Arthur, and the Linton Stevens Bridge. The Glen Hope crosses the Little Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 10‘6“. The Rudolph and Arthur crosses the Big Elk Creek and has a sign at the top of its crown that reads: HT 9'0". It also has a house sitting next to it with a "No Trespassing" sign on a tree and a wooden mailbox that looks like a covered bridge. Both of these bridges do not allow bicycles to cross them, although I do not believe that rule to be strictly enforced. Once you cross the Linton Stevens Bridge you have to turn your car around immediately and go back unless you have a permit to drive on the road ahead. The Big Elk Creek is deeper and wider than the Little Elk Creek.
What Elk Township does not have is any number of large, wild, antlered, hooved members of the red deer family, known scientifically as Cervus canadensis and by Native Americans as wapiti, or "white rump."
That is to say, there are no elk in Elk.
Monday, March 19, 2007
A Diner Sort of Guy
This appeared on Sunday, March 18, 2007
Had lunch the other day at Hooters.
(Pause.)
Now that I‘ve got your attention, I want to elaborate.
There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for what I was doing eating a meal at perhaps the world‘s cheesiest male-oriented restaurant chain, and by cheese I‘m not referring to the Swiss or the Camembert.
My friend had suggested that we get together on Thursday to catch some of the opening round of the NCAA Men‘s Basketball Tournament, but because our normal noontime meeting spot doesn‘t have wall-to-wall television sets we‘d need to pick a different venue.
Hooters, apparently, does have wall-to-wall television sets, sets which are permanently tuned to whatever sporting event is happening at that particular time, anywhere in the world.
My friend knows this because he‘s been there before, primarily, it seems, to watch the opening round of the aforementioned basketball tournament. There may also be some association in his mind between semi-naked men trying desperately to score and the whole Hooters concept, but never mind.
He‘s been to Hooters before, as I said, and he allowed when we got there that if Hooters had been extant while he was in his 20s, his life today would have been demonstrably different than it is, most likely for the worse. I imagine he meant that instead of being happily married with four delightful children, a good job, a house on a hill and a voter registration card with the word ”Democrat“ displayed prominently on it, he would probably be living in a rented room, jobless and near destitution, with only a Hooters' Girls calendar on the wall to keep him company.
Most likely he‘d also have voted for Bush. All four times.
I hadn‘t been to Hooters before, and he could see the discomfort with the whole situation in my face when we got a cheery ”Hi there, guys!“ from our waitress. He‘s pretty much used to my various states of discomfort, but this time he wasn‘t having any of it.
"You‘d be honest with yourself if you just acknowledged the fact that you really enjoy having food and drink served to you by a perky blonde/brunette/redhead in a tank top and nylon orange shorts," he told me. "Just look inside yourself," he said, "and respond to your inner … something or other. Let go and admit that the whole thing is fun."
But I don‘t see myself as a Hooters sort of guy.
I‘m more of a diner sort, and have been ever since my father sat me down at the counter at the Toddle House on Clifton Avenue in Cincinnati when I was 8 and ordered me a cheeseburger and a cup of hot chocolate, while he flirted with the 65-year-old waitress, who was probably named Irene.
Since then, I‘ve always tried my best to establish a friendly working relationship with all of the waitresses that have served me on a regular basis over the years, and have succeeded more times than not in developing a server-servee friendship not based on too much artifice. Also, without orange shorts on either side of the counter.
I‘d like to keep it that way. Besides, the local Hooters is in Concordville, and I don‘t do Delaware County very well.
Had lunch the other day at Hooters.
(Pause.)
Now that I‘ve got your attention, I want to elaborate.
There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for what I was doing eating a meal at perhaps the world‘s cheesiest male-oriented restaurant chain, and by cheese I‘m not referring to the Swiss or the Camembert.
My friend had suggested that we get together on Thursday to catch some of the opening round of the NCAA Men‘s Basketball Tournament, but because our normal noontime meeting spot doesn‘t have wall-to-wall television sets we‘d need to pick a different venue.
Hooters, apparently, does have wall-to-wall television sets, sets which are permanently tuned to whatever sporting event is happening at that particular time, anywhere in the world.
My friend knows this because he‘s been there before, primarily, it seems, to watch the opening round of the aforementioned basketball tournament. There may also be some association in his mind between semi-naked men trying desperately to score and the whole Hooters concept, but never mind.
He‘s been to Hooters before, as I said, and he allowed when we got there that if Hooters had been extant while he was in his 20s, his life today would have been demonstrably different than it is, most likely for the worse. I imagine he meant that instead of being happily married with four delightful children, a good job, a house on a hill and a voter registration card with the word ”Democrat“ displayed prominently on it, he would probably be living in a rented room, jobless and near destitution, with only a Hooters' Girls calendar on the wall to keep him company.
Most likely he‘d also have voted for Bush. All four times.
I hadn‘t been to Hooters before, and he could see the discomfort with the whole situation in my face when we got a cheery ”Hi there, guys!“ from our waitress. He‘s pretty much used to my various states of discomfort, but this time he wasn‘t having any of it.
"You‘d be honest with yourself if you just acknowledged the fact that you really enjoy having food and drink served to you by a perky blonde/brunette/redhead in a tank top and nylon orange shorts," he told me. "Just look inside yourself," he said, "and respond to your inner … something or other. Let go and admit that the whole thing is fun."
But I don‘t see myself as a Hooters sort of guy.
I‘m more of a diner sort, and have been ever since my father sat me down at the counter at the Toddle House on Clifton Avenue in Cincinnati when I was 8 and ordered me a cheeseburger and a cup of hot chocolate, while he flirted with the 65-year-old waitress, who was probably named Irene.
Since then, I‘ve always tried my best to establish a friendly working relationship with all of the waitresses that have served me on a regular basis over the years, and have succeeded more times than not in developing a server-servee friendship not based on too much artifice. Also, without orange shorts on either side of the counter.
I‘d like to keep it that way. Besides, the local Hooters is in Concordville, and I don‘t do Delaware County very well.
Monday, March 05, 2007
The Case of the Brick Windows
This appeared on Sunday, March 4, 2007
Everyone loves a good mystery, even more when the mystery involves something in your own backyard.
You know, like whatever happened to the 12 missing votes from the 156th Legislative District (ballots, you may remember, it has yet to be disproven had my name on them)?
Or exactly when did Andy Dinniman‘s Groucho mustache disappear? And where did it go?
Better yet, how did William H. Lamb, former law-and-order district attorney of Chester County, turn into the Slots King of Fishtown?
But sometimes there are mysteries right under our noses that we don‘t notice until someone points them out.
Like The Case of the Brick Windows, suggested to us by Constant Reader Bob B.
Mr. B, a keen observer of goings-on in West Chester and its accompanying environs, noticed that there was something off-kilter about the new Justice Center (Code Name: We-Don‘t-Know-What-To-Call-It-Yet) going up on West Market Street. To wit: there are five bricked-in windows on the front façade of the building, right there near the corner of North Darlington Street.
The bricked windows go from the ground floor up. At a glance, they remind you of that scene in ”The Matrix“ when Mouse tries to escape from the on-rushing Agent Smith SWAT Team after coming back from Neo‘s visit with The Oracle, and draws aside a window curtain in Morpheus‘ apartment building, only to find that the window has been replaced by a brick wall and that he has nowhere to go and he‘s going to get shot up to smithereens when the SWAT storm troopers break down the door and, thus, become the first of the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar to perish.
Or it doesn‘t. Whatever.
Mr. B. was puzzled by the brick windows because they are not depicted on the original architectural drawings of the project. (Trust me: he checked.)
So he left it up to me to solve the puzzle and get back to him. ”If anyone can get to the bottom of the story, er, actually five stories, top to bottom, it‘s you,“ he fawned, leaving me slightly faint. So, with the help of Chester County Public Information Officer Extrordinaire Evelyn Walker, I did.
Here‘s the skinny, as delivered by the county‘s architect through Ms. W:
"It became necessary to locate a telecommunications and electrical room in the southeast corner of the building in order to properly serve the large floor plates. The architects desired to maintain the character and rhythm of the fenestration along Market Street; therefore, the cast stone surrounds and brick infill were proposed to satisfy the aesthetic goal. Sincerely, Paul Andrew Sgroi, AIA."
Frankly, I‘d have just said: "Oops!"
Mr. B. accepted the explanation with some rancor, and not just because of the technocratese that the answer came in. He declared that the brick windows were an eyesore that the citizens of Chester County would be stuck with when coming to West Chester to file their election recount petitions, or whatever else they‘ll do at the Justice Center, "rhythm of fenestration aesthetics" notwithstanding.
He suggested that the county get a huge refund from the people to blame for the snafu. I can‘t disagree.
Because, as Bill Lamb might say: ”Cha-ching!“
Everyone loves a good mystery, even more when the mystery involves something in your own backyard.
You know, like whatever happened to the 12 missing votes from the 156th Legislative District (ballots, you may remember, it has yet to be disproven had my name on them)?
Or exactly when did Andy Dinniman‘s Groucho mustache disappear? And where did it go?
Better yet, how did William H. Lamb, former law-and-order district attorney of Chester County, turn into the Slots King of Fishtown?
But sometimes there are mysteries right under our noses that we don‘t notice until someone points them out.
Like The Case of the Brick Windows, suggested to us by Constant Reader Bob B.
Mr. B, a keen observer of goings-on in West Chester and its accompanying environs, noticed that there was something off-kilter about the new Justice Center (Code Name: We-Don‘t-Know-What-To-Call-It-Yet) going up on West Market Street. To wit: there are five bricked-in windows on the front façade of the building, right there near the corner of North Darlington Street.
The bricked windows go from the ground floor up. At a glance, they remind you of that scene in ”The Matrix“ when Mouse tries to escape from the on-rushing Agent Smith SWAT Team after coming back from Neo‘s visit with The Oracle, and draws aside a window curtain in Morpheus‘ apartment building, only to find that the window has been replaced by a brick wall and that he has nowhere to go and he‘s going to get shot up to smithereens when the SWAT storm troopers break down the door and, thus, become the first of the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar to perish.
Or it doesn‘t. Whatever.
Mr. B. was puzzled by the brick windows because they are not depicted on the original architectural drawings of the project. (Trust me: he checked.)
So he left it up to me to solve the puzzle and get back to him. ”If anyone can get to the bottom of the story, er, actually five stories, top to bottom, it‘s you,“ he fawned, leaving me slightly faint. So, with the help of Chester County Public Information Officer Extrordinaire Evelyn Walker, I did.
Here‘s the skinny, as delivered by the county‘s architect through Ms. W:
"It became necessary to locate a telecommunications and electrical room in the southeast corner of the building in order to properly serve the large floor plates. The architects desired to maintain the character and rhythm of the fenestration along Market Street; therefore, the cast stone surrounds and brick infill were proposed to satisfy the aesthetic goal. Sincerely, Paul Andrew Sgroi, AIA."
Frankly, I‘d have just said: "Oops!"
Mr. B. accepted the explanation with some rancor, and not just because of the technocratese that the answer came in. He declared that the brick windows were an eyesore that the citizens of Chester County would be stuck with when coming to West Chester to file their election recount petitions, or whatever else they‘ll do at the Justice Center, "rhythm of fenestration aesthetics" notwithstanding.
He suggested that the county get a huge refund from the people to blame for the snafu. I can‘t disagree.
Because, as Bill Lamb might say: ”Cha-ching!“
Monday, February 26, 2007
Paying a Debt to Pippin
This appeared on Sunday, Feb. 25, 2007
I cannot remember how cold it was, or if there was snow on the ground.
But I do remember the intense scene of a group of men and women standing in a half circle around a gravestone at the Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery.
The date was Feb. 22, 1988 – 19 years ago last Thursday – and the occasion was a remembrance ceremony for Horace Pippin, the respected and acclaimed artist who was born in West Chester 100 years ago to that date, and who made his home here after the seeing the end of World War I, returning back to the nation that enslaved his grandparents and treated those of his race with distain.
I was not attending as participant in the ceremony, anymore than I would have for any event that I covered for the Daily Local News in my quarter century here. I was there as an observer, with pen and reporter’s notebook in hand. But the moment has stayed with me for all this time.
The event had been organized by the Chester County Historical Society and some of Pippin’s peers as a way to atone for the neglect that had been shown him during this life, and at the time of his death from a heart attack in 1946. A man named John Halstead, president of the historical society at the time, noted how a contemporary of Pippin’s had noticed the lack of representation by the West Chester community at his funeral. Halstead spoke of a redressing of that grievance.
Here’s part of what I wrote:
“To the Rev. Earl D. Trent Jr. of West Chester, the event served as “a tax, a debt of respect and honor to Horace Pippin.
“ ‘The fact that it came on the centennial of his birth is merely coincidence,’ said Trent, pastor of St. Paul’s Baptist Church, where Pippin worshipped and taught choir. ‘The age does not matter. It is due him.’ ”
Pippin was a self-taught artist whose work showed the lives of black men and women in their daily lives in the flat, linear style that became known as primitive. He also painted scenes from the Bible and American history that cast a forceful light on the racial injustice that his country allowed at the time. His paintings toured the country as part of a Museum of Modern Art traveling show. He sold dozens of paintings to collectors and museums across the country.
And he was a good man, working within the black community of West Chester to better young lives.
But the larger community in his home town apparently did not pay him the respect he earned elsewhere. Two days after he died at his home on West Gay Street, the Daily Local News seemed more interested in noting that Charles Lukens Huston, “Steel Pioneer,” had his 90th birthday.
I went looking for his gravesite on Thursday but the frozen snow kept me from finding it, even though in my mind’s eye I could see it clearly. And I remembered, too, what one of Pippin’s contemporaries, Warren H. Burton, told me.
“In his quiet and gentle manner, he was an integral part of this community,” concluded Burton.
Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery is just north of West Chester on Route 100. Maybe when the snow clears, we might stop by and put down another payment on our debt to him.
I cannot remember how cold it was, or if there was snow on the ground.
But I do remember the intense scene of a group of men and women standing in a half circle around a gravestone at the Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery.
The date was Feb. 22, 1988 – 19 years ago last Thursday – and the occasion was a remembrance ceremony for Horace Pippin, the respected and acclaimed artist who was born in West Chester 100 years ago to that date, and who made his home here after the seeing the end of World War I, returning back to the nation that enslaved his grandparents and treated those of his race with distain.
I was not attending as participant in the ceremony, anymore than I would have for any event that I covered for the Daily Local News in my quarter century here. I was there as an observer, with pen and reporter’s notebook in hand. But the moment has stayed with me for all this time.
The event had been organized by the Chester County Historical Society and some of Pippin’s peers as a way to atone for the neglect that had been shown him during this life, and at the time of his death from a heart attack in 1946. A man named John Halstead, president of the historical society at the time, noted how a contemporary of Pippin’s had noticed the lack of representation by the West Chester community at his funeral. Halstead spoke of a redressing of that grievance.
Here’s part of what I wrote:
“To the Rev. Earl D. Trent Jr. of West Chester, the event served as “a tax, a debt of respect and honor to Horace Pippin.
“ ‘The fact that it came on the centennial of his birth is merely coincidence,’ said Trent, pastor of St. Paul’s Baptist Church, where Pippin worshipped and taught choir. ‘The age does not matter. It is due him.’ ”
Pippin was a self-taught artist whose work showed the lives of black men and women in their daily lives in the flat, linear style that became known as primitive. He also painted scenes from the Bible and American history that cast a forceful light on the racial injustice that his country allowed at the time. His paintings toured the country as part of a Museum of Modern Art traveling show. He sold dozens of paintings to collectors and museums across the country.
And he was a good man, working within the black community of West Chester to better young lives.
But the larger community in his home town apparently did not pay him the respect he earned elsewhere. Two days after he died at his home on West Gay Street, the Daily Local News seemed more interested in noting that Charles Lukens Huston, “Steel Pioneer,” had his 90th birthday.
I went looking for his gravesite on Thursday but the frozen snow kept me from finding it, even though in my mind’s eye I could see it clearly. And I remembered, too, what one of Pippin’s contemporaries, Warren H. Burton, told me.
“In his quiet and gentle manner, he was an integral part of this community,” concluded Burton.
Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery is just north of West Chester on Route 100. Maybe when the snow clears, we might stop by and put down another payment on our debt to him.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A Valentine to West Chester
This appeared Sunday, Feb. 18, 2006
Whatever else its benefits are, the new parking garage in the 200 block of West Market Street has provided a remarkable scenic overlook of downtown West Chester.
Standing on the site of the late, great Short Line Bus Co. terminal, the garage spirals up five levels or so, putting the climber several dozen feet above the rooftops.
If you look east up Market Street, you can see the clock tower of the Chester County Courthouse, the west facade of the elegant Farmers & Mechanics Building, the top of the Green Tree Apartments, and the awning of the former Mr. Sandwich Building at the corner of North Church Street — currently occupied by a certain state senator Andy D. who has a penchant for, well, let‘s just say the spoken word.
From this vantage point, you can‘t see the way the town has changed over the years, and you can imagine it as it was in the early 1900s —quiet and beautiful.
And if you look hard enough, you can see the people that make the borough as colorful and vibrant as a Dennis Haggerty watercolor. In fact, you can even see Haggerty himself, chugging his little red truck (”Honk if you are Elvis“ bumper sticker included) up Hannum Avenue.
Look north and there‘s Mickey Cugino handing out Pennsylvania Lottery tickets for the financial dreamers who stop in his smoke shop all day. Across the street you‘ll spot Amy Beaver, making sure the Deadheads along Gay Street have a place to hook up with a supply of sandlewood.
Pulling into the back of her sports pub is Ruth Gallagher, of the Delaware County Gallaghers, making sure the place is ready for business when Skip and Carlos wander in towards the late afternoon.
You might catch a glimpse of Dawson R. ”Rich“ Muth skipping down the steps of his law office and heading out for lunch, or to check to see whether there‘ve been anymore shenanigans outside Sheriff Bunny‘s office.
Lunch is what‘s being served right now at Tony‘s Market, run by Kenny, and if you hurry downstairs after your panoramic tour you might be able to get the last roast pork sandwich. But if you miss out, you‘ll just have to take out your sorrows by buying the new Lucinda Williams CD at The Mad Platter, where John and Debbie probably have it on hold for you anyway.
Look very hard, squinting into the sun, and you might be able to catch Police Chief Scott Bohn teaching the family dog a new trick — staying awake during Borough Council meetings. Or turn your sights west and watch as Fred Gusz attempts to ride his $400,000 bicycle down Wayne Avenue on his way over to Ray Ott‘s for a spin Down The Shore. Or maybe he‘s just on his way over to Blue Rock Road for breakfast with his grandson Graham.
Gaze a little longer and you‘ll no doubt see one of a hundred or more people that you know and who, if they disappeared from the streetscape of West Chester would still be there in the mists of history, forever leaving the borough vibrant and colorful.
And yet not one of those wonderful people saw fit to send me a Valentine‘s Day card this year.
Like Andy, I‘m just sayin.‘
Whatever else its benefits are, the new parking garage in the 200 block of West Market Street has provided a remarkable scenic overlook of downtown West Chester.
Standing on the site of the late, great Short Line Bus Co. terminal, the garage spirals up five levels or so, putting the climber several dozen feet above the rooftops.
If you look east up Market Street, you can see the clock tower of the Chester County Courthouse, the west facade of the elegant Farmers & Mechanics Building, the top of the Green Tree Apartments, and the awning of the former Mr. Sandwich Building at the corner of North Church Street — currently occupied by a certain state senator Andy D. who has a penchant for, well, let‘s just say the spoken word.
From this vantage point, you can‘t see the way the town has changed over the years, and you can imagine it as it was in the early 1900s —quiet and beautiful.
And if you look hard enough, you can see the people that make the borough as colorful and vibrant as a Dennis Haggerty watercolor. In fact, you can even see Haggerty himself, chugging his little red truck (”Honk if you are Elvis“ bumper sticker included) up Hannum Avenue.
Look north and there‘s Mickey Cugino handing out Pennsylvania Lottery tickets for the financial dreamers who stop in his smoke shop all day. Across the street you‘ll spot Amy Beaver, making sure the Deadheads along Gay Street have a place to hook up with a supply of sandlewood.
Pulling into the back of her sports pub is Ruth Gallagher, of the Delaware County Gallaghers, making sure the place is ready for business when Skip and Carlos wander in towards the late afternoon.
You might catch a glimpse of Dawson R. ”Rich“ Muth skipping down the steps of his law office and heading out for lunch, or to check to see whether there‘ve been anymore shenanigans outside Sheriff Bunny‘s office.
Lunch is what‘s being served right now at Tony‘s Market, run by Kenny, and if you hurry downstairs after your panoramic tour you might be able to get the last roast pork sandwich. But if you miss out, you‘ll just have to take out your sorrows by buying the new Lucinda Williams CD at The Mad Platter, where John and Debbie probably have it on hold for you anyway.
Look very hard, squinting into the sun, and you might be able to catch Police Chief Scott Bohn teaching the family dog a new trick — staying awake during Borough Council meetings. Or turn your sights west and watch as Fred Gusz attempts to ride his $400,000 bicycle down Wayne Avenue on his way over to Ray Ott‘s for a spin Down The Shore. Or maybe he‘s just on his way over to Blue Rock Road for breakfast with his grandson Graham.
Gaze a little longer and you‘ll no doubt see one of a hundred or more people that you know and who, if they disappeared from the streetscape of West Chester would still be there in the mists of history, forever leaving the borough vibrant and colorful.
And yet not one of those wonderful people saw fit to send me a Valentine‘s Day card this year.
Like Andy, I‘m just sayin.‘
Monday, February 12, 2007
Vince the Prince
This appeared on Sunday, Feb. 11, 2007
A friend and I were talking at lunch a few days ago about the mystery of how random thoughts or occurrences sometimes join together in mysterious ways.
The conversation started when I mentioned that the two of us should seriously consider dying our gray hair back to their natural colors — brown for me, red for him. It would be a way, I said, of recapturing our youth, proclaiming our vitality, and warding off the frightful experience of looking in a mirror and seeing your grandfather.
And, as male mid-life crises go dying your hair is a lot cheaper than buying that Maserati.
Zounds! Without hesitation, he excitedly told me how he had discussed, just one day previous, that same idea with his hair-cutter. How mystical and marvelous, we thought, that the two of us could have the same notion — however mundane — at virtually the same time.
You‘ve had the same thing happen yourself, I‘m certain: You wake up humming ”Yesterday“ and the first thing you hear when you turn on the car radio is Paul McCartney‘s voice. You think of an old friend you haven‘t seen in years on a Thursday and on Friday, there he is on TV proclaiming to be the father of Anna Nichole Smith‘s baby. Mirabile dictu!
Is this phenomenon a result of cosmic energy that connects us all on a whim? Or is it a form of Jung‘s conception of a collective unconscious, a ”meaningful coincidence,“ or synchronicity? Whether fate or kismet I can‘t say, but I believe it makes the world a more exciting, wondrous, thrilling place to live.
Which brings us, of course, to Vince Fumo.
State Sen. Fumo, D-1st, of Philadelphia, Pa.; Harrisburg, Pa. Margate, N.J.; Ventnor, N.J., Florida; and soon maybe the Minimum Security Prison at Alderson, W. Va., was recently indicted by a federal grand jury for a variety of alleged crimes, including using taxpayers‘ money to spy on ex-wives, girlfriends and future state governors; ordering members of his staff to drive his daughter to school; and using charitable funds to keep a sand dune from being built in front of his ocean-front home.
Nice work if you can get it.
What leapt out at me as I read the indictment weren‘t the sordid details of those alleged crimes. It was the vacuum cleaners.
Sen. ”Put It On The Other Guy‘s Tab“ reportedly spent $6,556 in public money to buy 17 Oreck home vacuum cleaners — allegedly one for every floor of every home that he owns.
Presumably, this was done out of an overwhelming sense of cleanliness, plus a concern for the back strain on whichever legislative researcher may have had housecleaning duty that week.
Zounds! The hair on the back of my neck stood up straight up. There was that eerie, binding energy again.
You see, I too have an Oreck vacuum cleaner for every floor of my house, just like Vince. You may argue that I only occupy one floor of the apartment building I live in, but facts is facts, as they say.
So Vince, call me. We‘ll talk, we‘ll connect, we‘ll marvel at the mystery of the world. And we‘ll sing: ”Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away …“
A friend and I were talking at lunch a few days ago about the mystery of how random thoughts or occurrences sometimes join together in mysterious ways.
The conversation started when I mentioned that the two of us should seriously consider dying our gray hair back to their natural colors — brown for me, red for him. It would be a way, I said, of recapturing our youth, proclaiming our vitality, and warding off the frightful experience of looking in a mirror and seeing your grandfather.
And, as male mid-life crises go dying your hair is a lot cheaper than buying that Maserati.
Zounds! Without hesitation, he excitedly told me how he had discussed, just one day previous, that same idea with his hair-cutter. How mystical and marvelous, we thought, that the two of us could have the same notion — however mundane — at virtually the same time.
You‘ve had the same thing happen yourself, I‘m certain: You wake up humming ”Yesterday“ and the first thing you hear when you turn on the car radio is Paul McCartney‘s voice. You think of an old friend you haven‘t seen in years on a Thursday and on Friday, there he is on TV proclaiming to be the father of Anna Nichole Smith‘s baby. Mirabile dictu!
Is this phenomenon a result of cosmic energy that connects us all on a whim? Or is it a form of Jung‘s conception of a collective unconscious, a ”meaningful coincidence,“ or synchronicity? Whether fate or kismet I can‘t say, but I believe it makes the world a more exciting, wondrous, thrilling place to live.
Which brings us, of course, to Vince Fumo.
State Sen. Fumo, D-1st, of Philadelphia, Pa.; Harrisburg, Pa. Margate, N.J.; Ventnor, N.J., Florida; and soon maybe the Minimum Security Prison at Alderson, W. Va., was recently indicted by a federal grand jury for a variety of alleged crimes, including using taxpayers‘ money to spy on ex-wives, girlfriends and future state governors; ordering members of his staff to drive his daughter to school; and using charitable funds to keep a sand dune from being built in front of his ocean-front home.
Nice work if you can get it.
What leapt out at me as I read the indictment weren‘t the sordid details of those alleged crimes. It was the vacuum cleaners.
Sen. ”Put It On The Other Guy‘s Tab“ reportedly spent $6,556 in public money to buy 17 Oreck home vacuum cleaners — allegedly one for every floor of every home that he owns.
Presumably, this was done out of an overwhelming sense of cleanliness, plus a concern for the back strain on whichever legislative researcher may have had housecleaning duty that week.
Zounds! The hair on the back of my neck stood up straight up. There was that eerie, binding energy again.
You see, I too have an Oreck vacuum cleaner for every floor of my house, just like Vince. You may argue that I only occupy one floor of the apartment building I live in, but facts is facts, as they say.
So Vince, call me. We‘ll talk, we‘ll connect, we‘ll marvel at the mystery of the world. And we‘ll sing: ”Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away …“
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Whose Bricks Are These?
This appeared on Sunday, February 4, 2006
You know me — I love the Chester County Courthouse. Those engraved bricks around the Market Street side? I love them, too. But some of them should offer an explanation for those wanderers who stroll by on a Sunday morning.
"In Memory of Guernsey Cow Exton?"
Remember, the majority of people who live in Chester County don‘t remember anything here before they put up the Beaver Chase Run subdivision in London Grove. They‘re supposed to pay homage to a mid-century dairy bar? I think not.
"The Farnum Twins?" Sounds like an act out of Ringling Bros. "Breakfast Club?" There are two of these, so I suggest they get together and pile on the packcakes as a single unit or be somewhat clearer about whose breakfast and where.
There are two, count ‘em, two "Mike Perrone West Chester Building Depts.," bricks, raising the question of whether Mike is trying to get a message across, or whether some obsequious contractor got carried away.
Everyone likes a mystery myself now and again, but the meaning of "X1E-XIE/Minky/Wly R + S"? Wanna run that one by me again? Should I guess, "secret formula for removing white residue stains from real brick sidewalks?"
Nearby is "Khaki Was Here" and "Imagine." Okay, one‘s the name of a John Lennon song, the other‘s a great name for a post-punk, hip hop, skater band. But what about "Jasmine & The B Boys." Maybe a hip hop, skater, post-punk band?
If you were an alien and dropped down on West Market and took a look at the bricks, you‘d wonder about the proliferation of Swopes and Taylors. "In Honor of Charles E. Swope." "In Honor of Rep. Elinor Taylor." "In Honor of Stephanie Swope." "In Memory of Edna M. Swope." " Elinor Taylor WC Council 1974." "In Honor of Charles E. Swope Jr." "In Memory of Charles E. Swope." "The Swope Foundation." You‘d think they ran the town, for the love of Pete. Oh, wait a minute …
There‘s a certain amount of advertising going on here, which might strike some as unseemly. You can forgive the "Giuntas Thriftway Since 1927," but one might wonder whether the "Jane Chalfont" of one brick is the same as the same "Jane Chalfont Inc." of another. Is "Riggtown" a neighborhood, or a truckers‘ depot on the Pennsylvania Turnpike?
There is a symmetry to it all, though, with "Hillsdale Class of 2003" lined up not too terribly far away from "Class of 62 WCHS." The "in honor ofs" match up nicely with the the "in memory ofs," putting the living in the vicinity of the dead, and it‘s nice to see both "Fred Gusz" and "Fred Gusz Jr." occupying the same territory after all these years.
It is a fun little tour to make, and if you want to know about "In Memory of Betty Rellahan," I‘d be glad to tell you. I can talk about her all day.
You know me — I love the Chester County Courthouse. Those engraved bricks around the Market Street side? I love them, too. But some of them should offer an explanation for those wanderers who stroll by on a Sunday morning.
"In Memory of Guernsey Cow Exton?"
Remember, the majority of people who live in Chester County don‘t remember anything here before they put up the Beaver Chase Run subdivision in London Grove. They‘re supposed to pay homage to a mid-century dairy bar? I think not.
"The Farnum Twins?" Sounds like an act out of Ringling Bros. "Breakfast Club?" There are two of these, so I suggest they get together and pile on the packcakes as a single unit or be somewhat clearer about whose breakfast and where.
There are two, count ‘em, two "Mike Perrone West Chester Building Depts.," bricks, raising the question of whether Mike is trying to get a message across, or whether some obsequious contractor got carried away.
Everyone likes a mystery myself now and again, but the meaning of "X1E-XIE/Minky/Wly R + S"? Wanna run that one by me again? Should I guess, "secret formula for removing white residue stains from real brick sidewalks?"
Nearby is "Khaki Was Here" and "Imagine." Okay, one‘s the name of a John Lennon song, the other‘s a great name for a post-punk, hip hop, skater band. But what about "Jasmine & The B Boys." Maybe a hip hop, skater, post-punk band?
If you were an alien and dropped down on West Market and took a look at the bricks, you‘d wonder about the proliferation of Swopes and Taylors. "In Honor of Charles E. Swope." "In Honor of Rep. Elinor Taylor." "In Honor of Stephanie Swope." "In Memory of Edna M. Swope." " Elinor Taylor WC Council 1974." "In Honor of Charles E. Swope Jr." "In Memory of Charles E. Swope." "The Swope Foundation." You‘d think they ran the town, for the love of Pete. Oh, wait a minute …
There‘s a certain amount of advertising going on here, which might strike some as unseemly. You can forgive the "Giuntas Thriftway Since 1927," but one might wonder whether the "Jane Chalfont" of one brick is the same as the same "Jane Chalfont Inc." of another. Is "Riggtown" a neighborhood, or a truckers‘ depot on the Pennsylvania Turnpike?
There is a symmetry to it all, though, with "Hillsdale Class of 2003" lined up not too terribly far away from "Class of 62 WCHS." The "in honor ofs" match up nicely with the the "in memory ofs," putting the living in the vicinity of the dead, and it‘s nice to see both "Fred Gusz" and "Fred Gusz Jr." occupying the same territory after all these years.
It is a fun little tour to make, and if you want to know about "In Memory of Betty Rellahan," I‘d be glad to tell you. I can talk about her all day.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Entwined Mysteries
This appeared on Sunday, Jan. 28, 2007
The late Tom Bostelle’s paintings carry with them quite an air of mystery, it seemed to me on a recent visit to the Chester County Art Association’s building up the street from the Daily Local News.
The association has mounted a retrospective of the Pocopson-based artists’ work, in conjunction with West Chester University and the Brandywine River Museum, and it’s worth a look for anyone interested in art, life and sinister men in hats. The 35 or so paintings and 20 or more sculptures that fill the association’s Mary P. Allinson Gallery give a good look at Bostelle’s career, which began in the 1940s and ended with his death in 2005. I’ve had favorite Bostelles here and there, but none of them match the quality of the one’s shown here.
There’s the glowing black and green “Self Potrait” early in the show that sets the basic structure of his work – the flat, two dimensional outlines of shadowy figures. And across the gallery from that is a whimsical “Horse From Hearsay” painting of galloping horse that shows Bostelle’s more playful side.
But what struck me most those mysterious painting of men dressed in trench coats and fedoras that evoke a sense of intrigue and bad things to come, like evil Orson Wells leaning out of a shadowed doorway in “The Third Man,” or Saul Bass’s title sequence in “Anatomy of a Murder.”
Bostelle must have been a movie fan to have captured such impressions, with titles like “Desperado,” or “The Red Detective.” Even the name of the show itself, “Out of Nowhere,” chosen from one of his poems, suggests classic 1950s noir.
It makes me wonder if he ever left the confines of his home/studio overlooking Lenape Park and drove over to the 202 Drive In Theater – that bygone outdoor movie palace of sometimes flashy and sometime family fare between West Chester and Chadds Ford on Route 202, run by Arlene May Lenz and her late husband Isaac for 35 years.
She might have inspired him in some way, since she suggests something of a mystery herself -- an educated, family oriented mother whose life’s work brought art with titles like ‘Don’t Look in the Basement” and “Zombie Horror” to a car crazy culture.
Mrs. Lenz was born in the 1920s and got a degree in psychology from Penn State back when not so many women were getting degrees in anything. She met and married Isaac after World War II, and the pair built and operated the drive in until they retired, she wrapping herself in Girl Scouting activities when not at the drive-in..
Anyone who was alive in the 1950s or 1960s or 1970s probably has a drive-in memory, but mine are soaked in a cloud of mystery. It was always dark outside, you were surrounded by strange people, and something bad was always about to happen on screen.
I mention Mrs. Lenz only because word came this week that she had died at 84 at her daughter’s home in West Chester. There is no word on whether she and Bostelle ever met but, for now, they’re entwined in my mind.
You can read more about Bostelle at www.tombostelle.com, and more about the 202 Drive In at www.cinematreasures.org
The late Tom Bostelle’s paintings carry with them quite an air of mystery, it seemed to me on a recent visit to the Chester County Art Association’s building up the street from the Daily Local News.
The association has mounted a retrospective of the Pocopson-based artists’ work, in conjunction with West Chester University and the Brandywine River Museum, and it’s worth a look for anyone interested in art, life and sinister men in hats. The 35 or so paintings and 20 or more sculptures that fill the association’s Mary P. Allinson Gallery give a good look at Bostelle’s career, which began in the 1940s and ended with his death in 2005. I’ve had favorite Bostelles here and there, but none of them match the quality of the one’s shown here.
There’s the glowing black and green “Self Potrait” early in the show that sets the basic structure of his work – the flat, two dimensional outlines of shadowy figures. And across the gallery from that is a whimsical “Horse From Hearsay” painting of galloping horse that shows Bostelle’s more playful side.
But what struck me most those mysterious painting of men dressed in trench coats and fedoras that evoke a sense of intrigue and bad things to come, like evil Orson Wells leaning out of a shadowed doorway in “The Third Man,” or Saul Bass’s title sequence in “Anatomy of a Murder.”
Bostelle must have been a movie fan to have captured such impressions, with titles like “Desperado,” or “The Red Detective.” Even the name of the show itself, “Out of Nowhere,” chosen from one of his poems, suggests classic 1950s noir.
It makes me wonder if he ever left the confines of his home/studio overlooking Lenape Park and drove over to the 202 Drive In Theater – that bygone outdoor movie palace of sometimes flashy and sometime family fare between West Chester and Chadds Ford on Route 202, run by Arlene May Lenz and her late husband Isaac for 35 years.
She might have inspired him in some way, since she suggests something of a mystery herself -- an educated, family oriented mother whose life’s work brought art with titles like ‘Don’t Look in the Basement” and “Zombie Horror” to a car crazy culture.
Mrs. Lenz was born in the 1920s and got a degree in psychology from Penn State back when not so many women were getting degrees in anything. She met and married Isaac after World War II, and the pair built and operated the drive in until they retired, she wrapping herself in Girl Scouting activities when not at the drive-in..
Anyone who was alive in the 1950s or 1960s or 1970s probably has a drive-in memory, but mine are soaked in a cloud of mystery. It was always dark outside, you were surrounded by strange people, and something bad was always about to happen on screen.
I mention Mrs. Lenz only because word came this week that she had died at 84 at her daughter’s home in West Chester. There is no word on whether she and Bostelle ever met but, for now, they’re entwined in my mind.
You can read more about Bostelle at www.tombostelle.com, and more about the 202 Drive In at www.cinematreasures.org
Monday, January 22, 2007
Up My Alley
This appeared on Sunday, Jan. 21, 2006
The alleys of West Chester are being disrespected.
It’s not that they’re not clean, or that they’re allowed to crumble, or that no one uses them.
Quite the contrary. As more and more homeowners look at the carriage houses and two-story garages with their alley access as secondary living units, the liveliness and livability of the alleys in the borough has, to my mind, never been more apparent.
I’ve written about these marvels of small town life before, and my mind is unchanged. Having alleys running through your town is a benefit not to be taken lightly.
Walking them, you gain insight into the character of the people who live in your town (seeing children’s toys lining the backyard of one of your neighbors gives you an idea that good things are going on nearby, and chatting with an acquaintance who’s firing up the Webber off the back porch is a great alternative in a town that hasn’t entirely grasped the notion of stoop sitting.)
Alleys have a historical place in the Philadelphia region and, by extension, the nation, as the cobblestones of Elfreth’s Alley in the city will attest.
And frankly, alleys make a great short cut if you’re 15 years old and late for dinner. Or if you’re 49 years old and finding yourself blocked from your normal route to the office by street repairs.
But disrespected they are, nevertheless.
How so, you ask? Signage, is my reply.
Take a drive around the borough sometime and see whether you can identify the myriad alleys that intersect and bisect the main streets running north and south, east and west. Nope. No can do. There are no street signs telling you what byway you’re traveling on.
It’s a shame, since most of the alleys have wonderful names that should be boasted about, shown to all who travel here. Holly Alley, Juniper Alley, Mulberry Alley, Ebbs and Current alleys, Weaver and Corcoran alleys, Potter and Birds Eye and School and Britnton and Helen – all lilting names that deserve to be noticed.
It’s not just a matter, however, of a regard for semantics. As more and more people come to live on alleys in the borough it becomes a matter of practicality as well. Right around the corner from where I live if a very beautiful, very red brick, very expensive set of town homes set on an alley.
The residents there all keep their homes neat and tidy, recycle their plastic and glass, pay their taxes on time (I assume), and in return couldn’t find a street sign identifying their street as Clinton Alley to save a former president’s neck.
The surprising thing is that the borough generally has as much reluctance to put up signs as a West Chester University freshman has in tapping a keg. In West Chester, there are signs giving directions to everything, including other signs, so you’d think there could be a few dollars in the budget for our alleys.
So at the next Borough Council meeting, I’m hoping that a few of your readers will demand that the council form a “Friends of the Alleys” group that can raise money to start signing the backyard byways. First on the list? Rambo Alley, between Nields and Sharpless.
The 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 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.
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