Saturdays With Peirce

This appeared Sunday, Nov. 12, 2006


Your best bet on a visit to Longwood Gardens on a Saturday morning is to start everything off with an early breakfast at Hank‘s Place in downtown Chadds Ford -- the place ”Where Hungry People Eat and Friendly People Meet.”

Or so I‘ve been told.

Get there early, however, because Hank‘s has a tendency to fill up quickly; there are only about a dozen or so tables in the joint, and about as many stools at the counter. Follow my advice and get the eggs and Voula‘s Corned Beef Hash. Take your time reading the paper because the gardens don‘t open until nine.

But don‘t overstay your welcome; check out the number of people who are standing in line on the front stoop to get in if you want a hint on the amount of time you can linger.

You want to get to Longwood as soon after opening because the place is one of the top ten tourist spots on the East Coast, non-theme park division, and therefore tends to get as crowded as Hank‘s dining room after a few hours, especially if the weather is nice.

You want to pick the right time of year to go there, but that depends on who you are in that regard. Some prefer the heat-height of summer, when the Flower Walk is decked out in full regalia and the fountains are spouting off like Old Faithful. Others want that chill in the air as they walk through the lighted grove of beeches on the way to the Conservatory‘s Christmas display.

One Mother‘s Day, I swear the walkways were jammed like a NASCAR race for baby buggies on the first turn.

For my money, however, autumn is when the best comes out of the gardens.

That‘s when you realize how many colors are in nature‘s spectrum, confronted as you are with the different shades of yellow and pale green and deep red and dusty purple that the falling leaves contain. It‘s when you realize that the yellow ginkos that dot your street are pipsqueaks in comparison with the towering species that stand in front of the Peirce duPont House.

On Saturday, I made it over the Longwood for a quick trip around the place. In the Beech Grove, above the Italian Water Gardens, I sat for awhile thinking about how you couldn‘t pay for a nicer morning to recharge yourself. Mid-60s, sunny blue sky, with enough of a breeze to scatter the leaves around your feet now and then, but not too windy. Not to mention Election Day being over and the phones not ringing any more with the threat of a politician demanding some publicity.


It was a day for discovery, too. Walking from the Visitors‘ Center, I noticed for the first time the peculiar shade of reddish brown that the foliage on the bald cypresses turn when their leaves -- deciduous conifers, if you prefer -- start to drop. I‘d never seen the trees that color, or maybe just never paid attention. It was as through the leaves had rusted like metal, and were oxidizing themselves to the ground.

All in all, a visit to Longwood Gardens certainly makes one‘s life a little better. For less then the price of an Eagles ticket, you can place yourself in a world of peace and quiet, of natural beauty unsurpassed, with amazing sights around each bend.

And you don‘t have to worry about having to rake the leaves afterwards.

No 'Bucks in the Boro

This appeared on Sunday, Nov. 5, 2006

At the Canine Care Center in Frazer, they advertise their services right on the front windows. To wit: They provide dog grooming, doggie day care and wonderful, exotic dog food, all at reasonable prices.

And in addition, they proudly proclaim that they have coffee, and it‘s really, really good.

Leave aside the question of whether the coffee is for the dog owners or the dogs. What I want to point out is that the availability of coffee has gotten out of control.You can get a cup of coffee anywhere.

You can get one in the supermarket. You can get one at the gas station. You can get one at the optometrist‘s. And, from what I now learn, you can get it while your Pomeranian is being clipped.

I suppose that this is representative of the fascination America has developed with coffee. My father used to get up in the middle of the night to fix himself a big hot cup of coffee -- caffeinated, mind you. I found that strange, but in 2006, I can only assume that the general populace would not blink an eye.

My boss, after all, doesn‘t leave the cozy confines of his office here in LocalLand without his stainless steel coffee container. Lord knows, he might get trapped between the news desk and the sports desk and need a shot of joe.

I say this to get to the big news: Last month, Starbucks announced they had set a goal of having 40,000 stores worldwide -- 27,500 more than now. They apparently need more stores because the coffee drinkers of the world can‘t be bothered with searching more than five square feet for their next cup.

The story that I read about this noted that in Seattle there is an office building that has a Starbucks on the first floor, a Starbucks on the 40th floor, and a Starbucks across the street. In Vancouver, Canada, there are Starbucks on opposite sides of the street at one intersection.

As Launi Skinner, senior vice president of Starbucks‘ store development, put it: ”Going to the other side of the street can be a barrier."

So Starbucks is going to have a barrista in 40,000 locations across the globe, with the exception, of course, of one place. West Chester.



That‘s right. It‘s almost 2007, and still no mocha lattes from the ’Bucks in W.C.

P.S. to Launi Skinner: Come on, lady! You can‘t find a slot in your quest for world domination to put in a store somewhere in the four corners of the best borough on the planet? The fact that there are Starbucks outlets surrounding the town doesn‘t cut it.

If you can‘t expect Vancouverans to cross the street to grab a grande, how can you expect us to hop in the Subuaru and high-tail it on over to West Goshen? And don‘t tell me about Route 202 in Birmingham. In Seattle, they only have to ride the elevator 20 floors for Ethiopean Kampuchea Roast. There are stinkin‘ traffic jams on 202!

Actually, I shouldn‘t worry about this; I‘m mostly concerned for my friends and neighbors and bosses. See, I don‘t drink coffee. I drink Irish tea.

I get it at the mall.

Five Miles of Bad Road

This appeared Oct. 29, 2006

If you look at Route 100 as it winds through West Vincent and East Nantmeal and South Coventry, it doesn‘t look ominous. Just a red stripe on the page, with that benign circular ”100“ posted on its spine.

But earlier this month, that stretch of Route 100 that runs north from Ludwig‘s Corner to Pughtown swallowed another human being, as it has with sad regularity over the years.

This time it was 17-year-old Austin Dilanni who skidded on the wet road as he tried to make the curve of the road just north of Horseshoe Trail. The senior at Bishop Shanahan was pronounced dead at the scene.

There are bad roads in Chester County, and there are dangerous intersections, too. But none stand out in the minds of people who drive it every day, or who have read these pages about its hazards, like that run of Route 100.


Since 2001, the 4.85 miles of highway between Route 401 and Route 23 has claimed seven lives -- two in 2002, one in 2003, two again in 2004, one in 2005, as well as Dilanni‘s this year.

I got those figures from Gene Blaum, the man who has been the spokesman for the local district of the state Department of Transportation since the very idea of transportation became popular. The numbers are just statistics to Blaum; he‘s very aware of the fatalities on Route 100, and spent a few moments with me talking about the tragedy of Dilanni‘s death.

Dilanni, you see, was a hockey player at Shanahan, someone Blaum‘s own children were aware of. Blaum guessed he had been coming home from practice in West Goshen that night and lost control on the S-curve that had become slick with rain..

There have been attempts made to calm the situation on that stretch of Route 100. State Rep. Curt Schroder, R-155th, of East Brandywine, has taken charge of the situation as best he could to try to get changes made to the road‘s structure, and township officials have spoken about the need for safety enhancements there, but there is only so much politicians can do, even in Chester County.

I received an e-mail from a man last week, obviously distressed about the situation on Route 100, given Dilanni‘s death. Couldn‘t we publicize the nature of the road there to warn drivers and alert residents to the dangers?

We‘ve been doing that for years, I responded. I don‘t know what more we can do, I thought.

Then I remembered the weekend trip I made to the Laurel Highlands of western Pennsylvania.
Driving aimlessly and enjoying the fall foliage, I found myself at the summit of Laurel Mountain.

Along the side of the highway was one of the largest road signs I‘d ever encountered -- a warning about the dangerous hill ahead that seemingly came complete with exclamation points. Pull over now! Check your brakes, it ordered truckers! Go slow, it warned the rest of us! This is a long, windy, steep hill that is going to eat you alive if you‘re not careful!!

So I was.

Perhaps that‘s what we need just north of the Ludwig‘s Corner Fire Co. -- a 20 foot tall sign that tells drivers about the danger ahead, about the chance that Route 100 won‘t just be an annoyance today but a full-fledged tragedy. Something with big red flashing lights.

It can‘t hurt. Because that snake of a road should not swallow another soul.

Sugerman update

This appeared on Oct. 22, 2006


Two months ago, I reminded you faithful readers that the county‘s construction of new court space on West Market Street in West Chester is proceeding apace without the benefit of a suitable name for the finished product.

When one studies the signs in front of the building, all we are told is that the edifice will be known as the Chester County Justice Center.

At that time, I also asked for your forgiveness for stating that I have only contempt for that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It is my considered opinion that one of the foremost problems in America today is the unwillingness of our municipal governments to name any new building after anybody or anything -- witness the blandness of Downingtown West High School and West Goshen Community Park. (Thank goodness for the brave folks on the West Chester Area School Board for going out on that Bayard Rustin limb. Go Golden Knights!)

I firmly believe that the general lack of creativity or historical acknowledgement in the act of building-naming is another example of the failure of the country‘s educational system, but that is a column for another day.

At the time, I had been remembering the late Judge Leonard Sugerman, and proposed that in his honor, the county undertake to christen the new building when it opens after him.

My proposal was greeted with a brief flurry of positive reaction ­ one Constant Reader generously offered to help me in my campaign; I received a nice note about the idea from Sugerman‘s widow Carol; and a former clerk to the judge who was passing through town and saw the column kindly said, ”I think what you have proposed is brilliant.“

Then, nothing.

My idea took off with as much momentum as the 1973 Volkswagen I used to drive had going up Blackhorse Hill in West Vincent. But the thought of the ”Justice Center“ stuck in my craw, so last week I made some gentle inquiries with the folks I hoped would be most inclined to join me in my quest: his former colleagues on the bench.

Their reaction? As one might expect: reasoned, articulate, and ”Here‘s your hat, Mr. Rellahan, what‘s your hurry?“

President Judge Paula Francisco Ott, Sugerman‘s successor in Courtroom One, put it bluntly: You can‘t name the new courthouse after any judge from Chester County , because it would be too hard to choose. After all, how do you pick the tallest redwood in the forest?

But leave it to current judge and ex-DA James P. MacElree II to slap me across the face for proposing the idea. Figuratively speaking, of course.

To put it mildly, he said, Sugerman would have been ”uncomfortable“ with the very notion of the new courthouse, moved as it is from the historic location of the county‘s current center of justice. He was a creature of Thomas U. Walter‘s courthouse, a lover of its beauty and majesty, and would have had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the new building, had he lived long enough to occupy one of its courtrooms.

He would have looked at anyone who suggested putting his name on that building and with a withering glance, said simply: ”How utterly ridiculous. Next case.“

The Signs of Fall

This appeared Oct. 8, 2006

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

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


Like the ”stolen election sign“ call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Bank Shot

This appeared Oct. 1, 2006

The construction hole had been growing on the south side of the 400 block of East Market Street for weeks, and I had wondered what sort of business would be locating there. Art gallery? eBay outlet? Brian McFadden's mythical Fine Dining Restaurant?

Nope. According to the sign that went up the other day, we're getting another bank. Of course we are! Because if you live in Chester County in the early days of the 21st century, the two things you apparently cannot have enough of are ugly overpriced new homes and banks.

And if you live in West Chester you're spared the one, but inundated with the other.

You cannot spit in the business sector of West Chester without hitting the front door of a new bank. Anytime someone puts up a new building in the borough, the first thing you absolutely know is going to be located there is something requiring a vault and safe deposit boxes.

You can believe me or not.

It makes you recall the joke about the ubiquity of the Starbucks chain (an everywhere-ness that as of 1 p.m. Saturday, Sept. 30, 2006, still had not extended itself to the borough, I might add). Only instead of a new coffeehouse, in West Chester, we kid that they're opening a new bank in the men's room of an old bank.

Not that we even talk about it that much. It's a fact of life that you just accept without really thinking about it, like seeing discarded beer bottles in the parking lot of Lincoln Financial Field on Eagles game day.

But I know people who come in to work in West Chester every day who look at these financial institutions and just want to punch somebody wearing a three-piece suit. There's a secretary at the Chester County Courthouse who swears she can open a free checking account every 200 yards while taking a noon stroll on her lunch hour, but has to drive 10 miles to get a new pair of hose if she gets a run in her stocking.

It doesn't seem fair. I can list five things the borough needs more than another bank:

A tropical fish store.

A bike repair shop.

A camping equipment outlet.

A (bigger) used book store.

A Cincinnati-style chili parlor, preferably Skyline, that would be open 24/7/365 and would deliver free of charge to customers who can prove they were born in Ohio.

What do we need these banks for anyway? Technically speaking, I haven't seen the inside of a bank since the early days of the Clinton administration. I have direct deposit, I make withdrawals at the ATM, I pay my bills online, and I do my miscellaneous banking chores on my bank's Web site.

Does anyone actually go inside a bank anymore? For all I know, the banks that have been opening in West Chester might not even be banks. They could be insurance companies, or clandestine massage parlors.

It used to be that if you lived in West Chester you had the prefect ratio of banks to Chinese restaurants, which if I remember my notes from college is 4:1. Now we've gone way out of balance with banks and haven't made the necessary moral and financial commitment to keep up the pace with the Chinese restaurants. I say if the Borough Council is going start tackling quality of life issues, that's one they should start with - not this height issue thing.

I have spent countless hours of my personal time trying to come up with a town motto that would serve West Chester now that the original one - "West Chester: The Athens of Pennsylvania" has been discarded I've described them here: "Come Grab Our Trash;" "More Bars Than Barbers" and "Don't Worry, Coatesville is 10 Miles to the West." None have seemed to resonate with the public, or gotten me noticed by the folks on Madison Avenue. Until now.

How about it? "West Chester: A Town Willie Sutton Would Love."

The Sweet Smell of Excess

This appeared on Sept. 17, 2006


Ah, the coming of fall in West Chester! A hint of crispness in the air, wind-blown leaves appearing on the cool brick sidewalks, college students rushing to and from their drunken par ..., er, classes -- all are sure signs that the autumnal equinox can't be too far away.

Not to mention, of course, the biggest local signal that fall is just around the corner - the annual Chester County Restaurant Festival in West Chester. With its 60 different restaurants - serving everything from hot dogs to crab cakes, as the brochure says - its more than 100 craft and organization booths, live bands and a popular beer and wine court, it always brings thousands of enthusiastic Chester Countians to the shining jewel called Gay Street on a (hopefully) warm and sunny Sunday afternoon.

And to each and every one of you 10- to 15-thousand visitors, we longtime borough residents have but one thing to say:

Call us when you've gone home!

Not to put too fine a point on it, but today's restaurant festival is about as popular to us in the borough as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are at the Aniston family Thanksgiving dinner table.

Take, for instance, my friend Ruth Wright Hurford, birthright West Chestrian and ex-catcher with the Daily Local News Headliners Co-ed Softball Team, circa 1985. Since she's spent nearly every minute of her waking life in the borough, you figure Ruth is the sort of person who would know how the natives act. Think of her as sort of the Baedecker Guide to West Chester.

I checked with Ruth last week and found out that, true to form, she won't be dining today on the Gay Street pavement. She'll be around the corner at a friend's house engaging in the last great barbecue of the season. She gets the ambiance of the day, the flavorful aromas of the festival grills, yet none of the waiting and slow shuffling from block to block.

Make no mistake about it, it's the very fact that the festival is so popular that makes it so disliked by borough residents. The lines! The crowds! All we want is a crab cake and a hot dog and to go home and watch the second half of the Eagles loss/game. Instead, we're pushed up against some dog-leash-holding stockbroker from Developmentland who can't decide on whether to get the crab cake sandwich or the crab cake ice cream cone, while his blond second trophy wife pesters him about the fresh fruit crab cake cup. Or whatever.

I don't know about you, but if there is a line of more than five people at the gates of heaven, I'm going to straight to hell.

I've written and edited stories about the festival since I arrived here in the early 1980s and used to look forward to the event. In one of its first incarnations, the restaurant festival was when about 15 restaurateurs would push a few tables onto closed-off Gay Street, fire up the Webers, Donohue's would empty the tavern of tables and chairs, and the ale would flow evenly with the tartar sauce on the crab cakes.

It was a simpler, more sanguine time, when you could stand on the corner of High and Gay Streets with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief. If you stand on that corner with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief these days, you might get 11 1/2 to 23 months of probation and a lecture from Judge Gavin.

But don't let our ambivalence to the festival deter you from having fun. We'll survive.

By 10 o'clock tonight, Gay Street will be free of litter and empty of restaurant booths and by early Monday we will be able to take our morning constitutional from Matlack to New Street without being squeezed like a Philadelphia building contractor.

You'll be gone, and we'll be here. Enjoying our crab cakes.

The (Yawn) Commissioners

This appeared on Sept. 10, 2006

I found myself on the fifth floor of the Chester County Courthouse last week. For those of you who don't know, that's where the three county commissioners set up shop and once or twice a week, come out of their plush offices and hold a public meeting.

For those of you who do know, things aren't the same as they used to be.

In some way, after attending the meeting I'm actually heartened that the judges on the Court of Common Pleas decided to pass over my application for Appointed Minority Commissioner in favor of that other guy - you know, the one with the actual governing experience.

In fact, I was reminded of a scene from the movie "The Freshman," in which Marlon Brando essays his comic take on a Mafia chieftain, Carmine Sabatini, and acts as mentor to young Clark Kellogg, from Vermont, played by the endearing Matthew Broderick.

It's the one where Carmine visits Clark in his dorm room at NYU, where Clark has gone to study film. Concluding his visit, Mr. Sabatini - "Jimmy the Toucan" to his friends - gets up, looks around at the concrete block walls, the stick furniture, the creaky bedsprings, and says: "So this is college? I didn't miss nuttin'."

To say that the commissioners meeting was lacking in drama and political import is to say that Terrell Owens has a strong self-image.

I'm not going to complain that the discussions held by the commissioners on Thursday lacked the fire and crackle of the prime minister's question session in British parliament. That would be unfair, pitting the amateurs against the pros.

But I expected something more than a debate over whether to accept the low bid on a contract for masonry restoration and caulking. Or a recitation on the history of the Chester County Economic Development Council and the purposes of the Industrial development Assistance Law.

If I had been selected to replace Andy What's-His-Name, I would have brought whole bunches of controversial topics to the forum. Issues like the elimination of fake Cincinnati chili from the menus of West Chester-area restaurants and the reclamation of the township of Chadds Ford into the boundaries of Chester County would play a lot more lively in the press than the allocation of $10,712.57 to the borough of Modena (Motto: "Just South of South Coatesville") for use in improvements at the Union Pump Station.

Back in the days when I covered the commissioners as a reporter, there was at least some newsworthy action from the front of the room. Irene Brooks would casually propose floating $15 billion in bonds to protect her neighbor's backyard, or D.T. Marrone might offhandedly remark that the county should reassess all property in sight every six months. If you were lucky, Karen Martynick and Joe Kenna would hold a glare-down contest.

What did the commissioners do Thursday? They proclaimed the day of Saturday, Sept. 16, 2006 as "Responsible Dog Ownership Day" in Chester County. You can believe me or not.

According to the proclamation, that day will now be devoted entirely to "enhancing the human-dog relationship," promoting the benefits of "Puppy Kindergarten" and educating the public about training for "obedience, agility and Earthdog."

Has it come to Earthdog training on the fifth floor? What would Jimmy the Toucan think?

The Power and the Envy

This appeared on Sept. 3, 2006


The woman told the waitress at the Magnolia Grill the only reason she and her husband were having breakfast out Saturday morning was bad luck.

"Every time a raindrop falls on our house, the power goes out," she said.

Her exaggeration may only be minimal. As Chester County's population grows and the number of PECO lines intersecting the landscape follows, it seems now that whenever Mother Nature so much as sneezes, thousands of lights go off from East Bradford to East Pikeland.

And as the darkness encircles them, people all across the county get up, look out the window and say the same thing that the woman did:

"The people across the street have power," she intoned into a cell phone on which she was registering her complaint with someone she imagined had the authority to turn hers back on. "The people across the street always have power."

It is like a rule of thumb around here: You're in the dark, and the neighbors are safe and well-lit.

Friday night's Ernesto-blown wind-and-rain storm proved that maxim once again to my neighbors and I in the 300 block of South Church Street. As we sat out on our porches after the lights had gone out, trading candles and firing up Coleman lanterns, we gazed across the street and saw comforting yellow windows of lights burning brightly.

"The people across the street have power," we told one another. "Why do the people across the street always have power?"

I've spoken before about this after-storm jealousy that infects us in West Chester. When it quits raining and the wind has died down, we go out on foot searching for the areas of town that either have power or don't have power.

Finding a block as dark as our own, we feel vindicated. "Thank the Lord I'm not the only one without electricity," we say. "I thought I was being singled out by the PECO-gods."

Finding a block with the lights lit up like a Las Vegas showgirl's wedding, on the other hand, we feel angry and cheated. "What're they, Exelon execs? They better than we are? Somebody paying somebody off?"

I don't know if there is a rational explanation as to why the people across the street always have power. I don't even know if the people across the street always do have power. After all, if my power stays on during a storm I don't go around checking whether my neighbors have had their circuits blown. I just turn up the volume on the hi-fi and sing along with Dylan.

And, truth be told, sometimes getting your power blown can be a good thing. When the power went out in June, my friend Jamie's wife Cheryl engineered a system for keeping the food cold and the water fresh that would have made Rube Goldberg gasp in astonishment. When the lights went back on, she was almost sad; she'd have to resort to simply flipping a switch to get things going rather than dropping a bowling ball in the laundry basket, or however the contraption worked.

As for me, I think my neighbors and I have gotten to known one another a little better because of our shared experience on the front porch during power outages. We get to share a glass of wine, catch up on gossip, re-tell stories from the last storm, and maybe even meet one another's family or friends as they stop by to commiserate.

So you see, lady, maybe the people across the street aren't so lucky. After all, that Magnolia Grill breakfast looked awful good.

The Summertime Blues

This appeared Aug. 27, 2006

During the past week, while you and the rest of the Chester County public have been glued to whatever news outlet strikes your fancy these days - newspaper, television, radio, blogosphere, press releases from the desk of state Sen. Andy "47 Days Since Last Quoted in Daily Local News, And Counting" Dinniman - in hopes of learning the fate of the Former Planet Pluto, you might have missed some truly important news.

Summer's over.

I know you still have August on the calendar, that you still see green leaves on the trees, still fill your shopping bags with sweet corn at the West Chester Growers Market and still wait for the Phillies to take a swan dive, but, trust me, summer's gone.

How do I know? School starts this week.

It didn't always used to be this way, but this is the age of "post" America. You know, post-Watergate, post-Reagan, post 9/11, post-Katrina. The new seasonal calendar began whatever day it was that the planners in school districts across the country decided that students needed to get back to their books before Labor Day Weekend. Call it "post-Age of Reason" America.

Monday will be the first day of school for students in a majority of county school districts. Instead of having that one last weekend splurge down at the beach or camping trip up in the mountains, students will have to lug their 75-pound backpacks to class a week before September starts.

No more final breath of summer at the amusement park on Labor Day; for anyone under the age of 25, it's time to sit down and shut up and listen to the first few lessons of Algebra I of the new school year.

If the kids went to school in vacuum chambers instead of multi-million dollar buildings with state-of-the-art cafeterias, this wouldn't be so bad. We adults could go on pretending that we were surrounded by the carefree days of summer. Yes, there would still be time to get that deep tropical tan we've been thinking of since May 31, or to get that vegetable garden planted in the backyard as we've promised to do for lo these many years.

But school rules all. It's hard to keep up the pretense that summer is still here when you're stuck in traffic behind a bright yellow school bus - the kids inside taking their ADD aggressive frustrations out by flashing the kind of sign language which usually gets you beaten with a baseball bat in certain sections of Upper Darby out the back window in your direction.

"Back to School" sales started, I'm told, sometime in June, about two weeks after graduation. You can believe me or not.

I feel sorry for the kids because, frankly, its hard to concentrate on the business of learning when its 95 degrees inside the classroom and there's not a breeze in sight. And I feel sorry for the teachers, too, because they grew up in a world where Aug. 15 meant there was still three weeks of freedom left. These days, Aug. 15 means you'd better have completed your first six weeks of lesson plans or you'll be hopelessly behind the kids who have been brushing up on their critiques of "Beowulf" in between visits to MySpace.com all summer.

But mostly I feel sorry us, as we lose more time to the Gods of Planning. And for Pluto, who never meant no one no harm.

Ironically Speaking

This appeared Aug. 13, 2006

Not that I am what anyone would reasonably call a combative person, but I do find myself occasionally berating random people over their incorrect word usage. "Irony" versus "coincidence," for example.

Irony, I explain in as kind a voice as I can muster, is when the firehouse burns down. Coincidence -- the remarkable occurrence of events -- is, well ...

Let me tell you a story.

Recently, a neighbor stopped by on her way up the street to politely inform me that I was a born fool if I ever thought the judges would give me the commissionership, but that in her opinion, not all of what I'd written over the months was complete rubbish.

She especially liked the homage I paid to the dawn redwood that stands across the street from our homes, and pointed me to Sebastian Koh, a retired math professor from West Chester University, who had a connection to the tree.

Koh, a soft-spoken and kindly fellow, explained in a telephone conversation that the dawn redwood, or metasequoia, had been discovered in China back in the 1940s by an expeditionary team sent to search for uncatalogued species of trees by his father, Shau Tong Koh, who, at the time, was head of the Department of Reforestation in the country's forestry ministry.

Let me tell you that the metasequoia is a wonderful, unique species of giant trees that, unlike its cousins in the redwood family, is deciduous. Its bright green leaves turn a reddish brown in the fall and shed to the ground. In China, whole valleys of the tree grow wild.

The species was the subject of some controversy in China, since both the elder Koh's crew, led by Zhang Wang, and a professor at Central University, Toh Kan, claimed credit for its discovery. But that debate was long over when the younger Koh arrived at the campus of the then- West Chester State College in 1970.

In his first days here, discussing his life and family and interest in horticulture, he learned that a previous mathematics scholar at the school, Robert Anderson, had had similar interests and had imported a number of species of exotic plants for his home across from the school's main campus. Touring those grounds later, he was disappointed that many of the plants had died from neglect.

But then, he said, came a surprise.

"I spotted this huge metasequoia, one of the first to be imported (to the U.S.), judging by its size," growing on amid the horticultural ruins, he said. He soon noticed others around the area, and showed them to his father when the elderly man came to visit West Chester. "He was very pleased," Koh said.

Today, Koh has three dawn redwoods - or water spruces as they are known in his native country - in his backyard in Downingtown. The first one he planted there in 1972 has grown to a height of more than 70 feet.

Judging by the fossil record, Koh told me, the dawn redwood once spread across the northern hemisphere. "In a way, they are recovering now from their former distribution," he said.

So that's it. I like the thought of someone "discovering" a tree that had grown for epochs, and then having someone else later "discover" that "discovery" half a world a way. So I am certain that the story of the dawn redwood will come up in my next conversation with the neighbor who pointed me to Sebastain Koh.

Her name? That would be Dawn L'Heureux.

And that's what I call a coincidence.

A Tribute to Judge Sugerman

This appeared on Aug. 6, 2006


Sitting on my front stoop last week, watching the asphalt on South Church Street melt like a bar of cheap chocolate, I found myself thinking of another August.

Nine years ago this month, Leonard Sugerman spent his last full day on the Chester County Common Pleas Court bench. I sat in the courtroom that day, writing down as much of what he had to say as I could capture, as I had been doing since taking over the courthouse beat for the Daily Local News some years before.

On Wednesday, looking over the story I wrote about that final day, I smiled at the memory of Judge Sugerman walking from the bench to his chambers, in the sort of half-step shuffle his 69-year-old legs had grown accustomed to.

"Well, that was exciting," he said dryly, of the rudimentary tasks he completed that day -granting a continuance, checking on an attorney-client status, conducting a quick sentencing. I asked him if he thought there should have been more fireworks for his finale. He chuckled. "I've had 25 years of fireworks," he said.

He did.

You can believe me or not, but for my money he was the most compelling and significant figure in the world of Chester County law for the last half of the 20th century, at least. Look at his case list: The trial of the murderous, infamous Johnston Gang. The hearings on Richard Griest's sanity. A precedent setting First Amendment case. The contentious first Byrne murder trial.

He had his faults, of course. Sugerman joked from the bench quite a bit, especially when he saw a local reporter sitting in the audience. He could be as courteous as a blushing schoolboy when someone he respected came in the courtroom, but bitingly caustic when someone he didn't entered.

Just a few days before he stepped down, I watched as he sentenced a man who had taken the life of a promising West Chester University student in a pathetic drunken driving accident. The prosecutor was demanding hard time, but the defense attorney made an eloquent, forceful plea for leniency.

Sugerman spent more than 10 minutes telling everyone in the courtroom how deeply impressed he had been with the defense's argument. Then he calmly ordered the man sent to state prison for 10- to- 20 years, the maximum allowed by law, the term to start immediately. "We hope that the defendant will learn something from this sentence, as well as the public at large," he said.

"That was the most polite, gentle, considerate mule kicking I've ever seen," I thought to myself after the man was led from the courtroom in cuffs. He's probably still wondering what happened.

Four months after his last day, Sugerman was dead. Figuratively speaking, it was as if he couldn't live without the bench.

Next year maybe, the county's new court building will open. When it does, the day-to-day judicial life of Courtroom One, where Sugerman spent the pinnacle years of his leadership on the court, will come to an end, I'm told. All the judges will move from the courthouse to the 200 block of W. Market St., and only on ceremonial occasions will the red-cushioned seats of that wonderful courtroom be filled.

They're calling the new courthouse the Chester County Justice Center. You will excuse me while I state for the record how much I despise that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It reminds me of something the folks in Uzbeckistan would call the newest state brainwashing structure.

So, I'm proposing right now that the county pay its respects to his legacy by naming the building the Leonard O. Sugerman Courthouse, and that in its grandest courtroom - the one where future president judges will sit to hear cases - a portrait of Sugerman hang for all to regard.

I've got the photo they can use as a model right here on my desk.

Mongo Mania

This appeared July 30, 2006

You live, you learn.

No, I'm not talking about one of those life lessons that appears on a soft-focus greeting card - you know, "Stay true to your heart," "Always follow your dreams," "Never buy a hamburger from a man dressed as a clown" - but pieces of practical information that you glean for use in your everyday life as you seek to get ahead in this rat-race world we live in.

The meaning of mongo, for instance.

For years I, foolishly enough, believed that Mongo was simply the name of the deputy sheriff in Mel Brook's seminal film, "Blazing Saddles." The one who walks into town and casually punches out a horse, then later tearfully comes to understand that he has been cruelly manipulated by evil forces, confessing, "Mongo only pawn in game of life."

But thanks to old friend and Constant Reader Norman Mawby (See: township manager, Tredyffrin, 1964-1987) I learned this week that mongo is what I spoke of when I wrote earlier about the practice of grabbing trash.

In his book, "Mongo: Adventures in Trash," author Ted Botha identifies mongo as slang for the garbage salvaged from trash cans and other refuse sites. Seems in his adopted city of New York, there is an entire subculture devoted to grabbing mongo and making it work for you. People score mongo to decorate their homes and offices and to clothe themselves and their loved ones. They use it as currency, as in the money they receive for discarded cans and bottles. They subsist off edible mongo from restaurants and delis. They even use it to acquire wealth, as in those scavengers who look for Hemingway first editions in the garbage or Rembrandts on the curbside.

According to a review of Botha's book in The New York Times, the compulsion to acquire mongo "may be explained psychologically as a 'hedge against mortality' - we die, but our stuff lives on."

But I'm not going to assign those motives to my newest favorite group of people in Chester County. May I introduce to you the ChesterCountyFreecyclers, a bunch of mongo distributors and collectors organized around the principle that if you keep usable items that are lying around your house gathering dust out of the county landfill by giving it away free to someone who can really use the darn thing, you are building a sense of community.

Anyway, that's what Debbie Kiehl, the lead moderator for the group, told me. They formed in March and have about 1,360 members, mostly women, and grow by 40 or 50 each week.

The deal is simple: if you have something you don't want, you offer it to the group free. If someone wants it, they ask for it and pick it up wherever you leave it. A check of the recent posting on the Web site (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ChesterCntyPAFreecycle/) showed offers of kittens, vertical blinds, two wooden desks, a jogging stroller, Tonka trucks, three 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzles, and some nail polish.

Recently, I was able to give away a tent I got on eBay, not realizing it didn't have a rain fly to keep the water out. I didn't want it, but some fellow named Tom did. I left it at my door and eight hours later it was gone.

No muss, no fuss. Mongo now tool in world of camping.

Not A Normal Night

This appeared July 23, 2006

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."

I was reminded of that sentence, the opening of George Orwell's "1984," on Wednesday as I strolled the streets of West Chester surveying damage from the evening's storm and power outage.

Not because of any notion that Big Brother was watching, but rather because as I walked, my watch read 8:30 and the chimes on the clock on top of the Chester County Courthouse were cheerily pealing out the count of 10.

That's the way things were in Chester County the past few days - not quite in order, sometimes way off the mark.

It began with the heat, was punctuated by a swift thunderstorm that wiped out the power grid and ended with a shared experience that gave us something to talk about with family, friends and strangers. The whole experience was not unlike those snow days we have in winter, when the normal rules of social engagement don't seem to apply.

Except, of course, that the mercury in the thermometer was flirting with 100 degrees Tuesday.

It is well documented, not only in these pages but in hundreds of comments and missives that I've made and sent to people I know, that I am not a hot weather person. I've made it known that I would sell my not inconsiderable influence in the editorial department of the Daily Local News to anyone who would build a public swimming pool within easy walking distance of my home on South Church Street.

So, I was not feeling happy that evening, trying to erase the heat with an ice bath, when the lights went out, the fans went dead, the air conditioner stopped running, and everything got a little quiet.

That's what I noticed most, as the lightless evening faded into moonless night: It was quiet.

Usually, we've got the university kids to contend with - those jolly folk who need an excuse as trivial as coming to a complete stop at three stop signs in a row to declare party time and begin howling at the moon. But they're away this time of year and so I had only the whoosh of a passing car or the thumping of a free-spirited jogger going by to break the quiet as I sat on the stoop.

I was drawn outside, too, because frankly it was cooler out there. The air doesn't move well in my second floor unit without some heavyweight industrial circulation machinery to help it, so I stayed outdoors past midnight - again, a time I am rarely awake to see.

Later, drifting off to sweaty sleep, I quite expected that any moment I'd be woken by the sound of appliances coming back on as the power was restored. But, by the time the birds started announcing that it was a new day and time for them to start feeding, nothing had changed: no lights, no air.

I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to see who the electric company gods had smiled on. That's the way it is when the power goes out in West Chester. Nothing comes back on all at once; each block has it's own time, and we all go crazy wondering why the folks across the street got their power back and we didn't. It's a jealousy thing.

Along an alleyway off Dean Street, I saw something that said it all for me about the long powerless night: A fellow curled up contentedly asleep on a couch on his porch.

Perfect, I thought. When normal life goes out the window, the best thing to do is change course and adapt. And if the clock strikes 10 o'clock at 8:30, adjust your watch accordingly.

An Odd Exchange

This appeared on July 16, 2006


Recognizing that many of you readers are pressed for time today as you get ready to make appearances at both the annual Turk's Head Music Festival (Motto: "We Sing, You Sweat") and the Grand Opening ceremonies at West Goshen's new Robert E. Lambert Park, I'll try to keep this as brief as possible.

West Chester is by its nature not a singularly odd place. It was first inhabited, I think, by Quakers, and despite what you've heard, that group of people is about as edgy as sugar free vanilla pudding.

Nonetheless, there are times when curious events occur in our fair borough, and one has to be ready to face them.

Case in point: On Friday, I was taking care of a few errands on my way to work when I found myself at the intersection of East Gay and North Matlack streets, confronted by a group of somewhat disheveled men.

In case you are interested, I was on my way to the post office to send off the latest issues of "Rolling Stone" magazine for my two nieces out in Cincinnati. Their parents won't get them a subscription, so it's left to me to provide them with the latest news from the world of rock 'n roll debauchery.

And yes, I know that I am slowly but surely corrupting them by doing this. But I would rather it be me that corrupts them than say, ex-Philadelphia Councilman Rick Marino. After all, I'm not going to climb to the top of City Hall if the feds catch me.

So, I'm stopped at the traffic light at Gay and Matlack and looking right at me are these three guys sitting on a stoop there.

Now, let me say I don't like to judge people. But while I may not like to, I do it anyway. Sort of like flossing, or talking to politicians. And I judged these guys to be of the "street" variety, a class of borough residents I generally have little interaction with.

But one of these guys shouts out, "Hey! Yo! Mister!" obviously in my direction, and I am forced to ask myself, "Do I maintain my "I-don't-see-you-I-don't-hear-you-na-na-na-na-na!" bland facial expression and stare straight ahead, or do I respond?"

For whatever reason, I turned and looked at him, and he said, "Yo! What do you get when you multiply one half times one half?"

So I blinked for a nano-second or two and, after giving it some thought, replied, in a vague, yet casual, sort of way: "One-quarter."

"THANK you!" he said, sounding as though he was glad to finally meet an educated man, then turned to his mates as if to say, "See? What'd I tell you?"

The light changed, and I drove off.

As I got out of the car at the post office, I thought to myself three things:

*What could the conversation among those three street guys possibly have been about that they had to ask a passing motorist to settle a math equation?

*How in the name of all that is holy did I remember how to multiply fractions? After all, I proudly maintained a straight "D" average in math all the way through 10th grade, when I gave up its study forever.

*No way am I going to the Lambert Park opening Sunday. It's too much fun here in the borough.

The Readers Speak

This appeared Sunday, July 2, 2006

(Editor's note: For those of you who don't get around West Chester too much, the names of the judges on the Court of Common Pleas who made the commissioner's decision are artfully hidden in this column. The person chosen was ex-Commissioner Patrick O'Donnell.)


So I didn't get the job.

Surprisingly enough, in choosing who would become the next minority commissioner in Chester County the Common Pleas Court judges decided to go for someone whose qualifications seem to include actual experience in the position instead of someone, like me, who has vision, verve, vitality and a semi-valid security pass to the courthouse (expiration date July 1.)

But rather than wallow in self-pity, I say let's go to the mailbag and see how the readers reacted to my campaign!

Dear Mr. Rellahan:
I don't like your ideas. I don't like your jokes. I don't like your photo. Frankly, I don't like you, and don't think you should be put in any position of responsibility. Oh, and my parents don't like you, my husband doesn't like you, and I'm pretty sure my dog has grievous misgivings.
Paula O.
West Chester.

Dear News Editor:
If we're going to have a slightly overweight Irishman with facial hair sitting in the chair as minority commissioner, I think that at the very least we should have one who was educated in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
Howard F. R. Jr.
North High Street

Dear Mr. Relish-ham:
Stupid, is what you are. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Believe me, I talk to lawyers all the time and I know stupid when I see it. And you can't cure stupid.
Robert S.
Big House with a Clock

Hey Rellahan:
You think you're funny? You think you could get a judge to give you a job just because you might get them a 30G iPod? I say you're brazen! You gotta go 60G U2 version to get anywhere with that crowd.
Anthony S.
Don't Call Me,
I'll Call You

Dear M.P. Rellahan,
Does the "P" stand for "Perfectly Clueless"? I don't care what my cousin Tom says about you, I don't think you should even be allowed in the courthouse without clearance from the Department of Homeland Security.
Jacqueline C.
Nowhere Near You

Dear Sir:
What we need in this county are more people who wore the proud uniform of the military of the United States, preferably the Marine Corps.
Semper Fi!
Thomas G.,
West Chester

Dear Mr. Rellahan:
I don't know you, but everybody I work with says it would be a disaster that would call for intervention by the Federal Emergency Management Agency if you were appointed minority commissioner. And from what I know, most of them have never been wrong.
Rusty G.
Between Gay and Market

Dear Mike:
You're the finest, bravest, most lovable man I ever met. But you can't quote me. Sorry.
John H.
West Chester

Dear Rellahan:
Nyahh, nyah-nyah, nyaahhh, nyahh!
Patrick O'D.
Fifth Floor

Welcome Home....

This appeared on June 25, 2006

There are people in Chester County who don't know where they live.

Not that they've forgotten what their house looks like, what their address is or how to get home in the dark. Rather, they don't realize that they live in a tiny hamlet, village or neighborhood that owns a distinctive proper name, but which has been lost to time or erased by the savagery of modern development.

Having gone out of fashion, some places here now may be known only by their greater geographic location. And while it's certainly chic to say one saddles up one's horse in West Marlborough, how much more lyrical would it be to say you're putting the ol' feed bag on in Springdell?

Everybody knows Chester Springs, Ludwigs Corner, Exton, Paoli, Mendenhall, whatever. But how many of us have had friends report that they were enjoying life at their new home in Trythall, Cossart or Steelville?

Those are bonafide place names I found looking at Franklin's Five County Metro Street Atlas, (6th ed., $33.95, plus tax). My research came before embarking on a few weekend jaunts driving the circumference of Chester County, a labor of love I assigned myself some time ago, having gotten back behind the wheel of an automobile after a layoff of about 10 years.

Tracing the route of my journey on Franklin's map, I grew fascinated by the names of the places I'd be visiting, or other locations nearby. Where the names came from, I didn't know; how they came to be, I could only guess.

For example, Peacedale. It's in Elk Township, down around the Maryland border on the Lewisville Road, just nigh east of Hickoryhill. (You start to talk like that when you read maps.)

You'd be a fool not to imagine that Peacedale got its name from a gaggle of Quakers who decided to put down roots there after having fled the religious persecution they faced in, oh, say, Kemblesville. Although I can only assume that people living there today don't know they live in Peacedale, wouldn't it be a perfect address to share with the fresh-faced U.S. Army recruiters who now find themselves going door to door to fill out the next plane-load to Baghdad?

"Sorry, sonny," you'd say. "This here's be Peacedale, and we got our own ways of doin' things."

There are curious names all across the county map, places like Cream in Lower Oxford and Chrome in East Nottingham. Do country folks in Honey Brook know they live in Cambridge, or suburban Bobos in Tredyffrin realize they've taken up residence in New Centerville?

Could Talcose, in East Bradford, have been the area where Squire Smedley Talcose owned a few acres and folks just started referring to it by his name after he passed? Clearly, a hamlet like Rocky Hill in East Goshen, had near the corner of North Chester and Strasburg roads, had a hill that was a trifle rocky, and, well, if you wanted to tell people how to get to your house . . .

I'd love to live in Tweedale, or Five Points, or Fremont, or Rockville or, best of all, Pine Swamp, just to be able to put that on my return address.

It would be heaven, knowing exactly where my home was.

It's All In The Resume

This appeared on June 18, 2006



Dear Common Pleas Board of Judges:

(Scratch that.)

Dear Guys and Gals:

Some of you I know, some I'm meeting for the first time. But I know there is a deadline of Monday for the resumes of those seeking the venerable office of Minority Commissioner and let me assure you, as a newspaperman of 26 years and counting, I know the meaning of a deadline.
So if I don't get to grease your palm, er, meet with you personally in delivering my resume, please forgive me and accept this column in its place. I'm just trying to be timely.

Let's get started.

Born: Cincinnati, Ohio.

Favorite food: Cincinnati chili three-way, two Coneys on the side, with (onions, of course.)

High School: Walnut Hills High School, 1973-1975. School motto: "High on the Hill," but we don't really need to go there, do we? Senior photo with shoulder length hair and Grateful Dead T-shirt supplied upon request.

College: Earlham College, Richmond, Ind. B.S. Political Science, 1979. Team nickname, Hustlin' Quakers. Team mascot, bearded protester wearing "Boycott Grapes" T-shirt.

Professional experience: As stated, newspaperman 1979-present.

Professional accomplishments: Honorable mention, Pennsylvania Newspaper Publishers' Association, Keystone Press Award, for series exposing confusion on Common Pleas Court surrounding career of controversial judge and subsequent disorder in the courts.

(Hmmm, strike that.)

Professional accomplishments: Wrote series of laudatory profiles of (let's see, one, two, three, four, what the heck call it) five current Common Pleas Court judges. And darn proud of it.
Career high point: Called "a gentleman" by former First Lady Barbara Bush during 1992 presidential campaign appearance, simply for standing up when she came in the interview room.
Career low point: Had unfortunate weight gain commented on by soon-to-be-former state Rep. Elinor Z. Taylor, R-156th, of West Goshen.

Career notable point: Wrote story about alleged UFO sighting at former Lukens Steel Co. plant. (Never actually disproven, however.)

Qualifications: Punctual. Familiar with layout of Chester County Courthouse. Possess courthouse security card (expires, July 1, 2006.) Able, and willing, to vote "no" on any proposal by GOP colleagues, day or night, 24/7/365, with sole exception of enormous budget increases for judiciary departments of county government, which may or may not include line item for new 60G iPods for current Common Pleas Court members.

Political aspirations: It's not about me. I'm just here to help the team.

Platform: It is far past time to free the citizens of Chadds Ford from the cruel yoke of tyranny in Delaware County, in which it is lumped in with slouching municipalities such as Folcroft and Yeadon and Havertown, instead of standing proudly alongside Birmingham, Pocopson, Thornbury, Coatesville and Modena. When we cut Delco loose back in 17-whatever, how were we supposed to know that the masterful genius of the Wyeth clan would choose that township to settle in? We was hoodwinked, and its time to make what's wrong right.

Possible campaign slogan: "I've paid my dues, and most of my parking tickets."

Going, Going ... Gone!

This appeared June 11, 2006


This was supposed to be a column about the monstrosity township officials in West Goshen are attempting to pass off to the unsuspecting public as their latest "park" - that steel-caged nightmare motorists on Route 100 can view under construction just outside West Chester.

That is, if they can stand the sight of it without screaming and shielding their children's eyes, like you would a particularly grim traffic accident.

And it still is about that, in a way. But more, it's about backyard softball, shady summer evenings, hitting your first home run and an inevitable loss of innocence.

Oh yeah, and beer.

Back in the middle of the Reagan Era, I used to play softball in a coed league with colleagues from the Daily Local News and various friends. The league didn't have a field of its own, and many of the games were scattered across the county - Lionville, Embreeville, a lot across from Schramm's manufacturing plant on Virginia Avenue near Henderson High, wherever.

But the favorite place for all of us to play was a lot we called Ashbridge Field, located in the Green Hills Farm section of West Goshen on, appropriately enough, Ashbridge Road.

We affectionately nicknamed the place "The Bandbox," because of its relatively tiny dimensions. People who had never dreamed of ever being able to jack one over the fence looked at the field and started doing their best Babe Ruth imitation.

It wasn't a formal baseball field, really. I thought of it mostly as some guy's backyard.

Sure, it had a backstop and benches for the players, a few bleacher seats and cutouts for home plate and the bases. But it was a little lopsided and you had to park your car on the grass, and every once in a while a foul ball would find its way into the next-door neighbor's hedges and you'd have to go root around for the ball for 10 minutes or so while everybody else waited.

In other words, it was the perfect place to play a softball game on an August night, then spend 45 minutes replaying the game over a few cold beers as twilight came on.

I decided to visit the field recently for the first time in decades, my idea being to compare its informal glory with the new Park on Route 100. But to my dismay, Ashbridge is gone.

In its place is Richard C. Cloud Park - Mr. Cloud, I assume, being the guy who built the field in his backyard. Ashbridge had been taken over by West Goshen, and is now part of its Recreational Gulag.

As I pulled into the new macadam parking lot and stared in disbelief at the concrete block dugouts, steel fences and regulation baselines, I spotted with horror the ultimate symbol that the party was over for my Field of Dreams: A sign grandly proclaimed the field's "Rules and Regulations."

Closed at dusk. Crowds must register with township. No open burning. All goofing off prosecuted. And, most depressingly: "Alcoholic beverages are prohibited in the parks."

Driving away from the field, I remember President Reagan once saying something about government being the problem and not the solution. Never have I agreed with him more.

The only benefit I took away from the change? One of the rules of the field stated plainly:

"Golf is prohibited."

Bridgid for Burgess?

This appeared June 4, 2006


I'm at the Market Street Grill and Kerry walks by. He owns the place.

"How am I going to kick start this campaign for minority commissioner?" I say. "The ground hasn't even puffed, let alone swelled."

"Forget about it," says Kerry. "Phils are in it for a playoff spot, maybe two! Rollins wins the batting title and Howard takes the home run prize. Could be sweet!"

"Did the doctors decide to up your meds or something?" I say. "Look, I put people on notice two weeks ago that I'm the perfect choice, and not one call! Best I got was a good luck note from 'Amy in Texas,' but I don't think she's even registered."

"Forget about it," says Kerry. "The Braves are a pushover, and the Mets are a fabrication of the sportswriting media. By the time July 4 rolls around, we could be in sole possession of first place, and maybe even second, too! Oooh, sweet!"

"I hear they are making lots of progress in treating illnesses of the mind these days," I say. "Look, I've carved out a policy niche that no one else seems to have tapped. No one has even come close to calling for the annexation of Chadds Ford, but what do I get? Not even an old 'I'm proud to be a Chester County Democrat' badge."

Bridgid, the manager, walks by. She's now playing forward for the Philadelphia Pirates of the Women's Premier Soccer League.

"Change your name," she says. "I'd go with Smedley, as in Smedley Darlington, 1827-1899. He was kin to the other Darlingtons - Issac, William, Edward, that lot - and spent four glorious years representing the old 6th Congressional District. Plus, Smedley Butler's named after him. He may never have been elected, but Ol' Gimlet Eye knew a thing or two about politics."

I look at Kerry. He blinks. Hard. Ever since she scored the winning goal over the Northhampton Laurels, the girl's got delusions of grandeur.

"Forget about it," says Kerry. "August, I figure 22, 23 wins, no problem. We wrap up home field advantage by Labor Day and just wait for the Cards to hand us the first three of five. Sweet-ness!"

"You should lie down when the furies come," I say. "Look, I can't just go around thinking that just because I've met the president judge's parents and can find my way to the fifth floor of the courthouse without an escort that I'm a shoo-in. I need a campaign strategy. Something like Dinniman's 'I'll-even-wax-your-car-if-you-vote-for-me' plan."

Mr. Handforth - Bridgid's dad - pokes his head out from the kitchen.

"You should be a burgess," he says. "Like Channing Way, 1877-1954, son of Marshall and Anna Eliza Smedley Way. Dad served as burgess of West Chester from '95 to '96 - 1895, you understand - and sonny boy took over the family businesses, so to speak, in 1919."

Kerry looks at me. I blink. Very hard. Mr. Handforth must think his daughter's going to start in the World Cup this week.

"Forget about it," says Kerry. "I could get field level seats, maybe even on the field, for the World Series and ..."

Kerry keeps talking but I stop listening. I need a campaign manager, somebody who can get this thing off the ground.

I leave the grill, wondering who it could be. Then I see him across the street.

"Hey, Freddie Gusz!" says I.