This story originally appeared on Sunday, Oct. 7, 2007
WEST CHESTER – A Honey Brook man has abandoned his quest to assert an insanity defense against charges he dropped his one month old son on the floor of his girlfriend’s house and then kicked the child in the head, instead entering a guilty plea.
Dwayne Allen “Chopper” Zeimer, 29, of Horseshoe Pike will ask Common Pleas Court Judge Thomas Gavin to determine how much time he should spend in prison for the assault on his son. He entered an open plea of guilty on Wednesday to charges of aggravated assault, endangering the welfare of children and terroristic threats.
The assault charge, a first-degree felony, carries with it a mandatory minimum prison term of five years because of the age of the victim. But Elizabeth Pitts, the deputy district attorney prosecuting the case, said Thursday she would seek a “significantly” longer prison term.
In his plea, Zeimer admitted that on Feb. 20, 2006, he intentionally injured his 30-day old son during an argument with his then-girlfriend, Heidi Allison Hatton, who had told Zeimer that she intended to end their relationship.
He was arrested by state police at Embreeville, after a high speed chase through western Chester County and eastern Lancaster County, during which troopers clocked him traveling over 100 mph in a 1992 Pontiac SUV.
A year after his arrest, Zeimer gave notice to the court through his attorney, Assistant Public Defender David B. Miller, that he intended to pursue a defense of insanity at trial. Based on an interview with psychologist Elliot L. Atkins of Marlton, N.J., Miller contended that Zeimer suffered from major depression that left him psychotic, an obsessive compulsive disorder, a dissociative disorder and a dependent personality disorder.
Those psychological disorders would have left him incapable of appreciating the nature of his actions that night, Miller said in his notice.
Although his guilty plea has left him without of the possibility of being found not guilty by reason of insanity at trial, Zeimer can still claim his mental condition as a mitigating factor at his sentencing hearing, now scheduled for Dec. 3.
According to the description of events given by Pitts during Zeimer’s plea, Zeimer and Hatton were arguing about their relationship when Zeimer went into a bedroom where his son was sleeping and brought him back out in the kitchen. He held in by the head for several minutes before he stood up, held the baby in the air and then threw him to the floor.
He then kicked the child twice in the head before Hatton was able to throw herself on top of the baby and protect him. Zeimer also threatened to kill both the baby and Hatton during the incident.
The baby was flown to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, where he was hospitalized for 12 days, some of the time in the intensive care unit. Pitts said the baby suffered from two broken legs, a broken arm and internal bleeding. The child is still being treated for the after affects of the injuries today, she said.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Back to the Future
This column originally appeared on Sunday, Oct. 7, 2007
Chester County, one of William Penn’s original land subdivisions, turns 325 this year.
The Chester County Courthouse – that amalgam of buildings that occupies the center of downtown West Chester turns, by measure of its different annexes, new wings and awkward additions, 161, 115, 43, and 26 this year, give or take.
On May 12, I celebrated my 50th birthday. And on Thursday of this week, I will commemorate 25 years working for the Daily Local News.
They say that home is where the heart is, but they don’t really stamp with that idiom with an image of what that home should looks like. For my money, home stands about five stories tall, is made of part Indiana limestone, part brick and part Nova Scotia Pictou stone, and has a doorway that reads, “Justitia” above it. It’s got a clock tower on its top and a frieze on its side that features not only Yankee Hall of Fame pitcher Herb Pennock but also the Marquis de Lafayette.
I started covering news as a reporter/drudge out of the courthouse in the late 1980s, and moved there on a semi-permanent basis in the 1990s.
If you want to count numbers, I composed an estimated 1,200 stories during the six years I was at the courthouse regularly, covered 15 murder trials, sat in three different press rooms, and received about 18 haircuts.
The latter may not have anything to do with the quality of the news accounts I was giving at the time in the overall scheme of things, but certainly concerned my employers at the time enough so that the publisher would make a point of coming into the newsroom expressly to comment on length of my hair when it had retreated to a space above my shirt collar.
I began falling in love with the courthouse when I began covering the courts beat – trials, pleas, filings, legal arguments, lawyerly foibles, Judge M. Joseph Melody, etc. After awhile, I learned the rabbit warren of back stairways and basement tunnels that allowed me to get places where the normal person wasn’t going, and used that knowledge to spend my time avoiding work as much as possible by gossiping with some of the most interesting people you’d ever want to meet – usually while they, too, were taking a break from their underpaid, overworked jobs.
I knew I’d found a home the first time a judge heard me yawning and said to one of the lawyers in front of him, “If you can’t keep him interested, what do you think you’re doing to me?”
I say all this because The Management at the Daily Local News has seen fit to ship me back to the courthouse, presumably to continue where I left off 11 years ago.
I know I will miss my post as news editor, as much I know as the newsroom callers who asked me to send a reporter to their daughter’s school play will miss my polite responses, but I am looking forward to the changes that I know I will find, and to seeing once again the old faces who still populate the courthouse’s hallways and courtrooms and back stairways.
I see it this way: Home may be where the heart is, but it is also where the Motion to Dismiss is filed.
Chester County, one of William Penn’s original land subdivisions, turns 325 this year.
The Chester County Courthouse – that amalgam of buildings that occupies the center of downtown West Chester turns, by measure of its different annexes, new wings and awkward additions, 161, 115, 43, and 26 this year, give or take.
On May 12, I celebrated my 50th birthday. And on Thursday of this week, I will commemorate 25 years working for the Daily Local News.
They say that home is where the heart is, but they don’t really stamp with that idiom with an image of what that home should looks like. For my money, home stands about five stories tall, is made of part Indiana limestone, part brick and part Nova Scotia Pictou stone, and has a doorway that reads, “Justitia” above it. It’s got a clock tower on its top and a frieze on its side that features not only Yankee Hall of Fame pitcher Herb Pennock but also the Marquis de Lafayette.
I started covering news as a reporter/drudge out of the courthouse in the late 1980s, and moved there on a semi-permanent basis in the 1990s.
If you want to count numbers, I composed an estimated 1,200 stories during the six years I was at the courthouse regularly, covered 15 murder trials, sat in three different press rooms, and received about 18 haircuts.
The latter may not have anything to do with the quality of the news accounts I was giving at the time in the overall scheme of things, but certainly concerned my employers at the time enough so that the publisher would make a point of coming into the newsroom expressly to comment on length of my hair when it had retreated to a space above my shirt collar.
I began falling in love with the courthouse when I began covering the courts beat – trials, pleas, filings, legal arguments, lawyerly foibles, Judge M. Joseph Melody, etc. After awhile, I learned the rabbit warren of back stairways and basement tunnels that allowed me to get places where the normal person wasn’t going, and used that knowledge to spend my time avoiding work as much as possible by gossiping with some of the most interesting people you’d ever want to meet – usually while they, too, were taking a break from their underpaid, overworked jobs.
I knew I’d found a home the first time a judge heard me yawning and said to one of the lawyers in front of him, “If you can’t keep him interested, what do you think you’re doing to me?”
I say all this because The Management at the Daily Local News has seen fit to ship me back to the courthouse, presumably to continue where I left off 11 years ago.
I know I will miss my post as news editor, as much I know as the newsroom callers who asked me to send a reporter to their daughter’s school play will miss my polite responses, but I am looking forward to the changes that I know I will find, and to seeing once again the old faces who still populate the courthouse’s hallways and courtrooms and back stairways.
I see it this way: Home may be where the heart is, but it is also where the Motion to Dismiss is filed.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Best Meal in West Chester
This column originally appeared on Sunday, Sept. 16, 2007
Here’s a little bit of historic detritus, courtesy of the Daily Local News afternoon edition, Sept. 19, 1983. Under the headline, “Festival crowd … called ‘enjoyable mob,’ appears the following paragraph:
“Organizers of the festival, which brought more than 50 restaurants to the five-block-long Gay Street Mall, were quick to proclaim the event a success. Along with unofficial estimates by the West Chester police department, the organizers set the crowd at 26,000.”
It should come as no surprise that the event in question was the fourth annual Chester County Restaurant Festival, which has morphed into the West Chester Restaurant Festival, which is set to kick off sometime around noon today on that self same Gay Street — although no one refers to Gay Street as a mall anymore, not unless they want a sour look from the Chamber of Commerce for simply bringing up the dreaded “m” word.
I bring this account to your attention because the person who wrote it seems so overtaken by the “well controlled … friendly … sunny skies … party spirit” that it’s a wonder his cynical, hard-bitten, crusty old editors didn’t fire him on the spot for becoming so besotted with the success-proclaiming organizers that it appears he swallowed their proverbial Kool-Aid as easily as he must have swallowed the wine they sold to benefit the Chester County Hospital.
Luckily for me, however, they didn’t, since I’m the author.
Now that I’ve turned into one of those cynical, hard-bitten, crusty old editors, I see the festival for what it truly is — a great time for people to come to the borough and get either acquainted or reacquainted with the grandeur that is West Chester, and an even better time for those of us who live here year-round to either stay inside all day or get acquainted/reacquainted with anyplace outside a five-mile radius from the center of West Chester.
It’s not that we don’t appreciate the attention the festival brings our fair borough. We know what a great place this town is, and we don’t mind showing it off every now and then. What makes us uneasy about the whole experience is that we know that the greatest meals in West Chester don’t get served at the Restaurant Festival.
No, the best meals come from a combination of dishes at a variety of venues scattered throughout the borough.
You start, obviously, with an appetizer of hummus, grilled pita and Baba ghanoush from The Mediterranian on West Gay, then dart across the street to Tony’s Meat Market and pray that Kenny has some chicken pasta left over at the end of the day. You’ve already made sure that Anthony at Penn’s Table has a quick Greek salad to go on hand so you won’t have to stop too long before picking up the seared tilapia filet from High Street Caffe on your way home. A bottle of Pinot Grigio from Stargazers that you picked up earlier from Brian and Jen at the Growers Market is already waiting for you, so you’re pretty much set, except for the dish of mint chocolate chip from West Chester Scoop for dessert.
And hopefully the only mob you have to deal with is the Corleone crew on DVD.
Here’s a little bit of historic detritus, courtesy of the Daily Local News afternoon edition, Sept. 19, 1983. Under the headline, “Festival crowd … called ‘enjoyable mob,’ appears the following paragraph:
“Organizers of the festival, which brought more than 50 restaurants to the five-block-long Gay Street Mall, were quick to proclaim the event a success. Along with unofficial estimates by the West Chester police department, the organizers set the crowd at 26,000.”
It should come as no surprise that the event in question was the fourth annual Chester County Restaurant Festival, which has morphed into the West Chester Restaurant Festival, which is set to kick off sometime around noon today on that self same Gay Street — although no one refers to Gay Street as a mall anymore, not unless they want a sour look from the Chamber of Commerce for simply bringing up the dreaded “m” word.
I bring this account to your attention because the person who wrote it seems so overtaken by the “well controlled … friendly … sunny skies … party spirit” that it’s a wonder his cynical, hard-bitten, crusty old editors didn’t fire him on the spot for becoming so besotted with the success-proclaiming organizers that it appears he swallowed their proverbial Kool-Aid as easily as he must have swallowed the wine they sold to benefit the Chester County Hospital.
Luckily for me, however, they didn’t, since I’m the author.
Now that I’ve turned into one of those cynical, hard-bitten, crusty old editors, I see the festival for what it truly is — a great time for people to come to the borough and get either acquainted or reacquainted with the grandeur that is West Chester, and an even better time for those of us who live here year-round to either stay inside all day or get acquainted/reacquainted with anyplace outside a five-mile radius from the center of West Chester.
It’s not that we don’t appreciate the attention the festival brings our fair borough. We know what a great place this town is, and we don’t mind showing it off every now and then. What makes us uneasy about the whole experience is that we know that the greatest meals in West Chester don’t get served at the Restaurant Festival.
No, the best meals come from a combination of dishes at a variety of venues scattered throughout the borough.
You start, obviously, with an appetizer of hummus, grilled pita and Baba ghanoush from The Mediterranian on West Gay, then dart across the street to Tony’s Meat Market and pray that Kenny has some chicken pasta left over at the end of the day. You’ve already made sure that Anthony at Penn’s Table has a quick Greek salad to go on hand so you won’t have to stop too long before picking up the seared tilapia filet from High Street Caffe on your way home. A bottle of Pinot Grigio from Stargazers that you picked up earlier from Brian and Jen at the Growers Market is already waiting for you, so you’re pretty much set, except for the dish of mint chocolate chip from West Chester Scoop for dessert.
And hopefully the only mob you have to deal with is the Corleone crew on DVD.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Before the Sun Sets
This column originally appeared on Sunday, Sept. 9, 2007
Bookmarked on my computer is a handy little Web page that shows a calendar that lists the times of sunrise and sunset, moon rise and set, and various types of twilight. I’ve been watching it regularly the past few weeks as I try to hold on to the last days of summer and prepare for the coming of autumn.
I’m not really complaining about the waning of summer; the fewer the days when the heat and humidity combine to line my brow with sweat and make time spent outside feel considerably akin to time spent behind prison bars, the better for me. But it seems that there are facets of the season that I am trying not to let go.
It’s all a little like watching the clock on a large scale, a bad habit that the unlucky of us fall into in grade school and do not relinquish even into our 30s and 40s with their workday world. From this online calendar, I can see that sunset today comes at 7:21 p.m.; Monday at 7:19 p.m., Tuesday at 7:18 p.m., and on and on until the day in late September when the sun rises at 6:52 a.m. sets at 6:51 p.m., giving us almost exactly 12 hours of light and 12 hours of darkness. We all know where this ends up — the day you walk out to your car at 4 p.m. and have to use a flashlight to get your key in the car door lock.
Believe me, I don’t get all misty-eyed and “Fiddler on the Roof” about this, humming “Sunrise, sunset/Sunrise, sunset/Swiftly fly the years …” in between hanging up on irritating newsroom callers. This is no existential longing to extend my youth and delay the coming of the autumn of my years.
I just like the taste of a fresh ear of corn, preferably from the farm stand along Creek Road in Cossart, Pennsbury, where clerks throw juicy peaches to the workers on the scrap metal train from Coatesville as they slowly pass by on the Conrail tracks that follow the Brandywine Creek south to Wilmington, Del.
I just like the way you feel invigorated when diving into a cool wave as it crashes over you at the beach after you’ve baked long enough in the heat of the midday sun, sitting on a chair in the sand with the proper amount of SPF 45 on your melanoma-free skin.
I just like the sunny stillness that you get in the morning on South Church Street, when the neighborhood boys come out with their mother to wait for the yellow bus that will take them off to the classroom where they will learn their history and math and English and, most importantly, their clock-watching skills.
I just like the warm evenings on the porch with the quiet conversations among neighbors or pleasant encounters with strangers, who say they are going uptown for ice cream and wonder if you’d like some and really do come back with a cup of mint chocolate chip stored in the bottom of the baby carriage.
I just like knowing that even if/when they lose today, the Phils are going to be playing tomorrow and that maybe Ryan Howard will launch one that actually leaves the entire ballyard.
Those things could all technically happen come autumn. But they just wouldn’t feel the same as they do when sunset comes after 8 p.m.
Bookmarked on my computer is a handy little Web page that shows a calendar that lists the times of sunrise and sunset, moon rise and set, and various types of twilight. I’ve been watching it regularly the past few weeks as I try to hold on to the last days of summer and prepare for the coming of autumn.
I’m not really complaining about the waning of summer; the fewer the days when the heat and humidity combine to line my brow with sweat and make time spent outside feel considerably akin to time spent behind prison bars, the better for me. But it seems that there are facets of the season that I am trying not to let go.
It’s all a little like watching the clock on a large scale, a bad habit that the unlucky of us fall into in grade school and do not relinquish even into our 30s and 40s with their workday world. From this online calendar, I can see that sunset today comes at 7:21 p.m.; Monday at 7:19 p.m., Tuesday at 7:18 p.m., and on and on until the day in late September when the sun rises at 6:52 a.m. sets at 6:51 p.m., giving us almost exactly 12 hours of light and 12 hours of darkness. We all know where this ends up — the day you walk out to your car at 4 p.m. and have to use a flashlight to get your key in the car door lock.
Believe me, I don’t get all misty-eyed and “Fiddler on the Roof” about this, humming “Sunrise, sunset/Sunrise, sunset/Swiftly fly the years …” in between hanging up on irritating newsroom callers. This is no existential longing to extend my youth and delay the coming of the autumn of my years.
I just like the taste of a fresh ear of corn, preferably from the farm stand along Creek Road in Cossart, Pennsbury, where clerks throw juicy peaches to the workers on the scrap metal train from Coatesville as they slowly pass by on the Conrail tracks that follow the Brandywine Creek south to Wilmington, Del.
I just like the way you feel invigorated when diving into a cool wave as it crashes over you at the beach after you’ve baked long enough in the heat of the midday sun, sitting on a chair in the sand with the proper amount of SPF 45 on your melanoma-free skin.
I just like the sunny stillness that you get in the morning on South Church Street, when the neighborhood boys come out with their mother to wait for the yellow bus that will take them off to the classroom where they will learn their history and math and English and, most importantly, their clock-watching skills.
I just like the warm evenings on the porch with the quiet conversations among neighbors or pleasant encounters with strangers, who say they are going uptown for ice cream and wonder if you’d like some and really do come back with a cup of mint chocolate chip stored in the bottom of the baby carriage.
I just like knowing that even if/when they lose today, the Phils are going to be playing tomorrow and that maybe Ryan Howard will launch one that actually leaves the entire ballyard.
Those things could all technically happen come autumn. But they just wouldn’t feel the same as they do when sunset comes after 8 p.m.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Alien Astronauts Around?
This column appeared on Sunday, Sept. 2, 2007
Saturday had an air of discovery about it, so I went looking for a little island of Chester County that plays host to a place called Point Lookout. Ultimately, however, the journey took me to Nazca Lines of Peru and taught me the meaning of the word geoglyph.
Discoveries often come during searches for something you’re not looking for. Christopher Columbus discovered the New World while looking for a route to the West Indies. Frank W. Epperson was simply being forgetful when he left that stick in some flavored water on his back porch overnight but, when it froze, he still had discovered the Popsicle. So understand that I was looking for Point Lookout when I came across the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford.
The lookout sits on a triangular piece of land that sticks up like a pyramid along the Brandywine Creek, on the border between Pennsylvania and Delaware. The area is detached from Chester County, surrounded by Chadds Ford on two sides and Delaware on the third, but remains a part of our fair county nonetheless.
Parking my car, ducking a fence, crossing a meadow and following some railroad tracks, I came to a spot that I guessed was the Point, all the while wondering what the purpose of the lookout could have been. Early settlers scouting for marauding Lenape Indians? Colonial troops spying on the British Army? Or just wary Chester County gentry trying to catch Delaware County riff-raff sneaking into the county to open greasy pizza parlors.
I left the area without any resolution, but not really disappointed. I’d taken a quiet walk through a sunlit forest on a cool morning, and on the way back I came across a roadside vegetable stand that had great freshly picked corn and tomatoes. At home, I sat at my computer and tried to find any sign of the Point on an aerial map.
When the program loaded, however, what amazed me was not by an image of the lookout, but something nearby.
Across the Brandywine was a field of clearly visible lines cut into the ground in a strange, interconnected series of loops and circles. I stared at the image dumbfounded, struck suddenly by the memory of that 1970s sensationalist hoax “The Ancient Astronauts.” You remember: the book that sold us on the theory that structures like the pyramids of Egypt and the Andes village of Maccu Picchu were created with the help of visiting aliens?
One “proof” of this theory is the presence of the Nazca Lines, etchings carved into rock on a high South American desert plateau — figures called geoglyphs, I learned. The characters they depict can only be coherently visualized from high above, so the argument goes that their creators must have had help from a spaceship full of bored alien doodlers. But had they stopped off here to do the same thing, I asked myself. Could there be alien communities still operating in Chester County? Has Hollywood director M. Night Shyamalan anything to do with this?
In the end I indeed answered the mystery of the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford, but am keeping the information largely to myself. Some discoveries are just worth savoring in private, like a nice Popsicle.
Saturday had an air of discovery about it, so I went looking for a little island of Chester County that plays host to a place called Point Lookout. Ultimately, however, the journey took me to Nazca Lines of Peru and taught me the meaning of the word geoglyph.
Discoveries often come during searches for something you’re not looking for. Christopher Columbus discovered the New World while looking for a route to the West Indies. Frank W. Epperson was simply being forgetful when he left that stick in some flavored water on his back porch overnight but, when it froze, he still had discovered the Popsicle. So understand that I was looking for Point Lookout when I came across the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford.
The lookout sits on a triangular piece of land that sticks up like a pyramid along the Brandywine Creek, on the border between Pennsylvania and Delaware. The area is detached from Chester County, surrounded by Chadds Ford on two sides and Delaware on the third, but remains a part of our fair county nonetheless.
Parking my car, ducking a fence, crossing a meadow and following some railroad tracks, I came to a spot that I guessed was the Point, all the while wondering what the purpose of the lookout could have been. Early settlers scouting for marauding Lenape Indians? Colonial troops spying on the British Army? Or just wary Chester County gentry trying to catch Delaware County riff-raff sneaking into the county to open greasy pizza parlors.
I left the area without any resolution, but not really disappointed. I’d taken a quiet walk through a sunlit forest on a cool morning, and on the way back I came across a roadside vegetable stand that had great freshly picked corn and tomatoes. At home, I sat at my computer and tried to find any sign of the Point on an aerial map.
When the program loaded, however, what amazed me was not by an image of the lookout, but something nearby.
Across the Brandywine was a field of clearly visible lines cut into the ground in a strange, interconnected series of loops and circles. I stared at the image dumbfounded, struck suddenly by the memory of that 1970s sensationalist hoax “The Ancient Astronauts.” You remember: the book that sold us on the theory that structures like the pyramids of Egypt and the Andes village of Maccu Picchu were created with the help of visiting aliens?
One “proof” of this theory is the presence of the Nazca Lines, etchings carved into rock on a high South American desert plateau — figures called geoglyphs, I learned. The characters they depict can only be coherently visualized from high above, so the argument goes that their creators must have had help from a spaceship full of bored alien doodlers. But had they stopped off here to do the same thing, I asked myself. Could there be alien communities still operating in Chester County? Has Hollywood director M. Night Shyamalan anything to do with this?
In the end I indeed answered the mystery of the geoglyphs of Chadds Ford, but am keeping the information largely to myself. Some discoveries are just worth savoring in private, like a nice Popsicle.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
The Other Side of Paradise
This column originally apperaed on Aug. 26, 2007
OK, class. Geography discussion time.
Get out your copy of Franklin’s “Chester & Delaware Metro Street Atlas,” and turn to map number 3182. See that little corner of Upper Uwchlan labeled Lyndell? That’s our topic for today.
The folks who decided to dam Marsh Creek and inundate the village of Milford Mills back in the early 1970s knew there would be unintended consequences to their actions, but they likely figured those would be on the order of unplanned-for growth in the population of bass fisherpeople in Chester County.
What they did not foresee was the creation of a separate colony of residents who are citizens of, but somewhat alienated from, the larger Upper Uwchlan community. Call them, as one wise man did with me in a recent conversation, “The Folks on the Other Side of the Lake.”
This is not to say that homeowners on Davenport Drive and Reeds Road and Colts Meadow Run and Fox Hollow Road live on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. In a township where the median income for a household is $96,711 and only 2 percent of residents are below the poverty line, you’d be hard- pressed to hard to find any sort of housing distinction in Upper Uwchlan that would qualify as your average shantytown.
But the Folks on the Other Side of the Lake are disadvantaged in that the rest of the township — the vibrant, functioning, car dealership-laden part of the township — is cut off from them by the 530 acres of Marsh Creek Lake. To get from Lyndell to Eagle is a nearly impossible task, requiring a switchback series of back-road turns reminiscent of the outdoor maze that Jack Nicholson got trapped in at the end of “The Shining.”
I normally don’t have sympathy for the woes of the people who populate DevelomentLand. It’s hard to break spiritual bread with people whose low point in life comes when their Blackberry loses reception in the jacuzzi.
But I do feel for the Folks on the Other Side of the Lake. They want so much to be part of the swank wine, cheese and horse dung life of Chester Springs, and yet they find themselves tied geographically to the rubble of “historic” Guthriesville.
While their neighbors in the village of Uwchland (Motto: “No, We Are Not Going To Explain The Extra ‘D.’”) are deciding whether to shop at the Lexus dealership or stick with the SUVs at CarSense, folks in Lyndell have to worry that some renegade paper mill owner might drop roofing tacks on their driveway. It has to be hard to realize that it is easier to get a burger at the McDonalds in Downingtown than it is to have dinner at the Eagle Tavern.
I believe, however, that there may be a solution to the “East of Eden” dilemma that the Folks on the Other Side of the Lake face. Passage of SB 90210, the “Chester County Open Space Creation Act of 2007 (As Amended),” would require the Army Corps of Engineers to fill in Marsh Creek Lake. When accomplished, Lyndell residents would be able to scoot over to Eagle in no time.
Plus, there’d be the natural side benefit of the drop in the bass fisherpeople population.
OK, class. Geography discussion time.
Get out your copy of Franklin’s “Chester & Delaware Metro Street Atlas,” and turn to map number 3182. See that little corner of Upper Uwchlan labeled Lyndell? That’s our topic for today.
The folks who decided to dam Marsh Creek and inundate the village of Milford Mills back in the early 1970s knew there would be unintended consequences to their actions, but they likely figured those would be on the order of unplanned-for growth in the population of bass fisherpeople in Chester County.
What they did not foresee was the creation of a separate colony of residents who are citizens of, but somewhat alienated from, the larger Upper Uwchlan community. Call them, as one wise man did with me in a recent conversation, “The Folks on the Other Side of the Lake.”
This is not to say that homeowners on Davenport Drive and Reeds Road and Colts Meadow Run and Fox Hollow Road live on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. In a township where the median income for a household is $96,711 and only 2 percent of residents are below the poverty line, you’d be hard- pressed to hard to find any sort of housing distinction in Upper Uwchlan that would qualify as your average shantytown.
But the Folks on the Other Side of the Lake are disadvantaged in that the rest of the township — the vibrant, functioning, car dealership-laden part of the township — is cut off from them by the 530 acres of Marsh Creek Lake. To get from Lyndell to Eagle is a nearly impossible task, requiring a switchback series of back-road turns reminiscent of the outdoor maze that Jack Nicholson got trapped in at the end of “The Shining.”
I normally don’t have sympathy for the woes of the people who populate DevelomentLand. It’s hard to break spiritual bread with people whose low point in life comes when their Blackberry loses reception in the jacuzzi.
But I do feel for the Folks on the Other Side of the Lake. They want so much to be part of the swank wine, cheese and horse dung life of Chester Springs, and yet they find themselves tied geographically to the rubble of “historic” Guthriesville.
While their neighbors in the village of Uwchland (Motto: “No, We Are Not Going To Explain The Extra ‘D.’”) are deciding whether to shop at the Lexus dealership or stick with the SUVs at CarSense, folks in Lyndell have to worry that some renegade paper mill owner might drop roofing tacks on their driveway. It has to be hard to realize that it is easier to get a burger at the McDonalds in Downingtown than it is to have dinner at the Eagle Tavern.
I believe, however, that there may be a solution to the “East of Eden” dilemma that the Folks on the Other Side of the Lake face. Passage of SB 90210, the “Chester County Open Space Creation Act of 2007 (As Amended),” would require the Army Corps of Engineers to fill in Marsh Creek Lake. When accomplished, Lyndell residents would be able to scoot over to Eagle in no time.
Plus, there’d be the natural side benefit of the drop in the bass fisherpeople population.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Lazy Bones' Mea Culpa
Sorry, folks. I haven't been posting my columns in the past few weeks because I, well, uh, becaue .. I had a hangnail? Had to wash my hair? Had to defrost the refrigerator? Had to defrost my hangnail?
Face it, people. I get lazy every now and then and neglect my duties. Don't believe me? Check my kitchen sink. There's a plate at the bottom of the pile that contains scraps from a dinner I had sometime around the end of July.
Hope you have found other things to occupy your time with since I disappeared, and that you'll enjoy reading these musings.
Happy end of summer!
Face it, people. I get lazy every now and then and neglect my duties. Don't believe me? Check my kitchen sink. There's a plate at the bottom of the pile that contains scraps from a dinner I had sometime around the end of July.
Hope you have found other things to occupy your time with since I disappeared, and that you'll enjoy reading these musings.
Happy end of summer!
Chester B. DeMille
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?
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?
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.
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