Let's try this again.
In lieu of a column from Sunday, JUly 27, 2008, here are some photos I've taken recently.
http://flickr.com/photos/8559750@N03/sets/72157606474158807/show/
Hope yu like them. See you Monday, Aug. 4
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
A Great Place, Vultures Notwithstanding
This column appeared on Sunday, July 20, 2008
Spending time in West Caln is not something I have made a point of in the near three decades I have lived in Chester County, but given the events of earlier this month it might be something I’ll be putting on my free time agenda more often.
On July 10, the county commissioners ponied up almost $1 million to give to West Caln and the Natural Lands Trust so that the township can create a township park out of an area known locally as the Barren Hills.
It sounds like it’ll be a winner.
The Barren Hills make up a ridge that looks out over the farms that dot the still-rural landscape of West Caln. Township Manager Gary Dunlap, who apparently did not get the memo warning against excessive friendliness towards members of the working press, likened the hills to the bucolic Serpentine Barrens outside Oxford.
The 168-acres that will eventually be known as Birch Run Forest is prime woodland that screams for hiking paths, bike trails and places to sit in cool shade.
The park will also be adjacent to other areas of open space nearby that wind up at Chambers Lake and Hibernia Park, two spots on the map that don’t get nearly the attention they deserve when it comes to discussions of where to spend the odd recreational moments you find yourself having after finishing up the grocery shopping.
To get a sense of the place, purely in the interest of journalistic integrity and having nothing to due to the mid-July ennui that has gripped the Chester County Courthouse, I took a drive out to the Barren Hills last week.
To give you and idea of what West Caln is like, imagine a set of rolling hills that are populated by neat suburban ranch houses and occasional Mennonite farms. Picture a place where your new McMansion might not look out of place, but where your neighbors might have a fenced-in pen for their 20 head of cattle. Envision narrow country roads where turkey vultures gnawing their way through a road kill carcass are as common a sight as signs that advertise “Local Honey Sold Here.” See in your mind’s eye a place where old men cutting their lawns wear cowboy hats, without the slightest trace or irony.
Along the way. I remembered the few times I spent in West Caln and marveled at how your history always has a way of catching up to you.
When I first moved to the county in August 1980 from a coal-mining town in western Kentucky, I spent my first night at a house on Sandy Hill, not two miles from the Barren Hills. One of my first stories for the Daily Local News was about the contaminated Superfund site there has since been reclaimed into woodland. And I spent a memorable week house-sitting in the late 1980s at a place in Hibernia, wakened on a Saturday morning by the presence of hundreds of fishermen outside by the Brandywine. (It was Opening Day for trout season.)
West Caln isn’t around the corner, unless you live in Coatesville, of course. You have to drive some to get there. But it’s a trip I can see taking when the mood strikes me to relax. Vultures or no.
Spending time in West Caln is not something I have made a point of in the near three decades I have lived in Chester County, but given the events of earlier this month it might be something I’ll be putting on my free time agenda more often.
On July 10, the county commissioners ponied up almost $1 million to give to West Caln and the Natural Lands Trust so that the township can create a township park out of an area known locally as the Barren Hills.
It sounds like it’ll be a winner.
The Barren Hills make up a ridge that looks out over the farms that dot the still-rural landscape of West Caln. Township Manager Gary Dunlap, who apparently did not get the memo warning against excessive friendliness towards members of the working press, likened the hills to the bucolic Serpentine Barrens outside Oxford.
The 168-acres that will eventually be known as Birch Run Forest is prime woodland that screams for hiking paths, bike trails and places to sit in cool shade.
The park will also be adjacent to other areas of open space nearby that wind up at Chambers Lake and Hibernia Park, two spots on the map that don’t get nearly the attention they deserve when it comes to discussions of where to spend the odd recreational moments you find yourself having after finishing up the grocery shopping.
To get a sense of the place, purely in the interest of journalistic integrity and having nothing to due to the mid-July ennui that has gripped the Chester County Courthouse, I took a drive out to the Barren Hills last week.
To give you and idea of what West Caln is like, imagine a set of rolling hills that are populated by neat suburban ranch houses and occasional Mennonite farms. Picture a place where your new McMansion might not look out of place, but where your neighbors might have a fenced-in pen for their 20 head of cattle. Envision narrow country roads where turkey vultures gnawing their way through a road kill carcass are as common a sight as signs that advertise “Local Honey Sold Here.” See in your mind’s eye a place where old men cutting their lawns wear cowboy hats, without the slightest trace or irony.
Along the way. I remembered the few times I spent in West Caln and marveled at how your history always has a way of catching up to you.
When I first moved to the county in August 1980 from a coal-mining town in western Kentucky, I spent my first night at a house on Sandy Hill, not two miles from the Barren Hills. One of my first stories for the Daily Local News was about the contaminated Superfund site there has since been reclaimed into woodland. And I spent a memorable week house-sitting in the late 1980s at a place in Hibernia, wakened on a Saturday morning by the presence of hundreds of fishermen outside by the Brandywine. (It was Opening Day for trout season.)
West Caln isn’t around the corner, unless you live in Coatesville, of course. You have to drive some to get there. But it’s a trip I can see taking when the mood strikes me to relax. Vultures or no.
Monday, July 07, 2008
A Winter Tale
This column originally appeared on Sunday, July 6, 2008
I haven’t thought about Winter for about four years now.
I’m speaking not of the three months between the December solstice and the March equinox, mind you. That’s winter, with a small “w.” I’m talking about Winter, the one-named fellow who several years ago vowed to visit every Starbucks in the world.
I wrote about Winter at a time when the borough of West Chester was one of the only places on the face of the earth that did not have a Starbuck franchise within its borders. Soi Yamato Nhongprue street, Pattaya, Thailand yes; Church Street, West Chester no. It galled me, frankly, because I could not fathom why a place with the character and cachet of West Chester wouldn’t rank a Starbucks, while a place like Dilworthtown would.
At the time I learned about Winter, I pointed out that Dilworthtown was the least reasonable place to put a Starbucks I could think of, since it was basically at the crossroads of Going Nowhere and Coming Back. I also noted that the Dilworthtown Starbucks isn’t actually in Dilworthtown, but is located instead along the side of Route 202 in one of those suburban strip malls that the good developers of Chester County have determined we need more and more of, just in case we get the urge for some TGI Friday’s grub on the way home from the Applebee’s.
I checked recently on Winter’s journey and found that he’s been to Starbucks locations in all 50 states, plus the District of Columbia and Puerto Rico. He’s been to ‘Bucks in 17 foreign countries. He’s been to the Grand Caffeine Outlets in Paoli and Kennett Square and Lionville and West Goshen and, yes, Dilworthtown. I have no idea if he bought the Starbucks’ CDs by Paul McCartney and Joni Mitchell when he was there, but I’ll assume for the record that he did and he uses them to assist in his astral yoga meditation veg-out sessions.
But my man Winter’s task has just gotten a little bit easier.
That’s correct. Starbucks last week announced it was going to close down 600 stores and scale back its plans to open new ones. The roasted bean empire is going to throw out those “underperforming” stores across the globe like yesterday’s grounds. From now on, people in New York and San Francisco and Asrafeih, Lebanon may actually have to cross the street to get a cup of that precious $4 latte on their way to their CyberDesk or InterJob or WebTimeClock, or whatever it is they call workplaces these days.
It was, after all, one of Starbuck’s executives in charge of development, the oddly named Launi Skinner, who famously declared that for high-priced java swillers, “Going to the other side of the street can be a barrier.”
According to the new York Times, the people at Starbucks were once so obsessed with finding perfect new locations for their steamed milk machines that they would look at demographics down to the education level in certain neighborhoods, or judge whether the traffic moved better on one side of a street than the other. “Starbucks commercial real estate executives were known for their rigor in selecting locations,” the Times decreed, quoting a Portland, Ore., real estate guy as saying “Now everybody copies them.”
Hopefully that copying did go overboard. Or else there are going to be a lot of vacant Quiznoses across the country.
The news should not come as a surprise, however. Everyone who ever told the joke about the new Starbucks opening in the men’s room of the old Starbucks knew this as going to happen. And despite new modalities in retail trends, old rules still apply. My mother was the best I ever knew at looking at a new business opening somewhere and saying, “Six months, tops.” She knew that you just didn’t open an Asian-Vegan-Fusion restaurant where the truck stop diner used to be.
I’m sure there are those who will be sad to see those Starbucks close. But it won’t be me. I’ve stayed away from the ‘Buckaroos on principle for several years now, even the one that now has sat in dead center West Chester since February.
For the record, Winter was there on opening day.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Save Me A Seat
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 29, 2008
My friend Mike O’Rourke has taken to calling West Chester the “Peyton Place of Pennsylvania,” and not just because he has an innate fondness for alliteration. From miles away in Jacksonville, Fla., he reads my weekly columns and revels in the small-town dramas I describe.
So he’s going to love the Tale of the Missing Benches.
The benches, which sat in front of Mickey and Marina Cugino’s newsstand on West Gay Street until a few weeks ago, are not missing in the sense that a missing cat is missing. We know where they are, probably; they’re most likely at the West Chester Public Works utility yard, scattered in several pieces. We just don’t know exactly why they’re there.
The benches were among the last vestiges of the wooden pews that dotted each block of Gay Street at the time of its formal revitalization, circa 1980. They were placed along the downtown main drag to present a relaxed, village feel that would attract shoppers, give the weary a place to cool their heels, or provide skateboarders with something to jump off.
Over the years, however, the wooden benches were removed one by one because they became a haven not for the momentarily weary but for the continually tired. That is, people who sat in them all day, every day, because they had no place else to go. The benches became the borough’s Statue of Liberty, beckoning poor, huddled masses to our teeming shore. The homeless were sent, tempest-tost — or at least by police in Upper Darby wishing them out of their jurisdiction — to Gay Street.
And that’s where they sat, smoked and drank until they made a nuisance of themselves. Today, the only people who sit, smoke, drink and make nuisances of themselves on Gay Street pay the local saloon keepers good money to do so.
But not outside Cuginos. The benches at Cuginos stayed put for years, used primarily by the local folks for whom they were intended: The senior citizens taking a walk uptown to buy a lottery ticket. The local shopkeepers who wanted a break from behind the counter. The courthouse kibitzers who took a coffee break in the afternoon to slurp down some Italian water ice. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Now the twin benches are gone. When I called to inquire, a helpful fellow at the borough’s public works office said they’d been “destroyed” in a weekend vandalism spree and had to be removed for safety’s sake, although that may have come as news to the people who were sitting on them moments before the Public Work staff showed up to saw them in half and cart them away.
The helpful fellow promised that the option of replacing the benches was being “looked into,” although he warned that financial pressures might delay their replacement for the discernible future, by which he could have meant “when hell freezes over.” He suggested that the Cuginos could buy their own benches and assume the liability for sitters therein. His attitude was about as welcoming toward the return of the benches as the Arizona Minutemen are to illegal Mexican immigrants.
But questions remain. Do we want to enhance the feel of our small town with the simple accessory of a park bench? Is there a message that we are sending by taking them away with no promise of a return? How important were the benches in front of Cuginos to the mission of providing downtown with a sense of community, no matter how small, limited or transient?
And, who will play Mia Farrow’s role in the upcoming production of “The Benches of Peyton Place?” Tune in tomorrow.
Editor’s note: This column was written Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, the borough installed a replacement bench in front of the newsstand. One down, one to go.
My friend Mike O’Rourke has taken to calling West Chester the “Peyton Place of Pennsylvania,” and not just because he has an innate fondness for alliteration. From miles away in Jacksonville, Fla., he reads my weekly columns and revels in the small-town dramas I describe.
So he’s going to love the Tale of the Missing Benches.
The benches, which sat in front of Mickey and Marina Cugino’s newsstand on West Gay Street until a few weeks ago, are not missing in the sense that a missing cat is missing. We know where they are, probably; they’re most likely at the West Chester Public Works utility yard, scattered in several pieces. We just don’t know exactly why they’re there.
The benches were among the last vestiges of the wooden pews that dotted each block of Gay Street at the time of its formal revitalization, circa 1980. They were placed along the downtown main drag to present a relaxed, village feel that would attract shoppers, give the weary a place to cool their heels, or provide skateboarders with something to jump off.
Over the years, however, the wooden benches were removed one by one because they became a haven not for the momentarily weary but for the continually tired. That is, people who sat in them all day, every day, because they had no place else to go. The benches became the borough’s Statue of Liberty, beckoning poor, huddled masses to our teeming shore. The homeless were sent, tempest-tost — or at least by police in Upper Darby wishing them out of their jurisdiction — to Gay Street.
And that’s where they sat, smoked and drank until they made a nuisance of themselves. Today, the only people who sit, smoke, drink and make nuisances of themselves on Gay Street pay the local saloon keepers good money to do so.
But not outside Cuginos. The benches at Cuginos stayed put for years, used primarily by the local folks for whom they were intended: The senior citizens taking a walk uptown to buy a lottery ticket. The local shopkeepers who wanted a break from behind the counter. The courthouse kibitzers who took a coffee break in the afternoon to slurp down some Italian water ice. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Now the twin benches are gone. When I called to inquire, a helpful fellow at the borough’s public works office said they’d been “destroyed” in a weekend vandalism spree and had to be removed for safety’s sake, although that may have come as news to the people who were sitting on them moments before the Public Work staff showed up to saw them in half and cart them away.
The helpful fellow promised that the option of replacing the benches was being “looked into,” although he warned that financial pressures might delay their replacement for the discernible future, by which he could have meant “when hell freezes over.” He suggested that the Cuginos could buy their own benches and assume the liability for sitters therein. His attitude was about as welcoming toward the return of the benches as the Arizona Minutemen are to illegal Mexican immigrants.
But questions remain. Do we want to enhance the feel of our small town with the simple accessory of a park bench? Is there a message that we are sending by taking them away with no promise of a return? How important were the benches in front of Cuginos to the mission of providing downtown with a sense of community, no matter how small, limited or transient?
And, who will play Mia Farrow’s role in the upcoming production of “The Benches of Peyton Place?” Tune in tomorrow.
Editor’s note: This column was written Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, the borough installed a replacement bench in front of the newsstand. One down, one to go.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Shredding, and Whomping, For A Good Cause
This column originally appeared on June 22, 2008
The Downingtown Friends Meetinghouse has stood humbly but elegantly on Lancaster Avenue since 1806. Through its 200-plus years it has watched as horse-and-carriages went and motorized automobiles came, has heard graceful and joyful words of prayer spoken within its walls, and has gazed as grey-haired worshipers it recognized once as tow-headed babes sat in devoted silence.
Chances are, however, that the meetinghouse had never seen the likes of Kalico Jack, until Friday evening.
That would be Kalico Jack the fledgling rock band put together by three young but surprisingly accomplished musicians: Kieran Ferris, John Thayer and Nathaniel Vito.
The trio delighted a crowd of about 40 people who gathered in the driveway of the meetinghouse as they shredded and whomped and strummed through a set of about a dozen songs, from covers of cuts by Velvet Revolver and Blink-182 to a good number of originals, and one oldie, Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl.” The band members — friends and relatives of one another — chatted amiably with the crowd, wondering what songs they liked the most, recalling stories about past gigs, and describing how they came up with the title to their soon-to-be-chart-topping song, “Kiwi Blossom.”
And as much fun as the audience had seeing the band wail on in the shadow of the stately meetinghouse, the experience was made all the more enjoyable for its underlying purpose. The members of Kalico Jack had asked to put on the show to help raise money for an Iraqi exchange student who is trying to stay here in Chester County and out of the harm that almost surely awaits him if he were to return home to Baghdad.
The teenager, who lives with his host family in Chester Springs, came to the United States last fall for his junior year of high school through a U.S. State Department program that was designed to improve relations between Muslim countries and America. But after living here awhile, he learned that other Iraqi students who had participated in this program in past years found themselves and their families in grave danger upon returning home.
According to the teen’s host mother, “one young man was abducted and his family forced to pay a ransom, and he now lives in Spain without his family. Another young man’s brother was shot and killed. He now lives in Pennsylvania without his family.” The teen realized that it would be too dangerous to return to Iraq, and has applied for political asylum.
His plight came to the attention of the Downingtown Meeting, and its members agreed (“wildly,” according to one source) to support the young man in his quest to stay. Fundraisers like the Kalico Jack concert have been held, and the Downingtown members have ponied up to defray the costs of the teen’s attendance at Westtown School in the fall.
It says something frightening about our world that a young person who travels to another country to bridge a gap between two cultures could be subjected to violence and hatred for the simple act of traveling there. And it says something comforting that a small community like the Downingtown Friends Meeting could embrace that same young person and help him stay alive and well. As the Iraqi teen’s host mother said in her thanks to the meeting: “Your help has prevented one more casualty of war.”
If you would like to help, donations can be sent to Downingtown Friends Meeting, 800 E. Lancaster Ave., Downingtown, PA 19335. Let them know it’s for the Iraqi Student Program.
And by the way, it’s pronounced Ka-LEE-co Jack. Just so you know.
The Downingtown Friends Meetinghouse has stood humbly but elegantly on Lancaster Avenue since 1806. Through its 200-plus years it has watched as horse-and-carriages went and motorized automobiles came, has heard graceful and joyful words of prayer spoken within its walls, and has gazed as grey-haired worshipers it recognized once as tow-headed babes sat in devoted silence.
Chances are, however, that the meetinghouse had never seen the likes of Kalico Jack, until Friday evening.
That would be Kalico Jack the fledgling rock band put together by three young but surprisingly accomplished musicians: Kieran Ferris, John Thayer and Nathaniel Vito.
The trio delighted a crowd of about 40 people who gathered in the driveway of the meetinghouse as they shredded and whomped and strummed through a set of about a dozen songs, from covers of cuts by Velvet Revolver and Blink-182 to a good number of originals, and one oldie, Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl.” The band members — friends and relatives of one another — chatted amiably with the crowd, wondering what songs they liked the most, recalling stories about past gigs, and describing how they came up with the title to their soon-to-be-chart-topping song, “Kiwi Blossom.”
And as much fun as the audience had seeing the band wail on in the shadow of the stately meetinghouse, the experience was made all the more enjoyable for its underlying purpose. The members of Kalico Jack had asked to put on the show to help raise money for an Iraqi exchange student who is trying to stay here in Chester County and out of the harm that almost surely awaits him if he were to return home to Baghdad.
The teenager, who lives with his host family in Chester Springs, came to the United States last fall for his junior year of high school through a U.S. State Department program that was designed to improve relations between Muslim countries and America. But after living here awhile, he learned that other Iraqi students who had participated in this program in past years found themselves and their families in grave danger upon returning home.
According to the teen’s host mother, “one young man was abducted and his family forced to pay a ransom, and he now lives in Spain without his family. Another young man’s brother was shot and killed. He now lives in Pennsylvania without his family.” The teen realized that it would be too dangerous to return to Iraq, and has applied for political asylum.
His plight came to the attention of the Downingtown Meeting, and its members agreed (“wildly,” according to one source) to support the young man in his quest to stay. Fundraisers like the Kalico Jack concert have been held, and the Downingtown members have ponied up to defray the costs of the teen’s attendance at Westtown School in the fall.
It says something frightening about our world that a young person who travels to another country to bridge a gap between two cultures could be subjected to violence and hatred for the simple act of traveling there. And it says something comforting that a small community like the Downingtown Friends Meeting could embrace that same young person and help him stay alive and well. As the Iraqi teen’s host mother said in her thanks to the meeting: “Your help has prevented one more casualty of war.”
If you would like to help, donations can be sent to Downingtown Friends Meeting, 800 E. Lancaster Ave., Downingtown, PA 19335. Let them know it’s for the Iraqi Student Program.
And by the way, it’s pronounced Ka-LEE-co Jack. Just so you know.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Stormy Weather
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 15, 2008
Our friend Judy was happy. Judy was ecstatic. If Judy was a movie, she'd have been “Happy Gilmore.” If she was a song, she'd have been “Don't Worry, Be Happy.” If she was a member of the “Black Sox” baseball team that threw the 1919 World Series, she'd have been Oscar “Happy” Felsch (1891-1964; OF. 38 HR, 446 RBI, .293 BA, lifetime).
And all because she got to sit through a thunderstorm on Tuesday evening.
Judy, Judy, Judy.
Judy was visiting from her home in Vermont (Motto: “Freedom, Unity and 101 Inches of Annual Snowfall”) and stayed long enough to hear the first rumblings of the storm as it made its way across West Vincent's tweed, cheese and horse-dung country. She reacted to the noise as if Christmas had come early and she was 8 years old again. She reacted as if Thor, the god of thunder, had been her favorite Marvel Comic Books character and the Norse Super Hero was making a personal visit after all these years.
“We just don't get storms like these in Vermont,” she explained, as the rest of us sat around the kitchen table and wondered if the storms in Vermont are accompanied by the sounds of kittens purring and babies cooing in their cribs. Whaddaya mean? Have they moved the Maple Syrup State into a new meteorological region that eschews liquid precipitation mixed with static electricity? Does the lack of a storm-themed Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream flavor mean the climate in Vermont up and dumps the whole concept? (Note to Ben: Suggested flavor: “Chocolate Thunder Thighs.” Check with Darryl Dawkins for promotional tie-in.)
“Oooooh, the tops of the trees look like they're fighting one another!” Judy exclaimed to the actual chronological children in the room, Trevor and Emma, standing next to her quivering like wet dogs in the cold. “Isn't it breathtaking!” she squealed.
Yes, we thought quietly to ourselves, breathtaking in the sense that in a couple of minutes the air conditioning is going to go dead and we are going to be inhaling stale, moisture-laden air that reminds us of the last time we took a steam at the Y.
Sure enough, within moments of her declaration that the lightning bolts on the horizon suggested the ultimate majesty of Nature harnessed by man for civilization's progress that would ultimately result in free health care for all, the power went out. We guessed that the folks in Vermont who don't get to see these kind of summer storms also don't get to stare at a light bulb that went out 20 minutes ago waiting for it to come back on, only to be teased by a momentary flicker and then 48 straight hours of no TV.
We left Judy with a big hug and a loving wish to come back sometime when we can show her how emotionally fulfilling freezing rain can be, and headed home. We wanted to make certain that our neighbors on South Church Street all had plenty of power to keep them cool and crisp and television-enabled. We wished that for them because our recent spiritual enlightenment had taught us to pray for others' happiness and not our own.
We were rewarded richly for our entreaties, because the folks across the street from us had their living rooms lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve, whilst our quarters were as dark as a Norse cave. On South Church Street, you remember, the folks across the street always have power.
As Tuesday faded, we sat outside on the porch before going into the microwave oven that we once knew as our bedroom, watching as the neighbors happily turned their light switches on and off regularly, just for the visceral pleasure of having the light bulbs respond.
The flashes typed out a Morse Code message. It read, “Happy, Judy?”
Our friend Judy was happy. Judy was ecstatic. If Judy was a movie, she'd have been “Happy Gilmore.” If she was a song, she'd have been “Don't Worry, Be Happy.” If she was a member of the “Black Sox” baseball team that threw the 1919 World Series, she'd have been Oscar “Happy” Felsch (1891-1964; OF. 38 HR, 446 RBI, .293 BA, lifetime).
And all because she got to sit through a thunderstorm on Tuesday evening.
Judy, Judy, Judy.
Judy was visiting from her home in Vermont (Motto: “Freedom, Unity and 101 Inches of Annual Snowfall”) and stayed long enough to hear the first rumblings of the storm as it made its way across West Vincent's tweed, cheese and horse-dung country. She reacted to the noise as if Christmas had come early and she was 8 years old again. She reacted as if Thor, the god of thunder, had been her favorite Marvel Comic Books character and the Norse Super Hero was making a personal visit after all these years.
“We just don't get storms like these in Vermont,” she explained, as the rest of us sat around the kitchen table and wondered if the storms in Vermont are accompanied by the sounds of kittens purring and babies cooing in their cribs. Whaddaya mean? Have they moved the Maple Syrup State into a new meteorological region that eschews liquid precipitation mixed with static electricity? Does the lack of a storm-themed Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream flavor mean the climate in Vermont up and dumps the whole concept? (Note to Ben: Suggested flavor: “Chocolate Thunder Thighs.” Check with Darryl Dawkins for promotional tie-in.)
“Oooooh, the tops of the trees look like they're fighting one another!” Judy exclaimed to the actual chronological children in the room, Trevor and Emma, standing next to her quivering like wet dogs in the cold. “Isn't it breathtaking!” she squealed.
Yes, we thought quietly to ourselves, breathtaking in the sense that in a couple of minutes the air conditioning is going to go dead and we are going to be inhaling stale, moisture-laden air that reminds us of the last time we took a steam at the Y.
Sure enough, within moments of her declaration that the lightning bolts on the horizon suggested the ultimate majesty of Nature harnessed by man for civilization's progress that would ultimately result in free health care for all, the power went out. We guessed that the folks in Vermont who don't get to see these kind of summer storms also don't get to stare at a light bulb that went out 20 minutes ago waiting for it to come back on, only to be teased by a momentary flicker and then 48 straight hours of no TV.
We left Judy with a big hug and a loving wish to come back sometime when we can show her how emotionally fulfilling freezing rain can be, and headed home. We wanted to make certain that our neighbors on South Church Street all had plenty of power to keep them cool and crisp and television-enabled. We wished that for them because our recent spiritual enlightenment had taught us to pray for others' happiness and not our own.
We were rewarded richly for our entreaties, because the folks across the street from us had their living rooms lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve, whilst our quarters were as dark as a Norse cave. On South Church Street, you remember, the folks across the street always have power.
As Tuesday faded, we sat outside on the porch before going into the microwave oven that we once knew as our bedroom, watching as the neighbors happily turned their light switches on and off regularly, just for the visceral pleasure of having the light bulbs respond.
The flashes typed out a Morse Code message. It read, “Happy, Judy?”
Monday, June 09, 2008
Little Known, Hard To Prove
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 8, 2008.
Here are some things you may not know about Chester County.
These little-known and hard-to-substantiate tidbits of information may have escaped you during the history portion of your high school education — either because you didn’t live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study and the teachers in Kansas City, Mo., didn’t think to include a syllabus item on an obscure-though-wealthy southeastern Pennsylvania county, or because you did live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study but your teachers were more intent on clueing you in to the history of the Phoenicians or the Hammurabians or the Mesopotamians or other surging, vital cultures, knowledge of which is essential for understanding the current energy situation.
First, did you know that West Chester was the number two pick for county seat? The top pick? Tredyffrin, of course.
It seems that William Penn was quite partial to the Welsh who populated the eastern portion of Chester County back in the day. (And by “back in the day,” I don’t mean the Earl Baker-Bob Thompson-and-Pat O’Donnell day. I mean the Everybody-Dresses-Like-The-Guy-On-The-Quaker-Oats-Box day.) He proposed to local Welsh leaders Owain Glyndwr and Gruff Rhys that they pick a site where they would like the county seat of Chester to be located, within the bounds of their native Tredyffrin. Someplace along the beaten path where farmers could come and pay their taxes or take out a marriage license, and preferably a place whose name contained as few vowels as possible. (Consonant-to-Vowel Ratio, CVR, in name Tredyffrin — 8:2.)
Rhys and Glyndwr (CVR — 11:0), unfortunately, personified the great Welsh character trait of being exceedingly proscratinatory and were forever putting the decision off. “Coda i’n gynnar for,” Glyndwr could be heard to say when Penn asked him to name a suitable place. (Translated, “I’ll get up early tomorrow and let you know.”) “Na’i godi’n gynnar fory,” reiterated Rhys, when Penn sought him out. (Translated, “It’s at the top of my list, I swear.”)
Meanwhile, farmers were pressuring Penn to designate a county seat because they had no place to pay their taxes or take out marriage licenses, and what with being unable to balance their checkbooks because of the non-payment of taxes and a certain level of frustration over not being able to settle down with a wife and kids, they asked him to make a decision like, yesterday. So legend has it that Penn took a dart, aimed it at a map and decreed that wherever the dart landed, so would that be the county seat. Thwunmp! Hello, Dub-C, as they say.
(Five inches to the left? Hello, downtown Modena.)
Second, did you know that of all the elected county officials in Chester County listed on Wikipedia, from district attorney to jury commissioner, only one person’s name is a hyperlink that will direct you to more information on said person? And did you know that said person is Sheriff Carolyn Bunny Welsh? And that “Bunny” is not encased in quotation marks, like George Herman “Babe” Ruth or Eliot “Emperor’s Club” Spitzer? And that if you Google “Sheriff Bunny” the second link you see is to “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley and the (Bunny) Wailers?
Third, did you know that the police public affairs specialists in West Goshen speak only the Welsh English language (colloquially known as “Wenglish”) and that’s why they never tell us anything?
Here are some things you may not know about Chester County.
These little-known and hard-to-substantiate tidbits of information may have escaped you during the history portion of your high school education — either because you didn’t live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study and the teachers in Kansas City, Mo., didn’t think to include a syllabus item on an obscure-though-wealthy southeastern Pennsylvania county, or because you did live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study but your teachers were more intent on clueing you in to the history of the Phoenicians or the Hammurabians or the Mesopotamians or other surging, vital cultures, knowledge of which is essential for understanding the current energy situation.
First, did you know that West Chester was the number two pick for county seat? The top pick? Tredyffrin, of course.
It seems that William Penn was quite partial to the Welsh who populated the eastern portion of Chester County back in the day. (And by “back in the day,” I don’t mean the Earl Baker-Bob Thompson-and-Pat O’Donnell day. I mean the Everybody-Dresses-Like-The-Guy-On-The-Quaker-Oats-Box day.) He proposed to local Welsh leaders Owain Glyndwr and Gruff Rhys that they pick a site where they would like the county seat of Chester to be located, within the bounds of their native Tredyffrin. Someplace along the beaten path where farmers could come and pay their taxes or take out a marriage license, and preferably a place whose name contained as few vowels as possible. (Consonant-to-Vowel Ratio, CVR, in name Tredyffrin — 8:2.)
Rhys and Glyndwr (CVR — 11:0), unfortunately, personified the great Welsh character trait of being exceedingly proscratinatory and were forever putting the decision off. “Coda i’n gynnar for,” Glyndwr could be heard to say when Penn asked him to name a suitable place. (Translated, “I’ll get up early tomorrow and let you know.”) “Na’i godi’n gynnar fory,” reiterated Rhys, when Penn sought him out. (Translated, “It’s at the top of my list, I swear.”)
Meanwhile, farmers were pressuring Penn to designate a county seat because they had no place to pay their taxes or take out marriage licenses, and what with being unable to balance their checkbooks because of the non-payment of taxes and a certain level of frustration over not being able to settle down with a wife and kids, they asked him to make a decision like, yesterday. So legend has it that Penn took a dart, aimed it at a map and decreed that wherever the dart landed, so would that be the county seat. Thwunmp! Hello, Dub-C, as they say.
(Five inches to the left? Hello, downtown Modena.)
Second, did you know that of all the elected county officials in Chester County listed on Wikipedia, from district attorney to jury commissioner, only one person’s name is a hyperlink that will direct you to more information on said person? And did you know that said person is Sheriff Carolyn Bunny Welsh? And that “Bunny” is not encased in quotation marks, like George Herman “Babe” Ruth or Eliot “Emperor’s Club” Spitzer? And that if you Google “Sheriff Bunny” the second link you see is to “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley and the (Bunny) Wailers?
Third, did you know that the police public affairs specialists in West Goshen speak only the Welsh English language (colloquially known as “Wenglish”) and that’s why they never tell us anything?
Monday, June 02, 2008
Adventures in Education
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 1, 2008
“Monsignor Edward Deliman, the pastor of St. Agnes Church, said he was very disappointed that the borough allowed the shop to open. ‘It’s very close to our school in a highly traveled part of town, next to a pizza shop. It’s distressing to us.’ ...
“Owner Jill McDevitt has a Bachelor of Arts degree in sexuality, marriage and family and is pursuing a Master of Education degree in human sexuality. She gives workshops and seminars on human sexuality as well as other topics.”
-- From Daily Local News, “Residents pack meeting to protest adult store,” May 29, 2008
****
SEMINAR TITLE: Current Topics in Human Sexuality and Selected Pizza Toppings.
INSTRUCTOR: J. McDevitt, B.A., Human Sexuality; M.E., Family Therapy (proposed); A.D., Culinary Arts, Baking and Pastry.
CREDITS: 35
DESCRIPTION: Human Sexuality and Pizza Toppings is a 10-week classroom-and-kitchen course that presents the student with an overview of current issues in human sexuality and the correct approach toward choosing proper pizza toppings, focusing on behavioral, sociological, environmental and gastronomical factors.
Topics will cover the basics of human anatomy, sexual cycles/phases, the family life cycle, gender/topping identity, roles of meat versus vegetable toppings, an understanding of sexual research, sexual orientation, proper cooking times, and the importance of sauces and fresh mozzarella.
Students will be expected to have experience in the field at an introductory or intermediate level. Previous courses in Biology 101, Introduction to Family Therapy and/or Popular Italian Foods 301 would be considered sufficient for admission to the seminar, although Professor McDevitt will also consider as proper credentials any time spent working as dough prep assistant at Grimaldi’s or Lombardi’s pizza restaurants in Brooklyn and New York City, respectively. Evidence of frozen pizza entree cooking experience will not be accepted.
OBJECTIVES: Students will learn to have a greater understanding about the social and biological implications of the sexual life/cycle in social and behavioral contexts, from childhood to adulthood; to be aware of the social complexities of human sexuality in modern life; to witness firsthand the obstacles of locating sexual novelty stores in formerly rural city-centers; and to discuss openly their choices of pepperoni, sausage and mushrooms over more advanced pizza toppings, such as raw eel, chicken tikka or roasted cauliflower.
While understanding that the way to a lover’s heart may be through the stomach, there should be a recognition by graduates that various modern, nontraditional forms of sexual behaviors — including homosexuality, bisexuality, transgendered sexuality, “lonely guy” syndrome, having a nice quart of ice cream before bedtime and cold-shower obsessive compulsive disorder — can work within the current structure of having the pizza crust soft but still crunchy enough to accommodate multiple toppings and extra cheese.
In addition, focusing on types of love, attraction, roles, relationships and delivery times will be essential for course success. It will be important for the student to understand the relationship between sex and love, to be aware of white versus red sauces, to grasp the importance of letting the pizza cool down enough so it does not burn the roof of your mouth, and to explore the different dynamics that couples have in selecting toppings for an intimate dinner for two with some salad and Chianti on the side, as opposed having the gang over for the Super Bowl party or Fantasy Baseball League get-together.
Ultimately, the graduate will search for and discover a personal definition of love that best suits his/her/their personal values and favorite blend of crust, cheese, and topping. Bon appetit!
REQUIRED READING: Hyde, J. S. & DeLamater, J. D. (2000). Understanding Human Sexuality (7th Ed.). Boston; McGraw-Hill; Steig, W. (1998). Pete’s A Pizza (Hardcover Ed.), New York City; HarperCollins.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Pooling One's Interest
This column originally appeared on Sunday, May 25, 2008
Word has it that the Chester County Commissioners are taking suggestions for what should happen to the vacant space they will have when they move all the judges, prosecutors, public defenders, prothonotaries, clerks of courts, tipstaffs, secretaries and veteran criminal defense attorney John J. Duffy's motor scooter to the new Justice Center.
Word has it that they'll take suggestions from just about anyone as to what to do with the vacant North Wing and Mosteller's Annex, all the way down to that dog Marley who everyone seemed to be making such a fuss over last week. (Even West Chester Police Chief Scott Bohn's family dog was said to have asked to secure a spot watching the movie-making proceedings on West Gay Street on the off chance that Marley the Mutt might need a stunt double.)
Word has it that the county would just as soon rid itself of the Mosteller Annex, which used to be a department store back when former West Chester Mayor Thomas Chambers could still play a game of half-court basketball without an oxygen tank and a de-fib machine seated next to him on the pine, because, well, frankly, because it's the ugliest building in the borough not owned by renowned landlord Stan Zukin.
Word has it that as long as the price is right, anything goes with the Mosteller site, short of the housing the future home of Andy Dinniman's Personal State Senate Library and Skate Park, with its “Before Mustache,” “During Mustache,” and “After Mustache” sections divided by floors and an animatronic greeting by a life-sized Bam Margera, bar not included.
Excuse me, but Memo to Carol, Terence and Kathi: No need to send out the RFPs. Save the postage. I've got the answer that should have been as obvious to you three commissioners as Joe Norley at a West Chester U frat party.
Two words: Community pool.
West Chester has been aching for a community pool -- where hot, tired sweaty citizens could relax themselves after a hard day's work and, as I have pointed out on many occasions, is within walking distance of South Church Street -- ever since 1983, when I, coincidentally, spent my first summer watching the temperature in my South Church Street apartment rise above 95 degrees.
There didn't seem to be much room in the borough, however, for a pool the size that could accommodate hot, tired, sweaty journalists because the space was taken up by frivolous luxury uses like houses and stores and parking lots. Now, however, opportunity is presenting itself with all the anticipatory glee of a 15-year-old hacker looking at the Downingtown Area School District's computer “security system.”
So tear down the Mosteller, dig a nice hole, get the crews to come pour some concrete, plant a few trees for shade, get Wally the Wiener Man to provide concessions, and open it up in time to provide a backdrop for the first “Swinging Thursday” event. Don't worry: We don't need anything as fancy as an Olympic-sized pool with lap lanes, because frankly, we don't lap. We float and bob and chill like a half-empty wine bottle in Marsh Creek Lake.
Word.
Word has it that the Chester County Commissioners are taking suggestions for what should happen to the vacant space they will have when they move all the judges, prosecutors, public defenders, prothonotaries, clerks of courts, tipstaffs, secretaries and veteran criminal defense attorney John J. Duffy's motor scooter to the new Justice Center.
Word has it that they'll take suggestions from just about anyone as to what to do with the vacant North Wing and Mosteller's Annex, all the way down to that dog Marley who everyone seemed to be making such a fuss over last week. (Even West Chester Police Chief Scott Bohn's family dog was said to have asked to secure a spot watching the movie-making proceedings on West Gay Street on the off chance that Marley the Mutt might need a stunt double.)
Word has it that the county would just as soon rid itself of the Mosteller Annex, which used to be a department store back when former West Chester Mayor Thomas Chambers could still play a game of half-court basketball without an oxygen tank and a de-fib machine seated next to him on the pine, because, well, frankly, because it's the ugliest building in the borough not owned by renowned landlord Stan Zukin.
Word has it that as long as the price is right, anything goes with the Mosteller site, short of the housing the future home of Andy Dinniman's Personal State Senate Library and Skate Park, with its “Before Mustache,” “During Mustache,” and “After Mustache” sections divided by floors and an animatronic greeting by a life-sized Bam Margera, bar not included.
Excuse me, but Memo to Carol, Terence and Kathi: No need to send out the RFPs. Save the postage. I've got the answer that should have been as obvious to you three commissioners as Joe Norley at a West Chester U frat party.
Two words: Community pool.
West Chester has been aching for a community pool -- where hot, tired sweaty citizens could relax themselves after a hard day's work and, as I have pointed out on many occasions, is within walking distance of South Church Street -- ever since 1983, when I, coincidentally, spent my first summer watching the temperature in my South Church Street apartment rise above 95 degrees.
There didn't seem to be much room in the borough, however, for a pool the size that could accommodate hot, tired, sweaty journalists because the space was taken up by frivolous luxury uses like houses and stores and parking lots. Now, however, opportunity is presenting itself with all the anticipatory glee of a 15-year-old hacker looking at the Downingtown Area School District's computer “security system.”
So tear down the Mosteller, dig a nice hole, get the crews to come pour some concrete, plant a few trees for shade, get Wally the Wiener Man to provide concessions, and open it up in time to provide a backdrop for the first “Swinging Thursday” event. Don't worry: We don't need anything as fancy as an Olympic-sized pool with lap lanes, because frankly, we don't lap. We float and bob and chill like a half-empty wine bottle in Marsh Creek Lake.
Word.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Change That Matters
This column originally appeared on Sunday, May 18, 2008
My friend Rich Henson, of the West Chester Hensons, once found himself pulling into a parking spot somewhere in Philadelphia without the benefit of the proper coins with which to feed the meter. Fearing what might happen if sufficient time wasn’t added to the meter, he breezed into a nearby retail store with a dollar bill in hand.
“Might I exchange this paper Washington for four silver Georges?” Mr. Henson inquired politely of the proprietor.
“Whadduz this look like, the four-quarters-for-a-dollar store?” the friendly owner rejoined. Mr. Henson, chastised, found other means of exchanging his funds.
I tell that story to make this point: If you are contemplating a trip into the Borough of West Chester from your pricey but cheaply constructed McMansion in Developmentland, it would be incumbent on you to make a quick trip to the bank and fill up your SUV’s change dish with 25-cent pieces. That simple step would lead to a better life all around for everyone.
Parking meters are central to our life here in West Chester. Check that. Parking in general, and all its accompanying systems, is central to our life here in West Chester. And we who have grown so accustomed to the Facts of Parking Life 101 take it as an affront that those of you coming here from outside the borough’s four corners are showing up unprepared for the obstacle course that is our parking code.
Hence the borough’s latest municipal motto: “West Chester: Bring Quarters.” (Signs to be posted shortly.)
You wouldn’t think of going on a vacation to France without learning how to say, “Can I have some Freedom Fries with that souffle?” in the native lingo, would you? You wouldn’t think of going to Philadelphia without $10,000 in cash to bribe a city official, would you? But yet you come to our town without the one thing that is most necessary to making your stay here run smoothly. For shame.
Waitresses at West Chester restaurants spend so much of their time filling requests to make change for dollars to feed the parking meters on Gay Street that they have been known to let the various attorneys, judges, police officers, courthouse tipstaffs, state Senate legislative aides and real estate brokers who actually pay their salaries wait overtime to get their meals served.
And we all know what happens anyway, don’t we? You, having gotten your four quarters for a dollar, return to your car only to be confronted with one of our sunny, smiling, effervescent parking enforcement officers cranking out a parking ticket because your meter had no time on it.
“But I just ran in to get change!” you explain. “Can’t you see I was just away a minute? I’m sure you can just let me slide this one time, can’t you?”
“Sure! When pigs get the vote!” comes the cheery response. “See you soon! In court!”
There are myriad tales of the disputes that arise over parking in West Chester, with equally rude and antagonistic charges on both sides of the meter: The meter-person who berates the quizzical senior citizen over some minor infraction; the blustering insurance salesman who demands the officer’s badge even though he was 30 minutes behind schedule. It’s the Mideast conflict, without Jimmy Carter.
So it is obvious why Barack Obama did as well as he did here in the recent presidential primary, his message of “bringing change” resonating so clearly with voters in the borough.
We just thought he meant loose coins.
My friend Rich Henson, of the West Chester Hensons, once found himself pulling into a parking spot somewhere in Philadelphia without the benefit of the proper coins with which to feed the meter. Fearing what might happen if sufficient time wasn’t added to the meter, he breezed into a nearby retail store with a dollar bill in hand.
“Might I exchange this paper Washington for four silver Georges?” Mr. Henson inquired politely of the proprietor.
“Whadduz this look like, the four-quarters-for-a-dollar store?” the friendly owner rejoined. Mr. Henson, chastised, found other means of exchanging his funds.
I tell that story to make this point: If you are contemplating a trip into the Borough of West Chester from your pricey but cheaply constructed McMansion in Developmentland, it would be incumbent on you to make a quick trip to the bank and fill up your SUV’s change dish with 25-cent pieces. That simple step would lead to a better life all around for everyone.
Parking meters are central to our life here in West Chester. Check that. Parking in general, and all its accompanying systems, is central to our life here in West Chester. And we who have grown so accustomed to the Facts of Parking Life 101 take it as an affront that those of you coming here from outside the borough’s four corners are showing up unprepared for the obstacle course that is our parking code.
Hence the borough’s latest municipal motto: “West Chester: Bring Quarters.” (Signs to be posted shortly.)
You wouldn’t think of going on a vacation to France without learning how to say, “Can I have some Freedom Fries with that souffle?” in the native lingo, would you? You wouldn’t think of going to Philadelphia without $10,000 in cash to bribe a city official, would you? But yet you come to our town without the one thing that is most necessary to making your stay here run smoothly. For shame.
Waitresses at West Chester restaurants spend so much of their time filling requests to make change for dollars to feed the parking meters on Gay Street that they have been known to let the various attorneys, judges, police officers, courthouse tipstaffs, state Senate legislative aides and real estate brokers who actually pay their salaries wait overtime to get their meals served.
And we all know what happens anyway, don’t we? You, having gotten your four quarters for a dollar, return to your car only to be confronted with one of our sunny, smiling, effervescent parking enforcement officers cranking out a parking ticket because your meter had no time on it.
“But I just ran in to get change!” you explain. “Can’t you see I was just away a minute? I’m sure you can just let me slide this one time, can’t you?”
“Sure! When pigs get the vote!” comes the cheery response. “See you soon! In court!”
There are myriad tales of the disputes that arise over parking in West Chester, with equally rude and antagonistic charges on both sides of the meter: The meter-person who berates the quizzical senior citizen over some minor infraction; the blustering insurance salesman who demands the officer’s badge even though he was 30 minutes behind schedule. It’s the Mideast conflict, without Jimmy Carter.
So it is obvious why Barack Obama did as well as he did here in the recent presidential primary, his message of “bringing change” resonating so clearly with voters in the borough.
We just thought he meant loose coins.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Amish Housing Dispute Update
This article originally appeared on Sunday, May 11, 2008
An Amish landlord discriminated against a black family from Chester County when he bowed to the bigotry of another tenant and failed to rent them their picturesque dream home in rural Nottingham, the state Human Relations Commission has ruled.
Emanuel Hertzler was “naive” about state law concerning fair housing practices and did not mean the family any harm, the commission stated in a 22-page opinion in the case filed by Glenda and Raymond Brown and their children, but he violated provisions of the state's Human Relations Act nonetheless.
“It is simply wrong to allow the prejudices of a potential neighbor to trump the mandate to make rental decisions absent racial considerations,” the opinion stated. “Here, Hertzler did just that.”
The order was filed April 22. The Browns, along with one of their two sons, were awarded $5,000 for embarrassment and humiliation, $240 for out of pocket expenses, and Hertzler was ordered to begin adhering to federal fair housing practices in renting his property, including proper advertising and annual inspection of rental records.
Raymond Brown, contacted at the family's home in Atglen Friday, said the decision came as a victory for both his family and others confronted with racal discrimination in housing.
“We are pleased this is over,” Raymond Brown said. “We are pleased the commission sided with us. We just hope that people know they do have a mechanism in their defense, and they don't have to sit back and take these kind of things.”
Hertzler, of Little Britain, Lancaster County, could not be reached for comment.
The commission's decision followed a hearing in January at the West Chester Borough Hall in front of Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission (PHRC) hearing examiner Carl Summerson, attended by the Browns, their two sons, their pastor, Hertzler and four other Amish men from Hertzler's church district, including his bishop.
Under questioning from Charles Nier, assistant chief counsel of the PHRC, Glenda Brown said she had seen an advertisement in early May 2007 for a house in a local newspaper and made arraignments to meet Hertzler there. When she toured the house on Little Britain Road across the Lancaster County line from West Nottingham, she said she got very excited that it offered what she and her family had been looking for. It was in the countryside, with a large yard and enough space for all four of them.
Plus, it was $50 cheaper than the $850 rent she and her husband were paying for a row-home in he Westwood section of Valley. “It was like a picture postcard,” she said.
She said she filled out a portion of the lease application and left it with Hertzler, who promised to call and let her know if they were accepted. She said had no reason to believe they would not get the home.
But later that night, Hertzler left her a message on the family's answering machine.
“We talked it over with the neighbors there, my other tenants in the house besides you, and I'm sorry to tell you this,” Hertzler could be heard on the message as it was played back at the hearing. “But they do not want a colored family living next door.
“They are very choosy,” he continued. “They said they would move and it would cost me lots to go looking for people to move in, so I'm sorry,” he said on the tape.
It was later established that the neighbor he spoke of was troublesome man who had earlier brushses with the law, and that Hertzler was afraid of what he might do if the Browns moved in.
But Glenda Brown said the message shocked her. “That in 2007 that someone would have that type of an attitude – it was blatant discrimination,” she testified.
The commission agreed.
“Fear of a white tenant moving if an African American family moves in is not a legal excuse for a landlord's fundamental legal obligation to afford everyone an equal opportunity to secure suitable hosing of their choice,” the opinion read.
In his halting testimony, however, Hertzler defended himself, saying that an incomplete application had been the stumbling block for him, not the couple's race.
Glenda Brown had left out information on vehicles that would be on the property, and financial information about past bankruptcies or missed rent payments, he said. When he ran a credit check later, he found out that she had once filed for bankruptcy and that the couple had had some rent payment problems in 2006.
However, the commission found that those considerations did not outweigh his initial hesitation to rent to the family based on their race.
The opinion noted that Amish landlords are at times not fully versed in the law and that Hertzler seem to act with a “ misplaced paternalistic attitude” to keep the Brown's away from the neighbor who did not want to live near blacks.
“Hertzler, being Amish, can best be described as naïve,” it stated, ading tat his motivation not to rent to the Brown's “was not borne out of a personal ill will, malice, or desire to harm the Brown family.”
In assessing the penalty for the Brown's humiliation, the commission noted that there had been little testimony to show that the family suffered and physical, psychological or emotional turmoil over the matter.
Glenda Brown had testified that she spoke with friends and acquaintances about the matter, and that while hers sons were “dumbfounded” to be confronted with such racially tinged attitudes, she believed they handled the situation with maturity.
The couple said that the size of the award was not the most important thing for them, but rather the recognition that what had happened to them was wrong.
“We are excited that justice has been done,” said Glenda Brown. “We are grateful that this type of thing has been exposed.”
See original article here
An Amish landlord discriminated against a black family from Chester County when he bowed to the bigotry of another tenant and failed to rent them their picturesque dream home in rural Nottingham, the state Human Relations Commission has ruled.
Emanuel Hertzler was “naive” about state law concerning fair housing practices and did not mean the family any harm, the commission stated in a 22-page opinion in the case filed by Glenda and Raymond Brown and their children, but he violated provisions of the state's Human Relations Act nonetheless.
“It is simply wrong to allow the prejudices of a potential neighbor to trump the mandate to make rental decisions absent racial considerations,” the opinion stated. “Here, Hertzler did just that.”
The order was filed April 22. The Browns, along with one of their two sons, were awarded $5,000 for embarrassment and humiliation, $240 for out of pocket expenses, and Hertzler was ordered to begin adhering to federal fair housing practices in renting his property, including proper advertising and annual inspection of rental records.
Raymond Brown, contacted at the family's home in Atglen Friday, said the decision came as a victory for both his family and others confronted with racal discrimination in housing.
“We are pleased this is over,” Raymond Brown said. “We are pleased the commission sided with us. We just hope that people know they do have a mechanism in their defense, and they don't have to sit back and take these kind of things.”
Hertzler, of Little Britain, Lancaster County, could not be reached for comment.
The commission's decision followed a hearing in January at the West Chester Borough Hall in front of Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission (PHRC) hearing examiner Carl Summerson, attended by the Browns, their two sons, their pastor, Hertzler and four other Amish men from Hertzler's church district, including his bishop.
Under questioning from Charles Nier, assistant chief counsel of the PHRC, Glenda Brown said she had seen an advertisement in early May 2007 for a house in a local newspaper and made arraignments to meet Hertzler there. When she toured the house on Little Britain Road across the Lancaster County line from West Nottingham, she said she got very excited that it offered what she and her family had been looking for. It was in the countryside, with a large yard and enough space for all four of them.
Plus, it was $50 cheaper than the $850 rent she and her husband were paying for a row-home in he Westwood section of Valley. “It was like a picture postcard,” she said.
She said she filled out a portion of the lease application and left it with Hertzler, who promised to call and let her know if they were accepted. She said had no reason to believe they would not get the home.
But later that night, Hertzler left her a message on the family's answering machine.
“We talked it over with the neighbors there, my other tenants in the house besides you, and I'm sorry to tell you this,” Hertzler could be heard on the message as it was played back at the hearing. “But they do not want a colored family living next door.
“They are very choosy,” he continued. “They said they would move and it would cost me lots to go looking for people to move in, so I'm sorry,” he said on the tape.
It was later established that the neighbor he spoke of was troublesome man who had earlier brushses with the law, and that Hertzler was afraid of what he might do if the Browns moved in.
But Glenda Brown said the message shocked her. “That in 2007 that someone would have that type of an attitude – it was blatant discrimination,” she testified.
The commission agreed.
“Fear of a white tenant moving if an African American family moves in is not a legal excuse for a landlord's fundamental legal obligation to afford everyone an equal opportunity to secure suitable hosing of their choice,” the opinion read.
In his halting testimony, however, Hertzler defended himself, saying that an incomplete application had been the stumbling block for him, not the couple's race.
Glenda Brown had left out information on vehicles that would be on the property, and financial information about past bankruptcies or missed rent payments, he said. When he ran a credit check later, he found out that she had once filed for bankruptcy and that the couple had had some rent payment problems in 2006.
However, the commission found that those considerations did not outweigh his initial hesitation to rent to the family based on their race.
The opinion noted that Amish landlords are at times not fully versed in the law and that Hertzler seem to act with a “ misplaced paternalistic attitude” to keep the Brown's away from the neighbor who did not want to live near blacks.
“Hertzler, being Amish, can best be described as naïve,” it stated, ading tat his motivation not to rent to the Brown's “was not borne out of a personal ill will, malice, or desire to harm the Brown family.”
In assessing the penalty for the Brown's humiliation, the commission noted that there had been little testimony to show that the family suffered and physical, psychological or emotional turmoil over the matter.
Glenda Brown had testified that she spoke with friends and acquaintances about the matter, and that while hers sons were “dumbfounded” to be confronted with such racially tinged attitudes, she believed they handled the situation with maturity.
The couple said that the size of the award was not the most important thing for them, but rather the recognition that what had happened to them was wrong.
“We are excited that justice has been done,” said Glenda Brown. “We are grateful that this type of thing has been exposed.”
See original article here
Wawa Hoppers
This column originally appeared on May 11, 2008
The story that I enjoy the most from the saga of the Wawa Hoppers is the episode in which Ann and Mary speed away from the site of a street shooting in the Kensington section of Philadelphia, only to make a quick stop at the Wa on Aramingo Avenue while the sound of the gunfire is still fresh in their ears.
You may have heard of the Wawa Hoppers, the five young women who hail from West Chester — Jill Fitzpatrick, Emily Koch, Andi Sasin, Mary Speer and Ann Wuetig — and who more than a year ago began a quest to visit and shop at each of the 578 Wawas known to man — Wawas, of course, being the equivalent in convenience store circles as Tiger Woods is to golfers.
What at first blush sounds like some particularly silly attempt to gain entrance into the Guinness Book of World Records is put into serious context when the Hoppers explain that their mission is being performed in honor of a childhood friend, Maria Whitehead, who died in November 2006 of melanoma. They say they are hopeful that Wawa will provide a matching gift to the Melanoma International Foundation for every dollar the pentangle spend at one of its stores.
Whitehead was a classmate of theirs at West Chester East High School and an athletic legend in the area. She was an assistant coach for the Duke University field hockey team when she died and had earlier played and coached on U.S. Olympic field hockey teams. (For matters of full disclosure, I should note that she was also the niece of my friends Jim and Marian Vito, and I met her once at a family celebration.)
It doesn’t matter how much they spend, only that they collect a receipt. Their self-imposed rule states that only the five are part of the mission, although they will accept rides from friends. The Hoppers have as of recently visited 440 of the 578 Wawas, about 75 percent of their goal, and despite the rising cost of gasoline at the pumps seem well on their way to getting the last outlet crossed off the list sometime this year. They’ve still got the northern section above Allentown to go and the easternmost Wawa in Ocean City, Md., to take care of.
But back to the shooting.
It occurred in August and, in the spirit of letting the Hoppers play the game themselves, I’ll turn the story over to Ann:
“A few weeks ago myself and Mary were on Girard Avenue in Philadelphia at a ridiculously late hour attempting to get home. Right in front of the car, six gunshots went off, and those on the street corner flew by our car,” she wrote on the crew’s blog.
“In stressful situations I always choose the ‘flight’ response, which was obviously smart in this situation. I blindly put the car in reverse fearing that if I raised my head, a bullet would go through the window.
"Speeding off, I was oblivious to the red lights I was passing through; yet, the car came to an abrupt stop when a Wawa sign appeared in front of me. We somehow made it over to Aramingo Avenue, and I was not going to pass up the opportunity to cross that Wawa off the list.
"Mary and I ran in and out of there in a matter of one minute. There is dedication, and then there is stupidity. I think the decision to stop that night was the latter of the two.”
I would respectfully disagree.
For more about the Wawa Hoppers, visit www.wawa2010.blogspot.com.
Monday, May 05, 2008
And Now For Something Completely Different ...
This column originally apared on Sunday, May 4, 2008
Readers of a certain age will remember fondly the cartoon “The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show,” and as part of that series the inevitable exchange between two codgers sitting on a park bench watching as madness and frivolity ensues around them.
“That’s something you don’t see every day, Chauncy,” one would always remark. “What’s that Edgar?” would come the reply, followed by a description of the cartoon moose and squirrel being chased in some ridiculously menacing, and completely unexpected, way by a vaguely Eastern European couple somehow involving a lighted bomb.
That situation — albeit absent the moose, the squirrel, the vaguely Eastern European couple and the bomb — was what the folks at the Chester County Courthouse were saying to one another Thursday.
For the first time anyone in West Chester could remember, an all-female jury was empanelled to hear a trial.
The 12 women were of different ages and races, wore differently colored clothing, and had different hairstyles and hair colors. Six wore glasses, and six didn’t. But they all had in common at least one thing — the extra X chromosome.
Even the alternate juror, chosen in the event one of the other jurors had to be excused before the conclusion of the trial, was of the fairer gender.
Judge Thomas G. Gavin, in whose courtroom the jury sat, was among those to marvel at the sight. Despite years of work in the courthouse, including 22 on the bench, he said he had never come across an all-female jury and had never heard of one being seated. But the veteran jurist recognized the unique situation the jury presented, even as he apologized for keeping them outside the courtroom while he conducted other business.
“I was taught never to keep a woman waiting, and now I’ve kept 13 of you waiting,” Gavin said as they took their seats for the start of testimony Thursday. “I realize the degree of difficulty I now find myself in.”
Ultimately, the jury did not get to decide the case, as a mistrial was declared and Gavin was forced to send everyone home. Shame it was, said more than one courthouse observer, since it would be nice to know how an all-female jury would deliberate.
That question, in fact is at the heart of the history of women as jurors. The male-dominated legal community for years kept women off panels because of ignorant prejudices against their perceived weaknesses; would they be too sympathetic to judge the case on its merits and too easily swayed by emotions to render a fair verdict?
The first all-female American jury was seated in 1654, because the court needed to know if the defendant, Judith Catchpole, could have been pregnant at the time of the alleged crime.
But years and years have gone by since women starting serving on juries, and the course of American justice seems to have proceeded fairly much apace. There is no evidence I know of to show that juries with women bring back verdicts predominantly one way or another. And you never know, if there had been “Eleven Angry Men and One Calm Woman,” would we have gotten a verdict sooner, and without all that melodrama? Now our chance is gone.
And all I know is that Bill Scott was the voice of Bullwinkle. But not that Bill Scott.
Readers of a certain age will remember fondly the cartoon “The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show,” and as part of that series the inevitable exchange between two codgers sitting on a park bench watching as madness and frivolity ensues around them.
“That’s something you don’t see every day, Chauncy,” one would always remark. “What’s that Edgar?” would come the reply, followed by a description of the cartoon moose and squirrel being chased in some ridiculously menacing, and completely unexpected, way by a vaguely Eastern European couple somehow involving a lighted bomb.
That situation — albeit absent the moose, the squirrel, the vaguely Eastern European couple and the bomb — was what the folks at the Chester County Courthouse were saying to one another Thursday.
For the first time anyone in West Chester could remember, an all-female jury was empanelled to hear a trial.
The 12 women were of different ages and races, wore differently colored clothing, and had different hairstyles and hair colors. Six wore glasses, and six didn’t. But they all had in common at least one thing — the extra X chromosome.
Even the alternate juror, chosen in the event one of the other jurors had to be excused before the conclusion of the trial, was of the fairer gender.
Judge Thomas G. Gavin, in whose courtroom the jury sat, was among those to marvel at the sight. Despite years of work in the courthouse, including 22 on the bench, he said he had never come across an all-female jury and had never heard of one being seated. But the veteran jurist recognized the unique situation the jury presented, even as he apologized for keeping them outside the courtroom while he conducted other business.
“I was taught never to keep a woman waiting, and now I’ve kept 13 of you waiting,” Gavin said as they took their seats for the start of testimony Thursday. “I realize the degree of difficulty I now find myself in.”
Ultimately, the jury did not get to decide the case, as a mistrial was declared and Gavin was forced to send everyone home. Shame it was, said more than one courthouse observer, since it would be nice to know how an all-female jury would deliberate.
That question, in fact is at the heart of the history of women as jurors. The male-dominated legal community for years kept women off panels because of ignorant prejudices against their perceived weaknesses; would they be too sympathetic to judge the case on its merits and too easily swayed by emotions to render a fair verdict?
The first all-female American jury was seated in 1654, because the court needed to know if the defendant, Judith Catchpole, could have been pregnant at the time of the alleged crime.
But years and years have gone by since women starting serving on juries, and the course of American justice seems to have proceeded fairly much apace. There is no evidence I know of to show that juries with women bring back verdicts predominantly one way or another. And you never know, if there had been “Eleven Angry Men and One Calm Woman,” would we have gotten a verdict sooner, and without all that melodrama? Now our chance is gone.
And all I know is that Bill Scott was the voice of Bullwinkle. But not that Bill Scott.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Goodbye, and Good Luck
This is a revised version of a column that originally appeared on April 27, 2008
Now that they are gone, don’t you miss them?
I’m speaking, of course, of Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, the two U.S. senators and would-be presidents who occupied so much of our time and thoughts over the past seven weeks as they traveled every part of our state in their seemingly insatiable quest to get us to vote for them last Tuesday.
You opened the newspaper, they were there. You turned on the television, they were there. You went to visit your your son’s high school counselor and there was Barack, sitting in with you and discussing college choices, joking about how bad the food was when he went to Columbia. You went shopping for cammo hunting clothing at Cabela's, and there was Hillary offering to take you up to the family place on Lake Winola for a refresher course in gun safety.
For more than a month, they loved us and needed us and asked us to remember them come Election Day. Then, like Andy Dinniman’s mustache, they were gone.
I know Barack liked me, because he called me and left me a message. His voice on my telephone answering machine was as clear and powerful as it was in that “Yes, We Can” YouTube video that featured dozens of people whose names and identities I could not place, and Scarlett Johannson. He even sent me an e-mail calling me by name, and later had his wife, Michelle, follow up with another call. I was sorry I wasn’t home when they called so I could have spoken to them personally and told them how much I admired them and how all my friends were inspired by them and asked how Barack chose the music for his rallies; I hadn’t heard the O’Jays sing “Give The People What They Want” since I graduated high school.
I was less certain about Hillary’s feelings for me, even though she sent me e-mail after e-mail after e-mail every single day of the month she was here. She wanted me to know where she was, whether it was Scranton or Lehighton or Palmerton or Aliquippa, and what she was thinking about. But her messages always seemed like someone else was writing them, not her. I took it as a good sign, however, that she sent her one and only daughter, Chelsea, to stop in for a quick visit to my neighborhood near West Chester University. It meant a lot.
I wish they were still here because there is so much I wanted to show them about my hometown.
I would have taken Hillary to Jitter’s in West Chester and bought her a shot and a beer and watched the Phillies game with her and made sure she got home OK with her own Jitter’s T-shirt that she could wear when she wanted to fit in with us folks. If Bam had been there, I’d have even introduced them.
I would have taken Barack around the borough to show him that not all folks who live in small towns in Pennsylvania are bitter. Only when it snows and they don’t clear the streets on time. Or when they give us parking tickets for parking in front of our own homes. Or when they put up new stop signs, this time in the hallway between our living room and our bedroom. Come to think of it, we’re pretty much bitter most of the time, but we would have hidden it for politeness’ sake.
Now we are left with an emptiness, a void, a hole in our lives that qualifies us for a stop on U.S. Sen. John McCain’s tour of “forgotten places.” Like a spurned boyfriend who wallows in grief waiting for his ex to return to his life, we would give anything for a note in the e-mail or a flyer in the postal box.
All we have now are the memories. And the remaining campaign signs.
Now that they are gone, don’t you miss them?
I’m speaking, of course, of Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, the two U.S. senators and would-be presidents who occupied so much of our time and thoughts over the past seven weeks as they traveled every part of our state in their seemingly insatiable quest to get us to vote for them last Tuesday.
You opened the newspaper, they were there. You turned on the television, they were there. You went to visit your your son’s high school counselor and there was Barack, sitting in with you and discussing college choices, joking about how bad the food was when he went to Columbia. You went shopping for cammo hunting clothing at Cabela's, and there was Hillary offering to take you up to the family place on Lake Winola for a refresher course in gun safety.
For more than a month, they loved us and needed us and asked us to remember them come Election Day. Then, like Andy Dinniman’s mustache, they were gone.
I know Barack liked me, because he called me and left me a message. His voice on my telephone answering machine was as clear and powerful as it was in that “Yes, We Can” YouTube video that featured dozens of people whose names and identities I could not place, and Scarlett Johannson. He even sent me an e-mail calling me by name, and later had his wife, Michelle, follow up with another call. I was sorry I wasn’t home when they called so I could have spoken to them personally and told them how much I admired them and how all my friends were inspired by them and asked how Barack chose the music for his rallies; I hadn’t heard the O’Jays sing “Give The People What They Want” since I graduated high school.
I was less certain about Hillary’s feelings for me, even though she sent me e-mail after e-mail after e-mail every single day of the month she was here. She wanted me to know where she was, whether it was Scranton or Lehighton or Palmerton or Aliquippa, and what she was thinking about. But her messages always seemed like someone else was writing them, not her. I took it as a good sign, however, that she sent her one and only daughter, Chelsea, to stop in for a quick visit to my neighborhood near West Chester University. It meant a lot.
I wish they were still here because there is so much I wanted to show them about my hometown.
I would have taken Hillary to Jitter’s in West Chester and bought her a shot and a beer and watched the Phillies game with her and made sure she got home OK with her own Jitter’s T-shirt that she could wear when she wanted to fit in with us folks. If Bam had been there, I’d have even introduced them.
I would have taken Barack around the borough to show him that not all folks who live in small towns in Pennsylvania are bitter. Only when it snows and they don’t clear the streets on time. Or when they give us parking tickets for parking in front of our own homes. Or when they put up new stop signs, this time in the hallway between our living room and our bedroom. Come to think of it, we’re pretty much bitter most of the time, but we would have hidden it for politeness’ sake.
Now we are left with an emptiness, a void, a hole in our lives that qualifies us for a stop on U.S. Sen. John McCain’s tour of “forgotten places.” Like a spurned boyfriend who wallows in grief waiting for his ex to return to his life, we would give anything for a note in the e-mail or a flyer in the postal box.
All we have now are the memories. And the remaining campaign signs.
Monday, April 21, 2008
I Know Nothing...
This column originally appeared on Sunday, April 20, 2008
Behold the glory of spring in West Chester.
The sounds of birds chirping outside your window. The sights of mothers and father strollering their children down brick sidewalks in the warm evenings. The smell of flowers coming into bloom. The touch of insincere political candidates grabbing your hand and slapping your back as though you and he, or she, were as close as prison cell mates.
Unfortunately, all this vernal activity simply adds up to one more way of exposing one of my greatest failings in life: I cannot for the life of me tell what kind of trees are flowering down my block, what kind of birds are chirping outside my window, and what kind of flowers are blooming in my town.
You can call me stupid for not knowing the basic of flora and fauna around these parts. I've been called stupid before, and sometimes by people who actually know what they are talking about. I'm used to it.
I prefer to view myself as vastly uniformed.
It's the line of work I'm in, I suppose, that counts for my lack of knowledge in matters of day to day life.
You remember the story of how I got this job in the fist place, don't you? How back in 1982 Bill Dean, the saintly longtime editor of the Daily Local News, gave me the mynah bird test? That's where you get a set of facts abut a burglary that included the theft of a mynah bird, and are expected to write a story based on them. If you mention the bird in the lead paragraph, they make you a news reporter. If you don't, you get to be a sportswriter.
Just kidding. Advertising salesman, actually.
But that's the point. All I knew was that the mynah was the lead, and I got the job. I didn't even know what a mynah bird was. I couldn't tell a mynah bird from a cockatiel if you spotted me the wings and the plumage. But there I was, writing about it nonetheless, with authority.
Here's how the job works. The editor tells you to write a story about why a gallon of gas costs more today than a bottle of Chateau-du-Pape 2005. You call someone at the AAA, write down whatever he or she tells you, get them to spell their name correctly, regurgitate it succinctly in 750 words or less by 5 p.m., get the mynah in the lead, file it, and forget it. I've done thousands of stories about subjects I knew nothing about, and still don't. And those are the ones that made Page One. Don't get me started on the inside pages.
I was reminded of this lack of knowledge recently when I mentioned in a column that one of my neighbors had been pruning the blossoms from her gladiolas. A few days after its publication, another neighbor stopped by and said, “Gladiolas don't have blossoms. You must have meant hydrangeas.” Who knows, maybe she said geraniums. But she gave me a look like you give the dog when he hasn't made it outside.
Look. I know I can't tell a crimson-rumped waxbill from a Madagascar periwinkle, but I do know what I like. And I do like the way that South Church Street in early May looks like a snow shower had greeted us out of season when the trees shed their white blossoms, and I like being awakened on a spring morning by the song birds who live next door.
As for the insincere politicians, don't worry. I learned their names long ago.
Behold the glory of spring in West Chester.
The sounds of birds chirping outside your window. The sights of mothers and father strollering their children down brick sidewalks in the warm evenings. The smell of flowers coming into bloom. The touch of insincere political candidates grabbing your hand and slapping your back as though you and he, or she, were as close as prison cell mates.
Unfortunately, all this vernal activity simply adds up to one more way of exposing one of my greatest failings in life: I cannot for the life of me tell what kind of trees are flowering down my block, what kind of birds are chirping outside my window, and what kind of flowers are blooming in my town.
You can call me stupid for not knowing the basic of flora and fauna around these parts. I've been called stupid before, and sometimes by people who actually know what they are talking about. I'm used to it.
I prefer to view myself as vastly uniformed.
It's the line of work I'm in, I suppose, that counts for my lack of knowledge in matters of day to day life.
You remember the story of how I got this job in the fist place, don't you? How back in 1982 Bill Dean, the saintly longtime editor of the Daily Local News, gave me the mynah bird test? That's where you get a set of facts abut a burglary that included the theft of a mynah bird, and are expected to write a story based on them. If you mention the bird in the lead paragraph, they make you a news reporter. If you don't, you get to be a sportswriter.
Just kidding. Advertising salesman, actually.
But that's the point. All I knew was that the mynah was the lead, and I got the job. I didn't even know what a mynah bird was. I couldn't tell a mynah bird from a cockatiel if you spotted me the wings and the plumage. But there I was, writing about it nonetheless, with authority.
Here's how the job works. The editor tells you to write a story about why a gallon of gas costs more today than a bottle of Chateau-du-Pape 2005. You call someone at the AAA, write down whatever he or she tells you, get them to spell their name correctly, regurgitate it succinctly in 750 words or less by 5 p.m., get the mynah in the lead, file it, and forget it. I've done thousands of stories about subjects I knew nothing about, and still don't. And those are the ones that made Page One. Don't get me started on the inside pages.
I was reminded of this lack of knowledge recently when I mentioned in a column that one of my neighbors had been pruning the blossoms from her gladiolas. A few days after its publication, another neighbor stopped by and said, “Gladiolas don't have blossoms. You must have meant hydrangeas.” Who knows, maybe she said geraniums. But she gave me a look like you give the dog when he hasn't made it outside.
Look. I know I can't tell a crimson-rumped waxbill from a Madagascar periwinkle, but I do know what I like. And I do like the way that South Church Street in early May looks like a snow shower had greeted us out of season when the trees shed their white blossoms, and I like being awakened on a spring morning by the song birds who live next door.
As for the insincere politicians, don't worry. I learned their names long ago.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Luck of the Draw
This column originally apeared on Sunday, April 13, 2008
You, the folks who live in Chester County who are reading this, don't know how lucky I am.
And by lucky I mean that it took unfathomable good fortune for me to be born and to grow up in Cincinnati, Ohio. That life was not foreordained. My mother was raised in small town Illinois; my father was born in Wisconsin. They met in New Jersey and were married when my father received his doctorate at Penn State. Somehow fate got them to Cincinnati and allowed my formative years to take place there.
According to one source, one's “formative years” are the time we acquire our adult personas as we move in stages from from childhood to adolescence. For example, the source states, in Hindu culture, during “upanayana, sometimes known outside India by the name, 'sacred thread ceremony,' children are taught the secret of life through Brahmopadesam (revealing the nature of Brahman, the Ultimate Reality) or the Gayatri mantra.” The child then becomes qualified for life as a student or adult, depending on his caste or walk in life.
Me, I just went to Skyline Chili.
I do not have to try very hard to capture in my mind the face of he waitress who served me my first portion of God's Greatest Gift to Food – the Skyline Coney. I don't, because she served me those same delights for two decades at the same chili parlor in Cincinnati, on Clifton and Ludlow, where we first encountered one another, until she retired. I didn't know her name and she didn't know mine, but she led me through the sacred ceremony of ordering “two up with mustard,” as respectfully as any guru would the Brahmopadesam.
That's where I grew up; that's where I learned to appreciate the fine things in life.
How lucky I was to spend those years learning how to eat the food of Nirvana from master teachers. The softness of the bun, the tang of the onion, the fluff of the grated cheese, the aroma of the chili sauce, all were as well known to me as the Torah is to any candidate for the Bar Mitzvah.
I tell you all these things because at this very moment I am less than a mile from that self-same chili parlor, and in several moments time, fate willing, I am going to walk into that parlor and order the Skyline meal I was brought up to receive and revere.
My meal will come after having spent the morning wallowing in the glory that are the other foods one can only truly find in Cincinnati. Shopping at the historic Findlay Market in the city's downtrodden downtown, I chose between hot beef metts and mild pork metts; between link bratwursts and old fashioned frankfurters; between garlic sausage and picnic hams. Today I passed on the smoked turkey necks out of a newly acquired mid-life appreciation for moderation. In my 20s, they'd have easily made the shopping cart.
My Cincinnati born-and-bred nieces, Emily and Alice, have chosen to lead vegetarian lives. Although I respect their freedom to make such choices, I sometimes wonder whether their parents should be investigated by the Hamilton County, Ohio, child welfare authorities for violations relating to culinary deprivation. But I let them slide, like a good hearted cop on the beat who looks the other way, knowing that the girls will still accompany their uncle to Skyline when he offers them a ride.
They know how lucky they are to sit in the Temple, whether or not they partake of the Ambrosia.
You, the folks who live in Chester County who are reading this, don't know how lucky I am.
And by lucky I mean that it took unfathomable good fortune for me to be born and to grow up in Cincinnati, Ohio. That life was not foreordained. My mother was raised in small town Illinois; my father was born in Wisconsin. They met in New Jersey and were married when my father received his doctorate at Penn State. Somehow fate got them to Cincinnati and allowed my formative years to take place there.
According to one source, one's “formative years” are the time we acquire our adult personas as we move in stages from from childhood to adolescence. For example, the source states, in Hindu culture, during “upanayana, sometimes known outside India by the name, 'sacred thread ceremony,' children are taught the secret of life through Brahmopadesam (revealing the nature of Brahman, the Ultimate Reality) or the Gayatri mantra.” The child then becomes qualified for life as a student or adult, depending on his caste or walk in life.
Me, I just went to Skyline Chili.
I do not have to try very hard to capture in my mind the face of he waitress who served me my first portion of God's Greatest Gift to Food – the Skyline Coney. I don't, because she served me those same delights for two decades at the same chili parlor in Cincinnati, on Clifton and Ludlow, where we first encountered one another, until she retired. I didn't know her name and she didn't know mine, but she led me through the sacred ceremony of ordering “two up with mustard,” as respectfully as any guru would the Brahmopadesam.
That's where I grew up; that's where I learned to appreciate the fine things in life.
How lucky I was to spend those years learning how to eat the food of Nirvana from master teachers. The softness of the bun, the tang of the onion, the fluff of the grated cheese, the aroma of the chili sauce, all were as well known to me as the Torah is to any candidate for the Bar Mitzvah.
I tell you all these things because at this very moment I am less than a mile from that self-same chili parlor, and in several moments time, fate willing, I am going to walk into that parlor and order the Skyline meal I was brought up to receive and revere.
My meal will come after having spent the morning wallowing in the glory that are the other foods one can only truly find in Cincinnati. Shopping at the historic Findlay Market in the city's downtrodden downtown, I chose between hot beef metts and mild pork metts; between link bratwursts and old fashioned frankfurters; between garlic sausage and picnic hams. Today I passed on the smoked turkey necks out of a newly acquired mid-life appreciation for moderation. In my 20s, they'd have easily made the shopping cart.
My Cincinnati born-and-bred nieces, Emily and Alice, have chosen to lead vegetarian lives. Although I respect their freedom to make such choices, I sometimes wonder whether their parents should be investigated by the Hamilton County, Ohio, child welfare authorities for violations relating to culinary deprivation. But I let them slide, like a good hearted cop on the beat who looks the other way, knowing that the girls will still accompany their uncle to Skyline when he offers them a ride.
They know how lucky they are to sit in the Temple, whether or not they partake of the Ambrosia.
Monday, April 07, 2008
A Bridge Out of Place
This column originaly apeared on Sunday, April 6, 2008
There are a few things that strike you as if not out of place, then certainly just this side of odd when you travel west from West Chester on Route 842 into the wilds of East Bradford.
The first is the house with the large window behind which sits a chair and a bicycle in perfect repose opposite one another. You cannot be certain if these items are there on display, or whether the homeowner put them there months ago and has just simply forgotten them, or whether he or she sits down in the chair every now and then and contemplates going for a quick jaunt on the bike while the afternoon traffic passes by.
The second is the rusted piece of what looks to be old farm equipment along the roadside past the old Gun Club. You wonder when it was last used. What was it used for? Was threshing involved? Is it there for display purposes as well, or has the landowner been so lazy over the years that he or she can’t get around to removing it?
But for my money what stands out the most as an anachronism is the bridge over the East Branch of the Brandywine at Allerton Road.
Do not mistake what I am saying. It is a picturesque bridge, and not at all without its charms. Casey Stengel used to say that every baseball manager wants a bridge to jump off every now and then, and I think he would have enjoyed doing so here. He’d have gotten wet, but would have likely walked away none worse the wear from the plunge.
The bridge is a steel Pratt Truss bridge, painted a light shade of aquamarine, and spans about 105 feet of the Brandywine in the shadow of the Blue Rock Farm. According to the clutter of signs that line the road on its approach, the bridge can handle a weight of 8 tons, and has a clearance of 12 feet 1 inch. It was built about 1905, I learned, and if you want to look it up in Pennsylvania’s list of bridges, you’d be advised to check No. 15701504380111.
It is rated as “functionally obsolete.”
It is, as I said, a pretty bridge, but to my mind wholly out of place. The bridges of East Bradford should be made of stone, like Cope’s Bridge, or wood, like Gibson’s Covered Bridge. You want your scenery in a place like East Bradford to fit snugly, like a stone barn into a green embankment.
The bridge does not have a name, so far as I can tell. If it did, it would likely be the Jefferis Ford Bridge, since its location is the point of the Brandywine where Cornwallis found the creek sufficiently shallow enough to cross on his way to routing Washington in the Battle of the Brandywine. The sign that tells you this also notes that Cornwallis made his crossing between “1 and 2 o’clock.” No one has ever established exactly how many of Washington’s soldiers were killed on Sept. 11, 1777.
The bridge was not there that afternoon, of course. Nor were the five horses that now dot the pasture on the west side of the creek, nor the fences that line the pasture, nor the barn that the horses came from. All that remains of when Cornwallis and his troops crossed over is the rippling sound of the Brandywine, which is always exactly where it is supposed to be.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Truth About Pat
This column originally appeared on Sunday, March 30, 2008
Allow me to clear up a few misconceptions about Pat Morley. I would have done this sooner, but Patrick, as I always referred to him, out of honor and respect and because I didn’t know his given name was actually Thomas, would not permit it, out of pure Irish stubborn humility and dignity. If people want to believe things about me that aren’t true, he would have said, I can only hope they spell my name right when they do.
But now Patrick is gone, and he can’t stop me. Thus:
It is not true that the Chester County Commissioners built the Courthouse Annex in 1892 so that Patrick would have a place to sit and talk with his fellow tipstaffs. Truth be told, the building was already 28 years old when Patrick entered the world in West Chester’s Riggtown neighborhood, so the timing is off.
But he was as central to the Annex as the marble on its walls, and nowhere near as cold. As a new reporter to the courthouse in the early 1990s, I thought of the lobby outside Courtroom Two as Patrick’s living room away from home. He populated it as if he had always been there, and always would be.
It is not true that everyone liked Patrick. Because he rarely left West Chester — living outside the borough’s confines for only four of his 88 years — he did not give all the people in the world he never met a chance to get to know him and, ipso facto, like him. But those who did cross his path — and whom he would not allow to wander off without a handshake and a quick wink — did.
When you think of how many people today hate one another, and how they wear that hatred like a badge of honor, it seems impossible that someone as amiable and kind as Patrick could have existed. But I can attest that he did.
It is not true that Patrick loved his wife, Catherine, his entire life. He did not, in fact, come across her until he was 26, so that would not have been possible. But I have it on good counsel that he did love her from the moment in the spring of 1946 when he spotted her at the Eagles Club in West Chester.
I can also report in good faith that their life together started with one of the most romantic gestures I have ever heard of. Arriving late for their first date, Patrick saw Catherine get on a transit bus bound for her home in Downingtown. Realizing that opportunity lost is fate never regained, he hopped in his car and chased the bus down on Route 322, passed it and waited for it to stop. When it did, he got out of his car, Catherine stepped off the bus, and two sons, two daughters, two sons-in-law, two daughters-in-law, seven grandsons, six granddaughters and two great-granddaughters later, they still smiled when they saw each other.
Finally, it is not true that Patrick’s funeral was the largest seen in St. Agnes Church. Nor was it the smallest. But it may hold the record for attendees who believed they were singularly special in the departed’s eyes.
The service reminded me of what actress Ruth Gordon said at the funeral of the once famous writer and broadcaster Alexander Wollcott in 1943. “I was Aleck’s best friend,” she told a stunned crowd. “As, I suspect, were all of you.”
Thomas J. “Pat” Morley. Born Feb. 7, 1920. Died March 21, 2008. Rest in peace.
Allow me to clear up a few misconceptions about Pat Morley. I would have done this sooner, but Patrick, as I always referred to him, out of honor and respect and because I didn’t know his given name was actually Thomas, would not permit it, out of pure Irish stubborn humility and dignity. If people want to believe things about me that aren’t true, he would have said, I can only hope they spell my name right when they do.
But now Patrick is gone, and he can’t stop me. Thus:
It is not true that the Chester County Commissioners built the Courthouse Annex in 1892 so that Patrick would have a place to sit and talk with his fellow tipstaffs. Truth be told, the building was already 28 years old when Patrick entered the world in West Chester’s Riggtown neighborhood, so the timing is off.
But he was as central to the Annex as the marble on its walls, and nowhere near as cold. As a new reporter to the courthouse in the early 1990s, I thought of the lobby outside Courtroom Two as Patrick’s living room away from home. He populated it as if he had always been there, and always would be.
It is not true that everyone liked Patrick. Because he rarely left West Chester — living outside the borough’s confines for only four of his 88 years — he did not give all the people in the world he never met a chance to get to know him and, ipso facto, like him. But those who did cross his path — and whom he would not allow to wander off without a handshake and a quick wink — did.
When you think of how many people today hate one another, and how they wear that hatred like a badge of honor, it seems impossible that someone as amiable and kind as Patrick could have existed. But I can attest that he did.
It is not true that Patrick loved his wife, Catherine, his entire life. He did not, in fact, come across her until he was 26, so that would not have been possible. But I have it on good counsel that he did love her from the moment in the spring of 1946 when he spotted her at the Eagles Club in West Chester.
I can also report in good faith that their life together started with one of the most romantic gestures I have ever heard of. Arriving late for their first date, Patrick saw Catherine get on a transit bus bound for her home in Downingtown. Realizing that opportunity lost is fate never regained, he hopped in his car and chased the bus down on Route 322, passed it and waited for it to stop. When it did, he got out of his car, Catherine stepped off the bus, and two sons, two daughters, two sons-in-law, two daughters-in-law, seven grandsons, six granddaughters and two great-granddaughters later, they still smiled when they saw each other.
Finally, it is not true that Patrick’s funeral was the largest seen in St. Agnes Church. Nor was it the smallest. But it may hold the record for attendees who believed they were singularly special in the departed’s eyes.
The service reminded me of what actress Ruth Gordon said at the funeral of the once famous writer and broadcaster Alexander Wollcott in 1943. “I was Aleck’s best friend,” she told a stunned crowd. “As, I suspect, were all of you.”
Thomas J. “Pat” Morley. Born Feb. 7, 1920. Died March 21, 2008. Rest in peace.
Monday, March 24, 2008
All I Need Is....
This column originally appeared on March 23, 2008
Some time ago, I voiced the opinion that the municipality known as Chadds Ford had mistakenly been incorporated into the county known as Delaware, and that a change should be contemplated in which that township would be annexed by the county of Chester and thus placed in its proper geographic and cultural setting.
Leaving Chadds Ford in Delaware County struck me as close to a sin against nature as you could get without an actual disruption of the gene pool. Chadds Ford, after all, is home to the Wyeth family, scenic creeks, rolling hillsides and picturesque stone barns. Delaware County, as far as I can tell, is home to a number of meth labs.
But I must acknowledge that there is a corollary to this campaign of mine that became clear on a recent trip to the northwestern edges of Chester County.
This is what everyone should do at some point in their lives if they live here: circumnavigate the county. It could take you several Saturdays, depending on your stamina and what time you get up on weekend mornings, but it is worth the time. A trip around the boundaries of Chester County gives you the clearest picture of not only the beauty we enjoy here, but of the multiple types of communities within our borders. If you live in West Chester or Downingtown or Kennett Square or the suburbiplex known as Lionville, and you don't travel outside of a limited distance from those town centers, you can't grasp what a complex world Chester County is.
Or realize that just as Chadds Ford has more in common with life here than it does to Delaware County, then so too does West Sadsbury or West Caln or Honey Brook look more like the rural world across the border in Lancaster County than it does the corporate centers of Malvern or the shopping centers of Paoli.
You see it from the road: The sign that advertises “Hay, Straw, Pine Shavings, One Mile.” The sight of clothes freshly washed hanging on a clothes line beside an Amish farmhouse. The sight of a barn and a silo, with a shingle telling you that brown eggs are available, turn here. A sign pointing you the way to “Hides and Supplies.” A big black angus bull standing in someone's front yard. An odd congregation of white and grey seagulls flocking around a mule-team drawn plough. Working wind mills.
Wait, did that sign say “Hides”? HIDES? What in the name of suburban sprawl do they sell there?
So if I maintain that we should get Chadds Ford, then I'd obviously have to acknowledge that Lancaster gets Honey Brook. Fair's fair, after all.
And Lancaster can have it. I don't need any part of Honey Brook at all. Except the Berry Patch Campground off Broad Street in Cambridge. That's all I need. That, and the gas station that still sells “Regular” and “Super.” That's it, and that's all. The camp, the gas station, and the “Schoolhouse Bar and Grille” on Route 10 are all I need. OK? The camp, the gas station, the bar, and the cheddar cheese curds from September Farm, South Mill Road, Est. 2002. That's it in toto. The camp, the gas station, the bar, the cheese and the place that sells “Hides and Supplies” are all I need. The camp, the gas station, the bar, the cheese, the hides, and ...
This is going to be harder than I thought.
Some time ago, I voiced the opinion that the municipality known as Chadds Ford had mistakenly been incorporated into the county known as Delaware, and that a change should be contemplated in which that township would be annexed by the county of Chester and thus placed in its proper geographic and cultural setting.
Leaving Chadds Ford in Delaware County struck me as close to a sin against nature as you could get without an actual disruption of the gene pool. Chadds Ford, after all, is home to the Wyeth family, scenic creeks, rolling hillsides and picturesque stone barns. Delaware County, as far as I can tell, is home to a number of meth labs.
But I must acknowledge that there is a corollary to this campaign of mine that became clear on a recent trip to the northwestern edges of Chester County.
This is what everyone should do at some point in their lives if they live here: circumnavigate the county. It could take you several Saturdays, depending on your stamina and what time you get up on weekend mornings, but it is worth the time. A trip around the boundaries of Chester County gives you the clearest picture of not only the beauty we enjoy here, but of the multiple types of communities within our borders. If you live in West Chester or Downingtown or Kennett Square or the suburbiplex known as Lionville, and you don't travel outside of a limited distance from those town centers, you can't grasp what a complex world Chester County is.
Or realize that just as Chadds Ford has more in common with life here than it does to Delaware County, then so too does West Sadsbury or West Caln or Honey Brook look more like the rural world across the border in Lancaster County than it does the corporate centers of Malvern or the shopping centers of Paoli.
You see it from the road: The sign that advertises “Hay, Straw, Pine Shavings, One Mile.” The sight of clothes freshly washed hanging on a clothes line beside an Amish farmhouse. The sight of a barn and a silo, with a shingle telling you that brown eggs are available, turn here. A sign pointing you the way to “Hides and Supplies.” A big black angus bull standing in someone's front yard. An odd congregation of white and grey seagulls flocking around a mule-team drawn plough. Working wind mills.
Wait, did that sign say “Hides”? HIDES? What in the name of suburban sprawl do they sell there?
So if I maintain that we should get Chadds Ford, then I'd obviously have to acknowledge that Lancaster gets Honey Brook. Fair's fair, after all.
And Lancaster can have it. I don't need any part of Honey Brook at all. Except the Berry Patch Campground off Broad Street in Cambridge. That's all I need. That, and the gas station that still sells “Regular” and “Super.” That's it, and that's all. The camp, the gas station, and the “Schoolhouse Bar and Grille” on Route 10 are all I need. OK? The camp, the gas station, the bar, and the cheddar cheese curds from September Farm, South Mill Road, Est. 2002. That's it in toto. The camp, the gas station, the bar, the cheese and the place that sells “Hides and Supplies” are all I need. The camp, the gas station, the bar, the cheese, the hides, and ...
This is going to be harder than I thought.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Where Have All The Snowflakes Gone?
This column originally apeared on Sunday, March 16, 2008
It is 9 a.m. Saturday and the temperature is hovering in the low-50s. A little while ago I saw a fellow walking down South Church Street in West Chester who was not wearing a coat, just a shirt and some jeans, and he looked perfectly comfortable. When I left the apartment, my neighbor greeted me as she was arranging the flower pots on her porch with a cheery, “Happy Spring!”
I remember when it used to snow in March. Check that. I remember when it used to snow in February and March. The first winter I spent in West Chester, the skies dumped 22 inches of snow on the borough on Feb. 11. My friend Jamie and I watched the snow inch its way up the side of my Volkswagen Beetle until you could not see the door handles anymore. Then we went out and made snow angels in the drifts that had closed down the town to all but foot traffic and snowmobiles.
But those days are seemingly gone. We have not had a really good snowfall here in February or March for years.
Now, it’s about 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, and the temperature is inching toward 60 degrees. The fellow whom I saw walking down South Church an hour and a half ago returned wearing just a T-shirt, shorts and a breezy smile. My neighbor was pruning the dead blossoms from her gladiolas and greeted me with a cheery, “If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring?”
I checked the records. It usually snows in March at least once, sometimes twice. Fifteen years ago, I’d lived in my apartment building for a decade when the skies dumped 10 inches of snow on the borough on March 13 and overnight into March 14. My car got stuck in the deep snow that clogged the alley behind my house, and I had to call a tow truck to pull me out.
In 2005, 5 inches of snow lay on the ground when the morning of March 1 dawned. A week later, another inch showed up. It was fun taking snapshots of the ankle-deep drifts outside my door and walking to work straight down the middle of West Market Street without a car in sight. Can we hope that any of those days come back?
I just checked the time and temperature at 2:30 p.m. Saturday here in West Chester and it’s a sunny 85 degrees. My walkabout friend just passed by wearing swim trunks and a Hawaiian shirt open at the collar, presumably to show of his tan. When I stepped outside my neighbor was mopping the sweat from her brow, cheerily singing, “We’re havin’ a heat wave, a tropical heat wave …”
What I miss about the snows of March isn’t the shoveling or the scraping or the slipping or the slush that arrives later. It’s the few hours after the snow stops falling when everything seems suspended and people get outside of their everyday skins. Strangers help push cars out from snowbanks and people stop each other on the street to marvel at what Mother Nature has wrought. There’s a sense that the rules of caution are postponed and you can go out of your way to be friendly without encouraging suspicion.
And you can make snow angels in the drifts without embarrassment.
It is 9 a.m. Saturday and the temperature is hovering in the low-50s. A little while ago I saw a fellow walking down South Church Street in West Chester who was not wearing a coat, just a shirt and some jeans, and he looked perfectly comfortable. When I left the apartment, my neighbor greeted me as she was arranging the flower pots on her porch with a cheery, “Happy Spring!”
I remember when it used to snow in March. Check that. I remember when it used to snow in February and March. The first winter I spent in West Chester, the skies dumped 22 inches of snow on the borough on Feb. 11. My friend Jamie and I watched the snow inch its way up the side of my Volkswagen Beetle until you could not see the door handles anymore. Then we went out and made snow angels in the drifts that had closed down the town to all but foot traffic and snowmobiles.
But those days are seemingly gone. We have not had a really good snowfall here in February or March for years.
Now, it’s about 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, and the temperature is inching toward 60 degrees. The fellow whom I saw walking down South Church an hour and a half ago returned wearing just a T-shirt, shorts and a breezy smile. My neighbor was pruning the dead blossoms from her gladiolas and greeted me with a cheery, “If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring?”
I checked the records. It usually snows in March at least once, sometimes twice. Fifteen years ago, I’d lived in my apartment building for a decade when the skies dumped 10 inches of snow on the borough on March 13 and overnight into March 14. My car got stuck in the deep snow that clogged the alley behind my house, and I had to call a tow truck to pull me out.
In 2005, 5 inches of snow lay on the ground when the morning of March 1 dawned. A week later, another inch showed up. It was fun taking snapshots of the ankle-deep drifts outside my door and walking to work straight down the middle of West Market Street without a car in sight. Can we hope that any of those days come back?
I just checked the time and temperature at 2:30 p.m. Saturday here in West Chester and it’s a sunny 85 degrees. My walkabout friend just passed by wearing swim trunks and a Hawaiian shirt open at the collar, presumably to show of his tan. When I stepped outside my neighbor was mopping the sweat from her brow, cheerily singing, “We’re havin’ a heat wave, a tropical heat wave …”
What I miss about the snows of March isn’t the shoveling or the scraping or the slipping or the slush that arrives later. It’s the few hours after the snow stops falling when everything seems suspended and people get outside of their everyday skins. Strangers help push cars out from snowbanks and people stop each other on the street to marvel at what Mother Nature has wrought. There’s a sense that the rules of caution are postponed and you can go out of your way to be friendly without encouraging suspicion.
And you can make snow angels in the drifts without embarrassment.
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