Arnie

 

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Dispensing improvement

It seems like a small thing, and it is — the replacement of old, rusting newspaper boxes with new ones, removal of underused or damaged dispensers and the elimination of free newspaper “honor boxes” in select spots around Chestnut Hill. The move, instituted recently at the request of the Chestnut Hill Community Association, has aesthetic impact in and of itself, but has also nipped in the bud a catalyst for vandalism and litter at some of the Hill’s most trafficked points.

For instance, Willow Grove Avenue by Wyndmoor station has remained noticeably cleaner since the removal of its vandalized dispensers and row of honor boxes, attesting to the effect the appearance of care can have in influencing people to treat public areas better. Lack of vigilance in this regard can lead to a backslide — exactly what Mt. Airy hopes to avoid by attempting to institute a BID in the wake of losing city funding for their Avenue Ambassadors program, which specifically targeted trash in the business district.

Attention to this sort of detail — other examples include the need to replace vanished street trees in empty and overgrown wells along the Avenue — should be a priority. The CHCA and CHBA are in a position to provide an example to Mt. Airy USA of how to dovetail efforts with a business improvement district to make improvements such as these occur on a larger scale. We look forward to seeing this happen.

A tasty deal

Chestnut Hill had some fantastic news last week, tinged with a bit of the bittersweet. Local restaurateur Paul Roller announced that he has closed Rollers restaurant and market in the Top of the Hill development, two much-loved local businesses and long-standing anchors of this healthy retail area. Before the groans in response to another perceived blow to the health of the business district could begin, however, Roller gave the kicker: Maurice Lavasani will be opening his long-awaited Middle Eastern restaurant in the space, and Roller will re-open Flying Fish (at Germantown Avenue and Hartwell Lane) on a full time basis — a net gain for the Hill.

Hats off to Roller for his creative, big-picture vision and his enthusiasm for working with Lavasani, whose 16-month long attempt to open a restaurant at Willow Grove and Germantown avenues, an effort that repeatedly ran aground over unsuccessful or delayed negotiations with owner Bowman Properties, nearly drove his popular stall at the Chestnut Hill Farmer’s Market out of business.

Having Flying Fish back full time adds vitality to the central section of Germantown Avenue and helps to link the restaurants near the Chestnut Hill Hotel with Citrus and Bredenbeck’s farther down the Avenue, creating more activity in and between these eateries. Lavasani’s new restaurant will no doubt be a welcome and popular addition to the Hill’s dining scene.

James Sturdivant

Opinion: Selling the ‘Local’ a bad idea for all concerned

by BILL STROUD

Selling the Chestnut Hill Local would be a bad thing for the Community Association to do — bad for the Local, bad for the association, bad for Chestnut Hill businesses and bad for the people of the community.

Why would it be bad for the Local? The Local would not be bought by a civic-minded local businessperson, but rather by a corporation positioned to save money by consolidating staff and resources with other nearby weeklies.

Take a look at the corporation-owned newspapers in the communities surrounding Chestnut Hill. There is sameness about them. They are cheaply produced, unattractive and dull. They have no life, no energy, no personality. 

Selling the Local would be bad for the association because it would take away the main incentive many of us have for joining the association in the first place, the automatic subscription. And it would deprive the association of its main connection to the people who live in Chestnut Hill and the surrounding area.

No for-profit publisher would cover the CHCA as thoroughly or as well as the Local does now, nor would such a publisher provide nearly so much space for community residents to share their opinions and ideas. If the CHCA is to have validity, it needs the listening post that the Local in its present form provides.

Selling the Local would hurt Chestnut Hill businesses for several reasons.

New ownership is likely to be monopoly ownership, which could drive up the price of advertising. New ownership likely would turn the Local into a free-distribution newspaper, which is less valuable to advertisers than a newspaper with paying subscribers (think real mail vs. junk mail).

More importantly, we merchants benefit greatly from the character, style and atmosphere of Chestnut Hill. We attract customers from outside the neighborhood because our stores are part of an especially pleasant, attractive community with shops and services that people cannot find in a shopping mall.

The Local, as it exists, is a monument to the quaint and quirky individuality that marks life and commerce along Germantown Avenue in Chestnut Hill. It is an important part of our commercial landscape, as special in its own way as Kilian’s, O’Doodle’s, Robertson’s or McNally’s.

Private ownership of the Local would be bad for Chestnut Hill because it would inevitably lead to estrangement between the people and their newspaper and, if the Local were to take on the bland common flavor of nearby weeklies, it would deprive us of a regular source of insider information, amusement, bemusement and, occasionally, irritation. I know of no other publication where there is so much to be gained by reading between the lines, particularly in the exhaustive reports on CHCA board meetings.

I have lived in Northwest Philadelphia and read the Local regularly for 32 years and I have been a business owner in Chestnut Hill for the last four years. Before that, I worked in the newspaper business for 36 years, including a stint as an assistant managing editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer.

My grandfather, my mother-in-law, my wife, both my brothers and all three of my children have worked for newspapers and I still have a nephew at the San Antonio Express-News and a niece at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

I have seen a lot of newspapers, but never another like the Chestnut Hill Local.

At times, as when the Local reported on the United Methodist Church trial of my daughter, the Rev. Beth Stroud, I have found the Local’s coverage to be fair, balanced, thorough and accurate.

At other times I have picked up the Local, looked at something on the front page and asked myself, “Just what in the hell were they thinking?” The Len Lear profile on Page 1 last week provides a case in point. I read the whole piece trying to figure out if Len had died or retired. The story was interesting, but a feature article about an employee doesn’t belong on the front page of a newspaper.

The Local often doesn’t do journalism the way I would, but I always read it, I always learn something from it, and I am usually entertained by it. Being a CHCA member, I get it at home in Wednesday’s mail, but I usually walk up to Baker Street bakery or stop at Bredenbeck’s to buy a copy on Wednesday morning.

A vigorous, free and independent press is vital to a democratic society.

I agree that the Local, to the extent that it is controlled by the whims of those currently holding power in the CHCA, will never be quite free or independent. But then, the same could be said of a metropolitan daily paper that shapes its content to please its advertisers or push the political agenda of its owner.

Nonprofit organizations often make lousy publishers, but then, in many instances, so do media corporations. In either case, if an editor becomes an owner’s lapdog, a newspaper becomes both untrustworthy and dull. Good publishers select their editors carefully, then back off and let them do their jobs.

In a perfect situation, editors and owners should operate in an atmosphere of collegial give and take, each sharing insights and ideas without usurping the prerogatives of the other. There will be times when an editor may choose to risk his job over a point of style or principle and there will be times when an editor must be fired.

And that’s OK. That is what publishers do. When that time comes, it is always better to fire the editor than to bring him or her to heel.

Institutions that are worth preserving often exist in a state of tension among competing interests that have some measure of power  — never as much power as each would like or as little as their opponents would wish. This is true of universities, democratic governments, volunteer organizations and newspapers.

Tension, disagreement and debate are not evils to be stamped out, but are forces that challenge us and help us learn and grow. Few impulses are more dangerous than the desire to take drastic action to solve problems once and for all. George Parry, in his column last week, referred to a current conflict between the Local’s editor and some members of the CHCA’s board and asked, “Do we really need to keep re-playing this scene?”

Yes, George, we do.

The Local, with all its warts, is still a valuable and valued institution on the Hill. The Chestnut Hill Community Association, with all its warts, is still the proper owner for the Local. We need both of them, together, warts and all.

Mt. Airy resident Bill Stroud is the owner of Penguin Photo.

Opinion: Mother of soldier slain in Iraq unfairly vilified

by JIMMY J. PACK JR.

In the August 25 edition of the Chestnut Hill Local, a letter by Mr. Joseph Ferry was published criticizing Celeste Zappala, mother of soldier Sherwood Baker (who was killed in the Iraq conflict) for asking what the noble cause was for which her son died.

Mr. Ferry writes, “…the rhetorical nature of her question outrageously implying that the mission for which over 2,000 Coalition Forces have died is ignoble.” Ferry referred to Zappala’s grief as “politically motivated histrionics driven by her flower child ideology.”

Since August 3, 2005, it has been reported that 1,874 United States soldiers have died. Was the cause those soldiers died for an ignoble cause? Regardless of the answer, a soldier is essentially a tool who may give his/her life for his/her country, and for that every American is grateful, no matter what the cause. Still everyone, even a soldier, has a right to believe the cause for which he is fighting is wrong.

According to Mr. Ferry, “The cause in which her [Celeste Zappala’s] son died was undertaken reluctantly by America and its allies, after many years of ineffective diplomacy and multiple United Nations resolutions, blithely ignored by the Iraqi tyrant … In a post-Sept. 11 world, America simply could not countenance allowing that sort of conduct to continue indefinitely.”

The post-Sep. 11 world was created by the maniacal plans of Osama bin Laden, the man responsible for the attacks on America. We have long forgotten about bin Laden and are now enmeshed in the lives of every citizen of Iraq. We were taken into Iraq because the President assured us that there were weapons of mass destruction and if we didn’t find them, they would be used against the United States and our allies. Also that Saddam was permitting bin Laden to train terrorists there.

No weapons of mass destruction were found. Also, no evidence was ever found by the CIA that any of bin Laden’s terrorists were trained in Iraq. And as for the Iraqi tyrant, according to Mr. Ferry, Saddam Hussein’s dictatorial rule over his people was far more of a threat to American security than every American was led to believe. So we sent our troops in, unprepared for the worst, and if they happen to die, according to Mr. Ferry, oh well. It’s their job. After all, they did volunteer for it.

What Mr. Ferry presents is a flag-waving blindness not seen in America since before John F. Kennedy was shot. To Mr. Ferry, no matter what the president says or does with American’s lives, it’s OK because he is the President. Mr. Ferry accuses Zappala of being a flower child as though that were a bad thing. Perhaps it’s equally as bad as being a 21st century Macarthyist who believes it ignorant and unpatriotic to question one’s government. When Ms. Zappala presents her side, no matter what her motivation, she believes her son died for an unjust cause, and the only people to blame are those responsible for the conflict in Iraq. Clearly Sgt. Baker wouldn’t have been there if not for that cause and therefore would not have been killed by insurgents.

And according to Mr. Ferry, when Ms. Zappala protests the conflict, her “politically motivated histrionics driven by her flower child ideology not only denigrate and dishonor her son’s heroic sacrifice and that of his fallen comrades, but also demoralize our troops in a way that she could never begin to understand, and give aid and comfort and hope to our enemies. If she wants war to end, she should stop giving the so-called ‘insurgents’ a reason to continue fighting.

Perhaps Mr. Ferry would like to fill the rooms with posters of Ms. Zappala where Iraqi insurgents drink coffee and sing songs about their most endeared supporter? Maybe Mr. Ferry can silence all those soldiers who honorably signed up for active duty for their country in the belief that they would protect and defend us from those out to do us harm, who believe that they have been duped into yet another conflict that does not have America’s best interest as its cause. In America, we are guaranteed the freedom to disagree with our government, which is far more patriotic than being blind to the truth.

According to Mr. Ferry’s rhetoric, because Saddam Hussein gave the raspberry to the U.N. and felt secure in the belief that no one would interfere with his conduct, we had to attack him. If Hussein had stepped down, there would be no “war.” This was not the reason the American public was told we needed to go into Iraq. We were told that our lives were threatened by weapons of mass destruction, harbored by one of the most violent forces in the world — Saddam Hussein.

What next, Mr. Ferry? Shall we march into Kim Jong Il’s backyard and wipe out his country? Where are the American forces in Uganda, Nigeria, Sudan and Rwanda?

Get your rhetoric straight Mr. Ferry. It is dangerous thinking like yours that is quickly propelling this nation’s reputation from the soul of freedom to a black hole of self-righteousness. My entire generation will be saddled with the outcome of this conflict 40 years from now; Mr. Ferry and his generation will not. You’ll get your Social Security, which I have paid for, and I’ll get the debt of the Iraq conflict, which Mr. Ferry ever so kindly will be handing me.

Armchair warriors should stay in their houses, watch CNN and relax with their friends, not write letters to local papers shaming grieving mothers who have to live the rest of their lives knowing one of their children died for no good reason. Is being a grieving mother something Mr. Ferry can even begin to understand?

Commentary: father’s spirit a tangible presence on annual beach trip

by PATRICIA VAN ALLEN VOIGT

As my husband and I began sorting through the usual paraphernalia we typically cart with us on our annual summer sojourn to Rhode Island, to our beloved family beach home for well over 60 years now, a deep sadness welled up in me where there is usually great joy in this tradition. Rummaging through the old clamming bags and rakes, the kites and fishing poles, the all-weather gear, the water shoes and the short-wave weather radio (absurdly thinking that we were somehow traveling to the wild edge of civilization) reminded me all the more of my dad, who died nearly a year ago on July 20, near the time we were packing up last summer.

We made the trek from Philadelphia to Connecticut all last spring, every other weekend, watching my father’s 85-year-old body fail with the cancer that was eating him. Still, he remained his stalwart self in spirit, always happy to see us and any of his five children and 11 grandchildren, rising to the occasion of any visit, greeting us with a huge smile, ever ready to welcome and reminisce. I could not imagine going to Rhode Island without him.

For years now, we had shared a kind of secret ritual of rising very early and, depending on the tide, walking way out, wading through the clamming flats of the nearby salt water pond to silently rake for those cherrystone or quahog gems. The stillness of the morning, the calm, clear water, surrounded only by egrets, seagulls and cormorants, and occasionally a family of ducks and ducklings paddling by, was just pure joy. We never talked; just listened quietly to the sea and bird life surrounding us.

The hard click of the rake on the clam was a thrill. I’ve always thought it was something like digging for gold, to reach down, pull out that nugget and have my dad smile approvingly. He was a master clammer. Patient, methodical, diligent, he taught me as a youngster to rake in circles, and then, if there was no luck in any given area, just to move on to new territory. He never gave up. There was always a fresh spot with new hope. These were all good life lessons. And if we were lucky, we would strike what I called a “clam hotel,” where generations of clams huddled together, brothers and sisters, cousins and uncles. A gold mine.

On some occasions, other family members would join us. His grandchildren were often eager to try clamming, but rarely were able to sustain their interest for long and would go off chasing horseshoe crabs or tire easily of raking. My mother would go to the flats if we rode in the canoe and she could paddle to undiscovered coves in the pond. And then there was competition that spurred others to join us. For at the end of several hours, when late sleepers were just rising or finishing their Cheerios, we would return with our bounty and begin counting the clams dug that morning. Of course my father always had the most. I can count on one hand the number of times I had perhaps a few more than he did, and that was in his very last years on the flats, when he was in his mid-80s and just starting to slow down a bit. A good haul was about 50 or more clams each for an hour’s worth of raking.

Then of course, there were the rituals of opening them to eat on the half shell with cocktails. No one, of all his daughters and sons-in-law, could open them as easily as my father did. He once told me a story about his own father who clammed on Long Island in the 1920s with a knife in one back pocket and a bottle of horseradish sauce in the other pocket. My grandfather apparently opened the clams he dug and slurped them down with his condiments on the spot!

Meanwhile we made gallons of fresh Rhode Island clam chowder, which is like none other: simple ingredients — the clams, the broth of the clams, embellished only with potatoes, onions, bacon and thyme. The insatiable consumption of this simple dish made it imperative that we return to the flats each morning.

After packing up the rake, the clamming bag, and my water shoes to return to Quonochontaug this summer, I mourned my dad and our lovely quiet meditative mornings on the salt pond. The last time I spoke with him I said, “Well, I will see you on the clamming flats, and you will be with me, in the form of a snowy egret.” Several days after his death, on my first clamming foray last summer, there he was — on a rock out in the pond, a lone egret, cheering me on to find my own “clam hotel.”

Patricia Van Allen Voigt is a resident of Chestnut Hill.

The Examined Life
Nation’s success — and excess — a reminder of limitless potential

by GEORGE STERN

Las Vegas is probably the last place you’d expect to find a meeting of the North American Interfaith Network. But it did, and I just got back. Let me hasten to add that we were housed at UNLV, the college campus on the edge of town, though the Strip was admittedly nearby. And with two colleagues also involved in interfaith peace and dialogue work, I also visited Hoover Dam and Red Rock Canyon.

Those little side trips reminded me of how amazing this country is. Spanning four times zones (plus Alaska and Hawaii), America really is “the beautiful.” From the Redwoods National Park to Death Valley, from the glaciers to the tropics, you can find almost every ecological zone here. There are mountains to climb, trails to follow, and, of course, millions of miles of pavement to pound. Even some of the (wo)man-made structures are truly fantastic. Hoover Dam is one such. I came away awestruck at what it must have been like to have watched those millions of tons of concrete rise. Nor is the lake behind it anything to sneer at.

But — isn’t it a shame there is always a “but” — as I said to my fellow explorers, the 1930s, when the dam was built, were surely a “time of innocence.” Entombed in the dam itself are the bodies of workers who perished during construction. Black and Native American workers were few and far between. And now we know that the opportunities the dam made possible — providing water for growing agricultural and urban areas throughout the Southwest — must be viewed in the context of the negative environmental impact — the drying up of the Colorado River as it makes its way to Mexico, the drying up of aquifers as the Colorado water proves inadequate for the growth, the extraordinary use of fuel and power, the building of thousands of miles of roads through sparsely populated areas, and so forth. One thing we Americans are not very good at is planning — anticipating and preparing for the effects of our actions.

One evening I went to one of the casinos — reminiscent in size to Star Wars space stations — more a city than a building — to meet friends. Driving with them along the Strip, then walking through a casino, I felt overwhelmed by the number of people, young and old, pulling levers, pushing buttons, betting on black, cursing the red, rushing to get to shows, and gobbling down Chinese-Japanese-Italian-Barbecue-TexMex-Grill-Greek-Vegetarian entrees and desserts at ubiquitous buffets and restaurants. There was much laughter, many smiles — but (again “but”) also American consumerism at its most gluttonous.

As I expected, talk at the convention centered around the impact of decisions large and small on millions of our citizens, people with very little power, inadequate incomes, and often a host of disabilities. On the Strip, heavy rollers drop more in a night than these families make in years. Convention presenters from Las Vegas itself seemed apologetic about their city, and glad that we were there, as if a gathering of faith leaders struggling to keep social service agencies alive could somehow redeem their town from its gaudiness and materialism. I felt sorry for them: why should they, good folks like most of the rest of us, feel they have to apologize for Las Vegas any more than we should apologize for the excesses in other cities, and in our own lives? Surely the shenanigans at Philadelphia City Hall are nothing to brag about: public dollars spent lavishly enriching the wealthier few would be better spent supporting child care and nursing homes for the poorer many.

America’s potential is great, perhaps even infinite. We are blessed with riches beyond the imagination of most of the world’s billions. Many of us are more than happy to find ways to share our resources, even happy to give up something so the other guy can have a little more. Parents do that for children all the time. In our congregations and community are many who do the same for their neighbors — and even for folks they do not know. As I gear up for this new season, I look forward to changes at Northwest Interfaith Movement, which many of you reading this column have supported over the years. In future months I’ll share details of some of those changes with you. I think they will provide some interesting and exciting opportunities for all of us to make our corner of America a little more like, in our hearts, we know it should be.

Rabbi George Stern, a native of Mt. Airy, is executive director of Northwest Interfaith Movement, a coalition of 41 Christian, Jewish, Unitarian and Muslim congregations. NIM trains child care providers and personal care home workers and provides services for older adults living at home. NIM ombudsmen assure the rights of nursing and personal care home residents.