June 14, 2007 Issue                                       

©2007 The Chestnut Hill Local

Local Life

Next-door neighbors join hands to re-open Fingers in Erdenheim
by LEN LEAR

“If your ship does not come in, swim out to it.”
—Bill Gates

Most next-door neighbors can consider themselves lucky if they don’t have periodic meltdowns with each other over screaming children, pets that relieve themselves in the wrong backyard, grass growing taller than a Toyota, supersonic late-night parties, etc. Many of us are pleased simply to have no relationship at all with our next-door neighbors; at least it trumps one that is contentious or even incendiary.

Double-cancer survivor is state parks’ top volunteer
by JENNIFER KATZ

Fort Washington State Park Manager Joshua Bruce nominated Oreland resident MaryLea Klauder for the honor of 2007 Individual Volunteer of the Year Award, which she won. “MaryLea is an exceptional volunteer and true friend of Fort Washington State Park,” Bruce wrote in his nominating petition. (Photo by Erin Vertreace)

Twenty years ago, when Oreland resident MaryLea Klauder began her service as a park volunteer at Fort Washington State Park, it was a very different place with few visitors. Through hundreds of hours of volunteer work and the creation of two essential groups, the Hawk Watch and the Friends of Fort Washington State Park, Klauder helped create the beautiful, inviting nature preserve hundreds of visitors enjoy each year. And in July, the Bureau of State Parks will honor her with the 2007 Individual Volunteer of the Year Award.

Compelling drama about a flawed group of champions
by HUGH HUNTER

Patrick Martin and Joe Herman have harsh words for each other in That Championship Season.

Winning is all that matters, says Coach, and “if you want to win you have to accept the pain.” And there’s plenty of pain to go around in That Championship Season, now running at The Stagecrafters.

Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1973, the Jason Miller play centers around the 20th reunion of a Lackawanna Valley basketball team that won the Pennsylvania State Championship. They gather in the home of their revered Coach to celebrate.

News flash: the world does not care much about you
by JENNIFER NAGEL

In my Adolescent Psychology class we talked about the imaginary audience that adolescents believe is watching them at all times. If you talk to an adolescent long enough, you get the feeling that there’s a vicious gaggle of teeny-bopper paparazzi following them constantly. They refer to “they” constantly: “They won’t let me.” “They’d never believe it.” “They said I shouldn’t.”

Cell phone lady; hotel from hell; economic terrorists
by JIMMY J PACK JR

Part two in a series of articles about a trip across the country.

The sea lions join in chorus along Fisherman’s Wharf, the only point of interest on the wharf for this writer.

The Bay Bridge is an incredibly serious bridge. It’s not only one of the longest in the world, but it does a sort of twist in the water, and holds you so high above sea level that the horizon is below every bow of steel. Large lines of twisted wire suspend you over the earth, and when your bus driver dreams of being a stuntman in Hollywood, it makes for a terrifying entrance into San Fran.

The bus dumps me onto Fisherman’s Wharf and I head south to find my hotel, and when I first arrive I’m relieved. I’m carrying about 60 pounds of camera equipment in a backpack and my back is killing me. I can’t wait to wash the smell of the train off me. It’s the smell of poorly circulated air – bubblegum, deodorant, bathroom stench and the perfumed covering from all the stinking bodies not using the showers.

Mt. Airy man knows what it’s like to be homeless
by KRISTIN PAZULSKI

This is how Eric Wilden looks most of the time — when he is not “homeless.”

It was March, and for most of us, the hint of spring in the air did little to soften the chill wind that sliced through us as we climbed into our cars or waited as SEPTA rolled down the Avenue.

Walking down Germantown Avenue, my feet shuffled through a dusting of snow or skidded over ice. I held my jacket tight around my neck so not a sliver of chill would come in contact with my goose-pimpled skin. But eventually I reached a semi-heated bus, or my car’s heater kicked into gear, and I’d arrive at work, home, a local store, a warm café to drink a hot beverage or cuddle under a blanket for the night.

The prospect of not having a warm home or office to retreat to did not cross my mind, even as I hastened past those who suffered from the fate of not having one. When a hand reached out for change, I tightened the clutch on my purse and said I didn’t have any, sedating a nagging consciousness with the assumption that they would probably use it for drugs anyway.