Politics Explained

“They're all bums.”

Such was my first lesson on politics, delivered to me on many occasions by one of my grandfathers. I'll leave it to you to decide which one.

My grandfather Reilly was a Philadelphia police officer and a loyal, lifelong Republican who was very happy to share his over-the-top, politically incorrect names for President Franklin Roosevelt with anyone unfortunate enough to bring up the subject.

Grandpop Huber made his living on the outskirts of legality, tending bar and (depending on who you can believe) possibly running numbers and “finding” merchandise recently lost from the backs of trucks. He was also a Democratic Party committeeman.

Now, no one ever claimed that they were best friends, but they got along just fine. There were no turkey versus ham Thanksgiving dinner shutdowns, no Schmidts versus Ballantine beer embargoes at Fourth of July picnics and no competitive filibustering at wedding toasts (although Mr. Reilly could tell an extended tale or two).

But the days of respectful political disagreement have gone the way of the straw hat and petticoat.

Today it seems that every opinion contrary to our own is a personal affront. To disagree with us is to be an agent of evil, just plain stupid, dangerously naive or all three. And should one of those disagreeing types try to explain his or her thinking to us, we pretend to listen but are mentally putting our fingers in our ears and screaming “La-la-la-la-la....”

And I think I know what the problem is. People are treating their politics as if it were their religion.

The idea behind religion, as I understand it, is that you are right, everybody else is wrong and they should all just shut up about it. This is known as faith. Faith needs to be unwavering to be worth anything at all, so compromise of faith is a sure ticket to hell.

But politics is supposed to be different from that. In a democracy, compromise is the goal. (I would point out here that you can't spell compromise without “promise,” but I promised myself I wouldn't do that.) To steadfastly maintain one's opinion, unwilling to move from it no matter how persuasive the argument against, is a sure way to bring government to a screeching halt.

You might point out that in America's early days it was not uncommon for political rivals to shoot each other in duels. This is true, but if you look closely at that particular practice it was seldom over a political difference. Politicians shot and got shot over issues like being called a scoundrel in public, whose horse bit the postman or an ungentlemanly whisper about a flirtatious wife. Very rarely over issues like the Louisiana Purchase or the rum tax.

Come to think of it though, it was when duels were outlawed that government started getting less and less efficient. But that's probably just a coincidence, right?

Today, if you look at almost any congressional vote on almost any issue on almost any day, you may be as surprised as I am to find that every single Democrat thinks exactly the same way, and that every single Republican thinks exactly the opposite way.

What are the odds of that? Shouldn't there be the odd Democrat who is sure that the government should not be in the healthcare business? Or the strange Republican who believes that the stimulus saved the American economy?

Could it be that it's easier to label ourselves liberals or conservatives than to actually think about issues on an individual basis as they arise? Isn't it possible to be for stricter immigration laws and for the bank bailout? Or to be for banning both handguns and abortions?

(That's six questions in a row … my personal record.)

Maybe if people start developing their own informed opinions, instead of just walking in lockstep with those left- or right-leaning leaders with whom they've aligned themselves, their representatives will follow along.

Then again, politicians have given us very little reason to believe they will ever change their ways, haven't they?

Now I have to come clean about how I started this whole discussion. It was sort of trick question. Both of my grandfathers had come to the conclusion that all politicians were bums at one time or another.

And so we do have conclusive proof that agreement between diverse positions is possible!

Confessions of a Phillies Fan: Dick Allen

When I was 9 years old we moved from Southwest Philadelphia to Folcroft, and I was full of the end-of-the-world melancholy that only a 9-year-old can experience.

What was the problem? I was convinced that since I no longer lived inside the Philadelphia city limits (Folcroft is approximately one mile outside the city) I couldn't root for the Phillies. It turns out I actually could, but it took me years of rationalization and therapy to convince myself of that.

My first baseball memory is from around 1962, when the Phillies finished seventh in the 10-team National League. There was no National League East, Central or West … one team had the best regular season record in each league and went directly to the World Series.

That team was never us.

Thanks in large part to the creation of two new teams through expansion that year, the Phils did win one more game than they lost. However, the teams they beat out in the standings were the pathetic Cubs, the brand-new Houston Colt .45's and the equally new, now-famous “worst team in Major League Baseball history” New York Mets.

So it wasn't easy being red.

I had heard tales of the 1950 Whiz Kids led by Richie Ashburn. They made it to the Series … but got swept. (Every Phillies fan who was alive in 1950 was always sure to make it clear that every game was close.)

I don't think anyone had the heart to tell me that in the 60 years that the World Series had been played, my Phillies had never won it. Those terrible Chicago Cubs had. So had the Washington Senators. So had THREE teams from Boston ... the Americans, the Braves and the Red Sox.

The Giants had Willie Mays in centerfield and Willie McCovey at first base. We had Don Demeter and Roy Sievers. We all loved Johnny Callison, but in our hearts we knew he was no Roberto Clemente. When the Dodgers threw Sandy Koufax at us or the Cardinals brought out Bob Gibson, we answered with Cal McLish or John Boozer. (To be fair, Art Mahaffey did win 19 games in 1962.)

It had always been like that for Phillies fans. The Braves had all-star catcher and third baseman Joe Torre. We had his brother Frank. There have been two great DiMaggio brothers in Major League Baseball history. We got the third DiMaggio brother. Through some major scouting miscalculation we never did get Hank Aaron's light-hitting brother Tommy, though. That might have been more frustration than one city could be expected bear.

If you get the feeling that the Philadelphia baseball public suffered from superstar envy, I think you're not far off the mark.

Then 1964 and Richie Allen happened. (He had always preferred to be called Dick Allen but we didn't know that then.)

The rookie. Number 15. The 40-ounce bat. The black-rimmed glasses. The calm, steady batting stance. The tug on his sleeve. The flick of the wrist and the lightning that jumped off his bat. Our superstar had arrived. The great Mays recently was quoted as saying that “no one ever hit a baseball harder than Dick Allen.” He would go on to win the Rookie of the Year award in a landslide over Jim Ray Hart and Rico Carty.

In the process he seemed to strap the Phillies on his back (with a lot of help from the likes of Callison, Jim Bunning, Chris Short, Wes Covington and Tony Gonzalez) and they forgot they weren't supposed to beat the teams with all those stars.

Bunning (who had seven kids at the time) pitched the first National League perfect game of the 20^th century on Fathers Day. Just 17 days before that, Koufax would have beaten Bunning to the punch, except that Allen drew a walk in the Dodgers lefthander's no-hitter against the Phils.

Everything was falling into place. Callison even won the All Star game for the NL with an extra innings home run.

But it was not to be.

I won't go into the excruciating, historic details of the collapse out of the National League pennant that year, except to say that Allen hit .438 with 5 doubles, 2 triples, 3 home runs and 11 RBI in the infamous last twelve games.

Seasons following that magical 1964 would bring trouble. The Phillies organization, the fans, the sportswriters and Allen himself seemed at odds for reasons that a kid could never understand. For awhile it seemed like “The Controversial” was some sort of title he'd been bequeathed, like King or Prince.

The team never again rose to the heights with their slugger, and he was traded to the Cardinals before the 1970 season, with Jerry Johnson and Cookie Rojas, for Tim McCarver, Byron Browne, Joe Hoerner, and Curt Flood. Of course that trade started a whole new controversy, ironically not involving Allen at all, when Flood refused to report to the Phillies and the first seeds of free agency in baseball were sown.

It would be 16 years until we actually made it to the Series. The world of a 25-year-old looks mighty different from that of a 9-year-old. The bitter pills you swallow when you're young seem to go down harder for some reason. The thrill of seeing my Phillies proclaimed as baseball's best team in 1980 was almost as great as my disappointment all those years earlier. But not quite.

Phillies fans would see more home-grown stars. Great players with names like Schmidt, Luzinski, Rollins, Utley and Howard, but to me it all started with a 9-year-old's first home team superstar, Dick Allen.

What a player!

Having a Ball at the MacDade Mall

Rumor has it that funeral services for the MacDade Mall may be premature.

I hope that's true, because that mall was my ringside seat to watch the wild and wonderful 70s fly by.

I can remember walking into the brand new MacDade Mall for the first time and having the same reaction as when I stepped into the runway at Connie Mack Stadium and saw the Phillies play live … the colors were startling! There were the individual activities of over 30 stores as well as some sort of special mall-wide activity every weekend.

One week it was a baseball card show with Johnny Callison and Tony Taylor signing autographs … the next, a bridal show (okay, they weren't ALL winners) … the next, a yoyo master demonstration by a man who seemed very cool at the time but who I now suspect lived a lonely, lonely life.

So I'd stop by for no apparent reason with no particular shopping to do and no time limit in which to do it. My generation pioneered “going to the mall” as an accepted activity in itself. We had a great time doing nothing long before Seinfeld's show about nothing. Parents would ask what we were shopping for, but they didn't get it. I always ran into someone I knew and we'd take a few laps around, finding adventure, drama or comedy at every stop.

There would be a substantially built woman arguing that the sizes were all marked wrong at the dress shop. About six units down the aisle, as the ticket-taker at the movie theater was trying to decide if the peachfuzz-faced patron standing before him was old enough to see Hitchcock's R-rated “Frenzy,” four 12-year-olds snuck by him. There was a store right near the main entrance that sold beads and mod-style vests and posters where I could pretend to be a hippy, even though my parents never actually allowed me to be one.

Of course there was pizza by the slice, pretzels and a more formal restaurant (which may or may not have had a bar, since I was too young to know or care).

At the record store in the mall I made a discovery that influences my music tastes to this day. I had heard a song on the radio (WMMR-FM, with the late, great DJ Ed Sciaky) that I really liked, and I tried to remember the name of it while browsing in the store. I knew it was by some guy named Bruce, but that was it. At the time, there were two albums out by this Bruce Springsteen fellow, so I got them both just to be sure.

It turns out that the song I liked was actually “Wondering Where the Lions Are” by Bruce Cockburn, but I fell in love with the two albums I bought by mistake. Just weeks later I saw Springsteen in a concert at Widener College that is still legendary among Delaware Countians of a certain age.

So you see I have a lot of history tied into the MacDade Mall. But I'm not alone. I'll bet that most people over 30 from this area have their own set of stories about that particular piece of real estate on MacDade and South.

Let's hope it comes back at full strength so there will be fun stories for today's kids in 30 years or so.

Naming Your Hometown, The Final Chapter

Here we have the much-anticipated, long-threatened last of the fictional origins of Delaware County's 27 boroughs. Think of this as history for people who thought they hated history. But please remember that any of these explanations that may at first seem very near the truth ... are not.

Millbourne

You may know the work of Millbourne's founder without really knowing it. If you're over 40 or have been captured by a medieval cult you have probably seen a “Punch & Judy” puppet show. These shows date back before Shakespeare's time, and center around the very angry Punch, who continually hits all the characters he meets with a large stick. This was like reality TV in the 16^th century since people were generally on the very edge of rage at all times. (Life was hard then. Home pizza delivery and indoor plumbing were still centuries away.) Into this atmosphere of anger stepped Joshua Millbourne, a young writer who thought he saw a way to understand and explain Punch's fury. With this goal in mind he invented an entire back story of dashed hopes and heartbreaking betrayals that served to explain Punch's need to inflict those terrible stick beatings. People began to see the hurt little boy living inside the detestable, obnoxious, ungodly, revolting Punch. England's Queen Elizabeth saw this undertaking as marginally beneficial to society, and awarded Millbourne the smallest plot of land ever bequeathed by Britain in the New World. Four hundred years later, Millbourne's true contribution to modern society came to the forefront, as his back story was re-worked as Paul & Judy and premiered as a serial on NBC radio. Thus he became known as “The Father of the Modern Soap Opera.”

Glenolden

There has been a rumor for decades that Glenolden was named in an effort to compete with Nantucket for placement within limericks, as in “There once was a man from Glenolden....” However, when you think it through that doesn't really work. It would mean that the next line would have to end with “embolden” (or possibly “beholdin'”). That's obviously way too limiting, so the limerick theory is just plain wrong. The actual untrue story is much simpler. Glenolden got its name from the man who invented five-cheese lasagna, Guiseppe Oldapinni, who “Americanized” his name to Glenn Olden and who resided in that borough in the last years of his life. During those years he was working on the addition of a sixth cheese (allegedly Munster) which he never perfected, and which eludes lasagna scientists to this day.

East Lansdowne

Believe it or not, the fact that East Lansdowne lies directly east of Lansdowne is purely coincidence. At one time the borough of Lansdowne encompassed both areas, but in the late 1930s a blood feud erupted, reputedly over a pair of red pantaloons hanging on someone's clothesline. Other than that simple fact, details of the original incident have been lost to history. Residents on each side of the conflict were driven to acts they would later regret, not the least of which was the kidnapping of Petey the Parakeet, the official bird of Lansdowne and living embodiment of all that was precious to the people living there. It was while holding Petey that his captors resolved to go all the way and secede from the borough. In an effort to show the world their extreme revulsion for their former town they took the name “Least Lansdowne,” indicating that no place on Earth could be less Lansdowne than they were. But it was the pure heart and sweet love of Petey that ended the troubles. He talked constantly and his philosophy was later compared to the gentle renderings of Cat Stevens. Soon he melted the hearts of the “Leasts” and they forgot what started the conflict (of course we remember it was the pantaloon thing). Least became East and East Lansdowne was born.

Lansdowne

Horse racing was king in 1920s America and Delaware County was a hotbed of (mostly illegal) activity in connection with “The Sport of Kings.” Off-track betting was forbidden but, just the same, throughout the county it was as common as straw hats. Year after year, efforts to legalize off-track wagering had been shut down by county officials who believed that if they allowed this sort of activity to take hold it might one day snowball into state-run lotteries and a gambling casino on the Delaware River in Chester. In the face of this absurd exaggeration, a small group of men and women settled in a particular area of the county and attempted to legalize off-track betting in that small area only. Now, in horse racing terminology, “hands down” means winning easily. It refers to a situation where a horse is so far ahead that his jockey can lower his grip on the reins. Fervent supporters of this position wanted to name their area Hands Down, Pennsylvania, but it was determined that would show over confidence to those on the fence on the off-track issue. So the borough was named Lansdowne to disguise their intentions, but wager-crazy residents knew very well what the name really meant. This decision proved to be a wise one when the gambling movement failed, and Hands Down would have seemed as absurd as Bird-in-Hand and a few other of other Pennsylvania's oddly monikered towns.

Norwood

Some town names just come very easily. In 1895, just outside of Folcroft, there lived a “fine and upstanding” family with the “fine and upstanding” name of Norwood. (Note: The 19^th century term “fine and upstanding” is most closely translated to “cool” in modern-day lingo.) Everyone loved them and decided to show their love by naming their community after them. In 1970, an atrocity of a movie called Norwood, co-starring Joe Namath, was unleashed on the public, but the loyalty of residents was so strong that even that did not move them to change the borough's name.

Parkside

You have probably heard the term “bedroom community,” which, oddly enough, does not mean a community made up entirely of motels as some of us always thought it did. (That's not a strange conclusion to draw when you think of it, right? Right?) Well, apparently, is refers to a town where most workers commute to a larger city. In the early years of the 20^th century workers commuted to work in the city of Chester by horse or by the newly invented automobile. Those modes of transportation needed to be separated since the cars spooked the horses, and so an entire area was established to “park” the cars a reasonable distance from the steeds. That area grew over the years and was informally called the “park side of Chester.” Soon people realized that living there would be smarter than driving there, parking lots were replaced by beautiful homes and Parkside was born.

Marcus Hook

Dr. Marcus Hook was instrumental in finding the cure for a disease that ravaged the East Coast of the United States during the late 18^th century. Although it was non-fatal (and thus didn't get flashy front page headlines like the publicity hungry flu) it was still quite annoying to those who suffered it. Known as Stencholococcus, it was characterized by a constant and overpowering sense of stink. It was more than annoying, really, since an acute sense of smell was vital in maneuvering one's way through the streets of the day, filled with horse-drawn conveyances as they were. Dr. Hook (who also ran a successful medicine show) solved the mystery. It seems that “bad snuff” was coming out of Cuba and infecting the nasal passages of users. He created an additive that neutralized the effect. In the euphoria of the cure, Commonwealth officials handed over the land to the good doctor, who proceeded to name it after himself. (You know how doctors are.)

Media

There was a time when newspapers, radio and television were considered a valuable resource to the American public and an indispensable part of a working democracy. In those simpler days it seemed like a great idea to name a town in tribute to the media that keeps this country informed and free. Of course that all seems silly today, doesn't it?

Rose Valley

The story of Rose Valli is a cautionary tale for those who would use their gifts to shortcut their way to success in this world. She was a certified genius, and proficient in art, literature, history and virtually everything she attempted. Everything but math, it would appear. Rose used her remarkable artistic talent to create the plates that resulted in perfect counterfeit U.S. currency. Now, her thinking was that the Treasury Department is always looking for fake large bills, so she counterfeited one dollar bills. And her logic proved correct, as not one of her fake dollar bills was ever detected. The problem was that each bill cost approximately $1.27 to produce. Of course she couldn't sustain her “business” with that kind of loss, and so decided to turn herself in. Why a town would be named after Rose is a question that's been asked over and over, but we suspect that her brother Garnet, a former Pennsylvania bigwig, had something to do with that.

Ridley Park

Riddle me this: What Delaware County borough gets its name from a question? I suppose the heading on this paragraph is kind of a giveaway … but what question? The year was 1850 and the man was Stu Mauch, a slightly less successful promoter than his idol P.T. Barnum (but not for lack of trying). Having purchased a small plot of land in Delaware County, he set about running a contest to name it. The idea was to ask people to submit their answer to a riddle he had made up himself. The winner could pick the name. At a cost of ten cents per entry, he figured to make history and profit at the same time. Sadly, the riddle was successfully answered by 72 percent of the people who entered, Mauch was ruined and no one could decide who won the naming rights. The dilemma went as high as the U.S. Supreme Court and they simply settled on “Ridley Park.” Even though it was later determined the Court had no naming authority, that title stuck. And what was the question in question? Here you go: I run all day and never walk. I tell you something, but I do not talk. What am I? See the answer below.

That ends the fictional portion of your online newspaper experience for the day. We now return you to the factual areas. Thanks for visiting!

Answer to the riddle: A clock.

Naming Your Hometown, Part 2

In response to a reader outpouring of over six requests to continue my completely fictional look at how the boroughs of Delaware County got their names (and ignoring the one request begging me not to), I submit the second chapter:

Colwyn

This borough was originally to be named “Colleen” in honor of Irish tavern owner Colleen Flanagan, who purposely sickened occupying British troops with spoiled ham and cabbage in what became known as “The Great Regurgitation of 1780.” However, in an unfortunate confluence of events the reader of the official proclamation had a barely noticeable speech impediment. In fact, it was not noticeable at all, except when pronouncing one single word … you guessed it … Colleen. Before anyone could change it, the recorder of records had written the name he'd heard spoken (using that feather pen ink that's almost impossible to erase). And so today we have the borough of Colwyn.

Collingdale

Until 1926 this borough was known as Unicorn Springs. Ever since the founding fathers (and apparently mothers) came up with that, however, there had been a backlash about being named after a mythical creature. (Worse yet, one that was considered vaguely unmanly in some circles.) From 1926 until 1936 the town was called Hitlerburgh, but that name proved to have its own set of problems. In 1936 an overwhelmingly popular self-improvement book called How to Win Friends and Influence People, by Dale Carnegie was published. Its pointers and sayings were on the lips of people wherever you went. Amid this fury of popularity one of the phrases that became common was “I'm calling Dale!” Most likely originating in a Vaudeville sketch, this was thought to be a funny response to almost any comment or situation. One example of this still exists in the comedy library of famed showman Benny “Big Cat” Bennigan, who closed his act with this line, found decades later in his journal: “What? You say my daughter has eloped with a [insert local ethnic group here]? I'm calling Dale! (Wait for laugh). Town leaders were anxious to ride the coattails of the phrase's popularity, but Callingdale was too obvious. So “a” became “o” and Collingdale was born.

Morton

Corporate sponsorship is not a new idea. Today many sports stadiums bear the name of companies that have paid millions for that valuable advertising space. In the 18^th and 19^th centuries it was common to name entire American cities with the hope of promoting products. Thus you have Madison, WI (named after the Madison Shoe Company), Baton Rouge, LA (named after a company that made red batons), Tampa, FL (named after a feminine hygiene product) and so on. And we all know the tobacco roots of Winston-Salem, NC and Newport, RI. So just as the beef industry has done in our time (“Beef, it's what's for dinner”), back in the day salt manufacturers lobbied the public by naming places like Salt Lake City, UT, Sault Ste. Marie, MI and the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. It was in this naming frenzy that Morton Salt Company dabbled in naming a very small town before trying a big city. Alas, no one ever associated Morton with salt and they never did go bigger. But if they had, we just might be talking about the plight of the poor Baltimorton Orioles throughout this baseball season.

Chester Heights

General Chester L. Heights was George Washington's invaluable but little-known “decoy general” during (but quite a distance away from) some of the pivotal battles of the American Revolution. Washington had made it a point to champion the battle prowess and strategic genius of General Heights in dispatches that he knew would be intercepted by the British. (No evidence of this prowess or genius has ever been found, but neither has it been disproved.) Once alerted, the Red Coats followed Height's every move, sure that he would be in the thick of any the major offensive. And so during the Battle of Trenton, Heights' army was in Harrisburg. The famous Battle of Cowpens saw him on Long Island. His mission was thus stated: “To be as far away from any serious Continental Army offensive as would be plausible to the Brits.” At the war's end, Heights and his army were awarded fake gold coins (as a joke that none considered funny or really even got), a firm handshake from Washington and a grant for the land we know today as Chester Heights.

Clifton Heights

Although you might well think that this borough was named after Clifton Heights, the younger brother of the above mentioned General Chester Heights, nothing could be farther from the truth. (Then again, that's kind of a silly expression, isn't it? I mean, if I told you that aliens named the town or that it was the original Garden of Eden of biblical fame, those would be farther from the truth, right? But I digress.) Actually, by complete coincidence two unrelated families, both named Clifton, moved into the same area at the same time. Naming the place Clifton was a no-brainer, but bad blood between the families caused them to keep changing their section's name to be better than their rival's. East Clifton, Clifton Eastwood, Clifton Gardens, Clifton-by-the-Sea, Clifton Parmesan, Rio de Clifton, Clifton Island … until finally, just as if the music had stopped in a game of musical chairs, the state of Pennsylvania decreed all town names would be made permanent on January 1, 1908. It just so happened that Clifton Heights was the name on that particular day. I might have gone with the Parmesan one, I think.

Eddystone

In the early 19^th century, the Beemer family of Chester was ruled with an iron fist by the father, Edward. His four sons stayed pretty much in line, having seen the wrath of Edward when he spent four hours berating a neighbor's dog who had almost chosen the Beemer front lawn to deposit his daily dung. But the peaceful Beemer home blew to high heck one sunny Saturday when Edward forbade the boys from going to baseball practice. He said it was so they could re-do the chores they did so poorly last Saturday, but everyone knew that he was just being his usual self, mean as a drunken pirate. Naturally the boys were disappointed, but only “Little Eddy” Beemer dared to utter a “Aw, geez,” that could be heard just above his breath. Predictably, papa Edward, veins popping and spittle spurting, jumped all over the youngster, yelling over and over “I do not care for your tone, boy.” And those words appeared to strike a chord in the lads. That one sentence seems to have given them a backbone. No longer would they stand silent at their blustering father's demeaning rants. With those few words the boys had become men. Bristling with their new found confidence, just three months later all four brothers moved out and founded their own borough, and in honor of that landmark Saturday and the expression that had changed their lives named it “Eddy's Tone.”

Darby

This town name is a tribute to Mady Darby, whose contribution to baseball and to the Union Army's victory at Gettysburg during the Civil War has been largely overlooked with the passing years. Few people realize that Abner Doubleday, the reputed inventor of modern baseball, was a major general and division commander of the Army of the Potomac during the famous battle. Today his reputation as a general is mixed. Some say he held his position to buy time for the victories of other brigades, sort of a sacrifice bunt. Others insist that he was slow to attack and incompetent, the equivalent of striking out looking on three pitches. In either case, Mady Darby was Doubleday's “personal nurse,” a position that seems to have no official equivalent in today's armed forces. Although unhurt in the morning's skirmishes, the major general failed to show up for the afternoon battles. Years later it was revealed that Mady had “slipped a mickey” into Doubleday's canteen. Her intentions are unclear to this day, but she had solidified the Union victory and ensured the invention of baseball as we know it. And so borough leaders decided not to name their home town Nightingale, as had been planned, but chose Darby instead.

And just a reminder … none of this will be on your final test.

Naming Your Hometown (Sort of)

Have you ever wondered how that little patch of Delaware County that you call home got its name?

(For purposes of this article, it would be best if you answered “yes” to that.)

Well, so have I. And it would be easy enough to go to my local library or legitimate Internet reference site to find that out, but I have another idea. In the tradition of “you can't really believe everything you see on the Internet,” I thought I'd guess.

This seems like a lot more fun (and frankly much less taxing on my brain).

And so I give you the fictional origins of a sampling of the boroughs of Delaware County, in no particular order. Remember any brush up against truth in these shot-in-the-dark histories is completely accidental and unintentional. And boys and girls, please don't try this at homework:

Yeadon

Today is not the first time in American history that the two major political parties seem entrenched in their ideologies and unwilling to compromise. Back in 1843 the Whig Party had gotten a reputation that the Republican Party is trying to avoid today … that is, they were becoming known as “the party of nay.” Ever since they had been voted out of power, Whig candidates had blocked legislature meant to encourage many popular activities, including friendship, Italian food and cat ownership. In 1845 a group of Whigs gathered in protest shouting “No more nay, we say yea!” and right on the spot the Delaware County Neo-Colonial Council, moved by their passion, awarded them the land on which they stood, renaming it “Yeadon.”

Trainer

In the early years of the 20^th century (and forever before that) women's “unmentionables” were quite a cumbersome undertaking. Bloomers, bustles, knickers, petticoats, chemises, pantalettes, corsets and on and on. By the second decade of the century there was a movement to simplify the contraptions built for supporting the female form. You might call it a movement to restrict movement of certain feminine parts. As part of that trend, Shhh, a ladies underwear company based in this small Delco borough leaped to the forefront and created a small, easily manipulated “girl's first bra.” Soon the new product came to be known as the “trainer bra,” and was so wildly successful that the town adopted that as its name, dropping the “bra” part some years later.

Upland

You might think that this borough was named by either optimists or people who enjoyed living on the higher ground, but that is not the case. Back in 1654, a man named Uriah Pendragon was unjustly convicted of stealing. To be more accurate, he was convicted of stealing glances at his neighbor's wife, a capital crime at the time. So he was hanged. Three days after the hanging a physician who could not make it to Uriah's trial in time informed the court that Mr. Pendragon had an eye condition which caused him to appear to be leering. Of course, this was highly embarrassing. To make things right the surviving family was given real estate, now renamed Uriahpendragonland, later shortened to Upland.

Aldan

There are times in history when people believe that anything is possible. Such a time was the early 19^th century, when railroads, canals, steam engines and factories changed the way that men and women lived their lives. These were giant ideas which resulted in giant changes in the human condition. Not every new idea was that ambitious, however. In 1819 three good friends, Dan Wheeler, Dan Fletcher and Dan Anderson, came to the conclusion (in the back of Duffy's Pub) that their great friendship was the result of their all being named Dan. They contacted Regional Governor Dan Albright and before they even sobered up the borough of “Alldan” was born. The next day Dan Fletcher suggested they come up with a more traditional founding story and “get the L out of there,” and so today we have the borough of Aldan.

Brookhaven

For decades and decades there had been senseless bigotry throughout the early American colonies aimed at women named Brook. (In those days, “Brook shields” were actually homemade wooden barriers used to taunt these women in conjunction with hurtful sayings and jingles detailing the horrors of Brook cooties, which is what the common cold was known as in some circles.) Finally, in the late 17^th century, one man had seen enough. Joseph Haven purchased a small plot of land, declared it safe from Brook bigotry and named it “Welcometown.” Minutes later it was renamed the borough that we know today.

Folcroft

Although it had been around for over a billion years, the borough that is today known as Folcroft remained unnamed until Native Americans of the Shawnee tribe called it “Mahalla,” which has been loosely translated as “Delmar Village.” When English settlers arrived they decided that the place needed to sound more like home for them, and so they renamed it after the Earl of Folcroft, who had recently won a famous duel with the Duke of Darby. Today you can still find descendants of the Earl living in Folcroft, acting like they're the boss of everyone and apparently thinking that their waste material has no odor.

Prospect Park

Before the 1820s, salesmen were generally thought to come in one of two varieties … fast-talking city slickers or snake oil-pushing charlatans. The idea that someone might suggest a product that could actually benefit a person was poo-pooed (if you'll excuse my language here) by respectable people everywhere. In those days you went to a store to get what you needed and anyone trying to convince you to buy something could actually be legally bludgeoned. But that all changed in 1826 when Robert “Honest Bob” Robertson gathered a group of families who had an almost religious commitment to a new concept: Sell us stuff. Soon a community of receptive “prospects” formed and salesmen came from far (but oddly enough, not wide) to service them, forming today's Prospect Park. Ironically, soliciting is forbidden through most of the borough today.

Rutledge

Okay, the real legend about this one is too good NOT to share. According to a sign on Morton Avenue that Wikipedia shows on its site, Rutledge was named after the one true love of Abraham Lincoln, Ann Rutledge. Abe stole her from her fiance, but she tragically died of typhoid fever at age 22, throwing the future president into a major, years-long depression. This borough-naming story is probably no truer than the others here … but how many myths get an official-looking sign to perpetuate them?

Sharon Hill

To this day many people will tell you that there was an actual person named Sharon Hill. I'm sure there are many around the world, but none of them is related to this town. The truth is that in William Penn's time the Quakers named every hill and valley in Pennsylvania. This was a way to keep busy and avoid impure thoughts. Most places got new names when people less particular about their thoughts moved in, but Sharon is one of the very few remaining Quaker-named hills. I have heard there is a Bambi Hill in Western Pennsylvania that has been attributed to the Quakers, but that seems unlikely.

Swarthmore

Old English was a funny little language. “Fullsome” meant plentiful, “prithee” meant please and “swarth” meant bacon. And so it's easy to imagine a patron at the olden times version of IHOP asking, “Prithee, good sir, may I partake of a fullsome portion of swarth?” It turns out that bacon was the yogurt of its day. It was thought to promote good health, the reasoning being that since bacon already contains so much pig fat it would not be converted to human fat. After all, pigs could not be converted to humans, right? With this in mind, “vittles entrepreneur” Oscar Mayer managed to corner the swarth market. He cornered it right at the very location of the borough that is today still known by Mayer's famous slogan, “Swarth More! Swarth More to Live Longer!”

So there you have it. Let me know if I've omitted your hometown and you'd like to see a faux history … but don't get me started on the townships.

My Brain on Age

According to a certain old saying, we live and learn.

I have found that to be true for the most part, but not entirely. Sometimes we just live.

So, using the tools of fading memory and blind faith so vital to the completely unqualified amateur scientist, I've compiled a series of topics, circumstances and reactions that illustrate how the years have educated and/or baffled me. (If you followed the twists of that last sentence, I promise the rest of this article will be child's play.)

Education

My 1970s High School Brain: “So the plan is: graduate high school, head to college, then law school and in no time I'll be solving cases like Judd for the Defense on TV.”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “Now that I'm laid off and watching TV 15 hours a day I wonder if I should start my second career at the University of Phoenix, IT Tech or that Harley-Davidson repair school.”

Sports

My 1970s High School Brain: “This week we play Darby-Colwyn and Yeadon, and I'll get to start because our second baseman is out.”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “I coughed and now my back is out.”

Sex on TV

My 1970s High School Brain: “Can you believe what they said on Three's Company last night?”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “Can you believe what they showed on Cinemax last night?”

Women

My 1970s High School Brain: “Short skirts or hot pants? I can't decide which I like most!”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “Short tempers or hot flashes? I can't decide which I've seen most!”

The Prom

My 1970s High School Brain: “Color My World … what a great prom theme. (That's why my tux is nine different colors of blue and my ruffled shirt is pink.)”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “Why do all the girls look 25 and all the boys look 12?”

Gym Class

My 1970s High School Brain: “So, exactly what bizarre set of circumstances will force me to climb a rope that just happens to be hanging from the center of the ceiling?”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “Do they still have to wear white gym shorts and T-shirts while they play Wii-volleyball?”

Computers

My 1970s High School Brain: “Dave reserved a half hour online time tomorrow at 3 a.m. to test his 200-punch card program on the giant computer at West Chester.”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “My 10-year-old niece taught me Facebook.”

Movies

My 1970s High School Brain: “I can't wait to see Clash of the Titans.”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “I can't wait to see Clash of the Titans.”

Philosophy

My 1970s High School Brain: “I'm generally more liberal, but I do believe in the conservative law and order agenda.”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “I'm a stickler about never missing an episode of Law & Order in the 20 years it's been on TV.”

Politics

My 1970s High School Brain: “I never thought I'd see the day when an actor could be elected president.”

My 21^st Century 50-Something Brain: “I never thought I'd see the day when a Hawaiian could be elected president.”

As Jerry Garcia (not to be confused with former and possibly future Eagles backup quarterback Jeff Garcia) once said … “What a long, strange trip it's been.”

Cheesesteak Confidential

The cheesesteak is the best evidence I know of that a higher power exists in this universe.

I'm willing to admit that I may be biased on this topic, the result of my 50 year love affair with the magical concoction I discovered at a very early age.

Meat, dairy, grain, grease … all the major food groups are represented, and you can even add tomatoes, lettuce or just about any other veggie if you care to rationalize that you're eating healthy.

In a perfect universe each cheesesteak eaten would have the equivalent effect on the body of an hour of cross-training in the gym. Add mushrooms and onions to get the benefits of a two mile run, and sweet peppers for a short cardio workout.

Hmmmm …

Sorry, I was lost in my little fantasy world there for a second.

I first encountered this perfect sandwich in the early 1960s at Joe's Steak Shop at 58^th Street, just above Wheeler Street in Southwest Philadelphia. A large cheesesteak at Joe's was $1.25, and I calculated that I'd need to make no more than $2 per day (with chips and a soda) to be perfectly happy for the rest of my life.

So cheesesteaks taught me the value of a dollar.

Delaware County takes a back seat to no area on Earth when it comes to getting a fantastic cheesesteak. (That “on Earth” part was really just for dramatic effect since we get very little cheesesteak competition from places like China, Chile or Chad, for instance.)

We moved to Folcroft when I was 10 and it took me about 15 minutes to find a new favorite spot. It was Romano's, a small restaurant in the Delcroft Shopping Center in Folcroft. You could sit at a counter and eat your cheesesteak at Romano's (Joe's was strictly takeout), and it was there that I first saw the little red plastic baskets that all eat-in cheesesteaks must be served in. (The red baskets may not be a law, strictly speaking, but I wish I sold them because they're everywhere.) Of course, there was a counter server there who needed to be compensated.

So cheesesteaks taught me the art of tipping.

Soon I became acquainted with Leo's Steaks and fell in love all over again. First it was at the Sharon Hill trolley station, but moved to a building just down Chester Pike that you can't miss today due to the giant “Leo's Cheesesteaks and Hoagies” painted on the building. I believe there is more meat in a large Leo's cheesesteak than fed the entire Revolutionary Army during its winter at Valley Forge. I sometimes took meat out of a Leo's cheesesteak to make two more sandwiches for later in the week.

So cheesesteaks taught me how to stretch a budget.

The truth is that you can hardly go wrong just about anywhere you choose to go in Delaware County for a cheesesteak. Bad sandwich shops don't last very long. Finding a new one that does a top shelf sandwich is always a thrill. I have had fantastic cheesesteaks at The Little Hut in Ridley Park, The Pepper Mill in West Chester, Coco's Pizzas all over the county and a dozen other spots.

So cheesesteaks taught me the value of trying new things.

Today I live in Bethesda, MD, where you can still see the dreaded “steak and cheese” on some menus. This is the kiss of death to any hope of an authentic cheesesteak. Apparently, as soon as you get 15 miles out of the Philadelphia area, rolls turn to dried-out clumps of cardboard incapable of holding together for anything more substantial than a slice of baloney.

There is one spot in Bethesda called “Philadelphia Mike's” that offers what I would rate as a slightly below average cheesesteak by Delco standards. However, since it's far better than the local competition I go there every chance I get.

So cheesesteaks taught me that sometimes the oddest things can make you miss home.

Day of the Tumbling Nuns

The following story is true. At least as true as a 40-year-old memory can be.

In 1967 San Francisco had “The Summer of Love.”

A few weeks later Folcroft had something completely different from that.

I was attending St. George Catholic School in Glenolden and playing football for the Folcroft Boys Club 115-pound team, along with two or three of my 8^th grade classmates.

On the Glenolden Boys Club 115-pound football team were about ten of my classmates.

You see where this is going, right?

The Folcroft-Glenolden game scheduled for November was a hot topic of conversation from the very first day of school in September.

We had never heard of “trash talk” back then, so I think we may have invented it in those weeks leading up to the game. (I checked and it's too late to claim royalties.)

Rumors of secret plays, last minute all-star ringers, shoes that make you faster, steel-reinforced helmets … lunch and recess were disinformation sessions designed to strike fear in the hearts the opposition.

As the day of the game drew closer and the tensions ran higher, the nuns at St. George (they preferred we call them “sisters”) decided to calm the mood by engaging us to explain the game to them. They took time out from class to ask us questions to which they actually didn't know the answers. This was highly unusual.

Four of the sisters showed a real interest in what they saw as “good, clean fun,” and promised to actually go to the game. Players on both teams were surprised to say the least, and (if truth be told) motivated to impress them on game day.

And they were nuns of their word, as they did show up.

It was a bright, crisp autumn day, and just before kickoff they found a spot at the end of the bleachers at Delcroft Field in Folcroft, and settled in for the fun.

The game started well for Glenolden with a long kickoff return and a few first downs, but we stopped them and took over on a punt. The sisters cheered between plays (so as not to disturb the players, they explained to their fellow spectators).

It was hard-fought as you'd expect a rivalry like this one to be, but over the course of the first half we'd scored twice for a 13-0 lead. The sisters moved from the Glenolden side to the Folcroft side at halftime to show impartiality (just like the President did at Army-Navy games).

About half way through the third quarter Glenolden was on a fairly long drive when one of their running backs crashed hard into our sideline as he went out of bounds.

Our coach picked up the Glenolden player and said one of two things (depending on who you believe). Either:

“Good hit, young man!”

or

“You dirty little %^&#*!!!”

And that was all it took.

Within three seconds the Glenolden coach was halfway across the field, which we all thought was very impressive for a man in his 40s. Why he was running across the field had not quite hit us yet. His coaching staff was right behind him and they all dove headlong into the Folcroft sideline as if it were a giant wave on the beaches of Wildwood.

What came next was right out of a John Wayne western. Thirty to forty adults swinging wildly at one another, knocking over benches, water buckets, collapsible chairs and yes … the four good sisters who had come to see their first football game. They tumbled head over heels over head over heels in a wild blur of white and black that looked a lot like a spinning yin-yang symbol.

The players stood in stunned silence watching the unbelievable happen, until one of my Glenolden opponents/classmates had the presence of mind to say “Can you believe this s***?”

While the melee was in full bloom, my dad, who in those days was known to throw a punch or two in a good cause, was stuck on the Delcroft School roof filming the game. Someone had had the presence of mind to kick the ladder out, stranding him there. My mom still denies that she did that, although her movements for that particular time period have never been confirmed.

As the fighting started to die down just a little I could see the nuns getting up and dusting themselves off, flustered but apparently unhurt.

Unaccustomed to finding themselves in the middle of a football riot, however, they failed to realize that the first priority was to get clear of the action. And so it was not a great surprise to those of us watching when they went down a second time.

This time they got mixed up in what, to this day, is the only six-mother fight I have ever seen.

Eventually the battles did end. I'm not sure whether it was because everyone just tired out or whether the referee's threat of an unprecedented “mutual double forfeit” did the trick.

We resumed play, but without the sisters. I caught a glimpse of them climbing into their baby blue Ford station wagon, drawing straws (I'm imagining this part) to find out who would tell Mother Superior the whole sordid tale.

On Monday morning, each teacher and sister in St. George School read a statement to her class:

“A disgraceful event took place over the weekend. It would be best for all involved if not one word about it were ever spoken again.”

Of course we spoke of nothing else all day.

It turned out that 95 percent of the kids who had heard that short, sweet statement had no idea what it was about. So players from both teams had a field day exaggerating a story that needed no exaggeration.

But I'm afraid the good sisters had oversold it in their official statement. Most of my classmates were hoping the “disgraceful event” was more than a fight, no matter how epic it was to those of us who had witnessed it. Eighth graders were a tough audience, even back then.

Oh, we won the game by 20 points. (Sorry, Glenolden guys, I couldn't resist.)

The Wonder of Wawa

Ever feel the need to baffle and confuse a friend who doesn't live in a state near you? (And who hasn't?) I recommend this sentence:

“I'm off for a Wawa hoagie. Want one?”

If your friend doesn't happen to be a resident of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland or Virginia that statement will sound very odd.

Of course, after decades of confusion with terms like hero, sub, zep, torpedo, blimp, blimpie (and even The Dagwood, believe it or not) most of America has come to understand just what a hoagie is. That battle is won.

It's the Wawa part that will have your friend scratching his head. I know it sounds very normal to Delaware County folks, but to get an idea of how that sounds to non-Delco ears think of the first time you heard of the supermarket chain called Piggly Wiggly. You're smiling, right?

First reactions to the word Wawa usually are some meant-to-be-funny variation of baby talk for “water.”

“Can I get a glass of wawa at the Wawa?”

More sophisticated comments center on a fairly well known George Harrison song or the actual Native American origin of the word (it was their term for the Canada Goose that was found in the Delaware Valley.)

The company actually started as a New Jersey iron foundry in 1803, but really took hold as a dairy farm in … that's right … Delaware County's Wawa, Pa. That was in 1902.

By the 1920s the demand for milk skyrocketed and so did Wawa home milk delivery, bolstered by the hard-to-resist slogan, “Buy Health by the Bottle.” (I might have emphasized having health delivered to your door, but what do I know about advertising in the 1920s?)

When the demand for home delivery dropped (I have no idea why, since that seems like a pretty cool system to me), the Wawa Food Market was born. The first store opened on April 16, 1964 in Folsom, at MacDade Blvd. And Swarthmore Ave.

I remember walking into a Wawa for the first time in the mid-70s and being very impressed. Try to imagine Apu's Quik-E-Mart from The Simpsons … then think the opposite. It was clean, had good quality lunch meats, rolls, (naturally) milk and was not extremely expensive for a “convenience” store.

When I realized it was a local enterprise I was all the more willing to go a little out of my way to get the better quality.

Soon I didn't have to.

Wawa was popping up everywhere. Today there are three stores within a two-mile radius of my old house. And they have come a long way from their milk-only roots.

Every time I come back to Delco for a visit, Wawa is doing something new. It started with them promoting the coffee (I think they were ahead of their time on that one). Then the hoagies. I was skeptical, but yes … they serve a Philadelphia-quality sandwich, which I believe is the highest hoagie standard.

And now it's gasoline. I haven't gotten Wawa gas yet, but I have no doubt it will be a huge success. I believe the day is coming when you may never need to go to any other store. I have seen the future and it consists of Wawa sofas, pets, cars, shoes, lingerie, computers, books, real estate, dentists, barbers and lawyers.

They will all be high quality. They will all be Delco-based. They will all make our non-local friends giggle a little.