Vol. III, Issue II - Summer 2009

An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.

~Henry David Thoreau

In this edition of The Bridge, we’d like to issue a challenge to all of you who are able: WALK!

Walk whenever you can. Walk as far as you can. Walk to feel better about yourself. Walk to make your community a better place. Walk to get to know your neighbors better. Walk to get to know your neighborhood better. Walk because it’s good for the heart, mind, and soul. Walk because it’s easy. Walk because of the fresh air. Walk in the sun. Walk in the rain. Walk alone. Walk with a group. Walk with your significant other. Walk to the store. Walk to the post office. Walk to the coffee shop. Walk in the morning. Walk at lunchtime. Walk in the evening. Walk slow. Walk fast. Walk on the sidewalk. Walk in the woods. Walk to church. Walk to work (if you can). Walk away from the TV. Walk off the weight. Walk away the stress. Walk is not a four-letter word. Walk with purpose. Walk haphazardly. Walk in a straight line. Walk down an alley. Walk up that hill. Walk down the other side. Walk through the cemetery. Walk along the main street. Walk to the library. Walk to the park. Walk that way. Walk this way (Aerosmith). Walk wherever you’d like—just walk! We’ll all be better for it.

We’d like to know about your walking this summer. Send us an e-mail and let us know the farthest you’ve ever walked, or just take a long walk and tell us about it.

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In Town

Valentine J. Brkich

My wife and I live in Bridgewater, and every once in a while we’ll put our daughter in the stroller and walk up into Beaver to go to the park, get a cup of coffee, go to the post office, etc. Each time we do this, inevitably someone says to us in wide-eyed disbelief, “You WALKED here? All the way from Bridgewater?!?!” You’d think we’d just hiked Mt. Everest or crossed the Sahara, instead of just walking a half a mile or so.

The next thing they always ask is “Why?” My answer: Why not? Why not get out and get some much needed exercise? Why not get out and enjoy some fresh air? Why not save some money on gas, which suspiciously increases in price every summer, just as people are traveling more? (Coincidence? I think not.) Why walk? Why not?

All we hear nowadays is how unhealthy and out-of-shape we Americans are. It’s not hard to see why this is. Think of all the time we spend on our rear-ends. We sit in our cars on the way to work, and many of us sit all day behind a desk. Then, we sit on the way home again before sitting down to dinner. Then we sit on the couch in front of the boob-tube for a couple hours before, finally, exhausted from all that sitting, we go and lie down for 7 or 8 hours. (Too bad they can’t make radial tires out of the same material as our butts; they’d last forever.) The simplest way to improve your overall health is by walking. If you make walking a priority, you’ll not only lose weight and improve your health, you’ll enhance your mental health as well.

And walking is good for your community, too. You may have noticed we have a number of charming downtown districts in Beaver County. You may also have noticed that many of these downtowns are struggling to survive. Why is that? Well, one reason is there’s just not enough parking. Say you want to go the local deli, but the only parking space available is (GASP!) a block and a half away. That’s way too far to walk, you think to yourself. So, instead, you hop in your car and curse the traffic all the way to the local SUPER-WE-HAVE-EVERYTHING-YOU-COULD-EVER-IMAGINE-AND-SOME-THINGS-YOU-NEVER-WOULD-HAVE-STORE, where you drive around the parking lot for a few minutes before finally settling on a parking space that is roughly a block and a half from the deli inside the store. All the while, your local deli is closing up shop due to lack of business.

Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a community where you could walk downtown and find a grocer, baker, butcher, clothing store, shoe store, office supplies store, florist, coffee shop, gift shop, hardware store, drug store, candy store, furniture store, newsstand, restaurants, etc.? What’s funny is that it wasn’t long ago that we were surrounded by wonderful, charming little towns just like this. And you want to know a secret? We could bring them back again if we really wanted to. We just need to take it one step at a time—both figuratively and literally.

So this summer I challenge you, oh people of Beaver County: Get up…get out…and get walking! Get up off the couch and away from the TV (it’s not going to kill you if you miss an episode of CSI, believe me). Get out and talk to your neighbors. Get some fresh air and enjoy your community. After all, before you know it winter will be upon us and you’ll be complaining about how cold and dreary it is.

We sure are a funny bunch of folks, aren’t we?

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STUFF WE WISH WE’D SEE IN THE NEWSPAPER

County to Bring Back Trolley System

July 1, 2009—In a move that surprised everyone today, Commissioner Frank Lee Idongivadam announced that Beaver County has received federal funding to bring back the county’s trolley system. The project is due to begin next spring and will connect each of the county’s commercial districts by a new, high-efficiency trolley system.

“Trolleys aren’t new to Beaver County,” said Idongivadam. “Not long ago we had a wonderful trolley/rail system that allowed people to get around cheaply and easily. The other commissioners and I were sitting around trying to figure out a way to save money and improve transportation, when I said ‘Duh! Why don’t we just bring back the trolleys?’ It was one of my finer moments, if I don’t say so myself.”

Back in the first half of the 20th century, trolley’s were a main means of transportation across the country. However, following World War II, many of the trolley companies were bought by the automobile industry and the tracks were ripped out of the streets faster than you can say “money-hungry executive.” After that, Americans were fooled to believe…er…I mean convinced that they had to own a car in order to be happy and survive. It wasn’t soon before the only trolley left was the one on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. Now that’s all about to change.

Along with the new trolley system, the commissioners plan to reopen many of the old train stations in the county and offer passenger service again. “After we came up with the trolley idea,” said Idongivadam, “someone – I think it was me – said, ‘Hey, we should bring back the trains too!’ So that’s just what we’re going to do.”

The commissioner said that the decision was made after a 25-year-long study that showed that rail travel is not only cheaper than other forms of travel but that it’s also convenient, better for the environment, and heck, people just like to ride on trains. When asked why it took so long for them to realize this since countries in Europe figured it out decades ago, the commissioner had no comment.

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waves of grain falter

tickling the hillside

o’er the top in Cradle Valley

lies Painter’s Brook

feathered in happiness

secluded as the womb

barefoot maidens washboard mended wraps

on banks of prancing ripples

earless babes carousel on all sides

and the menfolk...

distant in the foliage

a whispering mandolin echos

nibly playing with a contented heart

—A. Abraham

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- the reintegration project -

nathan peluso

Oh god I forget how to write, this is horrible. I forget how to have the reintegration project. What was it…?

Three big stupid words? Integrated, re-integrated, projects, the… the, the what…? What was it we were even trying to integrate? Oh no, help me, do you know?

Life goes on, it just does, mornings and evenings come and go. Birds fly and kids grow. A poem, randomly in the middle of a crisis? Now what…

Now I can either write about reintegrating, or not.

I can dig deep for the meaning, or, I can think about business and sports. Or I can read a book. Divine

intervention? Or I can write about something else… non-integration perhaps. Or how about anti-projects?

Strange thing is, both writing about the project, and finding its meaning, seem entangled in an ever-expanding juxtaposition of revelation and co-dependency.

Without writing about the re-integration project, it doesn’t seem to exist.

Without the re-integration project itself, writing ceases, because oh my how else to put it?

As rain taps against windows.

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25 to 10,000

The writer and the mouse wrote about the place they shared.

The mouse, whose generations called it home.

The writer, who loved the history she learned there.

They met in the kitchen that was built 200 years before.

Their fate became one before she walked out the door.

They wrote a little story for others to read,

Who wondered about that old house they would see.

The writing was fair,

The drawings were spare.

But the history they loved showed everywhere.

Let’s make some books for our family and friends,” the mouse said out loud.

“That’s a good idea,” she said.

They could talk by now.

To the printer they went.

“We’d like 25 books,” they said quite proud.

“Oh, no,” said the printer.

“500 is the least you’re allowed.”

“Not 500. What will we do?”

“Sell them,” he said.

So, they did.

It made them bold and they traveled to all of the places of history.

The writing got better.

The drawings did, too.

The stories were told of times and places true.

The mouse and his writer look back at 25.

“It’s 10,000 now. Can you believe how it’s grown?

The stories of history to everyone are known.”

“They do seem to love the stories, it’s true.

We love to do it, me and you.

Let’s keep on writing and drawing, too.

After all, it’s what we do.”

So, they did.

—Evelyn Adams

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I Go

I go

In the still of the night I am not still

Past and future collide with a myriad of tiny explosions emitting particles of light

Some blinding, some illuminating, some cast me in an unsightly glow

Only One does not ebb – it grows steadfast

Until I realize it has been eternally burning

but I had not been attuned to its frequency

I am HIGH frequency

Sound waves light waves catapulting off the walls

Heat waves dancing up from my Phoenix fire

Singe, Surge and Refine

Walking through that fire has been my undoing and my redoing

My Protean pilgrimage

and ,then,

the path I fled through the thorny underbrush when I ran for my life

my moonless journey lit, again, by the eternal light guiding my feet

even through the labyrinthine detours that I veered into as if on autopilot.

I see the verse written on my foot in glowing letters, but cannot make out the characters.

Seeing through the glass darkly

Too often I lost my patience and shattered my looking glass with my fist

Instead of simply asking for light,

or trusting that I already saw all that I was ready to know.

(Eve was my mother; I cannot be other than what

I am.)

The scars of my impatience

Tattoo my once innocent skin

I – now, no innocent victim,

wear my scars with the acceptance of one who has stacked his time and been released from prison.

I – now, realize that the moon was there the whole time, too.

Hiding her face

but watching, waxing, waning, the way all good mothers do when their children need to learn to shine on their own.

I – now, return to my Pandora’s Box, to see what’s left.

Hope, of course, her heart beating steadily,

And, instead of razor wire, Hope’s heart is encrusted with jewels.

Each and every color I lost. ALL of the pearls that I threw to starved swine, thinking I’d thereby gain my own sustenance.

My sustenance came not from the swine who, insatiable, tried next to devour me.

But I am sustained.

I am still here.

So, all that I have left is Hope.

But its roots, oh

Its roots, they go DEEP and cannot be torn from me

My fire is always burning. My ashes are returning.

To bit by bit, knit together my broken bones

(backbone first)

To piece, by peace, reattach pieces of my Self to my bones

(eyes first, then my womanhood –

– in EVERY JOYOUS ASPECT it was created to embody)

It is not such a painstaking project as you might imagine, dear friend.

Listen for Love’s voice; you will know what step to take next…

Climb

Dance

Kneel

Stretch

Sing

Weep

Release

Attach

Rock on.

There you are.

Open your eyes and see by Wisdom’s light; you will know where to go next…

Peace

Joy

Patience

Gentleness

Inward

Outward

Onward

Upward

I go there.

—Paula Soto

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Eleven Years Late

They sent you a letter

And it came to me

They didn’t know

Of course

But now I have this envelope

With your name staring up at me

And it almost like you’re still around

And this is your house

And I’m seventeen

And your grass needs cut

All because of this

Stupid envelope

That I can’t throw away

–Valentine J. Brkich

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A Soulmate's Dream

A fire in my life that keeps glistening

ears to my words that keeps listening

without you, something is missing

you are a star, so upon you i'm wishing

blind vision consumes me while alone

the sound of your voice in my heart's song

once weak at love's response, now strong

the pitch of everlasting joy is your tone

i'm back to my old me

now my heart has no more cold freeze

you actually took time to get to know me

you're sprit is like candy, so sweet

to the Lord i've asked to answer

constantly he repeats, ''patience is a virtue''

you are an addiction like sticks of cancer

a covenant is deeper than a promise

i will not hurt you

you're worth jewels

however much i can spend

pack the church pews

you take me away from sin

you're my friend

my golden queen

in the end

a soulmate's dream

4 Rhonette 4rom Stephen Suggs

—Stephen J. Suggs

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The Nice Nazi

I saw a Nazi today

Rollin’ down the road

In full Nazi regalia

A lost soul

An alien from another world.

(An alien would have startled me less.)

Did you steal through a tear in time

Mr. Nazi

For some devious purpose?

Because if you did…

But wait

What’s this?

You stop

To let a man and his dog

Cross the street.

Not very Nazi-like

If you ask me.

But that’s a good thing.

–Valentine J. Brkich

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26 Bones

Hugh Harper

Have you ever stared at your feet and simply marveled at them?

To be sure the Chinese, in the practices of both acupuncture and acupressure, believe that many illnesses both originate from and can be controlled from the feet. Modern day reflexologists understand that there are thousands of nerve points in the feet that when manipulated, can bring a person to a better overall health and wellness, particularly at the base of the feet, which when one considers it, take the brunt of an upright person’s force that can only be measured in the ton. It can be generally noted that a person who walks a lot, can either be the happiest chap around or one miserable SOB.

The fact is that these 26 bones (in the feet) work together to propel muscles, nerves, ligaments and tendons and other bones simultaneously to overcome gravity, and over vast stretches – physically, spiritually and mentally. A physicist relating how walking and the inevitability of gravitational pull might address it like this: Walking is simply a graceful means of falling down.

As I consider now, my life – finding true love, finding a home, finding a town in which to live and one in which to work – I am forced to reminisce on the path that brought me to this place in life, and it was indeed these two feet that brought me here, even to the desk in my house at 4:30 a.m. to write this.

Ever since I got kicked off the bus in middle school, I knew that I was destined to walk a lot. You see, my parents were not the wimpy overprotective parents that one sees today driving their apathetic, text-minded children to school in their giant SUVs; they were and still are a hearty, physical people, who took ten-day stretches deep into our national park systems, coming out filthy after mauling bears and other unsuspecting woodland creatures for sustenance. So when it came to getting my mischievous rear end to school, I walked. I met friends along the way. We lollygagged and laughed, and we were still quite mischievous. But Mother Nature is more tolerant and her punishment can be far crueler than the wrath of the bus driver.

Rain, snow, or shine, I walked and imagined. You’re thinking my parents were ticked. Probably, but I can give the loving act of them shoving me off to school credit for my current life – Christian, conservative, married, father; and at 40 years of age, younger than my peers.

If you live a sedentary, unimaginative life of staring at your TV or computer, or if you’re subscribing to the mindless apatheticals of texting and “tweeting,” try getting up and taking a long brisk walk through Beaver, Flag Plaza in Rochester, Atlantic Avenue in Monaca, or Brady’s Run. And take a friend. Our county is not made for the introverted, “Biggest Loser” crowd, which is the majority of the country. We’re made for action. Take it.

Vol. III, Issue I - Spring 2009

Back in the day, bridgeless, our dear Beaver County still has a bit of history going on...

Trees grow healthy and hills form calmly a valley. Old Stone’s Point Hotel awaits guests and rests others.

A steamboat passes in the waters of the Ohio, as the Beaver laps quietly the shore. A beaver floats by, happy that the river and the valley have taken its name.

Behind the scene, you will notice no bridge. Just a hill. And can you see that great blue heron?

The ghost of White Eyes sits cross-legged in the tall grass upon the bluff, and ponders how the spirits have become one.
From Indians to immigrants to settlers to all of the residents who have ever sat at the mini confluence of Beaver County, and made their homes here.

To the soldiers, and to the cool northern breeze.

A montage of all past lives, and animals, and waters and trees.

To go back and to sit along the banks. To cruise or paddle slowly down the stream. To walk unto the edge and to see the future, and past, and present drift by in the steady stream.

When you look to the space where the bridge lies,
it is more full, than empty, of history.

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In Town
Valentine J. Brkich

If you happened to be in Beaver a couple weeks ago on a Monday night, you may have seen me stomping like an idiot down the brick sidewalk along the main street, with my 18-month-old daughter in tow. I was stomping along to the tune of the alphabet song because it was the only way I could keep my daughter following me towards our destination – my car. It was way past her bedtime, and I had to get her home as soon as possible. I guess I was a Pied Piper, of sorts.

Those of you without children may be asking why I didn’t just pick her up. After all, I am her father and she’s only a little baby.

That’s a fair question. The reason why I didn’t just pick her up is because she would’ve kicked and screamed and made quite a scene. You see, she may only be 18 months old, but she’s already a strong, independent woman like Beyonce or Gloria Steinem. And being carried by Daddy or riding in a stroller is “so yesterday,” as the kids say. No, my little girl wants to be on her own now, stumbling down the sidewalk, free to investigate every little cigarette butt or discarded piece of trash she finds. Meanwhile, I follow close behind saying “No touch!” and “Yucky!” and other disturbing baby-talk commands.

We came to town because we needed milk. It was my bright idea to park at one end of the street and then walk to Beaver Super on the other end. It was a nice night, and I thought a quick walk would tire my little munchkin out.

But, as I soon discovered, there are no quick walks with a toddler. Between where we parked and the grocery store, there’s probably 15 or 20 storefronts, each with its own doorway, and many with a step up into the store. Of course, my little girl had to inspect each one of these doorways and climb each of the steps. She likes steps, my daughter. She’s drawn to them like a sailor to the Sirens.

We also had to stop for a while and stomp and jump on a metal, loading-dock doorway in the sidewalk in front of one of the stores. This took several minutes.

Eventually, we reached the grocery store, and I was able to get in and out rather quickly. But of course, on the return walk we had to repeat the entire process all over again: the metal door jumping, the picking up of litter, the inspecting of the storefronts and steps, etc. It took a while, but I finally figured out that stomping along to the alphabet song kept her moving along towards our goal.

As we reached the car, I swooped in and scooped up my daughter and quickly strapped her into her car seat before she could put up a fuss. Our “quick little walk” had come to an end.

But even though it took a little longer than expected…and even though I had to stomp along the sidewalk – in public, in broad daylight – while singing the alphabet song…I have to admit it was one of the more pleasant walks in recent memory.
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Manitou? What is it?
Barbara Ortega

I get this question all the time.
Probably because that's what we named our studio. Manitou.
I tell them there's the short answer and there's the long answer. Which one do they want?
Okay. The short one.
It's the face you see in the tree trunk.
Or a cloud that may have the manitou of an alligator.
It's all in the eye of the beholder.

The long answer, on the other hand,
Requires a couple chairs
And a cup of something or other.
We can do that some other time.

You see, my old man discovered a dremel a while back.
It started innocently enough.
Said he was only going to play around with
the towel rack in the bathroom.

(Fast forward a couple months)

I now live in a house with dremeled designs on anything remotely wooden:
On the floor boards
On the window and door trim
On the cabinets
and On the birdhouse.

It didn't take us long to realize that
We needed a studio. Or a room addition.
One or the other.

I checked out both.
The studio was cheaper.

Please visit us at: www.hometownartusa.com
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Soul Print
Sloan Pellegrini

It is strange to think that a new space satellite has the capability to pick up a humans own distinct print from space.
This print distinguishes one from all others,
Blues, reds, yellows, and greens mesh like the winds of a hurricane, constructing a sole silhouette of humanity,
It kind of makes you feel special just thinking about it,
sort of like your mother used to.

Yes, the mother satellite orbiting the Earth, omniscient like God.
Knowing where you stand, revealing the energy of your essence,

She is there for all of your big and small moments;
When you are sick, laughing, or thinking impure thoughts.
It’s funny to think that a hunk of metal beyond the atmosphere can identify your idiosyncratic kaleidiscope,
While you still remain an enigma to me.
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New Brighton – A Brief Town History

The first reference to the land that would become New Brighton is recorded in the annals of Moravian missionaries who set up temporary camp there in 1770 en route to Friedenstadt (now Moravia, in Lawrence County). In the late 1700s, a simple blockhouse along the Beaver River (look for a marker on Third Avenue) was manned by a small garrison of soldiers charged with maintaining security on the frontier. This post was the highest that could be held in “Ohio Country” by the United States Army until 1793, when the blockhouse was abandoned due to the army’s westward movement into the Indian stronghold of the Northwest Territory (Ohio).

New Brighton's beginnings as a community began in 1815 when David Townsend scoped out a plan of lots on a riverbank terrace opposite the busy industrial village of Brighton. “New” Brighton soon grew in prominence, prompting the Harmony Society (owners of Brighton) to rename their town Beaver Falls.

Townsend mapped out New Brighton in 1828 in anticipation of a state-funded canal being constructed along the Beaver River (the borough was incorporated in 1838).The project brought prosperity to New Brighton. Water-powered mills and gristmills soon lined the riverbank, with boats hauling goods through the river’s five locks to markets beyond. Bridges were added, including, in 1833, a more durable replacement to the Rochester-Bridgewater span built in 1816. A covered bridge to Fallston, constructed in 1837, stood until the flood of 1884. The coming of the Pennsylvania railroad in 1851 led to the eventual demise of the canal, but even after canal traffic ceased in 1882, its waters continued to provide hydraulic power for industries until other sources of energy became available.

New Brighton played a role in the Civil War. While men were sent off to fight in Gettysburg, Fair Oaks and the Battle of the Wilderness, others back home tended to details that aided more than 3,000 solders on the front lines. Townswomen sewed uniforms and made bandages. Buildings on Fourth Avenue and 11th Street were used to house soldiers and provide medical examinations for enlistees. The New Brighton Historical Society currently sponsors a Civil War re-enactment group that portrays the Company C 63rd Pennsylvania Infantryman recruited from New Brighton in 1861.

In the 20th Century, New Brighton's industry left the rivers but remains in town. The borough still holds claim to an interesting variety of items that have been produced there—everything from bricks, glass, sewer pipes and hydraulic power to flour, twine, lead kegs, refrigerators, bath tubs, wallpaper, steel castings, nails, rivets and wire. Along with Fallston, Pulaski and Daugherty, it is part of the New Brighton Area School District.

Courtesy of Beaver County Bicentennial Atlas and New Brighton During Civil War Times by Karen Helbling, Milestones Vol. 11 No. 2, Spring 1986
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Que Linda
Jennifer Angelo

When I arrived in Colombia, South America, for vacation, I was glad I’d reviewed my high school Spanish. Even before I left the airport in Cali, key phrases came in handy, such as, “I’ve been in your lovely country for two days now, and my luggage is still lost. Are you really looking for it?” And on the third day, when my bags did arrive, I called to a passerby as I exited the airport, “I think I’ve dislocated both arms from carrying my suitcase which weighs about147 pounds. Could you please call a doctor?”

One useful word was “piscina,” which means swimming pool, a most welcome accommodation at the hotel, considering the scorching heat. Another useful word was “agua.” It was still hot and I wanted something refreshing to drink. Since I didn’t know any words to order a refreshing drink like Manhattan on the rocks, I could at least get a glass of agua before I dehydrated from flapping around in the piscina.

But by far, the most important phrase was “Que linda” (pronounced “kay-lean-dah”) meaning, “How pretty!” After only a short time in a nation where English is not spoken, I realized that saying “how pretty” is essential. As a visitor in a foreign land, I didn’t want to accidentally insult someone by saying something like, “Your face lift looks wonderful! Your face doesn’t look like an old walnut look anymore.” Or, in an art gallery: “A stool spray-painted silver is art?” Miscommunication is bad for international affairs, and since I was, in my own way, an ambassador from my country of origin, I commented, “Que Linda!” whenever in doubt.

On part of my trip, I stayed in a fancy hotel with two Colombian ladies who spoke only Spanish. One evening, they invited me to join them for a walk on the hotel grounds. Wanting to try out my new foreign language skills, I quickly answered, “SEE!” (For those of you who studied Klingon in high school, “si” means “yes” in Spanish).

Together we strolled and admired Amazon-size plants while I said, “Que linda!” We listened to chirpy bugs jamming in their own little marimba bands and I remarked, “Que linda!” We passed life-size chess pieces on a checkerboard painted on the sidewalk. Unfamiliar with the word for chess, I just said, “Que linda!”

As I admired how pretty everything was, my two new friends were deep in conversation. This is what I picked up: “My sister’s cancer has returned, and we are all very worried.” And the other woman said, “This year my neighbor’s daughter married a man who doesn’t seem to love her.” Then they furrowed their eyebrows and looked sad.

In response to their tragedies, I pointed and said, “Tres piscinas!” (Three pools!) I didn’t say “Que linda.” That would’ve been rude.

The women smiled and quickly turned towards their rooms.

In the days that followed, I called everyone and everything “Que linda,” and smiled and shook lots of hands. Then it was time to return home. At the airport, the customs agent asked me, “How many leekers are you taking out of the country?”

“Leeks? I have leeks?” I asked.

She frowned and said, “Leekers, leekers.” At which point I realized she meant “liquor.”

I showed her my bottle of agua and she confiscated it pronto. When she came across the museum-quality, silver-painted stool stowed in my suitcase, she frowned and called over a guard. I frantically searched my mind for the Spanish words for jail, crime and objects of national treasure but came up blank. They looked at the stool, said, “Que linda,” stamped my passport and waved me through security. All in all I had a great trip. It was que linda.
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A Sunday Conversation
G. Merle & Gram

– How’s Chookie doin’? I heard he’s sick.
– Yeah, he ain’t doin’ to well. I saw’m the other day. He was all drunked up.
– Oh my.
– He’s got a spur in his neck.
– That’s a shame.
– They don’t know how it got there, either.
– So he burned his neck…How’d he do that?
– No, I said he’s got a spur in his neck. He didn’t burn it.
– Oh, a spur. That’s terrible. Is he still married to that Mancini girl?
– No, she wasn’t a Mancini.
– I thought she was a Mancini.
– No, I think she was a De Luca.
– That’s right. De Luca. I knew she was eye-talian.
– Anyway, he was all drunked up.
– A spur. That’s a shame.
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A Polish Haircut
Nathan Peluso

The waddling woman who had come back from the store put down her potatoes and picked up her clippers. She pointed at the chair. I went there, obligingly, or like a timid, obedient dog. How many times had she done this before…? Many. I was the newest, the next, and that was all. And it wasn’t like in France where I had a shitty, perhaps the shittiest, haircut of all time, where they looked at me with incomparable bewilderment, like an alien (either me or them) and made me search through reams of photos of guys heads for the proper doo. No, here she held her fingers apart… once wider, once closer together. I took the closer together one. Even closer I put ‘em. Then she pointed to a photo on the mirror, one of four photos… “Like this,” she gestured. I took a one second look at the coolest, sunglass-wearing, cigarette-smoking, suit-toting Pole of all time and said, “Yes”… I mean, “Tak!” “Oh yes, Tak!” I said it (perhaps even gave her the two thumbs up) and she began.

She tilted the buzzers toward the hair above my ear. “Buzz”… and before she’d hardly begun, the buzzing ceased, like a lawnmower run out of gas, an engine dying it was and I thought, “Oh, that’s why it costs 10 zlotys.” The elder, box-like Polish woman waddled slightly to the right, where the plug came from and twisted it, as if to fix it. She brought the buzzers back to my shaggy brown hair and started again, “Bzzz..”. And off it went, again. This went on for quite a while and soon enough I realized that this was the way it was, and the way it would be. Buzz, stop… Buzz stop… Buzz, stop…. it went. This plain and cheesy place. How much now more than ever I wished I had left after noticing a hot devutchka didn’t work here. But 10 zlotys! Wow! Who could pass that up, only $3 back in the States, where normally I pay $17.

So she buzzed away. I sat cool and collected, but still, wanting badly for that hotty stylist from Zakopane to be sculpting my great brown potentiality. Later we would make a date, for beer, and then the lovin’. Oh yeah. Oh no. I opened my eyes and noticed again the plump, box-like elderly babcka, buzzing, puttering out, then buzzing again. Short-circuited and she knew the trick. Just flip it off then back on again. I wasn’t impressed. In fact I began to lose hope. As I stared into the typical beauty salon mirror, I noticed again that French horror cropping up upon my poor, deserving head. How much I vowed never to let that happen again. So I closed my eyes and dreamed of better days. It was all I had… these dreams. I dreamt of a Zakopane nymphet, first buzzing, then clipping, then asking if I wanted a wash. Then the soap and the massage and then dinner at 7 and wine. I dreamed again of Paula, awaiting in Pennsylvania for my travel-worn dreads to appear and needing a rugged thinning. I dreamed of how always, somehow, it works out right. Actually I dreamt of how I really didn’t even care. I never really care when I get my hair cut. The normal routine is to tell the “hair-cutter” (usually Paula) to just do what she or he wants. “Give it your best.” I say. And I mean it. For the most part.

Strangely, I felt the tensions leave. I really was calm, almost like a Buddha. She buzzed away. All four clips she used. She brought out the scissors and she clipped away. From time to time I would open my eyes, groggily I would see the horror. All square and in 1950’s clothes she stood, not even good ones. The room was an Eastern European combination of dull and tasteless tacky. In a way I loved it, in a way it was my darkness. Oh, how my bangs looked like a rude clown’s! I never looked so bad before. The Polish hipster suddenly really did look cool. So I closed them again and thought of betters days.

Much time went by, maybe forever. I thought never to open them again…

But I did…

…How could it be? As I squinted groggily from the haze of heavy eyes into a mirror I’d nearly forgotten. How could it be that she was putting the final touches on one of the coolest haircuts I’ve ever had of all time! What the….????

It was true! So I let her finish, with her patented comb-twisting hair-dryer bit. And I let her suddenly take a vast liking to my head and its brown glory and begin to look for even the smallest of errors to correct. She had become engrossed in this process. She had begun to like it, really a lot. She had become the slave of my hair.

Then, once it was dry, she noticed that I was missing something and asked if I needed it washed. Somehow she asked this, not in English anyhow, but I understood. I accepted, as customary I would ask Paula to do the same. But, once the scrubbing and rinsing and the scrubbing and rinsing had ended, I realized that Paula’s method is better… it doesn’t cost 5 zlotys! The bill came and suddenly I knew why she had liked my hair so much… 17 zlotys she wrote. The scrap of ripped paper held her black penned words like a biblical mountaintop sign from the Alighty… 17 zlotys! Immediately I felt stupid for not asking how much the hair washing would cost. I should have known better! Actually I anticipated that she might try charging 2 in a savvy attempt at her now ecstatic customer, maybe 3, but never 5! So I told her rationally of how the other woman had told me 10 for everything. But I didn’t play hardball.

I grabbed the pen and let her go for 15. That’s enough zlotys for her and that’s enough for me. It was the principal at this point. No matter how good she sculpted that 3 month European-grown beast resting-rugged up there, I couldn’t let her have me like that. No. It couldn’t and wouldn’t be. So I kept them 2 zlotys and left her sweeping happily, yes happily, but maybe a bit confused, the newly cut hairs upon the floor… like she’s done, oh so many times before.
______

“Foosball”
A quick play in one part.

[A normal room in a normal house, rather bare if anything, wooden floors, foosball table off to one side (almost in center); people stand gathering; some play the game]

Again, there’s that cold silence. I, Eisler Butterworth can wait no longer.

“Won’t they please finish! – Won’t I finally begin!… Seven minutes are in the passing, and I ache to play. For foosball’s my name and Eisler Butterworth’s my game. This immaculate sport has long been my most favorite of all “party game” pastimes!”

[A flicker of thought wisps through the room, only to be caught by one man]

Please, don’t ask why… O.K. fine… Let me elaborate…

“It’s the way those little guys move, I guess.”

You want more?

“Well, if you insist, a more involved explanation is my treat… For it seems to me that there is a parallel, a curious similarity between those stilted, yet proudly-focused wooden figurines. Despite such ludicrous overtures – the plain striped jersey, clean-clipped hair and sullen nature – these wax dolls do (in their own skittish fashion) have a bit of character. Of course, it takes quite the twisting of the arm, so to speak, to get it out of them. A spin here, a yank there, next thing you know and you’ve got that solid little grayish game ball bouncing and spinning and whacking at a relatively impressive gate.”

[Momentary lull as natural, more base instincts take over]

“But Ahhh… I must get on the game…Nearly forgot about it after all those mental yammerings.”

“Sabrina… next game?!”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never played before!”

“Oh, good then, maybe we’ll make a match of it and show these geezers how it’s done!”

[Song plays in background]

“I really do like this song. Perhaps it’s one of my favorites. Sing Brother! …
”The OmlayOmlayOmlayoooohhhh””

[Attention shifts]

Something about the way the light shifts and gleams off the polished oak floorboards. And the warm flickering of the candle lit fireplace… A sound room indeed!

[Attention salvaged]

Okay, now what’s the score? Cool, one more point. Mighty Haff White has just got it again. “Good gosh, go home with it slick. Now fine, get another beer,” I thought.

[Beyond the sound of thunder, a more explosive sound ignites the room]

“Score!!!!”

And now, I, Eisler Butterworth will get my chance… “Bring it dog!”

[Game over]

- by Francesco
______

Anticipation

I don my knitted cap
Once more
As March again pulls
Its yearly trickery.
But this biting wind
I fight to keep
From slipping down
My collar
Isn’t the same one
That carried away
Our dreams of summer
So many months ago.
This bitter chill
I take in stride
Knowing
That close behind
Nipping at its heels
Is the warm breath of Spring
Waiting to release
The waning grasp
Of Winter.

– Valentine J. Brkich
______

The Mall Grinder Poem

Don’t think of the mall-grinder as a bad thing...It might have an evil smile and sharp steel teeth...The noise it creates may be deafening...All of the concrete to which you feel wasted now consumed in its fiery belly

…This may make you sad, or ponderous…
And you may ask why…?

Why does the mall grinder need to come near me and destroy my things?
Oh that gray box
Oh those paved lots
Oh the rumbly road to get there

And you may suddenly feel nostalgic…

How clear and brightly illuminated you remember her, glowing amongst the luminescent din of that square box store. Yes, under those fluorescent lights, taut in a standard blue apron, sweating through days’ worn clothing, arms balancing plastic-boxed knickknacks. What time is it? Overtime? Oh those times! And those knickknacks and “Back to School” specials! Walking back and forth ‘til exhausted.

Egad, alas! Oh the world gone by! And you would see that long lost dream, that twinkle in her eye saying: Though I know the mall-grinder is eating the parking lot at night and tearing down cinder-block walls, munching knickknacks and spewing them into a callous pile by a hill. But still we have our times together! Don’t you remember fondly those wide highways, potholes and roadkill along the way, our way. Oh, we used to growl our engine. We used to roar and yell at those slow bastards driving in our way!

Standing there, feeling hazy under the lights, it made some sense. Why did the blue-aproned people whom walked sallow in these corridors day and night stand for it? Why did they permit a steel-fanged, steely & ice-veined creature to sit in the (now half-eaten, half-replanted with grass and trees) parking lot and await the hour until they left? And then,

“Munch” (another pile of rubble—and yes the mall grinder would leave strange notes saying: “It’s for the people that I seek a better life! Grass I plant in my wake, green hills I shall return, one munch at a time.”) But would you believe him?

In the dark as its steel rests cold, a grin forms, barely visible in the moonlight
The mall-grinder
Shadowed on the horizon, usually behind it - the ironic silhouettes of trees, relatives to the trees to which have been callously crushed and killed long ago.
His note would be left on the window:

Box-stores begone and parking lots
Into my belly, ground towards not
Replacing all the pain I got
With green and grass and cool raindrops

The beast wrote it, she says, as she holds out her hand with the note, poetic as it may be and in such style! But under the fluorescent light of the store, as you take it from her hand, you realize the dirt smudge is not dirt at all, but blood! Whose blood?

And oddly, you can feel it in your veins, these words bringing hope, not destruction. This vision is not one of an Armageddon, but one of a new day. From the words, beastly as they may be, you realize surely those steel teeth bear no judgement, nor malice, nor vice.

They only crush like a vice. Like Chuck Norris.

Yes, and oh, to where has the imagination allowed your children to wander? To an evil spirit, that comes to town in night? The mall-grinder? And you may think him evil because of his sharp teeth and menacing grin…

But, no

There is really a smile
A smile that comes when you least expect it
To when you feel that only desperation has seized the world, and your town, and the end is near. You hear that grinder over the hill. You feel the demon coming closer to your heart.

If you smile, you will know.

Yes, the demon with the sharp steel fangs ripping and grinding through night and now day. It brings light.
The light will shine upon the dark soil. And one day soon, when the rains have fallen and the new day has come
A small green blade of grass will reach again towards the skies. The sun will smile, warmth will radiate through the land. And you will have your place again in the world
The world will return, as the old world ends.

-by Nathan Peluso
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Project Greensweep.com
Ms. Krywicki

To paraphrase a frog….”It’s not easy being Clean”…
BUT, it is possible and that’s what we would like Beaver County to be….CLEAN!

In these tough economic times, Beaver County needs whatever edge it can get, to attract new homeowners…new
businesses…new corporations….and CLEAN is not only welcoming, peaceful and possible, ..CLEAN is relatively cheap!!

Take a few minutes …once a day, once a week, to check your yard and the street in front of where you live, for litter. Pick it up. Throw it away. Your home will look better and you will feel better about where you live.

Help elderly neighbors by checking their homes for litter. You’ll put a smile in their hearts.

THINK before you roll down your car window and throw out your water bottle, or beer can (why are you drinking while driving?). PUT your cigarette butt (why are you still smoking anyway…it can kill you) in a container in your car.

BE CAREFUL when you put your trash and recyclables out for pickup. Make sure the wind will not blow them all over the neighborhood before the trucks arrive.

LOOK at your roads and highways when you drive to work and think how the litter would look to someone who has never been here before. What kind of impression do we want to make on those who drive through our home county? What kind of feeling do we want about our home?

There will be a county wide clean up the weekend of April 24th -26th. The large clean up will be Saturday April 25th. We would like each community to sponsor an event.
Beaver, New Brighton, Chippewa, Bridgewater and Ambridge have already begun to plan theirs. Call Town Center at 724-728-0500 and ask Kim to give you a contact in those areas. Also visit us at www.projectgreensweep.com

In the meantime, there are several wonderful groups of volunteers that clean up their downtowns year round.

Rochester has “The Bloomers”…
ronandbettymurtha@verizon.net

New Brighton has “New Brighton Beautifiers” vmcelvy@aaud.org

Monaca has “Happy Weeders”
...call Town Center 724-728-0500 for the number

Ambridge has “The Committee to Clean and Beautify
Ambridge” ...bruins83@comcast.net

Let’s all work together to clean up our HOME.
_____

Beneath the Train Bridge
Stephanie Higgins

I glanced out of my car window just in time to notice how the fog had settled snuggly beneath the train bridge. The water below was masked in soft grey puffs as the tired steel frame proudly tried to hold everything in its place. Teasing winds threatened its authority and the blinking red and blue lights seemed to caution everyone to lower their gaze and tone to a whisper. Because movies are filled with magic and illusion...it seemed that is where this scene belonged. It made me feel dark and cold yet somehow quietly mysterious and pleased with the moment I found myself in.

Just like with everything else, life all depends on how we view it. A dark and damp night overwhelmed by monochromatic grey pantones could just as easily cause one to shrink and shiver. What came before or what comes after could play a roll but forcing ourselves to seek beauty...to find something good...even something little...in everything, helps to change what we feel on the inside. We all paint our own pictures...we use our own palettes and place our own judgments. Allow grey to make its way into your rainbow. Accept flaws with a smile and fog with a knowing wink. Write your own soundtrack and be the star of your very own film where you drive off into the night and leave everyone wondering what comes next.

Vol. II, Issue IV - Winter 2008

If you’ve seen this furry cat, please write to us. His name is Sprout and he’s been missing now from his home in Beaver for far too long. And his family and friends have been missing him.

Besides the sad news, we have some good news for you: Another edition of The Bridge is here, just in time for the holidays! This is officially our 7th issue, and officially one more year has turned the corner with the words of The Bridge echoing through the Valley.

You’ve probably wrapped up your holiday shopping for the season, but the wonderful little shops of our Beaver County towns are here all year long. There are many benefits to shopping local: It’s convenient, it’s good for the economy by reinvesting your money where you live. And it’s fun too. Besides, you can really find some unique things out there.

As always, we welcome contributions. So please, take out that dusty notebook and send your musings from years past. Or go to Pollock’s in Downtown Beaver and buy a new one, and start scratching. We like the sound that it makes, and so many others do too.

We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Thanks for reading and supporting us again!

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In Town
Valentine J. Brkich

They tell me we’re in a recession, that the economy is down, that it hasn’t been this bad since the Great Depression. Okay, fine, whatever. Times are tough. That’s true. But until they tell me that the Nintendo Wii video game systems aren’t flying off the shelves or that people have stopped buying $3 lattes at you know where, I’m not going to hit the panic button. I have family who lived through the Great Depression – people who shared a bed with four siblings and were ecstatic to get an apple for Christmas. So maybe money is a little tight right now, but let’s try to keep this all in perspective.

It’s times like these when I reevaluate my spending. Maybe that means going to the library instead of buying that book I so desperately want. This is good for a number of reasons: (1) it saves me money, (2) it may save a tree or two, and (3) it reminds me of what a valuable resource we have in our library system here in Beaver County and that I should support it as much as possible.

I think there’s a lot of good that can come out of spending less. For one, maybe it will break this gotta-have-it attitude that we’ve been taught to live by. We buy something and a couple months later a new version comes out. Gotta have it! The TV tells us that this is the new style that everyone is wearing. Gotta have it! We live in a throwaway society where we’re told that nothing we have is ever good enough, that we have to keep buying new things to be happy. Gotta have it! But don’t take my word for it – check out www.storyofstuff.com and see for yourself.

Here in Beaver County, we’re used to tough economic times. We saw the collapse of the steel industry and lived to tell about it. We’ve even thrived in some areas, redefining who and what we are. I think tough economic times like these can actually help us reevaluate what’s really important and, in the end, can make us stronger.

For example, look at our downtowns. These unique, historic, charming business districts in Ambridge, Aliquippa, Beaver, Bridgewater, Midland, Monaca, Rochester, New Brighton, Beaver Falls, Freedom…these are real treasures. Unfortunately, a lot of them are struggling. Small business owners are the ones hit hardest by the struggling economy. We need to support them. We need to think of them first when we spend our money. Maybe that means going to your main street market for a gallon of milk instead of the big chain grocery store, even if you don’t get discounts on your gasoline. Maybe it means going to your town’s hardware store for those drywall screws, even if they’re a little cheaper at the home improvement super-center. Maybe it means going to your local gift shop, even if that means you have to park way down the block and – GASP!!! – actually walk a few extra steps to get there. Your local shop owners need your support. Without it, they’ll cease to exist. Without them, your town may cease to exist too.

So let’s all stand together during these tough times and try to find ways to help each other out. Let’s use this time to reevaluate things and change from a gotta-have-it, throwaway society to one where we appreciate what we have and realize what’s really important – our family, friends, neighbors and neighborhoods.

If you have other ideas on how Beaver County residents can support and help each other, let us know at contactthebridge@gmail.com.

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Old School Christmas

This Christmas will be “old school.”
After thirty-five years in faculty housing,
I retired from Westminster College;
We moved to a two-floor apartment
in the old Vine Street School,
the downstairs carved out of Brook’s kindergarten,
the upstairs out of Jimbo’s sixth grade classroom.
I expect to awaken
to cut-paper snowflakes
in all the windows,
construction paper garlands
in red and green swags
Hanging from the walls,
the smell of rubber boots,
wet wool, library paste
and the excitement
of generations of children
who knew that Christmas
was really about anticipation.

Copyright © 2008 by James A. Perkins

______

The Joys of Dog Ownership
Hugh Harper

“Madison!”
It’s a crisp winter’s morn. The scent of burning wood clings to the air and white puffs of steam exhale from my mouth. Quiet. Madison is running at full speed – chasing down the ever elusive rabbit that has burrowed a hole between three neatly groomed yards, and…
Crash! Into the only thing preventing her from actually catching that rascally varmint – our chain link fence.
Of course, I simply can not find it amusing because it’s two freakin’ thirty on the coldest morning ever, and I am in my backyard with my eyes half closed, looking like a cross-dressing Eskimo, whilst my betrothed softly slumbers as warm as a baby nestled softly against her mother’s bosom. Meanwhile, my eyelids freeze into a gunfighter stare, and I am thankful that no one else is outside to join me in the madness.
On this fine morning, when the air outside of our cozy home is at balmy zero degrees Kelvin, “Maddie”, our rescued mutt needs to visit nature, which in my defense, she could very well have done earlier, like when I was awake. To be honest, next time, I may be tempted to simply let her hold it – or whatever. Surely, there would be the inevitable mess, and clean-up, but look on the bright side, she would more likely clean it herself.
Eww!
She would be the perfect dog and I mean it. Kristi and I both agree that she would be, if not for the fact that every inch of our house is covered with one inch blond hairs. Sticky rolls are a joke. And vacuum sweepers simply die off.
Maddie herself however is clean. She should be after all the nether-regional licking she performs.
At 35 pounds, Maddie is not a large dog, yet as my wife and I settle for the evening, tucked neatly into our bed, Maddie usurps the royal queen in its entirety, leaving us with a leaf’s worth of cover and 2 pillows. To this day, I still can not explain how she does this.
Mind you, owning a dog is not like an old black and white Lassie rerun, where that simpleton, panty-waist Timmy is rescued by Lassie, every single episode – no. But it is a privilege and I love my dog.
Well, it’s naptime. I am wearing black, and she is extraordinarily cuddly this evening.

______


On The Shaky Bridge
Stephen Suggs

Thunderous trucks and
curious cars
stare just enough to see
who you are
Not far left
with every step
a fence protects me
from a tragic dea....
SPLATTER!
or SPLASHER!
those thunderous trucks
ride faster and faster
in my mind
they insult with laughter
carrying bags
laggardly i drag
on the corner of eyes
a known one past
i gasp
sitting down my strong bags
thinking, maybe a pick up
soon, THEY pass
at last,
across the bridge
half!
numbers count
each row i step
thunder clouds
we know i'm wet
still i stretch
and push
through the fence
i look
at a fatal fall
if the bridge is shook
off the hooks
nature of mother
rubs her
mighty breath
against my chest
either she likes
or not impressed
i think of death
burdens of all kinds
i think of jets
flying over a tall mind
i think of success
great mountains to climb
then, a call is cryin'
my sister, rings
phone dying
her whispers, scream
like a snipers beam
in order to combat
i have a dream
that Dr. King will come back
all the violence
would turn the other cheek
can't be silent
why leave our people weak
and i think
why are these cowards
raping little kids
the wind blows furiously
as i walk across
the shaky bridge

______


Bikin’ in the Baltics
Nathan Peluso

What began as a whimsical addition to my trek through the Baltic countries – a bike – has taken over as the predominant theme, the countries a backdrop for the peddling and the pain. But I aim towards a balance, a solid Baltic/Bike ratio, in which each enhances with utmost degree the other.

Being run ragged in health, and beaten from above by the weather, I could be in better shape… meaning, things could be better… less lonely, less ailment, less existential extreme. What could one expect though in Northern Estonia where remnants of every Soviet smack-down are only one-upped by the constant gray, biting winds, and rain? You cannot imagine a better purgatory, or a more temporal plain of existence.

Without being decently fit from the biking trip with TimDog just a few months ago in Virginia, and the constant stairs of St. Gallen, Switzerland where I was working this summer, my minds willing of the body would have ceased working miles and miles ago. And so, through it, I’ve gotten here, though I don’t know from where it is that I write you… “Rakvere,” just isn’t it. I am disoriented, spinning, and about as far East in the West as could be gotten. Though soon I’ll go further, only then, to drop down through the land, and hope that there’s a landing.

…

For now, the borscht has saved me. It was a godsent, this “Russian Borscht”. Steaming a mystic haze to awakened eyes, revealing through its peppery scent and heat this country-style restaurant within I sit, tired beyond tired, and comfortable though not desiring ever again to move. Each piping sip brought to my winded lips through slow measured spoonfuls, raised and blown to “hot” rather than the “dangerous” scalding state of which after twenty minutes has barely tempered a degree. And as around I look, and see, the deep brown wooden tables, eclectic matrushka dolls replacing what would be amish-buggy paraphernalia back home, and a solid wooden bar, I grow contented, and with my new savior, warm.

It’s only me, and against the other wall, a cozy group of elder gentlemen, warmed too and even moreso by each others company. Despite my solitude, I rejoice with them, and in my own still silence. The motherly waitress appearing lush and vivid before me didn’t hesitate to recommend the borscht when I got to the soup page, callously asiding the dumpling and hand-picked mushroom soup as if it were made in Latvia.

Here, in Estonia, in Rakvere, in a comfortable place with happy music and two nice middle-aged maitre-dees, destiny demanded a clay bowl of Russian red borscht capped like a wintertime babushka, but instead of felt & fur atop that bundled head, it’s a puffy mound of croissant-like bread, holding back the steam and the taste, til finally it can be taken no more, nor figured any other way, and the spoon is plunged through the crumbling exterior right through to the moist interior, releasing a blast of peppery aromatic onion and garlic and beet steam that will and did make the eyes and taste buds rejoice.

The pure joy and essence can hardly be explained in a less wordy sentence. Too hot to eat, I ate it anyways, blowing air across the bountiful spoon, diving bread into the thick piping waters, and munching down in all its lusciousness, chucking spoonfuls of sour cream and mixing it around. A deep breath to the nostrils, healing, each spoonful a cornacopia of tastes fused complete.

I loved this borscht! There’s no other way to say it. And I think the two heavenly cooks loved watching me eat it, cause with earned respect in their eyes, they glanced at me and at one another, wholesome understanding glances, sometimes held, just long enough for me to show my admiration, and them theirs. And at times they giggled and laughed like kids because I too was reduced to a kid by their creation, or shall it be said, elevated. I was brought to a certain glory, and as life seemed dim, I could have asked for no better call from the heavens.

For more Bikin’ in the Baltic stories, email me at: npeluso@hotmail.com


- the Baltic ghost-

I seen a ghost out in the Baltics
On the Eastern edge of town

I seen a ghost out in the Baltics
Movin’, around

I seen a ghost out in the Baltics
And tried to understand

I seen a ghost out in the Baltics
I reached out my hand

______


Bridgewater – A Brief Town History
Courtesy of the 1976 Beaver County Bicentennial Atlas

Bridgewater's history is closely associated with that of the Beaver and Ohio Rivers (and often much too closely!). The Great Path, or Tuscarawas Trail to Central Ohio followed the Ohio River from its forks, crossed the Beaver at Bridgewater, then veered to the northwest. When the Delaware Indians migrated to the Beaver Valley around 1725, their first village, Sawkunk, was located in Bridgewater, before moving to higher ground where Beaver now stands. Bridgewater was originally surveyed as outlets for the town of Beaver.

Settlement in the area was sparse until 1832, when the Beaver Division Canal was constructed from Rochester to New Castle (with subsequent extension to Akron and Erie). Although the Girard Locks were across the river, Bridgewater became the major terminal of the canal. Freight from river steamboats was reloaded onto canal boats headed north and west, and immigrants traveling down the canal tarried in Bridgewater while seeking passage westward on the Ohio.
Stone's Point, where the rivers meet, was the site of Stones Hotel, a noted landmark on the upper Ohio and stopping place for many river travelers. An island in the Ohio River was located here until obscured by flooding prior to the present century.

Bridgewater Borough combined with Sharon Village in 1868 (then part of Brighton Township). Sharon was the site of much activity in 1805, when a number of "Orleans" boats were constructed here to carry men and supplies to Aaron Burr's proposed colony in Louisiana.

Beaver County's first Methodist Church is believed to have been located here. In 1845, the Bridgewater Presbyterian Church was established, following a split in the Beaver congregation. In 1878, Professor Scudder Peirsol established an Academy next to the church after the Soldier's Orphan Home in Monaca burned.
As the rivers created Bridgewater, so did they try to destroy it. More than any other Beaver County community, Bridgewater has been ravished many times by floods. Reservoirs in the headwaters of the river have largely alleviated the flood problem, but the danger still exists. The lower section of town was most recently inundated by Hurricane Agnes in 1972.

Bridgewater (named for the city in England) had its own post office, called West Bridgewater (closed in 1959) which still creates much confusion as to the correct name of the town. The borough's theme for the future is "back to the river." The biggest industries in town are a barge repair facility on the Ohio (at Stone's Point) and Skyline Marina on the Beaver. The Beaver River, site of the annual River Regatta since 1975, is an ideal waterway for pleasure boats of all sizes. Riverside Park was developed as a community project in 1976. Currently Bridgewater is the home of many fine restaurants and small shops that enhance the community.

______


WANTED: Bridgewater Stories, Pictures

Valentine Brkich of Bridgewater is currently writing a history of Bridgewater, and he needs your help! Val is looking for interesting stories about Bridgewater and its people. The stories can be about anything as long as they are about the town or one of its residents. Have an interesting tale about your grandparents, or maybe a treasured memory from your childhood growing up in Bridgewater? Val would love to hear about it. He is also looking for old photos of the town to include in the book and its online component.

If you have a photo or an interesting tale about the town that you'd like to include in the Bridgewater history book, please send it to Val at 223 Washington Street, Bridgewater; email him at contactthebridge@gmail.com, or call him at 724.775.9815, and he'd be glad to stop by for a visit.


______


Bridgewater News and Notes

Downtown Bridgewater FOCUS E-Newsletter
Town Center Associates, publisher of the Downtown Bridgewater FOCUS E-Newsletter, is looking for e-mails of Bridgewater residents. If you are a Bridgewater resident and would like to receive the FOCUS newsletter online, send your e-mail address to maryellen@towncenter.info and you’ll be added to the list.

Bridgewater BookFest 2009
It’s bAAaaack! Bridgewater BookFest returns on Saturday, Sept. 12, so be sure to mark your calendar for this one of a kind literary event.

THIS JUST IN! Larry Watson and Scott Russell Sanders, have just signed on to be our BookFest 2009 featured authors! Be sure to check out the authors’ websites for more information on their many wonderful books:

www.larry-watson.com
www.scottrussellsanders.com

Stay tuned to www.BridgewaterBookFest.com for further updates. If you’re interested in becoming a sponsor or a volunteer for the event, please call Val Brkich at 724.601.0919 or e-mail us at contactthebridge@gmail.com.


Featured Bridgewater Business:
Emily's Unique and Traditional Treats
232 Bridge Street, Bridgewater, 724.846.8709

How many of you knew there was a bakery in Bridgewater? Well, there is, and it offers some of the best pastries and baked goods around! Emily's Unique and Traditional Treats (located next to the former Ella restaurant) offers cakes, cookies, pies, soups and more. Stop down to 232 Bridge Street and see what owner Emily Schneider is baking up for the holidays!


And Finally…
Be sure to check out the new Bridgewater Crossings development down at the mouth of the Beaver River. It’s just another great riverside attraction for Bridgewater!

______


A Walk in Winter
Stephanie Higgins

I went for a walk in the snow the other night.
Mine was the only set of footprints.
Even though I had been alone in my apartment there were distractions.
The TV, my phone, magazines, books.
I just needed to get away from it all.
Really be alone.
I needed to re-connect with myself, clear my head.
I listened to the sound of my boots on the frozen snow...
Moving ahead, fighting forward.
I could feel the cool air on my bare face but my body was warm.
There was something comfortable and safe about opening up to myself.
I looked straight ahead for most of my walk but I was still able to see
Red berries on the icy branches...Christmas lights adorning homes...and smoke drifting up the chimneys.
When I’m presented with the wonder of these simplicities, I’m not sure why I continue to try to figure things out.
What I think is usually markedly different than the truth, so why is it so hard to just accept things for what they are, without trying to change them?

Vol. II, Issue III - Mid-Summer 2008

Formerly Known as The Bridge

Greetings loyal readers…and welcome to the first issue of the Beaver County Courthouse newsletter. You may be wondering what happened to our old name, The Bridge. Well, our friends at the Beaver County Courthouse decided they wanted to start a newsletter themselves and, since they couldn't think of an original name, they decided to just use ours. Of course, we didn't have the name trademarked, so it was obviously up for grabs. Sure, maybe we're just a non-profit, two-man operation, and all of the money we make on advertising goes right back into printing the newsletter and, therefore, we didn't have the $450+ to spend on getting The Bridge trademarked, but hey…that's our problem, right? Even though our mission was to be a community journal that worked to bring the community together, that doesn't mean that another "community" organization can't steal…I mean, pay us a compliment by taking our name for their newsletter. Besides, in today's culture, who cares about consideration? Who cares about respecting others in your community? The only thing that matters is the law, and the law says that unless a name is trademarked, it's up for grabs. So, for now on, we will be known as the Beaver County Courthouse newsletter. We also have a new motto: Divided by People…United by Bridges. If that sounds familiar, you're probably mistaken. It's a completely original motto that we came up with completely on our own. Hope you like it!

_______


FREE MONEY: THE CASE FOR COUPONS

As Al Gore famously gesticulated and drawled in a campaign speech, “everything that is up should be down.” This includes inflation, energy prices, food prices and more. I dare say that we are all feeling the squeeze and I propose that instead of complaining about something we have no control over (prices), that we take collective action and stick it to “the man”. (I am not sure who “the man” is exactly, but I know I want to stick it to him.)
How are we going to do this? One word: coupons. Outside of someone just walking up to you and handing you some crisp Benjamins, they represent the easiest source of free money I know of. So here is a brief primer!

Where to find? Newspapers (primarily Sunday edition), direct mailing circulars, entertainment (fill in the last two digits of the year) booklets, and that Al Gore invention known as the internet. Some of the many sites include print.coupons.com, coolsavings.com

Strategy: Beaver Super triples coupons under a dollar, so a 75 cent coupon turns into $2.25 so I go there with the lesser coupons. Next I go to Giant Eagle who doubles coupons under a dollar, and with their bigger selection I use the coupons I could not fill at Beaver Super. Just a suggestion…use a human checker at Giant Eagle as the automated checkout stations often get hung up on certain coupons and you can feel the wrath of the people in line behind you as you wait for someone to help.

Organize: Check expiration dates, then put your coupons together in order of the aisles of the store you are shopping.

Just an idea: Be a good human and share coupons with your friends, or if you have some good ones for items you don’t use, consider making a purchase and donating to a shelter or foodbank (I think I smell a tax deduction).

Now let’s all get out there and stick it to the man!

Michael C. Poole
234 Navigation St
Beaver, PA 15009
724-601-5316
www.bign.com/mpoole


_________


Summer in the Burgh

orange cones and traffic zones, highways in repair
butterflies and turquoise skies, comfort in the air

freshpicked corn and lawns new shorn, freshness everywhere
picnic sun and car cruise fun, a country county fair

swimming pools and tan lines too, martinis in the dark
neighbors laughing, river rafting, concerts in the park

outfield seats and hot dog eats, let's go Bucs we cheer
it's hard to frown in Pittsburgh town, this special time of year

Michael C. Poole

_________


Stick-Legged Spider

Stick-legged spider
up in the corner
alone
waiting
day after day
What are you waiting for
up there
in your invisible web
There are no flies
in here
no bugs
to ensnare
in your sticky trap
Yet somehow
you subsist
waiting
watching
Patience
Is all you know
Stick-legged spider

VJB

_________


A WARMING THOUGHT
by Barbara Horter of Rochester

Sometimes I see something that
Makes me wish I could share
What I'm seeing......

But family and friends are
Off growing and living and
Leading their lives--
Just the way they should

So I look up at God....
And whisper, "Thank You Lord!!"
And it is a restful sharing--

For He knows where I've been,
Where I am now and
Where I'm going.

There is no need for effort
To remember what I wish to share....

GOD is....
And always has been..
And will at all times
BE THERE!!!


_________


Choosing a Title for Your Book

When you write a book, one of the hardest parts is coming up with an exciting, enticing title to draw readers in. It can be a frustrating process that can leave you disheartened.

But fear not, aspiring writers! We here at the Beaver County Courthouse newsletter have put together a list of engaging titles that are sure to make your book a bestseller. Just pick the one that best fits your manuscript:

• The Da Vinci Code
• War and Peace
• Moby Dick
• The Sound and the Fury
• Robinson Crusoe
• For Whom the Bell Tolls
• The Kite Runner
• The Great Gatsby
• Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus
• Little Women
• The Power of Positive Thinking
• The Shining
• Treasure Island
• Catch-22
• The Lord of the Rings
• The Bible

Believe us, these are all completely original titles, so you don't have to worry about trademark infringements, stepping on someone's toes or blatantly stealing someone else's title. Good luck!

VOL II., ISSUE II - SUMMER 2008

Greetings to one and all…and welcome to another edition of The Bridge! This issue is dedicated to Bridgewater BookFest – an exciting new event that will take place on Saturday, June 21, on the historic main street of Bridgewater. BookFest will feature dozens of authors, booksellers, libraries, speakers and more…all gathered together in a festive literary celebration. The festival will also feature a special Children’s Section with plenty of activities for the little readers in your family.

Bridgewater BookFest’s featured authors are Nancy Martin and Mark Levine. Nancy, a Pittsburgh native, is the author of the popular Blackbird Sisters Mystery Series. Mark is the author of The Fine Print of Self-Publishing and Saturn Return. Following his afternoon talk, Mark will be holding a reservation-only seminar on self-publishing. If you’ve written a book or always wanted to, you won’t want to miss out on this exciting opportunity. Sign up for the seminar on the website today at www.BridgewaterBookFest.com.

In this issue of The Bridge, we’ve compiled writings from some of the talented authors who will be appearing at Bridgewater BookFest. Make sure to stop down on Saturday, June 21, to meet these authors in person and purchase signed copies of their books.

For more information, visit: www.BridgewaterBookFest.com



Can We Raise Kind and Loving Children in the World as We Know It?
Sally Dubel

When my daughter was 19, we were invited to a high-risk high school, in Houston, Texas, to talk about the Loving Things Journal©. It was quite intimidating with guards at the door, an electronic screening device and monitors in each classroom. At first, the kids seemed a little suspicious, and as we were by no means experts, we were pretty nervous. We soon discovered that the majority of these children had never thought of doing something loving for themselves or others.

The school had decided to make our project a contest for the children, and they were to design their own Journals and write in them for one week. As the kids began opening up and talking about the loving things they had been doing, one young man described his home life to us. His Mom was raising four children by herself, while she worked two jobs. He was the oldest, attending school during the day, going home to help his younger siblings with homework, and prepare supper. When his Mom arrived home from her jobs, he would go to work for the evening.

After attending the first class with us, he told his brothers and sisters about the experiment and they all sat down and discussed what they could do for their Mom. They decided to do the dishes and clean up the kitchen before she arrived. He said they all had so much fun doing it, with everyone joining in to do something loving for his Mom. When she walked through the door, everyone was so excited at the look on her face, as she broke down crying for what they had done for her. As she kept thanking them, he suddenly realized how one small loving act could have so much joy and appreciation in it, and how good it made him feel.

Through this one small experiment, I have realized that not only can we raise kind and loving children; it may be something that is easily achievable, even in this seemingly chaotic and ever-increasing violent world. With the training the children receive by actively working with the Loving Things Journal© each day, these ideas become a lifelong habit.

Sally MacKenzie Dubel currently lives in Beaver, Pennsylvania. Mom to three loving children, a great marriage to one of the “good guys”, author, and one of the proud owners of Fairy Godmothers Enchanted Catering. The physical version of the Loving Things Journal© is available for 16.95, plus shipping and handling at www.lovingthingsjournal.com, or by calling 866-647-3687. You may also order a PDF version for only $9.95, and begin working with it immediately.


Excerpt from:
Emma McDougal and the Quest For Father Time
Matthew Cowden

It was dim and cold. The jail cells were cut into the walls of what seemed like caves in a great mountain. Eve and Morton were now inside Delirium, Grissel’s castle within this cavernous rock. Torches on sconces lit the way as their fires flickered from the draft that blew along the vast corridor.

Two pumas on chains growled at Eve and Morton as they were lead to their cells by the warlock’s house guards, which were nasty creatures dressed in chain mail armor and solid metallic helmets. Underneath this armor stood lizard-like creatures that walked upright and slithered their tongues. They were vile, and they were extremely strong warriors. They were Grissel’s prize warriors and protectors, the Malicians, and they now led two terrified children, restrained in chains, to their prison cells.

Clang! The iron door opened. Eve and Morton were thrown into their cell of rock and dirt, and nothing more. There were no windows or water, and the only light there crept between the iron bars of the door from the torches on the wall that were opposite of them. The door banged shut again, and the lizard soldiers hissed and laughed as they crept away into the shadows.

Eve cried as Morton held her tightly to his chest. “It’s going to be okay,” he said to her. “I promise I will get you out of here. Please trust me in that.”

Eve lifted her head and looked into Morton’s eyes. She wiped her tears and a mustered a bit of a smile. “I do trust you, Morton. I know you will get us out of here.”

(C) 2007 His Work Publishing

www.mattcowden.net
www.emmamcdougal.com



A Little Bit of Bridgewater History
Trudy Gray

In case you didn't know, Bridgewater, Beaver County, is not the only “Bridgewater” in these United States – not even in Pennsylvania. In fact, there is one in Bucks County and one in Susquehanna County. In addition, there are at least 17 other Bridgewaters in other states.

I did not know this myself until, back in 1996, I met British historian Rodger Evans of Somerset County, England. Evans came to visit Bridgewater, Pa., to give a lecture and present a slideshow about his hometown of Bridgwater (without an e), England.

Evans said that most if not all the Bridgewaters in the United States take their name from his hometown, which dates back 1200 years and features the world's largest illuminated night-time carnival, held in November. He explained that the emigrants who left England long ago were often undereducated agricultural workers, who started new towns in the New World, but sometimes misspelled their names. Evans started his research when he discovered that not much had been written about his hometown, and he worried that the town's history would be lost if somebody didn't record it.

At the time of his visit, Evans was trying to visit as many Bridgewaters as time permitted and planned to include the others on the next trip. He wrote a book about Bridgwater, England, titled Bridgwater – With and Without an e, which was published in 1994.



What Happens When you Always Say, “But I Might Need it Someday”?
Patty Kreamer

You get buried in stuff...that’s what happens. If this is why you keep so much stuff, it may make you feel better to know that you are not alone. Beliefs create your behavior. Ergo, if you always say, “But I Might Need It Someday”, you will begin to believe it and then you will keep everything because of it. Naturally, this excuse is going to hinder your success to simplicity.

If you keep something because you believe that you MIGHT need it someday, then ask yourself: “If ‘someday’ arrives and it’s not there, what will I do?” The answer usually is “I’ll go get another one” OR “I’ll make do without it.” Many of the items that you keep you don’t even know that you have. If you do know that you have them, you likely won’t know where they are among the clutter when you need them! Why bother keeping an item for someday if, when “someday” gets here, you’ll end up having to get a new one anyway? “But I might need it someday” is a common yet flimsy excuse for hanging on to things. Keeping too much stuff causes you unnecessary stress every time you look at the clutter while wishing it wasn’t there. And the real kicker is that when you go to use something that you’ve been saving, it’s probably too tattered to use and you will want a NEW one anyhow.

Solution: stop saying “BUT I MIGHT NEED IT SOMEDAY!”

Patty Kreamer, CPO® is a Certified Professional Organizer®, speaker, and President of Kreamer Connect, Inc. She is the author of ...But I Might Need It Someday, The Power of Simplicity and the soon to be released Clutter Rescue Course online program and workbook available at www.ByeByeClutter.com. You can reach Patty at patty@ByeByeClutter.com or 412-344-3252.



No Lies
Judith R. Robinson

The truth Tom Coleman knew was in bricks and dirt, the brick storefront building where he lived, and the weedy patch of dirt behind it.

Someone else grew up under a luminous sky, or by the sea, or breathing blossoms tossed by spring winds. Other children may have played under trees dappled gold with sunshine; Tom’s trees were telephone poles gouged with nails or stripped of bark by kids in the neighborhood.

In all extremes of weather, the freezing days of winter, or rain that seemed constant the rest of the time, Tom climbed a steep hill to a hundred year old school building that overlooked a belching steel mill.

The creatures his old maid teacher praised in rhyme and song did not dwell along Butler, his broken, pot-holed street. Tom never saw a dragon or a unicorn, except in a picture book. Animal friends were cats, bugs, mice, and worms; interesting, maybe, in a puddle after a downpour, but never magical. He grew up happy enough: eating soup out of cans, learning what to do about rust, the value of a dollar and how to fix his own car.

Just out of high school when his country called, Tom became a soldier, and found out about the hellhole called Korea; then husband to Mary, a foreman at USSteel’s open hearth in Rankin, Pa. He joined the Steelworker’s Union and voted Democratic all his life. After Jack Kennedy, who someone once said he resembled, was assassinated, he was often heard to say, nothing else would surprise him.

Someone he knew once told him about the human need for myths, but he rejected that. From the very start, the bad and the good about what a kid like Tom understood was the lack of soothing lies.



My Innocence
Amanda Morelli-Blanda

She's everything to me and barely two feet tall,

She's my innocence . . . what's left of it all.

Tiny little hands, rosy little cheeks,

A heavenly little spirit, going on twelve weeks.

Upon my softened heart has been left a lasting imprint

With a gentle little tiptoe and a tiny little footprint.

She looks into my eyes, gives me her precious smile,

Makes me understand why everything's worthwhile.

She's everything that's real . . . pure, honest and true.

Has me wrapped around her finger-- arms and ankles too!

Every moment, every minute,

Is priceless when she's in it.

Every second she's away leaves a feeling of dismay.

That's my little girl . . .

She's my heart, my soul . . . my world.

From the very first time I saw her

And every moment ever since,

My life has been forever changed

By the angel of innocence.



Embracing Adversity and Change
Nancy Stampahar

Change and adversity happen to all people. How we react and adapt to our challenging times; and more importantly, how we bounce back afterwards will determine our future. When we stay worried, confused and afraid of the unknowns for too long, we will remain paralyzed, complacent and accepting of the status quo. When we learn and apply effective coping techniques, we can bounce back stronger with greater hope.

Many of the circumstances you experience can be tough, but they almost always lead to opportunities for some form of greater growth. For example, my mother wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. This would have been wonderful for her if her circumstances had been better; however, they weren’t. She saw no choice but to improve her single-parent situation. She persevered in starting a long journey for herself and her two children, from welfare to earning her law degree. With each step of courage and determination, she reached another height of achievement. With each setback and achievement, she had more strength and hope.

When you embrace difficult times and tragedies, you can become more resilient, more empathic and eventually, more likely to be happy. Through your hurts and disappointments, you can discover the preciousness of life. You can stop taking people and life for granted. You can also discover the magic of living generously by sharing your compassion and hope. You can give your strength, wisdom and lessons learned to others so they too can get through their hard times. People will benefit tremendously from your kindness and compassion. The abundant cycle of people helping people continues.

Written by Nancy Stampahar the author of "peace love and lemonade: a recipe to make your life sweeter." Visit peaceloveandlemonade.com. 




Inside the Storm Sewer
Nathan Peluso

Inside the storm sewer, I peeped aloud at the passing footsteps. Voices too I heard, again, again and gone. These voices too began to fade, but suddenly I heard them return.

Through the grate I peered upward, chirping with all my dearest effort. The night had cooled and light was fading. When the footsteps neared and the careful eyes looked down upon me, I nearly cried with desperation, for they were not the first. But I knew, very well, that they may be the last.

Just two weeks ago I was borne, just two days ago I was imprisoned here. Against my will, though I have fought and struggled gravely. The floodwaters pushed my frail but fuzzy body with force greater than I could endure. They washed me through the dark tunnel, black with mud and fierce in fury.

Withstand the force, breathe, look up and breathe.

When the waters subsided I found my cell to be a two-by-two cement encasing. Above, the cast iron grate of which I now peered. Could I fly, were my wings not an infants, I could still not have fit between their narrow bars. At my feet, oiled water, but an island had formed about a tree branch and mud. The waters were polluted, I could not retreat up the tunnel behind for it was blocked. So I stood upon the island and at each passing sound, or even between them, I called out. I cried and called to my mother, and I could hear her calling me. But here, she could not save me. My hope was that of a miracle, that it, somehow, would set me free.

When they saw me I knew that things were bad. They looked and pulled that metal grate and shook their heads and thought many things. They thought of the terracotta pipe and how this had come to be. They thought, How long has he been here and without food? How long would still he be?

I was fuzzy and cute, I had the voice and chirp that gave me hope. I called out to them, jumped vigilantly and looked up with my desperate, shining eyes. Still, I realized that this was nature, that the coldness was near at hand, and imminent. And that I, as a common bird, was limited to its mighty bounds. But I was so young, with the world, the future, and the sun and clouds’ dream burning in my soul. All was such a shame and I still hadn’t even learnt to fly.

They couldn’t lift the grate. So they put in the stick, the long branch and flitted it about. Their thinking was that I would jump upon it and be pulled out through the grate. I knew that I could not fit though the space between these iron bars. Besides, this stick seemed threatening. So I dodged it, at times on, but fell quickly off again. Each time I was upon it, the guiding hands would pull up and you could feel their joy. But, my youthful legs and mind could not stay perched…to at least give for them, the opportunity, the hope

Then, they were gone.

When I thought it over, the metal bar hit the grate with fury! It wedged and hit the side and the grate budged. They had found it! Soon the grate lifted, and though they tried again with the stick to no avail, when the shovel came, and scooped me out of my concrete grave, I rejoiced!

Beside the tree I was placed, it was the tree in which I was born. The careful hands and helper did not know this. They also did not know that my mother awaited halfway across the yard. But I did know. And reluctantly, they left me here, fearing my immediate death by cat. Or they thought too of the sadness of me not being able to make it, somehow. So I moved, jumped, chirped, and jumped again. I looked over my shoulder and bid them adieu.

They left me here, but as they walked away, these figures with no wings, no feathers. As they walked through the graying night, they peered back. What they saw then, they could never believe. For they saw the miracle that had been given us all. My mother awaited in the yard and I jumped towards her, a chirp and a jump at a time. She would call to me, to lead me. I would respond and follow. That night she led me home, my family awaiting.

In the town along the river, through the grass and by the tree. I was given life and granted once more, the chance to fly.


[Haiku]

like grass through concrete
and rain soaked through the ceiling
nature's resilience

Bridget B.
the Famous Barista



Heartburn
Sloan Pellegrini

The heartburn wakes me in the night,
scorching my insides, making me nauseous.
I've ingested too much of something, or not enough medicine.

It's funny how life revolves around around
that balance the Daoists celebrate.
Too much of this is bad. A little of that is good.
Occasionally, rarely, you get it just right.

Sometimes, I receive a text message while talking on
the phone while reading an e-mail on my computer, and
my doorbell will ring.
Not once, maybe 7 to 10 times.
It's my twelve year old neighbor, Simaran.
He calls himself George. Simaran is just too much!
He is from an old country with too many people.

"Let's play," he says
"I'm too tired George," I tell him. "Maybe tomorrow."
"Liar!" he yells and walks away with his arms folded.

At night, the moonlight is so bright and pale.
It reflects off of the lake and into my windows.
I rise like the tide.
The water twinkles and begins to speak to me, but a
jet flies overhead stifling it's message.

Laying back down, I prop up my pillow so the burn wont
get me, won't damage my cells.
I want to heal, but the sun comes too soon.

At school, my Lebanese student tells me he misses his country.
"Beiruts been bombed again," he says, shaking his head.
He runs off to his next to do and returns a minute later, frantic.
He picks up his things apologetically.
"I'm forgeting Everything! I'm becoming an American!"



Broken Man
Michael Merck

Ringringringringringringringringringringringringringirngringring

broken, tired, desperate and busted
in God, we trusted

Ringringringringringringringringringringringringringringringring

the low lights in the carpet maze of green and red felt
the heavy head weighed with alcohol,
and the blackjack hand dealt

Ringringringringringringringringringringringringringringringring

Broken man stands in the only position
Broken man with pockets full of pity.
lets get drunk and make the worst decision
amidst the lost souls of Atlantic City.



Shadow People Workers
Nate Peluso

Shadow people workers
Don’t work with the people, know who they are people-
Friends that when you knew it all like kids, kids
Duck, duck, ducky, ducky, ducked back,
Under under, took it all in, to the
Gave to the
To, to, to, til the next phase
Walled, wall wall of the sanctuary wall, will
Spelled, inside outside
Spelled S.A.F.E.T.Y.
Why oh why is Y spelled, hiding
In the only place that grown-ups go go
Go to know it soundly,
Like kids that know it soundly
Like the colors, like the colors
Looking colors, so firm to the colors of the world… whirl, wa,
When, the super duper rainbow rainin’ high stars stayed at home, after
They, THEY, didn’t want to go to
Grow to… go to, where we see it this way now
To, where to, where to, see it to the outside inside
And know, and WE know
That we’re shadow people workers too,
Even maybe moreso

Issue 4 - February/March 2008

Welcome back everybody! We hope you’ve been hoping we return…And we have! So please enjoy our fourth edition. Some changes have taken place with the formatting, but for the most part, The Bridge is the same: good times, good writing, good ‘ol something to keep you pondering life over that steaming brew of coffee.

And yes, it’s true…www.BridgeOnline.info—our online edition—is in its first phase. Check us out, but come with a kind heart, as lots of work remains on the site still. We wanted to give you the opportunity to read all of our fine contributors between printings, and to give you more of our writings, the ones we couldn’t fit in the print edition.

As always, please send us your thoughts, comments, reflections, poems, stories, happy news, and all the rest. Thank you for supporting us throughout the year. We look forward to keeping up the The Bridge!



Knowledge is Power

If your home is cold, drafty or uncomfortable, and your energy bills are high, you may want to consider a Home Performance Test.

A Home Performance Test is a diagnostic evaluation of your home. It is also the first step in making your home more comfortable and energy efficient. Once we understand how much energy your home uses, we can determine the necessary measures to improve its efficiency. A Home Performance Test takes approximately two hours, depending upon house size and accessibility. For a home 2,000 square-feet or less, the cost is $200. See "Performance Test Estimate" box on our website for additional pricing.

Home Performance Tests are becoming increasingly popular - not only among homeowners, but with prospective homebuyers too. A home with great energy marks may even add to its value.

Our Home Performance Test covers:

Homeowner Interview
Combustion Safety—Carbon Monoxide
Blower Door - Air Leakage
Infrared Camera - Thermal Boundary
Heating and Cooling
Lighting & Appliances
Window and Door Weatherization
Computerized Software Analysis
Cost Effectiveness - Retrofitting

Our homes play a lead role in the health of our environment. There are many steps we can take to improve the energy wellness of our homes, and all of them can have a profoundly positive impact on the environment. By addressing these opportunities you can improve the comfort and energy efficiency of your home.

CONTACT US TODAY!
412-352-3245
email@westpennenergyaudits.com
WestPennEnergyAudits.com


In Town—The End of The Monkey
Valentine Brkich

The Monkey is no more.

Just a year and a half after its grand opening, The Celestial Monkey Coffee and Tea Café closed its doors for good recently. If you’ve never heard of it (and chances are you haven’t, since they decided to close), the Monkey was a delightful little coffee shop on the corner of Bridge and Market Streets in my town of Bridgewater.

My wife, Cassie, and I were both giddy when we first learned that a coffee shop was planning on opening in our town. I’m a coffee addict, and she too enjoys a cup every now and then. But we were most excited about having a trendy new gathering place to walk to everyday. And that’s just what we did.

Since we were both working from home at the time, Cassie and I had the freedom to go for leisurely walks around town everyday. Of course, we always ended up at The Celestial Monkey, or “The Monkey” as we soon came to call it. It was so nice to have a place to go to for a hot cup of joe and a freshly made panini sandwich. I’d always grab a paper and read and gaze out the front window to watch the daily traffic pass by. We both enjoyed socializing with the people in the café, telling stories and spreading gossip—typical dialogue for a small-town setting.

For a while, The Monkey welcomed a steady stream of customers. Many had seen it from the road and had come in to investigate. What they found was an eclectic café that pleased the senses with delicious aromas filling the air and works of local artists adorning the multi-colored walls. It was a cozy place, a welcoming place. Most of all it was a unique place. It had a distinctiveness you just don’t find at those other Big Chain coffee shops. It was a charming type of place that you’d expect to find in a charming little town like Bridgewater.

For a while, The Monkey was home to Acoustic Jam Saturdays—a little monthly gathering I put together that featured some of our area’s most talented musicians in an acoustic-only format.

It was great fun while it lasted. Several times we had a packed house as people stopped in to relax on a Saturday evening with some great coffee, great food and great music. It was the kind of weekly event you want to see in a small town—a family-friendly event that showcases local talent and promotes community pride.

But now it’s all gone—the Acoustic Jams, the coffee, the local art, the cozy recliners and the funky atmosphere. The Monkey and all its wonderful small-town charm has gone the way of the dodo, so to speak.

But why? Who’s to blame for its closing?

Well, to be honest, we all are.

Sorry to break it to you, but we’re all to blame for losing this delightful little coffee bar. We were all just too comfortable at home, plopped on our sofas in front of our TVs watching “The Biggest Loser” and “Deal or No Deal” and “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Desperate Housewives” and “ER” and “House” and “CSI: (insert any city)” and the hundreds of other “must watch” shows. We were all driving through the local McDonalds to get a large coffee and an apple pie as we raced to our next meeting or appointment. We were all too tired after work to stop in for a cup of joe and some good conversation. We all had to run to Wal-Mart or Target or The Mall or Rite Aid or Walgreens or Staples or Best Buy, just so we could buy that thing that we just had to have.

It’s sad, but this is the way it is nowadays. We’re just too busy or too tired or too lazy to get out and enjoy all the wonderful, unique places that we’re fortunate enough to have here in Beaver County. I’m sure that, even after a year and a half, most people never even knew about The Celestial Monkey. Heck, I’ve met people who were unaware that there was anything at all open on Bridge Street. (There is. In fact, there’s close to 40 businesses on Bridge Street alone, many of them retail.)

We are so fortunate to have so many distinctive, historic main streets in our area. Bridgewater’s Bridge Street is just one of them. What about Brighton Ave. (Rochester), Duss Ave. and Merchant Streets (Ambridge), 3rd Ave. (New Brighton), Pennsylvania Ave. (Monaca), 7th Ave. (Beaver Falls), Franklin Ave. (Aliquippa), Midland Ave. (Midland), 3rd Ave. (Freedom), and 3rd Street (Beaver). Each one of these streets has something unique to offer—something you just won’t find at that Big Box Store or at the local mall. And if we don’t visit these main streets, if we don’t patronize their stores and restaurants and coffee shops, one day they may not be there anymore. Instead, they’ll be bulldozed and replaced by massive parking lots and cookie-cutter super drugstores.

Don’t believe me?

Once, back in the early 1970s, Bridgewater was slated to be bulldozed to make way for a new supermarket and several parking lots. Council had approved it as a last-stitch effort to “save” the town, which had basically become a ghost town after Route 51 was put in. People no longer needed Bridgewater. They could now zip past it on the brand-new highway on their way to the mall.

Fortunately for Bridgewater, cooler heads prevailed, the supermarket plans were ditched, and the historic buildings along Bridge Street were saved. Since then, the town has experienced a renaissance of sorts, with the arrival of charming retail shops, distinctive eateries and, yes, coffee shops.

Unfortunately, some businesses just don’t attract enough customers to survive. Even when they advertise and have sales and special events, sometimes there’s nothing you can do to pull people away from their TVs or to stop them from going to the local superstore instead. Just know this: unless we continue to support the independent businesses in our hometowns, they’re all doomed to the same fate as The Monkey.

So farewell to you, Celestial Monkey and Tea Café. I hardly knew ye.



The Missing Person was Gone
Nathan Peluso

The missing person was gone. No one knew where they went. They were gone now for some time. It was impossible to determine where they went, or why. Everyone first wondered where, then why. Both were important questions. At first the missing person’s absence was noted as a grave loss. People visualized this person next to them, in full color, smell, and nuance. They could see clearly everything about them. Even their voice was an unmistakable echo. Their smile arched and teeth glistened. This memory stood as more than a memory. It was the feeling and knowing of someone closely. Just yesterday, it seemed, they were here. But not today.

The rumor said that the person had left. They had gone. For the people, they felt as if there should be a reason. If someone were to leave, then they would do so for a reason. And it went by logic, they must have gone somewhere.

It was pointless searching. No one had any idea in which direction to look. They didn’t know where to look, for example at the restaurant or bar, or in the person’s room, or behind the couch. Perhaps in the woods or somewhere in the city. There wasn’t a place they could think of to find them. Instead of looking, the people went about their business. The people carried on with life as usual, with all things the same, except one thing. Only the missing person was different.

The people felt sad. Inside their stomach was an emptiness. There was an unmistakable longing. Inside they felt wounded deeply. On the outside things were the same. Life went on as usual. Birds flew, the trees leaves were green and changing towards fall. Cars drove past. Some days were good and bad, some gray. The river took its turn at being calm and winded, brown and a cool gray-green.

The missing person, they said, had gone. Somewhere they must be doing something. If they were not somewhere, then where were they? If they had gone for no reason, then what was the reason? No sensible person ever went nowhere for no reason.

This logic proved fateful for the people. Each day the longing in their stomach felt more empty and painful. Their pain wasn’t sharp, it was just an empty pain. It was a feeling only of loss. Soon, everyone was noticeably darker in spirit.

Although the missing person weighed deeply on their minds and souls, these feelings could not continue. Each day was misery.

Soon, the missing person was spoken of as the missing person. Soon thereafter, the people stopped talking about the missing person. Everyone still knew and remembered, but they didn’t speak of their loss.

Nothing was gone.

Life continued.



The Sand Pits
By Sloan Pellegrini

I remember when we had a country all our own,
We would visit in the heat of summer or the cold of snow,
The borders were trees and municipal roads,
The check points bon fires while the fireflies glowed

Prom queens, jocks, nerds, and hoods,
Stood under the stars in the shadows of woods,
While time stood still and the future was far,
And the honeydew air was light and charmed

An old steel town with old war stories,
A sand box of souls who dreamt of glory,
But the impermanent moon had cast its spell,
Father Time has bid the citizens farewell.



Captive

Her eyes find me
Big and bright
Hey, I know you
And then that smile
Oh, that smile
It pulls me in
And I’m hers
— VJB



At Mario’s Woodfired Pizzeria...life is good.
Stephanie Higgins

Suddenly, the cold night turns beautiful.
I watch as the flurries grow thicker and start melting on the glass.
Where I sit, on the inside of the window, is warm and comforting.
The sounds of laughter consume me as I pull my eyes away from the first signs of winter.

The restaurant itself is small and it forces me to be close to everyone in the room.
That’s part of the charm.
Glancing around my table, I smile.
Does it get any better?

Friends from a neighboring table hurry over offering a glass of their favorite wine and to share a slice of birthday cake.
The room grows louder as it erupts in singing.

The owner comes out of the kitchen,
wiping his hands on his apron.
Once they’re clean, he places one on my shoulder and asks
“What’s new?”

I look up from my chair with a kind glance
And then direct my eyes back to the outdoors.

I understand that the whole world isn’t always this happy
But you can’t help but feel hope
when you realize that you’re exactly where you belong in this moment.

Allow every new moment to be familiar,
every stranger to be a friend
and every sound a song.



THE UGLY DUCK
Don Bemis

Once upon a time there was an egg. It lay in a forgotten nest near the edge of a stream. A pile of feathers nearby may help explain why the nest was forgotten. If that is not enough of a clue, I will tell you that a fox was moping in the woods. There is a natural depressant in the flesh of fowl. Studies have shown that animals which eat birds get down in the mouth.

But enough of science. Back to our egg. A pair of passing mallards spied the nest. “Look, dear! I’d love to have that home!” The hen batted her ducky eyes at her mate and tried to frame her bill into a winsome smile.

“I’m not too sure,” he replied. “What about that pile of feathers?”

“Oh, pooh! You’re always looking at the dark side of things.” She tried to pout, but it looked pretty much like her smile. “That means the fox isn’t hungry. I’ll bet he’s off moping.” She batted her beady eyes again. “Puleeeeze? With cracked corn on top?”

“Puleeeeze” sounds pretty awful when said by a duck, unless the listener is another duck. The drake could not resist. “Well, okay.”

“Goody!” She pecked him on the cheek and waddled up the bank to inspect her new home.

“Ow!” he quacked.

She peered into the nest. “Ooh, look! A poor little baby, all alone in the world!” She felt the egg. “And it’s still a little warm!” Her maternal hormones kicked in, and she sat. The hen had several maternal hormones. Enough, in fact, that the egg was soon surrounded by six others. It was the largest, though. Eventually they all hatched. There were six fuzzy little ducklings with little yellow bills. And there was one other baby, slightly larger, with a mottled bill and a wrinkled face. It was a face only a mother could love, and even she cringed a bit.

The ducklings would walk together behind their mother to the water. Mostly together, that is. Six fuzzy mallards would march in line, singing insulting songs about their ugly brother. He would waddle along behind. The mother would pretend not to hear because, “Well, ducklings will be ducklings.” It was worse in the stream. Other families would be there so thirty or forty ducklings could torment the ugly one together. They would swim under water and nip his feet. It was fun for most of them.

Eventually all of the ducklings reached the half-grown stage somewhere between cute and sleek, where no adjective can describe their homeliness. However, they remained beautiful to their mothers and to each other. Except for the ugly one. His face grew more and more wrinkled. He grew more quickly than the rest, providing even more reason to taunt him. “Hey, Fatso!” they quacked one day. “Big as a goose and walks like a chicken!”

“Aw, leave me alone!” His voice was changing, and a peep crept into what he had intended to be a menacing quack. The other ducks laughed at him, then coalesced into a gangly mass and chased him off. The ugly duckling clambered ashore and waddled away. Eventually he passed a glassy pool and looked in. What he saw amazed him. He was no longer an ugly duckling. He was a Muscovy duck. And they are even uglier.

Now you know why Muscovy ducks have such rotten dispositions.



Tuesday morning Mexico
Nathan Peluso

Sinking into the sand, sinking into several days in a beach bungalow and ocean breeze, birds chirp and squawk, hippy’s music beat beat beat, hippies themselves reveling in the sun, the sun, the blue horizon at sunset and pink upon the billowing clouds, the Mayan stone temple perched upon the clifftop, the history clashing with modern tourists, modern Mayans, modern trash, boats with lofty hulls and red stripes, bugs of different sorts, mosquitoes at dusk, mosquitoes on your feet beneath the table, bamboo, palm trees, stray dogs with saltwater hair, fierce sunrise, a slow start to the day, nothing to do, three swims a day, rough November currents, local Mexican Baywatch guys peering off the distant shore, figures of people on the beach, hippies beating bongos bom bom bom, a drunk singing rapturously in the night “la!”, hammocks tied on trees, sagging in rooms, a sideways door that opens to the sea, a small mound of sand, the smell of grilled fish, the smell of raw fish, a French woman hanging clothes in your room, and rustling plastic bags, wearing a sunset blue blouse and thinking pensively, a man beneath the mosquito net, still in bed, red skin, tired natural bodies, sunglasses, wandering, scattering birds at the tidepool looking for dinner, scatter scatter, a funny waiter, pesos collected from the ATM machine, sombreros, vendors, cheesy busses, a long straight road with jungle on both sides, thoughts of future development, a deep breath and appreciation for what is now.

Now, a foot in the sand.
A body touched by one million pieces of sand.
Sand.

A sand floor.



I want to write a poem first
Francesco

I want to write a poem first
Before I get started
Because when I was driving
A thought struck me as poetic and meaningful

It was a thought of life
And a deep meaning
But I can’t remember the damn thought now
I can only remember driving
And thinking that I had one

In that thought, I became aware of my own previous ignorance
Suddenly that flash gave me an insight
Casting off all old feelings and ways of being
It allowed me to be free
If only for this thought

What was it? I can’t remember
How frustrating it is to type a poem
Like this, when you can’t even remember what it’s about
Only to know that it’s about a profundity
But I don’t know which one or why it mattered

Maybe I should get back in my car
Then I should drive backwards
Or I should go all the way back to where I came from
That way, there’s a good chance that the poetic realization will re-emerge
It will come back and strike me and this time I’ll be ready

But what if it doesn’t
What if I leave the coffee shop without ordering
Packed with all my things
And start that damned car again wasting all that fuel
Only to drive, and drive two and three times over

Hmm, I think that there’s a chance it will return on its own
With time, when I’m not trying
Very subtly, like a cool wind in Spring
Again that very important wisdom will return
No doubt
And with pen, and paper, I’ll trap it



Thursday, night
Punta Allen
Nathan Peluso

The roars of the village are still strong, you can hear them in the ecstatic cheer of the evening teenage girls soccer match, at each “boomp, boomp,” the booting of the ghostly white ball acrost lumpy beige sand, the jousting “raw-raw” of the player’s truest fans, the teenage boys, and the children gather atop a stand, a concreted fountain in disrepair or
behind a wind-torn fence, as streetlights lend sparingly to the scene.

“Boomp!” and the ball careens a post, “Aah!” screams and hoots the active crowd, participants no less than the players themselves. For in this town of several hundred amidst a jungle reserve, at the bottom of a winded peninsula, between sea and majestic lagoon, and not far away from its next Cat 5 storm, there is a life that is free as nature. And in the air, like the night, is a tranquility that only belies its remoteness, its fragility, and its temporality. This small refuge, an oasis of light in a world full of black, begs no more. Its sincerity of place can be found at a sunset or dawn.

Blink once in between and it’s gone.


ALIQUIPPA - A Brief Town History

Aliquippa, the county's most populous borough, seemingly grew overnight from the merger of three small villages, each with a history of its own.

While a relatively new community compared to others in the county, Aliquippa's traditions go back to the very beginning of colonial habitation in Beaver County. In the years before the Revolution, two Indian traders, successively, chose the fertile fields across the river from the old Indian village of Logstown to make a home. Alexander McKee, the first resident, built a cabin around 1769, but evidently did not stay too long. In 1771, John Gibson surveyed 300 acres, built a cabin, and planted crops, becoming the first colonial farmer in the county, although the same land along the river had been farmed by the Indians for many years.

Logstown, the Delaware Indian village, was across the river in Baden, but somehow the name was transferred to the stream on the west side of the Ohio. In turn, the small village near the stream mouth became known as Logstown Bottom.

The Reverend Andrew McDonald lived here when he became pastor of White Oak Flats Church in 1810. White Oak Flats was a large level area in the hills west of Logstown, and the site of an early Presbyterian Church, which for a long time was known by the same name. (It was later called Mt. Carmel.)

The Flats were bisected by Brodhead's Road in 1778, when the supply trail from Pittsburgh to Fort McIntosh (Beaver) was cut through the wilderness. Later, a road from the fertile Raccoon Creek valley to the Ohio River intersected the military trail, and a village grew up at the crossroads. In time the village became known as New Sheffield.

In 1877, while the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Railroad was laying track through Logstown Bottom, a post office was established in the village. A new name, Woodlawn, was suggested by Mattie McDonald and adopted. The P. & L.E. built an amusement area north of Woodlawn, and named it Aliquippa Park. Soon an adjacent village had its own station, called Aliquippa. A shovel factory and other manufacturers located here and a townsite was laid out, incorporated in 1894 as Aliquippa Borough.

In the next decade or so, Aliquippa developed into a fair sized industrial town, while Woodlawn village, a few miles to the south, languished as a rural community, although the Woodlawn Academy and a Presbyterian church had been established near the station.

Everything changed, however, in 1906, when construction began for the huge Aliquippa works of the Jones and Laughlin Steel Company. Old Logstown disappeared while a new business district was constructed in the valley and plans of houses sprung up on every surrounding hill.

In 1926, Woodlawn, already the largest community in Beaver County, annexed New Sheffield from Hopewell Township, along with the land in between. In 1928, a merger was effected by a referendum of the voters with Aliquippa Borough, and the new borough retained the name of the smaller partner to better identify with the name of the steel works. (There is no historical evidence connecting the Indian Queen Aliquippa with the location of the borough. This was one of several Indian names selected arbitrarily by the P. & L.E. Railroad in 1878 for stations along the route. Others were Shannopin, now South Heights, and Monaca.)

Aliquippa's leaders were perplexed by the problems created by the automobile and the mobility it gave to people. The younger generations have chosen to build homes in neighboring suburban townships. The Franklin Avenue business district declined as shoppers found it more convenient to drive to the outlying shopping centers than to cope with traffic and parking problems downtown.

The old borough of Aliquippa became known as West Aliquippa (the second time it was named by the railroad.) In the 1960's J. & L. filled in Crow's Island, on the river side of town, and constructed a huge new steel producing facility there. The old town seems destined to be completely swallowed up by the mill, as many houses and buildings have been demolished.

New Sheffield has become the center of the community as many churches and businesses have relocated there, and also contains the borough's only elementary school.

In the last 15 years, most of the J. & L. Steel works has been shut down or demolished in along the Ohio in Aliquippa. The commissioners of Beaver County plan to use a large portion of that site to relocate the county jail. The Franklin Avenue business district is basically non-existent today. Its main purpose now is a throughway for Aliquippa residents to route 51, leading to Ambridge, South Heights, or Monaca.

Courtesy of Beaver County Bicentennial Atlas


WRITERS WELCOME!
Your stories, poems, and other musings are welcome
for publication in next edition of The Bridge.

Please send 500 words or less to:
ContactTheBridge@gmail.com

Or send a print copy to:
The Bridge
223 Washington Street
W. Bridgewater, PA 15009

We look forward to hearing from you!



Good News!

Two Ambridge natives, Dominic Mecchia and Cristina Aloe, who have spent much time working in other parts of the country, have returned to their hometown to work on a major feature film being distributed by Miramax, set to be released in 2009. Both are 1998 graduates of Ambridge Area High School.

Another 1998 Ambridge Graduate, John Homich, has made a huge stride as the contracted photographer for Bishop Zubik's recent installation. John is extremely talented and is proud to be carrying on the legacy of Sam Pelaia.

If you would like more information on either of these positive stories, please contact Cristina Aloe at 724-513-5052.

Thank you.



Like to Advertise in The Bridge?

The Bridge is accepting advertisements for its next issue. All proceeds will go towards the printing costs associated with the journal. We are a non-profit. The more advertising revenue we can bring in, the more copies of the newsletter we will be able to print and distribute.

Please send your completed ad (JPG or GIF format) to:
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Include any instructions, questions, or comments you may have along with the email. If you have trouble getting your advertisement into a computer format, please write to us and we will be glad to help.

For the next issue, business-card-size ads will run $35. Quarter-page ads are $75. The next issue of The Bridge will print approximately 400 issues (minimum), and it will be distributed to many Beaver County libraries, coffee shops, and places of business.

Thank you for your support!

Issue 3 - Summer/Fall 2007

Putting a Positive Spin on Things
Valentine J. Brkich

Well, it’s been a while since you’ve last heard from us at The Bridge. Sorry. I guess we’ve been a little busy this summer.

I’ve been working on a nursery for our first child who is due in late September. Since I’m a writer and not a carpenter, you can see why this would be a time-consuming task. Luckily my father-in-law—who, unlike me, knows what a router is—has been generously donating much of his valuable time to the project.

My partner in crime and co-editor of The Bridge, Nate (a.k.a Raphael, a.k.a. Pete Striker, a.k.a. F. Nathan) has been busy this summer as well, but it has nothing to due with a nursery. He’s been overseas teaching English to students in Austria, a noble and exhausting undertaking.

So you can see why we haven’t had time to pump out a new issue in some time. But we finally found some time to get something down on paper—hence the latest issue, which now rests in your hands.

I’ve been feeling a little grumpy lately and was planning on using this issue as a soapbox, if you will, to air my grievances. You see, I’ve been listening to way too much talk radio lately. Especially during the afternoon from 12-3 p.m. on our beloved KDKA. This has proven to be a grave mistake on my part. It has done nothing but get my blood boiling and fill my mind with a boatload of negativity. This is never a good thing. Although I always strive to be positive, more than not I find myself focusing on the negative. This can be an extremely unhealthy practice, not just for myself but for those around me as well.

In light of this enlightenment, I’ve decided to change course and not use this issue as my own personal rant. Instead, I’d like to reiterate the purpose of The Bridge to the Beaver County community.

The Bridge is intended to be a positive, enlightening, informative, creative resource for the people of our communities. Today’s media is too focused on shock value and negative stories. Our local newspapers are filled with way too much negative news and way too little positive news. If you have something good to say, something that will be beneficial to the community, it seems impossible to get anyone to listen.

But not here.

The Bridge is your community journal. It is a place for the people of Beaver County to share their creative talents. It is both a literary journal and a community newsletter. It is a place to share your stories, your poems, your memories, your musings. It is also your platform for sharing good, positive news about your community. If you have some information you think would be of value to the rest of Beaver County, this is your tool for getting it out there. And we won’t charge you to print it like some other so-called “local” publications do.

For example, just a few weeks ago, from August 17 through August 19, my town of Bridgewater held the annual Beaver County River Regatta, which last year came back home to where it all started back in the 1970s. If you weren’t able to make it down to the event, it was a wonderful celebration. With the help of some beautiful, sunny summer weather, this year’s Regatta was even better than the last, with so much to see and do. It was the perfect example of the kind of family-oriented events that make this county so special. Thank you to all who participated in the Regatta and to all who helped to put it all together.

Also, on October 13, Bridgewater will be holding its annual Fall Festival from 10 a.m. - 6 p.m. on Bridge Street. The main street will be closed to allow for vendors and fun activities for the whole family. There will also be great live music all day long, including a performance by the talented singer/songwriter Joel Lindsay, a native of London, England. You really won’t want to miss it.

If you have similar good news about your community or school or organization, this is the place to publicize it. And again, we won’t charge you a penny to do it. Just send it along in an email to ContactTheBridge@gmail.com.

If you’d like to advertise in The Bridge, we can help you out there, too. Just send us an email today, or give me a call at 724.775.9815. We distribute The Bridge to all local cafes, coffee shops, public libraries and other places where people gather together. We can help you get the word out.

Once again I’d like to reiterate that The Bridge is here for you. We want to know about your positive, informative, beneficial good news. I’m going to do my part to be more positive by stopping listening to so much negative talk radio and by stopping reading all the negative news printed in the newspapers. It’s just no good for me, and I’m sure my wife will appreciate it. Now we just need you to do your part and share your good news with the rest of the Beaver County community.

The Bridge is your vehicle for spreading good news. Take advantage of it today.

ContactTheBridge@gmail.com



In Town
by Valentine J. Brkich

I see a lot of strange and remarkable things when I’m walking around Beaver and Bridgewater.

For example, a couple weeks ago I was walking in Bridgewater with my wife when we saw a man pushing a baby in a stroller. Nothing strange about that. What was strange was that the man was wearing a gasmask and had an air tank strapped to his back. Usually, such a sight would have alarmed me. But since the baby was sans mask, we figured the air was safe to breathe. I can’t explain what the man was doing. My guess is that he was acting on some sort of dare.

Then in Beaver the other day I witnessed a battle between a rabbit and a crow. I was running along River Road when I noticed the courageous hare fending off the rather large black bird. I assume the rabbit was protecting its young, which were probably nearby somewhere. It was quite a show of bravery on the rabbit’s part. The crow was twice its size. I did my part by chasing the bird a few blocks down the street, hopefully driving it away for good.

I feel very fortunate to live in such a walk-able community that allows for these types of bizarre and exciting encounters. We’re lucky to have so many safe, scenic, tree-lined streets and sidewalks to stroll along. Most people don’t have this.

I was in Fayetteville, NC, visiting a relative a couple months ago. The weather was nice, but there was no town. There were no shady streets and historic neighborhoods. There weren’t any parks with kids and dogs jumping around either. Neighborhoods were tucked away off the four-lane highway that seemed to stretch on forever. Every mile or so there was a strip mall or a fast-food joint and then another strip mall and another fast-food joint. And if you drove long enough, you’d see the same stores and restaurant chains again and again. It wasn’t a town. It wasn’t a community. It was just a place. A place without an identity.

Fayetteville reminded me of a similar “town” in Pennsylvania about 20 minutes northeast of here—a “town” that always talks of growth and progress. But is it really a town at all when you can go to the same stores, day after day, year after year, and not see a familiar face? I don’t think so.

Our towns aren’t perfect. We’ve seen some rough times, economically, and the population is a fraction of what it used to be. But we’ve persevered, nonetheless. We still have our downtowns and our historic neighborhoods and our brick streets and our community parks and our rivers and friendly people and so much more. And we are seeing changes every day as our towns evolve and become new again. In Aliquippa, Ambridge, Beaver, Beaver Falls, Bridgewater, Freedom, Midland, Monaca, New Brighton and Rochester, I see new stores and new life and new possibilities. What do you see?

When’s the last time you took a walk in your town? Put down the remote. Step away from the computer. Wash the car tomorrow. Put on your sneakers, head out the door and see what you discover. Keep your eyes open and take it all in. Take advantage of your town and all it has to offer. And when you see a man in a gasmask pushing a stroller, or a struggle for life between predator and prey, or anything else of note for that matter, write it down and send it to us. We’d love to hear about it. And so would your neighbors.


Feels Like Fall

Wind is blowing
Leaves are falling
Squirrels are hording
School bus rolling
Footballs flying
Towels a’swirling
Pumpkins growing
Lawnmowers slowing
Days are shortening
Nights are cooling
Pools are closing
Pace is slowing
Summer’s fading
Fall is knocking
Winter’s coming
Wind is blowing

—Valentine J. Brkich

Good News!
By Staff Writers

Jim Johnson of Beaver rides his bike to Giant Eagle for groceries with saddle bags.......now he's super happy! The new mayor of Beaver County (as yet to be determined) decides that connecting all of the towns with bike paths and walking trails is the best thing to do...and everyone unanimously agrees, and that’s how he becomes the new mayor of beaver county... Mary and Tom Hanover decide to stop shopping at all fake pharmacies like Right Aid, Eckurd, CeeVeeS, and instead get all their things either from their garden, local stores such as Giant Eagle or their hometown pharmacy, and by making it "Like it should be," says Tom. "I always felt like those weird box drug stores were trying to take over the town...like Aliens!" Big Gary Wendt of Center says he's had enough of driving and only will get by on his bike, walking, or taking the bus. Since he started three weeks ago, he's much happier now. Tracy Jones of Bridgewater has banned all strip malls from her shopping experience. In fact, she now only goes places with nice architecture. Val Brier-patch, also of Bridgewater, says now that he's "stopped listening to such fools as Honsman and K-Mill, and other right wing propogandists", his doctor says not only has Val’s blood-pressure dropped and he's lost ten pounds, but his rosy complexion can mean nothing less than he and his wife will have a baby soon, and everybody's happy! Nate Erikson and Dave McD of Beaver and Center respectively, decide to go out for drinks on their bikes. "Cops actually waved to us and gave us the Mentos smile" said Nate. Also, they got compliments from random passerby's; and three different chicks said that "That's cool, we dig bikes!", and "So do we!" added dave. The Women’s Federation of Beaver County, the FBC, decides unanimously last week to “only shop on Main Street”, or so it says in their new constitution, and this makes not only them happy, but their husbands too, so now, everybody’s happy!


GEOGRAPHY LESSON
By Don Bemis

We are on the bank of the Beaver River, more or less in the town of Beaver, in the county of Beaver, in the valley of Beaver, eight miles south of Beaver Falls where they built a dam (but not a beaver dam due to a beaver shortage) so there aren't any falls any more, about fifteen miles south of New Beaver which was new a long time ago, and sort of southwest of Big Beaver which isn't very big and isn't on the Beaver River. An Indian chief named King Beaver lived here more than two hundred years ago. When these folks find a name they like, they stick with it. We have a Beaver zip code but really live in Bridgewater, population 780, four streets wide, squeezed between the railroad and the river. It used to be called West Bridgewater to avoid confusion with another Bridgewater outside of Philadelphia. Now it's just called Bridgewater, and confusion reigns. Yahoo will tell you we live 321.4 miles from here. We don't.

In our Bridgewater, Bridge Street crosses Beaver River water via the Bridgewater-Rochester Bridge to get to Rochester on the opposite bank, where Bridge Street changes its name to Madison. Many Rochester streets are named after deceased Presidents who probably never made it to Rochester. There is no street named for President Garfield, who nearly drowned nearby. He was eventually assassinated instead, but not in Rochester.

The Bridgewater-Rochester Bridge is not to be confused with the Beaver-Rochester Bridge a block further south, where Highway 68 changes its name to Highways 68, 65, and 18 just in case somebody isn't lost yet. If you're in the wrong lane, you may find yourself on the Rochester-Monaca Bridge across the Ohio River. Meanwhile, back in Bridgewater, a block south of the Beaver-Rochester Bridge, a railroad bridge crosses Beaver River water right where it becomes Ohio River water. A different railroad bridge on a different railroad crosses Ohio River water - including former Beaver River water - on the line that separates Beaver from Bridgewater. Trains can't get from one train bridge to the other.

So Beaver isn't actually on the Beaver. Bridgewater is. The Beaver Valley nuclear plant isn't in the Beaver Valley. It's ten miles down the Ohio Valley, on the south bank in Shippingport, where they mostly ship electricity. If the plant were three miles further west, it would be in Chester, West Virginia (not to be confused with Rochester, Pennsylvania), within a stone's throw of the World's Largest Teapot, and across the water from East Liverpool, Ohio, which is a long way west of the more famous Liverpool. If the power plant were on the north side of the Ohio, it would be in Midland, Pennsylvania, which is about as far from the middle of the state as you can get without changing license plates. Midland is south of Ohioville, Pennsylvania. The World's Largest Teapot, by the way, was an ice cream stand. They didn't sell tea.


the re-integration project
by nathan peluso

a re-constitutional rough draft this fall, the reintegration project is going to focus primarily on one thing, a constitution – maybe even a ten commandment of sorts. this constitution/ten commandments is to re-outline, in no uncertain terms, the reintegration project theme which is, as you know: back to nature, back to the basics, back to a better understanding, and connection, for us all ................ thus... walk if thou can if thou cannot walk, bike if thou cannot bike, walk if thou must drive, do it sparingly if thou must purchase fuel, do it scornfully if thou sees a road, see it better as a field or forest if thou sees a field or forest, think of it as nature, not a road plant trees if thou can if thou cannot plant trees, plant shrubs and flowers plant shrubs or flowers even if thou can plant a tree cut down a tree only to plant three plant three only to plant three more breathe in clean air, from the tree remember that the tree, and the shrub, and the flower give back think of progress as more trees, not less think of development as planting trees, not cutting them away if thou sees a field, leave it that way if thou sees an old building, use it and make it better and if thou sees a field, again, plant a tree, or lay there and look at the sky think of trees as better left that way, or as friends if thou can plant a tree, do it and do it again think about what you need, if anything buy nothing, if you can buy local if thou must buy something buy from main street if thou can, and put food in the saddlebags of your bike buy from giant eagle if thou must, or because it’s from pittsburgh buy from the mall if you have to, or if your niece works there, if at all buy from cvs, rite aid, eckerd, & walmart, only if you hate yourself, and your town buy nothing and things might actually be better buy absolutely nothing, be happy with what you have, better yet think of buying as supplying only your wants think of not buying as supplying your needs buy nothing if thou can need much less if thou can too eat food that’s good, if thou can know what’s in it if it’s possible know what’s in everything, if possible at least care, if thou can if thou can read this far, then thou gets the point if thou can read history, think of it as a tree cut down plant another, walk, ride, eat good, buy local, be happy, be nice read the reintegration project, if thou really cares key: thou=you you=thou



bikingboyfrombeaver
by nathan peluso

there was a boy from beaver and he rode his bike so far one day that after a while he became tired but it didn’t really matter because he liked the river and he liked his neighbors and every now and then someone would wave and this made him happy at each peddle round and round and round and his skin could feel the cool breeze and the wind in his hair was refreshing and all around he saw goodness and beautiful things that reminded him of childhood and all the memories of growing up and of today because he was still just a boy and all the world was ahead of him even though today the sun was casting its last golden rays and falling slowly beyond the nice green hill which meant surely it was time to go home and so he turned the last bend towards that direction through the hills and past the farms and back again to the quaint village houses and all the people from his town and soon he could smell the bakery up ahead and he knew that his mom was so lucky to have such a good biking boy to pick up the bread and bring it home for dinner