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:
ContactTheBridge@gmail.com

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!