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.
_____
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.
_____
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
_____
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.
_____
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
_____
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.
_____
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.
______
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
______
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.
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