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A five-acre lake tucked away in Newtown Square is going down the drain.
Literally.
Unless something changes pronto, the lake’s dam will be breached within weeks. And waters will flow downstream toward Radnor homes, through oft-soggy Saw Mill Park and into the flood-prone Darby Creek watershed.
Fish and fowl will lose their habitats, a few neighbors will lose their views, and a piece of Main Line history will be washed up forever.
After a long weekend with her mom, Paulette Kules came home Tuesday to a letter from hell.
And the year that began with her daughter’s suicide got unspeakably worse.
FedExed by her landlord’s attorney, the letter demands that Kules close her beloved toy shop, Puns Toys, and turn over her keys immediately for unpaid rent. Her inventory, fixtures, furniture were hers no longer, the letter said.
Regal Noye talked in gibberish and ran around in circles for years.
Today, he’s a Summa Cum Laude graduate of Radnor High School just starting his freshman year at the University of Tulsa where he’ll study environmental policy.
On a scholarship.
You read that right.
Regal’s journey – from challenged and challenging child on the autism spectrum to standout Radnor student – was so improbable, his mother just wrote a book about it.
The Black Main Line is speaking out. And thousands – including a growing list of private schools – are listening.
Marches on Main Line streets have moved over to social media, none more prominent than the red-hot, hair-raising, holy smokes Instagram account, Black Main Line Speaks.
In less than six weeks, the account has posted hundreds of vignettes from Black alumni and students describing specific instances when they were taunted, tokenized, disrespected or otherwise diminished by teachers, administrators and classmates.
With the yellow light finally flashing, the Main Line emerged from its coranavirus cocoon last week. We walked into stores, we dined outside, and in huge numbers, we marched.
With fists raised, voices lifted, signs hoisted.
Like the R5, a wave of protests chugged through Bala, Narberth, Ardmore, Haverford, Bryn Mawr, Wayne, Devon, Berwyn, Paoli, a fresh march each day.
Ah, the good old days, when SAVVY – and, by extension, you – gorged on new restaurants. From high-concept places like Autograph, Bercy and Enoteca Tredici to neighborhood spots like The Choice, Ripplewood, Goat’s Beard and Sontuosa, we rushed out to try them all.
In the last year, sadly, the gush of new eateries has slowed to a drip.
Now, we fear it will dry up altogether.
Because Covid-19 has come to town. And dining out on the Main Line may never be the same.
Frankly, we weren’t going to publish. This coronavirus crisis is too crazy/awful/unwieldy to even begin to unpack. Plus, we weren’t sure how to handle our loyal advertisers, who have enough bills to worry about.
But we’ve been monitoring the Main Line’s New Normal. And while plenty about it stinks, there’s good news worth sharing.
So we’re going ahead. You’ll see our advertisers’ banners and hear some of their corona-coping stories but they won’t be billed. It’s the least we can do.
After a string of hearings sometimes so raucous with foot stomping and chanting that officials asked police to stand sentry, Easttown’s zoning board has – drum roll – ruled on Berwyn Square.
Both sides claim partial victory – although, arguably, the bigger win went to the developers.
But this one’s far from over.
T/E is in the news again and not for its test scores.
The school district is grappling with its response to a family whose kindergartner with Down Syndrome was reported to Tredyffrin Police.
The six-year-old’s offense? Pointing her finger and saying, “I shoot you” to her special ed teacher at Valley Forge Elementary.
JP Weber clearly remembers the day he died.
“I can’t go back there,” he thought on June 3, 2016. “I’m never going in there again.”
An elite loan originator for PNC Bank, Weber quit his job that late spring morning and walked, blindly, off a cliff. The old JP – people-pleasing, Percocet-popping, life-of-the-party JP – long crumbling, collapsed completely. And ever-so-slowly, canvas by canvas, rose up and pieced himself back together.
Pinstripe-suited Joseph Paul Weber was buried that Friday morning. Ponytailed, self-actualized artist @JohnHamster was born.
What some call a complete mental breakdown, Weber, 43, calls The Undoing.
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