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Ah, Valley Forge National Historical Park, the Central Park of the Main Line.
Walk, ride or hike its 3,500 acres and you can just smell the history.
But the Park’s not resting on its cherry laurels these days.
Far from it.
Thanks to its newly invigorated nonprofit arm, the Valley Forge Park Alliance, it’s marching forward with dazzling plans that will affect ALL of us – anyone who “recreates” in the park (90 percent of visitors), brings guests there, or even drives through.
In every way, the stunning death of Adam Wright was wrong.
He was far too young, too gifted, and too, well, good, to go so soon.
And yet his 21 glorious years on our patch of earth – on Margo Lane in Berwyn, at Conestoga High School (Class of ’13), and at Dartmouth College (Class of ’17) – will forever be remembered.
And remembered with a smile, if Adam has his way.
Throngs of mourners attended “A Celebration of the Life of Adam Wright (June 29, 1995 – Jan. 30, 2017)” at Paoli Presbyterian Church last Saturday.
It was a sendoff for the ages – a testament to a life that was brief, but so brightly lived.
The elite health & fitness company likes the Main Line so much, it’s putting not ONE, but TWO of its mega clubs here.
Our first Life Time – a scratch-built, 140,000 sq. ft. whopper with a “resort-like” outdoor pool and waterslides – will debut in June on Swedesford Rd. in Tredyffrin. (Life Time’s calling it King of Prussia, but the map says it’s Wayne, if only by a hair.)
And just announced: our second Life Time will be in Ardmore – an exclusive “diamond” level club (a notch above KOP’s “onyx premier”) in the former Macy’s building, one of two Grand Dames of Suburban Square. (The tall Times building is the other.)
No matter how you voted, you have to feel sickened by the reported assault of a black female student by a group of white male students on Villanova’s campus last week.
Here’s what reportedly went down: The young woman was walking through the SEPTA tunnel around 9 pm Thursday when a group of guys en route to an off-campus formal approached and knocked her down, shouting “Trump! Trump! Trump!” The student’s face and head hit concrete. According to her friend, she was badly shaken, suffered nausea, vomiting and dizziness and was reluctant to report the attack at first.
From Devon Manor to The Royal Devon?
Could be.
Developer Brian O’Neill confirms that he’s now the proud owner of the large and long-in-the-tooth nursing home/rehab complex on Lancaster Ave.
Residents and patients are being relocated, 124 staffers are looking for new jobs, and Devon Manor goes dark next month.
This is prime real estate, folks – 8.6 acres with lots of frontage on Route 30 and a deep lot. And just a skip and a jump from the Devon train station.
So what will O’Neill do with it?
Well, what do you know? We’re getting a Pizzeria Vetri after all.
Just not in Devon. Not yet. And maybe never, the way Devon Yard’s going lately.
Urban Outfitters Inc. is clustering four of its brands near its Urban Outfitters store at the King of Prussia Mall’s Pavilion.
By mid-fall, we’ll get another Anthropologie, a Free People (relocated from the other end of the Court), and yes, that Pizzeria Vetri (with bar & lounge) that we’ve all been pining for. At the mall.
Meanwhile, back in dear Devon, the Yard project is as mired in weeds and thorns as the old Waterloo plot on which it would sit.
Yuck runs amuck: Neighbor vs. neighbor. Little guy vs. “big, bad” developer. Homeowners’ concerns vs. township interests. Threats and counter-threats.
Ugh.
The latest: Red “Promote Easttown: Support Devon Yard” signs dueling with blue “Save Devon” yard signs around town. (And yup, the first homeowner to put up a red sign last week – architect John Toates – says he found it lying in his mulch the next morning – which is exactly what allegedly happened when the blue signs went up a few months ago. Oy.)
I hold my x-rated photo album while dermatologist Adrienne Rencic checks for changes.
As some of you know, I’ve done a little fashion modeling over the years but a while back I posed for a very different kind of photo spread. I wasn’t showcasing the clothes on my back because, well, there weren’t any clothes on my back.
Here’s how it happened.
My brother and my father are both malignant melanoma survivors so I had long been a faithful, if not enthusiastic, patient of a dermatologist I used to call The Sun Nazi. Every year, the Sun Nazi would inspect the assorted moles, freckles and “beauty marks” peppering my epidermis, tsk tsk over my very faint tan lines, and implore me to get “Total Body Photography.”
About seven years ago – tired of excisions and biopsies – I took her advice and called the Dermatrak Skin Imaging Center (then in King of Prussia, now in Plymouth Meeting).
I’ll never forget my appointment.
After handing over a $500 check for the privilege, I shed all of my clothes (undies included) and jewelry and slipped on a white terry robe.
I was then told to stand in the center of a large blindingly bright studio where a man in a white coat (a photographer trying to look like a doc?) approached and asked me to hand him my robe.
He directed me through 30 minutes of unseemly poses while he clicked away. His job was to capture every square inch of me – scalp, soles and lady parts included – in full-color digital 2D. As I bent and twisted and lifted, I remember wondering if he enjoyed his work.
My photo album came in the mail a few weeks later wrapped in brown paper and conspicuously marked “Personal” and “Private.” Oh dear, what does the mailman think I ordered?
I promptly hid the package – unopened – under my bed.
I still can’t bring myself to look at the pictures, but my new dermatologist seems to appreciate them. I tote my album along to my annual skin checks and she systematically compares every mole constellation against its celluloid counterpart, looking for changes in shape, size, color and spacing. (I’ve had nightmares about leaving the album in the waiting room or in my car. Mommy, what’s this?)
And I’m pleased to report that I’ve had only one suspicious removed since my X-rated escapade. Which means no new stitches, no fresh centipede scars.
So while the experience was debasing in every way (especially for a good Catholic girl like me), I recommend it.
Plus, when you’re middle aged, the photos are good for at least 10 years. Like well-spaced pregnancies, there’s ample time between photo shoots to forget the torture.
For many, my spring vacation choice was a real head scratcher. Israel? Really? Is it safe?
My husband and I hadn’t planned to visit the Middle East this year. We’d been sitting on a big, use-it-or-lose-it US Airways credit from a cancelled trip to Italy last fall. We basically played spin-the-globe and landed on Israel, a place we’d always wanted to visit. We found a top-rated tour company on Trip Advisor, checked the late-April weather (sunny and 70!), and off we went.
We’re back now – safe, sound and psyched to beat the drum for the Holy Land, a magical place that fed my head, my soul and my belly.
If Israel’s not already on your must-see list, here are 12 reasons you should add it – pronto!
It’s safe. No, really, it is. You have to go through security TWICE to board a plane for Tel Aviv/Jerusalem. My TSA pre-check status meant nothing to the tough-guy screeners at the gate – I had to shed my shoes and jacket along with everyone else. Once you’re in country, young IDF (Israeli Defense Force) soldiers are posted everywhere. It doesn’t take long to get used to – and feel reassured by – all those machine guns.
Jet lag, schmet lag. The flights – roughly 11 hours direct from Philly to Ben Gurion Airport and some 12 hours coming back – are long enough to allow for some real shut-eye, not the catnaps you get on a flight to Europe. (You might, however, disembark with a disconcerting case of cankles if you stay put too long – I could barely get my feet back in my sneakers.)
It’s manageable. Israel is about the size of New Jersey so you can see the whole shebang in a week. Add a day of travel on either end and it’s an exotic, 9- or 10-day destination.
A Main Line shiksa slips her prayer note in the Western Wall.
The history. The place is one big archeological dig. You think ancient Rome is old? Wait ’til you see the 5,000-year old ruins at Megiddo! AKA Armigeddon, Megiddo was the world’s first city, and according to the Bible, it will also be its last. Other mind-blowing golden oldies? Herod the Great’s desert fortress Masada, his impressive city, Caesarea, and the Dead Sea scrolls found at Qumran, just for starters.
The religion. Israel’s the birthplace of the Big Three monotheistic faiths: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. We chose a “highlights of Israel” tour because we wanted to see all the holy sites – Jewish, Christian and otherwise. We were transfixed by the meticulously manicured B’Hai Gardens, the otherworldly beauty of the Sea of Galilee (Jesus’ stomping ground), the ancient Byzantine Beit Alfa Synagogue, the ultra-Orthodox Mea Shearim neighborhood in Jerusalem and the polyglot of iconic churches, mosques and temples in Jerusalem’s Old City. As Catholics, we were especially moved by the Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth, the site of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount overlooking the super serene Sea of Galilee, the Garden of Gethsemane, and the sites of Jesus’ crucifixion, burial and resurrection all within the four walls of the mordantly mystical Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
The food.
My husband, Rich, is ready to dig into the 18 salads and monster pita served to anyone lucky enough to snag a seat at the Old Man and the Sea in Jaffa Port.
The breads, from BIG bagels to challah and laffa, are fresh baked and often served warm, and the Mediterranean cuisine, particularly in cosmopolitan Tel Aviv, is exceptional. Other standouts: the hot Frisbee-sized pitas and fresh salads slung by the servers at Jaffa’s Old Man and the Sea; the Best Tomato Salad Ever (my name but I’m not kidding) at Herbert Samuel and the inventive open-kitchen creations at North Abraxas (sit at the bar!), both in Tel Aviv; the super-fresh catch at Jerusalem’s Sea Dolphin; the bounteous buffet breakfast at the world-renowned King David Hotel; the luscious lamb shawarma in the shadow of the Western Wall…
The super-charged geo-politics. The journo in me was stoked to see firsthand: the strategic value of the Golan Heights (we watched a rocket explode just over the border in Syria); a Jordanian flag flapping just a few feet across the muddy Jordan River; throngs of jubilant Israelis dancing in the streets on Independence Day; the heavily guarded checkpoint and No Man’s Land between Israel and Palestinian-controlled Bethlehem; and the controversial Israeli settlements in the West Bank. I came away with a much better grasp of the Israeli-Arab conflict. I’ll be paying closer attention to Middle Eastern politics from now on, that’s for sure.
The tour guides. Ours, Eli Dabby (Shalom Israel Tours) was one in a million – funny, warm, wise, peace loving and eager to please. Others we met who were touring with Rent-A-Guide raved about the humor and storytelling of their guide, Jackie. In Israel, guiding is a valued profession. Guides have to attend special classes for two years and take an exam to become licensed by the Ministry of Tourism.
Yad Vashem. After the Western Wall, it’s the most visited tourist site in Israel – and for good reason. I half cried my way through the Holocaust History Museum, the Hall of Remembrance and the Garden of the Righteous Among the Nations at this 44-acre complex outside Jerusalem. The U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in D.C. is wonderful, but wandering through this place, in their country, is moving beyond words.
The people. Israelis, both secular and faithful, were warm and wonderful. From server to soldier, everyone had an interesting story, it seemed.
Loved chatting up Hall of Fame golfer Amy Alcott in the King David Hotel’s lobby.
The scenery. Dramatic desert vistas, the dead calm of the earth’s lowest point, the Dead Sea, Bedouin herding sheep on craggy cliffs like shepherds from the Bible, the tranquil Sea of Galilee, the enchanting Old City with its towering stone walls, colorful street bazaars – Israel is a photographer’s dream.
The fruits of the land. Plump and sweet Medjool dates from Jericho, Jaffa’s renowned oranges, surprisingly tasty wine from the Golan grapes, and all-natural beauty products made from Dead Sea Minerals and Galilean olives – (more on these in a future post), Israel is bountiful beyond belief for a country that’s more than half dessert.
The resident rabbi at the Golan Heights Winery leads a fascinating tour not far from the Syrian border (where we saw smoke from a rocket).
BTW, I’d highly recommend our tour company, Shalom Israel Tours, headed by one Shalom Stark. (I kid you not!) His service and gratitude were tremendous.
(An FYI: Jewish Heritage tours tend to fill big buses but our Highlights of Israel tour had only 14 people aboard a large van. Perfect size! An added bonus: traveling with interesting English speakers from around the world!)
Snow days simply aren’t what they used to be.
No snow-crusted mittens tumbling in the dryer, no guilt-inducing make-a-craft-with-me-mommy pleas, no obnoxious bells heralding a next-level video game victory, no one calling the house to plan a sledding rendez-vous.
Nope, snow days, empty-nester style, are profoundly quiet and still. And I love ’em.
Today is one of those blissful days and guess what I did first thing? (OK, second thing; caffeine and big-girl breakfast ALWAYS come first.) I showed my makeup brushes a little love.
Turns out if you neglect your brushes – and boy, have I ignored mine! – they’ll take it personally. First, they’ll visit upon you every manner of disfigurement – acne, pink eye, scabies. (Kiddin’ about that last one, but you get the idea). Then, over time, they’ll get all uppity and stop working for you altogether – they’ll lose their shape and texture and, in cases of extreme abandonment, start losing their hair. Nasty stuff. Thankfully, no scabies to report here, but chronic bloodshot eyes and the recent purchase of a long-lasting eyeliner in a pot (Bobbi Brown’s – love it!) got me thinking about freshening up my liner brush, and this morning, well, one brush led to another …
Sucker that I am, I fell for a $15 bottle of MAC brush cleaner when everyone knows (everyone but me, apparently) that your grubby bristles will perk up just as readily with dishwashing liquid, bar soap, shampoo or even olive oil.
I won’t bore you with a video showing how I cleaned mine. Just don’t wet the brush barrel (lest your bristles loosen) and be sure to rinse thoroughly with lukewarm water. Feel free to lather (gently), rinse and repeat on extra-grimy foundation or concealer brushes. Then lay flat to dry.
The Bobbie Brown Makeup Manual recommends washing once a week but I think once a month may be a tad more realistic. My little burst of early-morning productivity (others might call it work procrastination but they would be SO wrong) wasn’t planned. Nor was it in character: compulsively tidy I am not!
Still, I have to say, I’m feeling pretty pleased. Today’s whiteout wasn’t a complete washout after all. Scratch that – it WAS a complete washout, but only for my grateful little brushes.
