May 22, 2008 Issue                                       

©2007 The Chestnut Hill Local

Opinion

An awful lot of smoke

Given that the Local received no letters from readers concerned with the CHCA’s election questions, perhaps I am tilting at windmills. Some wrote in to tell me so (see forum responses below).

So what if 65 memberships were purchased with cash the night of the election and that those memberships were worth up to 130 votes out of 517? We have no evidence of fraud and, even if we did, it’s not in violation of any law. Why raise the question? Why stir the pot?

It’s not certain that the Local will find fire here, but what we have is an awful lot of smoke.

1. Of the 65 memberships purchased that night, none had phone numbers. It’s not out of the ordinary for members to leave out their phone number, but it’s conspicuous in one large block.

2. According to the Local’s records, of those 65 deadline members, 32 (49 percent) are from out of state and only 14 of those who joined that day live in Chestnut Hill. New members from out of state hail from as far away as Seattle, San Jose and Daytona Beach. Others are closer in Trenton and Jersey City.

First, it’s hard to imagine how 32 people who live out of state, many in Washington, California and Florida, managed to deliver ballots and cash to St. Paul’s Presbyterian Church on 22 E. Chestnut Hill Ave. on the evening of Wednesday, April 23.

Second, of all the Local’s subscribers (a number that includes members), only 4.5 percent, or 186 people out of 4,110, are from out of state. That’s a far cry from the 49 percent in the group in question. Like the lack of phone numbers, it is a fact that is conspicuous.

3. One of the gentlemen who became a member that day, one of the 65 and a resident of Trenton, called the Local last week wanting to know why he was getting our newspaper. When he was told he was getting the Local because he had joined the association and had voted in the April election, he quickly responded that we needed to talk to his son and hung up. Suspicious? I think so.

It would be nice to know how the ballots and cash were delivered. It would be nice to look at the ballots and see if they appear to be signed by the same person or if they seem to be legitimately signed by individuals with different handwriting.

It’s worth noting that we tried. The Local sent a formal, written request to the judges of election on Wednesday, May 14, to review the CHCA’s ballots. As of the morning of Tuesday, May 20, we’ve gotten no response.

My intention is not to propagate a conspiracy theory. The intention is to put information in the hands of the association’s membership and let it decide if those facts warrant further review or not. Perhaps the membership would want to consider requiring new members to be in good standing for a year before they are allowed to vote, which might go a long way in preventing potential election tampering.

If the members want to shrug this off, if they don’t have a problem with the smoke or think the issue is just being manufactured by the Local, then so be it.

The job of this newspaper is to investigate such questions —especially when the evidence is as compelling as it is in this case. To do otherwise would be abdicating our responsibility.

Pete Mazzaccaro

Bucking the big bang brings good old boys back to Burrland
by HUGH GILMORE

The big bang, a certain West Catholic High School graduation, happened 50 years ago and we’ve all been hurtling away from one another ever since. Now it was time to hit the brakes, back up and come together as a group once more to see how everyone was holding up.

Well, I wasn’t going to go to my 50th high school reunion. I had lost nearly all touch with those guys, my fellow “Burrs,” over the years; who the heck was going to remember such an undistinguished particle as me?

I got out the yearbook one night as the deadline approached and looked at my graduation picture. The youthful, nearly-stupid innocence of my photo amused me. I felt sorry for that kid and all he had yet to go through. I felt sympathy for him too, knowing now why he looked that way (idealistic) and why he offered the world such a wan smile (lips closed, to hide his need for dental work he couldn’t afford).

And under the photo: his address and parish, St. Clement (now closed and sold).   Under those two pieces of information: nothing. No recorded accomplishments.

That was my life then. I was one of those boys who lingered briefly after school admiring the fellows warming up for cross-country, or track and field. I loved running. I felt I was born to   run. I wanted so much to wear a letter sweater with the school monogram, like the guys I admired and respected and envied deeply, the ones whose pictures dominated the yearbook.

 I paused to watch them practicing when I could, then walked a few blocks to catch a bus that would connect me to the No. 11 trolley out to Colwyn and Darby. Then I walked a mile to go to work in Fitzgerald Mercy Hospital’s kitchen for 50 cents an hour, toiling afternoons through dinner, weekends all day, the earnings going to my mother at the end of the week, “for the family.”

I went to an all-male high school. No matter what the experts say, most of us boys thrived on competition. Usually it was a joy. Sometimes it was crushing. Always it was there. The measure of all things. The only reliable gauge of who you were and where you stood in the world, this constant comparison of your achievements to others’. It takes a long time to “unlearn” this, or parts of it anyway, but that is another story.

Basketball and track were the two glamor sports for us. Every gym-rat in West Philly was convinced he could start for either varsity if he only bore down harder. I’ve sat and listened over beers to guys describe games played in eighth grade — even specific shots they made over 40 years ago! I certainly remember most of mine. Their sweetness lingers in the mind like a first kiss.

But, as I said, under my yearbook photo I might as well have posted, “This Space for Rent.”

My deeds unrecorded, I felt anonymous. In most of the yearbook photos the letter-sweater guys are shown talking to one another as they survey their kingdom, the newspaper editors are all congratulating one other over another fine edition of columns with their names attached, the brainy guys are toasting one another’s future Nobels with chem-lab beakers.

Though I’ve accomplished a few things in my lifetime, none were done in time for inclusion in the only publication that really mattered to me — my high school yearbook. At a reunion who would talk to me? Remember me? My fellow Anonymics Anonymous members?

 But then I decided there would be very few opportunities for “50-year” celebrations in my life. I’d ignore my fears of anonymity, or at worst, rejection and go. I could always claim to be seeking column material. I invited my wife, despite my fears of turning into a nobody in front of her. She graciously accepted.

I was nervous all day Saturday. I kept busy, pruning bushes in the yard, cleaning out storage closets, doing car odd-jobs — like adding coolant and wiper fluid — till it was time to dress. I allowed 45 minutes to get there for the opening reception. Then I drove on to the expressway. Oh no, traffic backed up — on a Saturday at 6:00? — I would be late. I’d miss the hors d’oeuvres, the open bar, the “let’s get a table together.”

“This is just like high school,” I said. The same anxiety, the same feeling that the universe had conspired to make me miss out on the fun my peers were having. Somehow, traffic broke after the Vine Street turnoff and we zoomed on. We parked, we walked in. From various entrances I saw well-dressed, silver-haired guys and their pretty wives converging on the ballroom. Like the proms of our youth.

Then, just like that, I felt confident and friendly. I said to the first guy I saw, “Hi, aren’t you Jim Powell?”

“Yes, I am,” he said, “Hold on, let me get my glasses on … well I’ll be, Hugh Gilmore. This is my wife, Rosemary, I was telling her about you.”

She said, “Oh, Jim was telling me about you.”

“What?” said my wife.

“Oh, what a crazy guy you were. Let’s just say, you had some advanced ideas.”

Ha ha.

And on like that, everywhere I went. Guys seemed glad to see me. I was glad to see them. Many remembered me as “lively” or “witty.” Bobby Houlihan said, “I got in trouble more than once going along with one of your schemes.” Shook my hand. Talked enthusiastically. I was equally delighted.

Some of our teachers were there. My favorites from way back. They even remembered me, or at least were kind enough to say so. I thanked them from the bottom of my heart for helping me and influencing me back then, giving me knowledge and what little praise I’d ever received in my young, hungry life.

It went on like that all night. Seeing these great guys from back then. (Mercifully, since no girls went to my school, there were no unresolved crushes, former dates, angry resentments, or double-agendas to explain to my wife.)

Just the sheer pleasure of dropping all the BS finally, shedding the former shrouds of glory, and class distinctions of any kind. Time had evened everything out. We reveled in the joy of talking again to a funny kid who made you laugh in homeroom, or remembered, like you did, what a cool dance they used to have out at Holy Cross Church on Saturday nights, or the tedium of long trolley rides to get to school, or what it was like to carry your books by a strap wrapped around them in the pre-bookbag days.

And under it all, the gratitude that we still walked upright on the earth. About 40 percent of our class have died. The rest of us survived the uptight Eisenhower era, the Beatles invasion, The Bay of Pigs, Communism and the Bomb,  the Sexual revolution, Vietnam, the turbulence of the Civil Rights era, prominent assasinations, the rise of drugs, and the evolution of Rock and roll, all by the time we were 30. More interesting times lay ahead.

For no necessary reason, we were all still alive and beneath the silver hair or bald domes, everyone looked sharp and happy.

 I’m very glad I went.

Maybe people’s 50th, 10th, 20th and 30th reunions still carry some lingering tensions from the old days, but I can recommend this to you with confidence: if you live long enough to attend a 50th, most everyone will be so mellowed out by time, they’ll be genuinely glad to see you. Even you. Even me.

Hugh can be reached at hughmore@yahoo.com.

Opinion: With an emphasis on the ladder
by Ed (Lola) Feldman

If you could get what you wanted by doing just one thing, would you? Herein lies the nature of ambition, and the bargains you make with yourself, your neighbors on earth, and what some call the soul.

If you asked yourself “what thing?” you can come sit by me. If you said, “sure,” you go and sit by the person who bought the recent CHCA board election. And, if after I told you what you had to do, you thought, “well that doesn’t sound so bad” or “everybody else does it,” the bargaining has already begun.

The mechanism that calls for the compromise, or the jettisoning of morality, decency and regard for others in return for advancement may be the Unified Theory that explains the nature of the world and the unholy mess it is in. Every ladder rung requires more effort.

What do we leave behind as we climb? Some bargaining is personal and pedestrian. In order to maintain the holy grail of “lifestyle,” how many of you abandon your children to others? In order to protect yourselves from what you consider unpleasant aspects of contemporary life, how much swathing do you require? A segregated community? Five thousand pounds of carbon emitting iron? Afternoons of blissful, alcoholic ignorance?

But for those who really seek that top rung, with attendant money and power, much more is required. The bargains here are made with others. They make alliances, wine, dine, transact-work the system by greasing those who run it.

A simple theory: If cheating gives you an advantage in your climb, and most people who cheat — because of their guile, the complicity of others, and the complacency of the majority — don’t get caught, or slapped down, who reaches the top? Who runs things? This explains a lot about the world, doesn’t it?

Leo Durocher, speaking about baseball said, “Nice guys finish last.” But a spikes-high slide is not an offense that hurts a multitude, and besides, it is made in public view.

But cheaters always go too far. Why? It’s the way they’re wired. They can’t stop. It’s the reason Martha Stewart lied about a $50,000 stock transaction when she was already a multi-millionaire. They do it until they get caught. And if they can befriend those who are supposed to do the catching, well then, who’s to know?

This is precisely how the Chestnut Hill Community Association, its board and the Chestnut Hill Community Fund have been run for the last five years, at least. It’s the reason Sanjiv Jain never had to pay the $2,600 fine he incurred while managing the CHCF’s property. Lou Aiello paid it for him, out of the organization’s funds.

Lou got a contract to do work on Sanjiv’s other property. See how it works? Sanjiv managed the property pro bono, but took a $3,200 fee for its rental, cut in secret. When Dina Hitchcock took power she said she would look into it. That was months ago, but Dina knew instantly when I left a message on Sanjiv’s phone. (She said it was “vile.” Is calling someone “shorty” vile?)

Dina and Sanjiv do talk, just not about certain things. And now, as a sparsely participated election was swung by more than 130 votes, bought with cash just under the wire, and no one will confess to taking the money, and the ballots have been hidden, contrary to election rules, we have perhaps, the tipping point. Has someone finally gone to far?

But here’s the surreal part of the story, and, fittingly, the way those in power will spin it. Chestnut Hill always trumpets its’ “uniqueness,” first U.S. suburb, only neighborhood with two commuter rail lines (thanks to railroad robber-baron residents!), first home to the Mommybar empire.

But the way we elect our CHCA board is unique as well. For to vote or run, no residency is required, only a fee, what used to be referred to in the South as a poll tax. Now remember, the CHCA has responsibilities over a geographic area — zip code 19118 — yet, theoretically, each and every voter and candidate could be a resident of Madagascar. This is the reason Dina Hitchcock can live outside the city and still run a community organization inside the city, an organization which can receive city funds and services which she helps control, but as a non-city taxpayer, does not contribute to.

Not surreal enough? What if votes for the board did come from Madagascar? Or from another exotic place, by people who have never lived, or even visited the Hill? Chestnut Hill’s reputation for “uniqueness” would then acquire another unique distinction. For in this post-Lou Dobbs world of off-shoring manufacturing jobs and call-centers, we are first to export our election! Have they gone far enough for you to care yet?

I’m gonna find out. I always do. Their combination of arrogance and stupidity always betrays them. Besides, someone they have betrayed always comes to me and tells me. Just look at who won in the election and who lost. Those who feel their former loyalists can no longer be trusted dumped some former insiders. I’m here for you. Tell Poppa everything, because I have something to trade. When the investigators come around, I’ll vouch for you. But you better come to me quick — there’s not much time. Until then, watch every vote concerning the Mommybar and any other thing Sanjiv wants. I bet you’ll be able to connect the dots yourself.