Goodbye Walter, I wish I'd said more... 1939-2010

Walter and Friend, West Chester Swinging Summer 2009

Walter. You all knew Walter. Even if you swear up and down you didn't know Walter, I'm telling you, you knew Walter. Metaphysics aside, the deal is, if you hung out in downtown West Chester in the last 4 or 5 years, you knew Walter. Ok let me put it this way, you "saw" Walter, or you might have been "aware" of him. You saw him at the Coffee Shop before the Starbucks opened up, you saw him at Peace of Pizza, you saw him shuffling up and down Gay Street, the slight hunch of his back, his coke bottle glasses, his ubiquitous baseball cap, the cane he would use to steady himself, and his never ending smile.

And what I mean when I say "You knew Walter" even if you're reading this blog post from your corner of the world, you knew "A" Walter. A kindly old gentlemen who no matter what, managed a polite and enthusiastic one word greeting of "Hello".

I knew a Walter when I was a kid, an elderly man that we called Colonel Sanders who would come over to watch us younger kids play football on our front lawn in Titusville, and always at a pause in the game he would start into an unsolicited Speech about America, and Patriotism, and how great it is to live in these United States. The other kids I played with were kind of ambivalent towards him, and of course the neighborhood teenagers were a lost cause, but I kind of liked and defended him. One Christmas, before becoming a hyper conscious and angst filled teenager, before it became uncool, I convinced "the gang" to go around the neighborhood and specially Colonel Sanders house to sing Christmas carols. When he cracked the door open, behind padlocks and chains, surely put there by his experiences with the egg wielding teenagers at night, and saw us singing, tears filled his eyes and he offered us candy and of course, gave us one of his speeches. Maybe there was hope for our generation after all.I am ashamed to admit though, having become an adult, or for becoming for what passes for an adult, that I became the cynical, ambivalent, irony and sarcasm spewing elitist asshole the 11 year old version of myself would never thought, and would frankly be disappointed I'd be.

Walter Wright, was the first person I knew in West Chester. Having arrived here in town after an ugly, ugly breakup with a live in Girlfriend, the newly single me was a guy hoping to integrate myself into my newly adopted community. A pretty tall order to fill, what with my aversion to actually striking up conversations with people whom I convinced are not like me hence not worthy of my efforts to get to know them, or the seemingly clique-ish, clan like coteries that seem to exist in most specifically the Northeast USA. It seemed to me, (or maybe I convinced myself) that people around here just weren't into meeting new people, or allowing new people into their circles, because let's face it, people here are born here, they go to parochial school together, they vacation at the shore together, the ski in the Poconos together, they die here, they don't really have any room for a "new" guy.

Yet there was always Walter.Walter lived in my building, the illustrious Greentree Building on the corner of Gay and High Street in beautiful downtown West Chester. When I was going to work, there he was in the lobby, making his slow, deliberate journey to the coffee shop. I'm sure I'd be on 202 on the way to work before he made it across the street, but he always made it, and he always managed to stay there and hold court all day long. If I was going the Laundry room, there he was in the elevator, on his way to the Basement Recreation Room to watch TV on the Big Screen. And if I was in town picking up my dry cleaning, getting a Latte, buying a slice of Pizza, there was Walter, with baristas fussing all over him, people of all walks of life stopping to say hello to him, lawyers, construction workers, the *ahem* temporarily un-homed, everyone knew and loved Walter.

Don't get me wrong, I liked Walter too. I always said hello to him, I always held doors and elevator gates for him, I was quick to return his smile. If I saw him on the street I'd ask him how he was doing, and what was going on in our building. He was definitely wired in to what was happening in town.

But a part of me, god I hate to admit it, rolled my eyes when I saw him. A part of me cringed at the thought of having to start a conversation with him. "Geeze, what if he invites me to some kind of Bible Study group or something, that would suck." I'd think to myself. Or, "Crap, 2 years in West Chester, and do I know any girls? Do I know any cool people I could hang out with to have a beer? No. The only person I know by name in this burg is a 4'10 inch 90 year old man, could my life suck any worse?"

Last Summer, I noticed Walter shuffling along a heck of a lot slower than his usual pace. I really did give that guy credit, for the determination it took to be on his own and make sure he made his rounds around town. Alas though, about a month or so later I learned that he was taken somewhere to Pocopson where he could get the full time attention of people that my god, the man had earned by now. There were actually moments where I thought to myself, "I'll have to head out there and visit him, I'm sure he'd enjoy that." Then I thought to myself, "Yea right Andy, who are you kidding, you don't even call your parents on their birthdays....I'm such a Jerk"

Well, as you may know by now, I'm on the Borough Planning Commission, I'm on the REGIONAL planning commission, I'm a liaison to the Historic Preservation Steering committee, and between Guerrilla Drive Ins and Story Slams and having Lana up with me full time, I've got a pretty nice life now. I'm even enjoying meeting the people from the Chiropractic office in town when I wrenched my back a few weeks ago. So with my busy life, I came home to a photocopied article taped to one of the doors at the entrance of the Greentree Building.

Walter C. Wright of West Chester

Walter Caldicott Wright, 70, died Sunday Feb. 21, 2010.

Mr. Wright was known as the unofficial Mayor of

West Chester and was a longtime resident of the

Greentree Apartments.

Continued....

My heart sank. Then I knew I had no right to feel bad. Did I ever reach out to him? Did I give him a chance, to get to know him? Shit no.

I went to the Cornstone Christian Fellowship where he liked to hang out, no doubt he enjoyed the homecooked meals and the fellowship to pay my respects, but I had already missed the Memorial Service and managed only to observe a gymnasium full of Walter's friends sitting down to eat some great looking fried chicken dinners. Me? I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to say hello to anybody, I couldn't enjoy a free meal on his behalf, I just took a few pictures, thought about Walter, and got back on my Scooter and went home.

Don't be like me, don't let the Walter's that you know pass into obscurity, be fearless where I was cowardly, get to know people, life is too f'ng short. (God I hate cliches, but if there is something else more apropos to say, I don't know it.)

I don't speak "Man"

First of all, let me begin with what is probably a glaring, obvious and redundant statement, which is to say, I am.....a man. Not just any kind of man, but an extremely macho, manly man. I'm so manly, I am confident I don't have to belabor the point of how manly I am, because to do so would only indicate a sense of unsureness or insecurity in my manhood, of which I have none. Besides, my mommy says I'm a big man now, so I don't know what more proof you could want.

I would go on and on and list how many things that I have had punched on my man card, but again, as a man, there is no need. (and frankly, as a man, the list is so long, we haven't the time to list them all)

Yet, every year, the Ides of March come, which in Roman times was a pretty manly holiday, what with celebrations dedicated to Mars the God of War and all, not to mention to the manliest of assassinations in the murder of Julius Cesar, but it's about this time every year that I start to feel, you know, not so manly? Especially here in West Chester, the Philly 'Burbs, the whole Northeastern, Mid Atlantic States part of the USA.

But Andy, how can that be? I know I know, as strange as it seems, it is sadly the truth. About this time of year every year is the annual event known as "March Madness". It is the time where tall young men, supposed scholar athletes, gather together in squeaky sneakers, wife beaters and baggy shorts and bounce a basketball around until through the process of elimination, one team will emerge victorious as the NCAA champions of Basketball. At least that's my understanding of it.

Where I lose my manhood street cred, is in that, well, here it goes, I don't fucking care about College Basketball! I don't know the teams, I don't know the players, I don't know the coaches, I don't know who won last night, who's playing today, who's playing tomorrow, and I just, don't, care.

The thing of it is, my fellow men, seemingly most of them, obsess over March Madness. I mean they know everything about it, from the big, strategic aspects of things like picking who will go into what bracket and why, down to the tiniest of minutiae. And there in lies the problem. Men communicate in a certain language that's not meant to be easily interpreted by other people. The other people being women of course. Women, and maybe nerds and theater majors perhaps. Now I will readily admit that I fall into the nerd category in some respect, but I will say that I'm mostly in the manly world than in the nerdy world.

Speaking of nerds, it always struck me as funny the disdain that some of these sports obsessed guys have for the nerd obsessed guys, be they the sci-fi fantasy types and the society for creative anachronism types, when in fact that same childlike obsession skill set is present in both types of guys. For a funny read on this, check out this article written in The Onion.

So when it happens that for whatever reason that two men who are strangers to each other have to communicate, they usually speak in the language of March Madness. As if this was some sort of universal language where no matter what our differences in age, culture, income and socio-economic standing, we will have this common ground of analysing why one group of college age kids will do better than another group of college age kids in placing a ball in a basket.

When this happens to me it makes me feel like a freaking immigrant, like someone has come up to me and started babbling something completely incomprehensible, and I have to sheepishly answer "eh, sorry, no speeky di engleesh"

The question before me is, should I make an effort to speak the language? Should I force myself to be in a self imposed exile from the manly community, or should I start paying attention to the sports pages and CNN/SI and ESPN.com and should I create a fantasy league and on and on and on with all the things that men seem to do? Look, I want to get promoted at work, I need to schmooze with my bosses, I want to have a social life that involves men standing around in the opposite corner from our women on a backyard deck over a smoking outdoor grill full of bloody red meats drinking ice cold beers while we discuss the finer points of the"violence as comedy" in the Three Stooges shorts, but it seems part of that is going to have to include getting brushed up on all this March Madness crap.

Anybody else feel this way, or is it just me? Oh and "Go Villanova Wildcats!" or something....

Where were you during the great West Chester Blackout of 2008?

Ok, it started off like any other morning, the desire to get rid of the Diet Pepsi I drank right before I fell asleep the night before is essentially my internal alarm clock, so like every morning, I answered nature's call, came back to the futon, and turned on the TV to flip back and forth between the local channels and CNBC, to see how the market futures were looking to gauge what kind of day I could potentially have. Well, at around 6:00 AM or so, I got my answer, but not from TV. I'm sitting there, when suddenly, a deliberate sounding "Boof" (not boom) reverberated through the apartment, the TV went dark, my 100 Mbps Internet stopped, and the air conditioner, the lovely, lovely air conditioner spooled down like a Pratt and Whitney turbofan and made it's customary death gurgle as the condensed water settled into it's reservoir.

I know I paid my power bill, I'm sure I did!

I peaked my head out of my apartment, and the hallway was brightly lit. Hmmmm, a diesel motor grinding along was the only sound I heard. I went back to my dimly lit apartment as the morning sunlight filtered in giving me enough to work with in order to shower, and when I finished, dressed, and stepped out of my apartment again about 1/2 hour later, I walked around the corner of the hallway where I could peak out onto the crossroads of Gay and High Street. Sure enough, the stoplights were out, and there was already a portable stop sign on the street and people were self managing the intersection as best they could.

Oh well, not much I could do, I'll go to work, I'm sure the power will be back on when I get home from work 11 hours later, right? HA!

I got home, parked the scooter, and with it still being daylight, it was hard to determine if the power was on, but I heard that distinctive growl of that diesel generator, so that didn't bode well. As I turned the corner, through Prescott Alley onto High Street was a fleet of Peco Energy trucks, and a bunch of big men in orange hardhats looking down a hole in the sidewalk.

Damn, power's out, but at least I know I paid my bill...but this looks like it could take a while.

Then there is a note on the door to the entrance of my building. According to the note, the property manager said it's a "Very serious problem....and we just have to make the best of it."

Word on the street from my fellow Greentree denizens was that we were looking at sometime between 2 and 4 AM.

Well, screw that, I'm going to a hotel.

The idea of sitting in a dark apartment, from 8:00 PM until 7:00 AM tomorrow, with no TV, Internet and lovely, lovely air conditioning gave me a sense of absolute dread. So, as we speak, I'm sitting in an Ice Cold room at the Microtel suites on 202 and Matlack Street. I've got cable TV, (Basic cable, but still) and I've got Internet so I can post this blog!

Now I could probably go into a lengthy dissertation about crumbling infrastructure, American demand for more and more power, given that when the power cables were laid around the Greentree Building in 1929 there was no such thing as Air Conditioning, Computers, High Def TV's and etcetera etcetera, but I'll spare everyone my comments on what's obvious. Still, it's 2008, is the price of having the quality of life I have living in a cool downtown area where I can walk to the Dry Cleaner, the drug store, the Post Office, the Barber, the coffee shop and the brewpub, the occasional 24 hour power outage every couple of years?

Yea, I'll pay it...and my power bill......