walk, don't run

I had a day off from work and absolutely no plans. But things have a way of just... happening.

I woke up, had breakfast and was watching television. Midway through an episode of Leave It to Beaver that I had seen a zillion times, I decided to go out and visit a couple of nearby cemeteries that I have been meaning to check off of my list. (If you are new to the world of Josh Pincus, visiting cemeteries where famous people are buried has been a hobby of mine for many years.) Usually, I make a lot of preparation before a trip to a cemetery, but this time, I decided to wing it. I would just use the GPS coordinates posted on findagrave.com and hope to find the graves I was looking for.

I filled my trusty water bottle, grabbed a granola bar from the pantry and I was off. I said "goodbye" to Mrs. P as I closed the front door behind me. 

I drove through the entrance of Montefiore Cemetery, which is just a few blocks from my house. I navigated to the internet on my cellphone and clicked on the first grave on my list. I eased my car to the far end of the cemetery to Section 17. I parked, opened the door, got out and surveyed my surroundings.

And my phone rang.

I answered. It was Mrs. Pincus with an exasperated tone in her voice. I asked what was upsetting her. She told me that when she got in her car, the "flat tire" light was glowing brightly on the dashboard. I offered to take the car to a tire place the next morning (Saturday), as I already had plans for the day. She said that would okay, but she did have other errands to run later in the day. She finally agreed to my proposal and she'd make other errand-running arrangements. I continued to seek out the graves on my list. After a little frustration and little more searching, I found the first one. The second grave was closer to the cemetery entrance. After some wandering in and out of similar looking grave markers, I located the second — and final — grave of my morning quest. (A full report can be found here.)

I decided to forgo a trip to another cemetery. Instead, I went to take care of Mrs. Pincus's automotive issue. I drove over to my in-law's house where Mrs. P's office is located in a building on the property, but separate from the house. I parked my car on the street and walked up my in-law's long, steep driveway. I quickly ducked in to the office to tell my wife of the change in plans and then headed back out to her car. 

The mechanic that we've been taking our cars to for many years is located, coincidentally, just past the cemetery that I had explored earlier. I pulled my wife's car into his lot, which — to my surprise — was packed with cars. I could see through the glass of the pulled-down garage doors that each of his three bays had a car parked in it. I found a parking space, shut off the engine and went inside to the small office. When Dennis, our mechanic, saw me, he came out of the work area and took a place behind the tall office counter. I explained my dilemma about the flat tire light. I injected a little pathetic tone into my voice and boldly asked if he could take a look at it today.

"Sure," he said, then he added, "I'm kind of busy now, can you bring it back around noon?" I checked the clock on my cellphone and it read 10:40. I expressed my gratitude for squeezing me in and handed over the key fob for Mrs. P's car, explaining that I would just leave the car now and call my wife for a ride home. Then, I called Mrs. Pincus to report on the situation. She was very happy to hear and thanked me for taking care of things. She also said she'd be right over to pick me up, then she'd have to go back to work. I ended the call and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then, my phone rang. It was my wife. She explained that she was going to come over in my father-in-law's car, but it wouldn't start. I told her that my car was there and she countered by telling me that she didn't have the key fob to start my car. I exhaled loudly.

"I'll walk.," I said. "I'll just walk home.

My house is 2.7 miles from the mechanic's shop. I take this trip often, because the garage is directly across the street from the Domino's Pizza that we order from several times a month. However, when I go to pick up a pizza, I usually drive. No. I take that back. I always drive. Always.

Now, I am 64 years old and, recently, I have found myself huffing and puffing after climbing the stairs in my house. I have had some difficulty extracting myself from the sofa after an evening of intense television watching. I've heard some strange popping and cracking when I straighten my legs or back or other body parts that seem to feel better in a bent or curved or stretched state. Plus, it has been quite sometime since I have done any sort of walking that didn't end with a visit to a restaurant. In other words, I am in no shape to walk nearly three miles. But, I am stubborn. I don't share a lot of personality traits with my father (although some people will tell you differently), but I did inherit his sense of "I'd rather do it myself." So after, dismissing my wife's suggestions of taking a bus ore calling for an Uber, I set out on my 2.7 mile journey home.

I don't know if you are aware, but 2.7 miles is far! For a good portion of my little trek, there were no paved sidewalks. In a few places, I had to walk across the edges of a few house's front lawns, lest I put myself dangerously close to the surprising amount of traffic that transverses the outer reaches of Elkins Park. Along the way, I walked through the outer reaches of a Ukrainian cemetery, one that I have passed countless times on my way to get a pizza. Now, I was able to get a close-up look at the head stones, elaborately engraved with religious iconography and Cyrillic characters. Eventually, I found a wide and welcoming paved sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of an elementary school. Soon, though, the sidewalk inexplicably ended at the driveway of a corner house.

I crossed the street at a traffic light and decided to continue my route through a residential street. Elkins Park boasts an interesting variety of large and spacious mansions and small, compact houses. Around the late 19th century, the area was the location of the summer homes of some of Philadelphia's wealthiest citizens. Folks like Peter Widener and William Elkins retreated to huge, multiroom estates north of the bustling city Surrounding these impressive structures were smaller, more modest accommodations built specifically to house the servants of the rich. (Guess which one I live in?) I passed a few large homes, some still used as private residences, while others have been converted to apartment buildings or, in one case, a school. Nearby, on the same street, were several blocks of smaller homes that were dwarfed by the giant properties.

Boy, did my feet hurt!

Nearly an hour after I left my wife's car in the care of our mechanic, I arrived at my wife's office. I trudged up the long, steep driveway that runs the lengths of my in-law's property. I startled Mrs. P when I burst through the door and collapsed in the big swivel chair that sits by her desk.

My wife looked at me as I breathed heavily and slurped a healthy slug of rejuvenating water from her water bottle. "You're crazy.," she said.

"No," I corrected her, "'Crazy' is going to four different supermarkets in the same day." I reminded her of her activities from the previous day. She was fulfilling a long shopping list for her octogenarian parents who insist on getting specific items from specific supermarkets and will not settle for substitutions. Convenience be damned. The mini bagels must come from Giant's bakery while the salmon must be purchased from Aldi. No exceptions.

"That's 'crazy'", I clarified. "What I did was 'admirable.'" Okay, maybe it was a little crazy.

And I can guarantee, the next time I order a pizza, I am not walking over to pick it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

better man

I used to make regular trips to the neighborhood dry cleaner when I worked in a downtown law firm and was required to dress in what has become known as "business casual.". Now, in my current job, tucked away in the behind-the-scenes world of the pre-press department of a large commercial printer, no one cares how I dress. My standard work clothes are jeans and t-shirts, not that far off from how I dressed in high school. So, my stock of button-down shirts now hang silently in my closet, hoping to be pulled out for that rare visit to a classy restaurant or the off chance I get invited to a wedding. Well it just so happens, Mrs. P and I are going to a wedding tomorrow. The shirt I wore to the last wedding I attended hung on a hook in our bedroom closet, patiently waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner. That happened this week and, today, I went to pick it up.

My little suburban Philadelphia neighborhood is home to a large number of affluent families. Throughout its 1.74 square mile area, there are large sprawling properties boasting homes that could arguably be labeled "mansions." I do not live in one of those. I live on a block where the homes were originally built to accommodate the servants of the likes of Peter Widener (a prominent nineteenth century businessman) and William Elkins (another businessman and co-founder of the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Company with Widener). But, just down the street from my house are residences designed and built by noted Gilded Age architect Horace Trumbauer. 

It has been my experience that "affluence" walks hand-in-hand with "arrogance." And that certainly is the case in my little corner of the world. Without going into a lot of messy detail, let's just say that a certain contingency of my neighbors believe that if you are not rich or white, then you are beneath them socially and intellectually. And you are treated as thus. I have seen it first hand in the supermarket and in the post office. I used to see it on the train when I took the train to work daily. I would watch as men — in stylish suits holding fancy leather briefcases — pushed themselves in front of a gathering of people as the train pulled into the station. They believed that their income and perceived social status entitled them to board first. Once aboard, they'd spread their belongings across a seat made for two. On crowded mornings, when seating was at a premium, they would only relinquish their seats when asked a few times. And even then it would be done begrudgingly.

I have seen these same folks belittle cashiers or municipal workmen or even workers who they themselves hired. Conversely, they have also spoken to these same laborers as though they were children with limited understanding, using slow, condescending tones.

This morning, when I entered the dry cleaner, there was one of my neighbors already at the counter in mid-transaction. The dry cleaner is owned by an Asian family that has operated the business for a million years. They are friendly, accommodating and just a little bit over-priced, but — in their defense — they charge what the neighborhood will bear. 

I waited patiently with my little pick-up receipt in hand as my neighbor finished his business. He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothing on the counter and showed it to the woman who was helping him. The guy was wearing long basketball shorts and expensive sneakers with no socks. He had a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses propped up on his head like a headband. There was a chunky gold chain around his neck. His Maserati SUV was idling in the small parking lot.

He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothes on the counter and held them up to the woman who was helping him. "These pants," he began, "are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat." The woman examined the pants, running her hand over the material. "Let out.," she muttered absentmindedly. Since she was obviously not white and probably not rich, the man automatically placed her in a social standing far below his own... so, he repeated, "These pants are tailored pants." The volume of his voice increased. "I want them let out in the legs and the seat. They were tailored when I was twenty and they don't fit well now. I need them let out. All the way!" He emphasized "All the way!," as though the pants were made with an endless supply of fabric, folded up like an accordion, and able to be "let out" or "taken in" at will. The woman frowned and shook her head. "Hmmm....," she whispered as she gathered her thoughts to answer. The man interpreted her lack of an immediate answer as a case of a language barrier. Specifically, his expert command of universally-understood English versus her feeble and inferior Asian tongue. Again, he raised his voice to a level too loud for such a small indoor space and especially too loud for a conversation with someone standing less than a foot way. And, again, he repeated, "These are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat. All the way! As much as they can go." The condescending tone increased with the volume. The woman finally replied. "Get new pants.," she said. "New pants?," he questioned. "Yes," she confirmed, "It will cost more money to do this than a new pair of pants would cost." "So, you can't just let them out" he pressed. (It had become obvious to me and to the woman that this guy had no clue how "let them out" worked from a physics standpoint.) "No.," she replied. He pushed the rest of his clothes across the counter and left.

I stepped up to the counter and handed over my receipt. "Picking up,?" the woman asked. I nodded.

The man returned a just second later. He loudly announced that he had left his finished dry cleaning hanging on the "pick-up" rack. He chuckled nervously as he grabbed the clothing, neatly covered in plastic and uniform on bundled hangers.

The woman at the counter didn't even look up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i know a place

You may not know it, but you are looking at the greatest parking spot on the planet Earth. Gaze upon it. Relish in its glory, Marvel at its very existence. This, by the way, is a very, very rare photo of this parking space without a car parked in it. But, rest assured, it will be occupied as soon as I finish taking this picture. Guaranteed.

Where — you may ask — is this coveted, exalted parking space? Why, it is right in front of my house.

My wife and I moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. My wife regularly parked her car in our driveway. I would take the curbside space that was adjacent to our driveway, directly in front of our house. I began to notice that, on any occasion that I moved my car — to go to work or for just a quick trip to pick up a pizza — someone would immediately pull into the parking space in front of my house once I vacated it. I could be gone for eight hours, a full weekend or just a few minutes. When I returned, there was always — always! — a car occupying the space in front of my house.

For twelve years, I took the train to work, leaving my car parked in front of my house — untouched — for five days. I would rarely drive anywhere on weekends, but if I did — to pick up dry cleaning or to claim a package at the post office — the space would be taken when I got back. I started to take my wife's car on short errands, so as not to give up my parking space.

If correctly spaced, there is room for three cars between my driveway and my next-door neighbor's driveway. If the allotted space is not divvied up correctly, the available space is not big enough to accommodate a car. But, that doesn't seem to matter. On many occasions, in an effort to park in the most wonderful parking space in the world, cars have been carelessly left by their drivers with the rear bumper extending a foot or more into my driveway. I often wondered if the violators assessed their parking skills and have determined that they are fully within their rights to block my driveway. I wonder if they get out of the car, look at how much of their rear bumper of their car is not within the safe, legal confines of  a parking space, and think: "Yes. This is fine. I will leave my car here, because I don't care if the folks who live at this house and own the car parked in the driveway will need to move said car during the time my car is parked here." And then they leave. 

Every so often, I watched from my front door as someone pulls into the space and shimmies back-and forth until they are satisfied with the parking job they have achieved. When they exit their poorly-parked vehicle, I emerge from my house and tell them that they are blocking my driveway. Never — never! — have I ever received an apology, followed by the person sheepishly returning to their car to seek another spot in which to park. No, no, no! I am usually met with an angry reply of "You can get out!" to which I very calmly counter "You are blocking my driveway. If you leave your car there, I will call the police." This retort elicits an exasperated grumble from the driver, a lot of head-shaking and, eventually, a relocation of the offending car by way of gunning the engine and screeching away from the curb. 

I have left notes on the windshield of cars that I didn't catch in the act only to find my handwritten message crumbled up in a ball and laying on my front lawn.

My wife and I have been cursed at by drivers who, wanting so desperately to park in the greatest parking spot in the world, have parked across the apron of our driveway because there was already a car in the space. (Usually it's my car!)

I don't know what it is about this parking space that makes it so desirable. There are other spaces available up and down my street. But there is something about the space in front of my house that attracts cars before all of the other spaces on the block. There are no special services that come with parking there — no blockades, no barriers, no valet. There isn't a free car wash or oil change as though you are leaving your car at the airport. It's just a parking spot.

One day, during the time that I took the train to work and my car would sit for days (or weeks) at a time, I found a note under the windshield wiper. Scrawled on a torn piece of paper was a... a... threat from someone who, in direct violation of the Tenth Commandment, ordered me to "move my car so someone else could park there."

I sometimes think I am unreasonably obsessive (re: nuts) for wanting to park my car in front of my house. I won't even park my car in front of my next-door neighbor's house if that spot is available and the one in front of my house is not. I like to think he would afford me the same courtesy if the situation was reversed. (Surprise! He does not.) I was once asked (actually demanded) to move my car from the space in front of my other next-door neighbor's house. She referred to that space as "her space." (There is not designated parking anywhere on my street.) Ironically, she (or visitors to her house) has blocked my driveway numerous times over the years. But, it seems, I am not nuts. No, not at all. It appears that everyone — everyone! — just wants to park in front of my house.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

jam up and jelly tight

By the time you read this, we will be in the throes of Chanukah... probably the seventeenth or eighteenth day by now — I kind of lost track. Chanukah, as you may or may not know, commemorates the... um... the... well, something ancient involving the Jews overcoming some massive obstacle only to come out of it with flying colors and go on to face another obstacle. Or something like that, I'm not a biblical scholar and I make most of this stuff up anyway. Besides, this story isn't a history lesson. it's the story of a particular business in my neighborhood.

There's a little bakery around the corner from my house. It's tucked away in an awkward spot, occupying the bottom floor of a block of houses the fronts of which face the street on the opposite side. The bakery looks like the basement access to these houses and, at one time, that may have been the case. But, now, it operates in a tiny space jammed with glass display cases that only allow for one of two customers in the store at a time. There is barely enough room for customers exiting the bakery to pass customers entering the bakery without bumping elbows or — worse! — upsetting wrapped boxes of recently-purchased baked goods.

Sure, there are other options for baked goods in the area. Several nearby supermarkets have full in-store bakeries whose selling floors are twice — or three times — the size of the little bakery. The main draw of the little bakery is its kosher certification. There is a fairly large Orthodox Jewish population in my neighborhood and a kosher-certified bakery is an integral part of their day-to-day life. The little bakery prepares traditional baked provisions to meet the needs of this specific faction of the community. They bake and sell cookies, and cakes and other assorted pastries. Every Friday morning, the cramped shelves are packed with golden challah breads to be used as the centerpiece for familys' Shabbat dinners. On special holidays, hamantashen and taiglach are prepared to aid in the celebration of Purim and Rosh Hashanah respectively. As tradition dictates, the bakery offers sufganiyot — jelly-filled doughnuts — for the marathon that is Chanukah. As a special treat for my in-laws, Mrs. Pincus stopped by the little bakery to pick up some sufganiyot for her parents' dessert. She even secured a couple for us, as well as a couple of themed and decorated cookies. (I think there were supposed to be menorahs, but I was not fully convinced.)

Now, one would think that a small, specialized, neighborhood bakery would be run by a friendly, avuncular, gregarious character greeting customers with a smile and a cheerful demeanor and well as a grateful sentiment for browsers and purchasers alike.

One would think.

The guy that owns and operates this little bakery is a belligerent, angry, nasty, condescending jerk who berates his customers and loudly complains about his employees — in front of his employees and his customers. He's the last person you'd imagine as someone would own a bakery. A bakery! A place where cookies and cakes and happiness are sold! 

Mrs. P entered the bakery on Friday morning. She walked into a tirade from the owner. He stood behind the tiny service counter, blocking the doorway to the working bakery room behind him. He was barking ultimatums to the few customers. As his staff was busily stuffing jelly-filled sufganiyot into boxes, the owner defiantly announced that he would not make jelly doughnuts again until next Chanukah, adding that it's too difficult. My wife asked him, "If someone wished to order 500 jelly doughnuts in July, you wouldn't make them?" He frowned and scowled and growled, "No! No, I wouldn't! They are just for Chanukah!" Mrs. Pincus, who after years of hanging around Josh Pincus, has become something of an instigator, continued to needle the bakery owner. "You make hamantashen throughout the year, not just for Purim." The owner frowned again and grumbled, "That's different!" and he trailed off with no real answer to my wife's question.

A young lady in an apron appeared with a large tray of cream-filled doughnuts. As she fitted the tray into the glass display case, the owner warned, "The cream-filled doughnuts are only for people who placed orders! If you didn't pre-order them, you can't have them!" He put heavy, threatening emphasis on the end of that statement. Mrs. P eyed the cream filled doughnuts and asked the young lady if all of them were already spoken for. The young lady shot the owner a dismissive "side eye" and asked my wife if she would like one or two. Mrs. P asked for one jelly-filled and one cream-filled. She also requested a half dozen of the questionably-shaped cookies. As Mrs. Pincus paid, the owner continued voicing his displeasure with his business, his employees and the hand that life had dealt him. He waited on a customer and licked his fingers to assist in the opening of a paper bag to fill with baked goods.

After our dinner that evening, I made a couple of cups of tea for my wife and I. Mrs. P sliced the securing tape on the bakery box to reveal the goodies she had purchased that morning. The box contained two cream-filled doughnuts, not one jelly and one cream as was requested. Cream was smeared along one of the inside walls of the box, a result of a poorly-packed and unevenly-balanced packing job. The cookies were also defaced with excess doughnut cream.

The doughnuts and the cookies weren't especially good.

Neither is the bakery owner.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sisters are doing it for themselves

My wife and I have lived in our house for the past 37 years. We have seen our share of neighbors come and go... I suppose. Honestly, I have never had much to say to our neighbors. Sometimes, I don't even recognize our neighbors. It's not that I am not friendly (well.... maybe it is), it's just I don't feel that just because my house is on the same block as your house, we are automatically friends. I have a — shall we say — cordial relationship with my neighbors. If I recognize a neighbor, I might — might — wave or nod. But, for the most part, I don't do anything. I don't mean to be rude, but I'd rather not engage with someone I know nothing about. For the past few years we have had an annual yard sale. Potential customers come and say "Hello" and I say "Hello" back, just to be polite — having no idea that this person lives a few houses from my house.

Within the first few years of our moving in, I noticed that a woman who lives three or four houses away had twins — two little girls. They were a few years younger than our son and they kind of kept to themselves. As the years went on, I couldn't help but notice the twin girls growing up. I saw them running around on the front lawn of their house. Sometimes, I saw them get out of the car, each carrying a small bag of groceries. Other times, I would see them waiting on the corner for the school bus as I drove past on my way to work. Once in a while, my wife and I would pass them on the sidewalk, My wife would give them a big, friendly, neighborly "Hello." I would say nothing, deciding that my wife's greeting should be taken for the both of us. The twin girls would lower their glance in shyness and mutter something unintelligible  or — more often — say nothing.

Just a couple of years ago, as I pulled into my driveway, I saw one of the twin girls emerging from a car parked in front of their house. The car had a big sign attached to its roof identifying it as a vehicle from a local driving school. I mentioned to Mrs. Pincus, when I came into our house, what I saw, adding "Boy, those twins down the street are really growing up." Mrs. Pincus looked at me funny. "Twins?," she questioned "Who has twins?" I was confused. Surely, she knew to whom I was referring. She must have seen them over the past three decades. I pointed in the direction of the twins' house. "The twin girls who live three or four houses away. The twin girls.," I pressed. Mrs. P narrowed her eyes. "Triplets," she said, "They are triplets. There are three of them."

I thought my wife was joking with me. She was not.

"What?," I asked, as though I was just seeing the twist ending of The Usual Suspects for the first time. "There's three of them?" I needed confirmation. Mrs. P assured me that there are indeed three nearly identical young ladies living in the house in question.... and that there always have been. I was dumbfounded. Mrs. P was ready to debate the "founded" part of that.

From that point forward, I don't believe I have ever seen the three girls — these alleged triplets — together. I usually see two of them or one of them, but never three of them. I don't know if the two I have seen together are the same two each time. I also don't know if, when I see one of them, it's always the same one.

Last night, my wife and I took the train into center city Philadelphia to meet our son and his girlfriend for dinner. I noticed on our return trip to the suburbs, that two of the alleged triplets were in our train car. As the train slowed and came to a halt at our station, the two-thirds of the alleged triplets exited the train from a door at the other end of the car. My wife and I began walking to our house (the train station is at the end of our block). The two girls were creeping up behind us, chatting quietly to each other. We moved aside on the sidewalk to let them pass. They said nothing to us.

I concluded that if there are indeed three sisters, only two of them get along. The third one (if there really is a third one) prefers to keep to herself. She has a different group of friends and has a totally different set of interests. These two stick together as though they were twins, sharing friends, interests and maybe even a secret "twins" language. They shun and maybe even ignore the third sister. Perhaps the third sister is just fine with that.

That is.... if there really is a third sister.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

safety dance

In 1920, the Chicago Motor Club and the St. Paul, Minnesota Police Department each created a program involving elementary school children acting as crossing guards and safety monitors at the city's public schools. With more and more automobiles on the roads, children's safety was becoming a major concern. With strong support from the Catholic archdiocese in St. Paul, a small squad of young volunteers were outfitted with badges and Sam Browne belts and were stationed at various locations along common walking routes to schools. With instruction from working traffic police officers, the young charges were tasked with maintaining a safe passage to and from school for the younger students. They took their positions very seriously and the other students offered their respect and obedience to these new "authority figures." Within a few years, other cities launched junior safety programs of their own, with support and backing from local automobile clubs and police departments. By the mid-1930s, Junior Safety Patrols formed in municipalities across the country with membership numbering over 11,000. Currently, the program boasts participation from over 50,000 schools nationwide... and girls are permitted entry to the once all-male ranks.

Thinkin' 'bout the times
you drove in my car

In 1949, 11-year old Marvin Klegman was assigned to noontime duty at Lowell Elementary in Tacoma, Washington. As he walked to his assigned post, just before noon, he felt the ground begin to rumble. He spotted second-grader Myrna Phelps in the school yard and instructed her to remain still and stay clear of the school building. Marvin ran inside the building as an earthquake began shaking the structure. He found kindergarten student Kelcy Allen alone in a hallway. Marvin led Kelcy outside to safety, but was unable to make it clear of the crumbling building. Marvin lay on top of Kelcy, shielding him from the shower of rubble. Marvin was killed but Kelcy and Myrna were saved due to the young safety officer's direction and quick action. While undoubtedly stirring, this, of course, was not typical of the Junior Safety Patrol.

When I was in elementary school in the 60s and early 70s, of course, there was a Junior Safety Patrol. Perhaps you have visions of obedient, fresh-faced young men sporting that white Sam Browne belt accented with a shiny silver badge. Maybe you are envisioning a confident young man standing attentively at a busy street corner, taking extra care to ensure the safety and well-being of the tiny younger students on their way to another informative day of public school education. If that's the mental picture you have when you think back about the Junior Safety Patrol of your youth, then you probably didn't go to elementary school with me.

Cream of the crop

There were no "Marvin Klegman"s in my neighborhood. If there was, I'm sure he would have been verbally pummeled with the same anti-Jewish rhetoric I was subjected to. My neighborhood was chockful of street tough boys, just a few years away from a full-blown life of crime. They were sneaky, lying, deceitful little bastards who thought nothing of shoplifting, stealing a bike, or rummaging through Mom's purse for a few unaccounted for dollar bills. They would regularly pick fights with friends, throw snowballs at passing cars and spew a nasty stream of racial epithets when the mood struck. It was from this cesspool of humanity that my elementary school had to select members for their Junior Safety Patrol. Left with no choice, school officials weeded through the dregs of the dregs and came up with the least offensive they could find... like naming the nicest Klansman. Their final choices were unsavory little shits who, once adorned with a badge and a modicum of jurisdiction, became power-drunk enforcers wielding their minuscule authority as though they were sanctioned by J. Edgar Hoover himself. Some roamed the school hallways with their chests puffed out, their arms swinging at their sides and a snarl on their lips, silently daring anyone to challenge them. Others were assigned to "keep order" on the school buses on the morning commute as well as on the ride home in the afternoon. They would pace the center aisle of the bus, gripping the edge of every seat as they passed. They'd glare at the small, intimidated occupants of each seat with a beady-eyed threatening stare. Sometimes they'd stop at a seat where two trembling lower-class students were sitting. The "safety" (as they were colloquially named) would announce some trumped-up accusation ("You were talking too loud during announcements" or "You stood up while the bus was in motion"). As the scared student fought back tears, the "safety" would point an accusing finger in their direction and seethe though clenched teeth: "You're going up!" This was a threat that no one wanted to hear. "You're going up!" meant that once the bus arrived at school you would be taken straight to the principal's office — do not pass GO!, do not collect two-hundred dollars. It was a promise that was rarely — if ever — carried out. "Safeties" were just as scared of the school's principal as other students were. But, they didn't want you to know that. Instead, they behaved as though they were special agents, working on behalf of the principal's master plan of a tight grip on every student at his school. But, if the principal passed them in the hallway, they would choke up with paranoia just like everyone else. (Kind of like being followed by a police car and knowing you've done nothing wrong.) I don't know anyone who was taken by a "safety" to see the principal, but I witnessed numerous threats. (In reality, the principal was an easy-going, not remotely intimidating guy who enjoyed playing street baseball with the neighborhood kids, some of whom were my brother's friends.)

Unread

On the last day of school, I was riding the bus home for my final time as a fourth grader. I remained quiet for most of the ride. Suddenly a "safety" named Danny, an older boy from my neighborhood who — on several occasions — had levied some anti-Semitic comments in my direction, stopped at my seat and told me: "On Monday, you're going up!" My lower lip began to tremble and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Just then, one of my older brother's friends reminded me that this was the last day of school and there were no more "Mondays" left in the year. He added, reassuringly, that there was no way Danny would remember his unfounded threat three months from now when school resumed. I sighed with relief. Sure enough, my first September as a fifth grade student was unspoiled by a trip to the principal's office.

However, years later, Danny stole my bike.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

bread and circus

Let me warn you. This story has no real resolution... except if you count a thorough — and well deserved — spanking from my mother.

When I was a kid, my family — as well as the majority of the families in my Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood — had many household staples and services delivered right to our house. On an almost daily basis, long before I awakened for the day, the little metal box that rested just outside our kitchen door, was filled with glass bottles of milk by a mostly unseen (at least by me) milkman. Sometimes, the milk was accompanied by butter and perhaps a dozen eggs. In summer, my mom would order lemonade or fruit punch and they would arrive along with the milk, in the same type of glass bottles. Every so often, on a weekend morning, I would actually get to see the milkman when he would come to our house to collect payment for his deliveries. He looked just like the guys I saw on TV shows and commercials. He wore all white with a black bow tie and shiny-brimmed cap. He'd park his truck at the foot of our driveway, bound up to our house and gently rap on our kitchen door. My mom would let him in and, depending on the amount of the bill, she'd pay in cash, extracting a few dollar bills and coins from her purse. If the Pincus family tab had gone unpaid for a few weeks (which was normal for my family, in keeping with my father's notorious mishandling of funds), my mom would pull her checkout from her purse and dash off a voucher for the outstanding dairy balance.

In addition to milk and dairy products, we'd get potato chips, pretzels and other assorted snacks from the Charles Chips driver. Once a month or so, that familiar truck would pull up and the driver would carry two big metal tins up to our house. The light-tan colored one was filled with crispy potato chips and the dark one was filled with pretzels. My brother would practically wrestle the pretzel tin out of the driver's hands. My brother laid unspoken claim to any pretzels that entered our house, almost demanding permission if a small sample of his private stock was to be had by anyone who wasn't him. Charles Chips offered cookies once in a while. I liked those. I liked them so much, my mom would often hide them somewhere in the kitchen so I didn't consume them all as soon as the package was opened. She knew what little Josh was capable of.

When I went to the supermarket with my mom, I marveled at the fact they sold items that we got delivered right to our house. Who was buying these items here?, I would think. Doesn't everyone get these things delivered? 

Along with milk and snacks — and even dry cleaning — the Pincuses had home delivery of bread. Following approximately the same schedule employed by the milkman, the bread man would supply us with loaves of bread, as well as hot dog and hamburger rolls. In direct competition with Charles Chips, Freihofer's Bakery (from whom we got our delivery) would offer cookies. Their marketing strategy was different, however. The driver — a genial, avuncular gentleman that the kids in the neighborhood called "Uncle Ben" — would tear open a package of cookies and hand them out to the kids, in hopes they would beg their moms to purchase additional boxes. Of course, it worked... at least in my house it did. Uncle Ben would wave to the kids as he drove his open-door delivery truck through the streets of my neighborhood. He'd politely tip his hat to the kids as he visited their homes, toting loaves of bread that would soon be used for school lunches and weekend breakfasts.

Before I was aware of an unprovoked pall of anti-Semitism befalling my neighborhood, I was friendly with several kids on my block. Prior to bigoted parents filling their children's impressionable minds with ideas that my family and I were responsible for killing the savior they worshiped on infrequent Sunday visits to church, we were all content to play tag and dodgeball and kick-the-can together, regardless of our religious beliefs. One of my closest friends was Lou, who lived across the street from me. Lou was a year or two older than I. However he, nor any of his siblings, ever attended the same schools the rest of the kids in the neighborhood attended. They all went to what was referred to in the 60s and early 70s as "special school." This, of course, was a euphemism for a facility for either delinquents, incorrigible troublemakers or learning disabled students. Lou and all of the children in his family fell into some or all those categories. Lou's father reminded me of the title character of a popular newspaper comic strip called "Moose Miller." Moose was a slovenly, scheming, unkept, ne'er-do-well who spent most of the daily three panels and Sunday eight panels reclining on a threadbare and patchwork sofa surrounded by stray animals, beer cans and trash. That was Lou's house. It was dark and dank and it smelled of burnt food, pet waste and sweat. No one was quite sure what Lou's father did for a living, as he was always home when other dads were off at work. Lou's mom was equally as disheveled. She would sometimes join a little sidewalk klatch of neighborhood moms to discuss household matters and maybe even a little gossip. Lou's mom would casually reveal some sort of unusual quirk that she obviously thought was the norm. Her views on personal grooming and child care were always points of astonishment among her peers. Once, she told my mom that she and Lou's father were never "officially" married — which was positively shocking in the pseudo-suburban world of the late 1960s. Lou had two unseemly older sisters who were both — as I recall — slutty and scummy. He had an athletic older brother who was friendly with my athletic older brother. Lou's younger brother was creepy in a "Damien" from The Omen sort of way. He often yammered on nonsensically and I don't remember understanding too much of what he had to say.

One summer afternoon, Lou and I were cavorting on our front lawns, as kids on summer vacation were prone to do. Our playtime was interrupted when our pal good old Uncle Ben pulled up in front of my house in his Freihofer's Bakery truck. "Hiya, fellahs!" he said, as he bounded out of his truck carrying two loaves of bread and his ledger book. He was obviously going in my house to collect on the outstanding balance owed by the Pincuses. Would my mom be able to satisfy our debt with the few bucks she had stashed in her purse... or would she have to dip into the available funds in the checking account?

This is where memories get a bit fuzzy. To this day, I am still not sure how, why or by whom the idea was hatched... but hatched it was. Lou and I stopped our playing and approached the rear of the parked Freihofer's Bakery truck. With Uncle Ben otherwise occupied in my house, one of us opened the back door and together we entered the truck. Inside, the back portion of the vehicle was lined with aluminum wire shelving, fully stocked with dozens and dozens of packaged loaves of bread, assorted rolls, cookies and a smattering of other baked goods that the Pincus family never requested. As though possessed by a controlling but unseen force, Lou and I began tossing loaves of bread out the open back doors and into the street. Acting like we were a crucial link in a makeshift "bucket brigade" that ended with us, we seemed to be determined to empty that truck of every last example of bakery product we could grab. Again, after 50-some years, I seemed to have blocked out the motivation behind our actions. We were just two dumb kids throwing bread out of a truck for no good reason.

As Lou and I were engaging in our decidedly illicit behavior, my brother and Lou's brother were sitting across the street on Lou's front porch. Their discussion was abruptly cut short when, in his peripheral vision, my brother caught a glimpse of several oven-fresh projectiles being launched out the back doors of the nearby Freihofer's truck.

"Hey!," my brother exclaimed, "There's bread coming out of that truck!" He directed Lou's brother's attention to the scene. Just then, Uncle Ben, having finished his financial dealings with my mom, was greeted by the same scenario as he ambled down my driveway. He quickened his step and advanced towards the posterior of his truck. He stood, dumbfounded and speechless, at the open doors, finally mustering up the strength to say "Hey!" Almost instantaneously, he was joined at the back door by my mom... and she was none too happy. She shrieked! She didn't say any actual words, she just shrieked. She took a small step into the truck, grabbed my forearm and yanked me out. My mom dragged my up the driveway — still shrieking — and threw me into the house. A few seconds later, Lou's mom appeared and led Lou to his house in a similar fashion, although she clamped two vise-like fingers onto his earlobe instead of his forearm... but the sentiment was the same.

I honestly don't remember too much of the aftermath. No doubt, I received a severe spanking from my mother who was tasked with keeping order in the Pincus household and was a much more feared disciplinarian than my ineffectual father. I'm not sure if home deliveries from the fine folks at Friehofer's Bakery continued. I do remember eventually purchasing bread from the supermarket, so perhaps my mother severed all ties with Uncle Ben's employer out of sheer humiliation. However, this story received many a retelling over the years. First in high school and continuing on in my life. When he became old enough to understand what his father did was dead wrong, I related the "bread truck incident" (as it had come to be known) to my son — who delighted in its stupidity and reveled in my childhood shortcomings. At recent gatherings in our home, I have even caught my son beginning the story to an eager group of listeners and inserting himself as the main protagonist. "That didn't happen to you!," I'd say, "That's my story!" 

Somehow, that made the story funnier.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

think about your troubles

I live in a small suburb of Philadelphia, the sixth largest city in the United States. (We used to be fourth, until people started moving to Houston and Phoenix.) A filled-to-capacity Citizens Bank Park could hold over twice the amount of people who call Elkins Park home. I told you it was small. Elkins Park boasts some of the highest property taxes in the area. Surrounding municipalities have much lower taxes because of the amount of businesses in those areas. Elkins Park, however, has fewer businesses, thus higher taxes are employed to take up the slack. If the overly-discerning "powers-that-be" would allow more businesses to open, then perhaps our taxes would drop to a more reasonable level.

As Hamlet said: "Ay, there's the rub..."

Businesses and business owners in Elkins Park have an uncanny track record. So many have opened, floundered and eventually failed, despite their best efforts.

Wait. Did I say "best efforts?" I meant "no efforts."

In recent memory, it seems every new and hopeful business has followed the same business model. The first decision, after signing whatever necessary paperwork allowing a business to open, is "when should we be closed." There is a small area — catty corner to a train station on the regional rail line — that one would deem a veritable gold mine for any business, but, alas, the can only ring up sales if their doors are open. Most of the stores — a book store, a coffee shop, an Italian restaurant, a clothing boutique and "sort of" co-op — are closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. This is not a welcoming sight to those coming off the train after a long day at work, hoping to pick up a quick cup of coffee or a fast browse through the clothing racks  — on their walk home. Instead, foot traffic is subjected to locked doors and darkened windows. And these businesses wonder why they fail.

An ice cream store opened in this block adjacent to the train station. It was the perfect spot for an ice cream store. They had a walk-up window where one could order hot crepes along with the standard sundaes and pre-packaged frozen novelties. They had small tables set up on the sidewalk where you could relax while you enjoyed your dessert, perhaps sharing some conversation with a neighbor.

Except, this particular ice cream store opened its doors to customers in the middle of December 2018. Sure that particular winter was light on typical weather, but, nevertheless, opening an ice cream store six months before anyone is thinking about ice cream is not the best business decision. This was followed by more "head-scratching" decisions. Within weeks of opening, the ice cream store decreased its operating hours, cutting Mondays and Tuesdays off of its schedule. This adjustment caused the first blemish on their establishment. You see, the hours were etched into the top panel of their glass entrance door, just below their folksy-looking logo. To convey the change in hours to protentional customers, a blank piece of paper was taped over the top two etched lines of text. It looked terrible. Then, to make matters worse, one day the bottom glass panel erupted in a large spidery shatter with long cracks reaching out towards the metal door frame. The owners made the decision to never fix this.

Soon summer came and they were ready to face the real onslaught of the ice cream hungry public. They still kept their abbreviated hours, despite the change in season. They even began to open later in the day and lock up earlier — sometimes as early as 8 o'clock, right around the time folks would be finished dinner and ready to embark on a stroll around the neighborhood... perhaps for some ice cream. They changed their menu often and displayed their bill of fare with the all the elegance and care as someone offering guitar lessons or moving services to the patron of the corner laundromat. It was sloppy and dirty and unbecoming of a place that wants your business. It was a reflection of how much interest the owners really had in appealing to customers and making sure those customers returned often.

As their first summer came to a close, the ice cream store announced they would be closing for the winter. They posted a handwritten sign in their window thanking everyone for their support and a promise of reopening in March.2020. Well, we all know what happened in March 2020. The ice cream store reopened for a week before shutting down again, this time for an amount of time to be determined by a global pandemic. The ice cream store reopened later in 2020, with all sorts of safety measures in place — masks, touchless payments, social distancing, the whole shebang. The even had  a guy playing guitar and singing into a way-too-loud PA system to the two people seated at the sidewalk tables. 

They braved another winter and re-emerged at the start of 2021 with hopes of thriving as the pandemic slowly subsided. Then in April, the ice cream store announced that they would be shutting their doors for good at the end of May — but prior to Memorial Day weekend. They thanked their small loyal fanbase. They also offered the business for sale, promising to keep things  running until the final day.

They didn't. They have been closed since the first week of May, their lights out, their chairs stacked up on tables, their cracked front door locked tight. However, their Facebook page touts new milkshake flavors for this weekend as well as live music. 

The typical prospective Elkins Park business owner thinks owning a business involves opening your front door and watching the customers roll in. They do little promotion, little advertising and little caring. And — worst of all — they begrudge customers for not being customers. "After all I did!," they lament.

But — surprise! — they have rescinded their announced closing and will remain open for business. However, after posting their new business hours beginning June 1... their doors were locked tight on that date.

If you are considering opening an ice cream store (or any sort of business), just do the opposite of everything you just read. You're sure to be a success. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's new pussycat?

I guess it's time for a little explanation. If you follow me on other social media outlets (and — face it — why wouldn't you?), you probably have seen pictures of a mature black and white cat keeping a watchful eye atop a set of cement steps and a white wooden doorway whose frame is in need of a fresh coat of paint. As far as I'm concerned, this stoic little fellow is named Ambrose.

Maybe.

Probably not.

I love Kung Fu

My wife and I became active walkers well over a year ago. And by "active," I mean "active for our age." We are not in training for a 5K or a 10K or any other K that may exist. (I thought "K" stood for "strikeout." I don't know what it means in relation to walking or running.) We like the exercise and, as we approach the twilight of our lives, a bit of leisurely exercise is a good thing. We're not trying to break any records. We just want to stay healthy. So, instead of purchasing some bulky piece of commercial exercise equipment that will only become an expensive clothes rack after the initial novelty wears off, Mrs. Pincus and I do a couple of rounds around to block as often as possible. Like David Carradine's "Kwai Chang Caine," we walk the earth — seeing what we can see and meeting who we can meet. Mrs. P sees people she knows and even waves to people she doesn't know. We find unusual things along the way, like discarded full meals still wrapped in the logo-emblazoned paper from McDonald's and, more recently, a trail of newly-discarded face masks as though Hansel and Gretel were blazing a path but still trying to keep COVID-19 at bay. 

Most days, we take the same route. Actually I follow my wife's lead, since she knows the neighborhood better than I do — even though I have lived here for thirty-five years. Some days we head to the right once we've exited the house and descended our porch steps. But, most days, we head south on our suburban Philadelphia street. It's on this route that we see Ambrose.

A mere four houses away, Ambrose surveys his feline kingdom from the top step of the stone and wood house of our unseen neighbors. Ambrose watches regally as I fumble in my pocket for my cell phone. He waits patiently as I awkwardly enter the passcode and scroll to the camera icon. He poses obligingly when I raise my phone to eye level and snap off a couple of quick pictures. Then, he watches as Mrs. Pincus and I continue on our little jaunt around the block — or sometimes even further. If we happen to double back on our return trip to our house, taking a portion of the same homebound route as we started out on, Ambrose is frequently in the same position as earlier. Sometimes, he has dozed off behind one of the large cement urns that flank our neighbor's front door. Sometimes, he has stretched himself out upon the welcome mat, experiencing a slightly different perspective of his domain. Rarer, though, Ambrose is gone, perhaps off to chase a bird or a mouse or to see what awaits him in the backyard.

In the winter, although we kept up our regular walking habits, Ambrose had vacated his usual spot, opting — no doubt — for a warmer place. Cats can always find a place to keep warm. But once spring returned and the warming sun was out, Ambrose was back, silently surveying the area. 

Ambrose has a tendency to disappear for days at a time. We've passed his familiar steps and, sadly.... no Ambrose. Day after day, we walked slowly by our neighbor's house, craning our necks to hopefully catch a glimpse of Ambrose lurking behind a bush. Then, one day, Ambrose would reappear at the top of the steps — staring at us with his confident look, letting us know that he would not be offering an explanation of his absense.

As you may have seen, I post a picture of Ambrose whenever I see him. Mrs. Pincus gets a little nervous when I stop to take a picture. "What will you say if someone comes out of the house and asks why you are taking a picture of their cat?," she asks.

"I'll just explain that Ambrose has a little following on my social media." I reply.

The problem is — if the owner hears my explanation, the first thing they'll say is: "Who the hell is 'Ambrose?'"

You see, we named him "Ambrose." We actually don't know this cat's name. There's a good chance it's "Fluffy" or "Whiskers" or "Misty." There's a better chance that it's not "Ambrose."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

crawling from the wreckage

Well, here we go again.

Way back in 2016, I wrote this story about a co-op that opened in my neighborhood and how I predicted its imminent demise. And sadly, two years later, I wrote this story about the closing of the co-op, just as I had predicted. Before you start calling me names, let me make it clear that I sincerely hoped that the co-op would succeed. I really did. But the folks that ran the co-op and made its business decisions were the main obstacle that kept the co-op from being a success.

Well for nearly two years, the building that housed to co-op sat vacant. My wife and I would stroll past the locked building on our daily walks. We'd sometimes stop and peer into the darkened windows, only to see the same empty store fixtures in the same positions as the last time we stopped for a curious look. Early in 2020, well into the throes of the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, we noticed a flurry of activity within the walls of the former co-op building. We spotted a man carrying a toolbox walking in through the usually-locked automatic sliding doors. One time, we saw a couple of guys toting some wooden planks — possibly a disassembled shelving unit — to the waiting bed of a pickup truck. It appeared that something was happening in the co-op building, but there were no physical signs announcing a new business. My wife monitors a neighborhood Facebook page, but only posts of speculation offered any clue. And there was plenty of speculation mixed with suggestions and wish lists concerning the next inhabitants of the co-op's former site. Some hoped for something akin to a mall food court, offering a variety of international and eclectic cuisines. Others requested a marijuana dispensary (You know who you are!) Still others proposed — in all earnest — odd combinations of brewpub/dry cleaner or music store/concert venue/Mexican restaurant. My neighbors are obviously nuts... and the last thing some of them need is a marijuana dispensary.

As the weeks moved on, the activity behind the closed doors of the co-op building increased. A light would glow late at night and we could see the shadows of busy workers doing something constructive. Then, one day, we noticed that the large sign above the door read differently. It looked the same, but upon closer inspection, it was, indeed, a different sign. The large "Creekside" logo remained the same, but underneath, the words "co-op" now read "Market and Tap." Ah ha! A clue!

As July became August, Creekside Market and Tap opened for business with little to no fanfare. It was the most unspectacular opening of a new business that I had ever witnessed... or not witnessed. A few times, in the final week of July, as Mrs. Pincus and I passed by the usually-locked front doors, they swung open — unleashing a shock of air-conditioned breath that took us by surprise. But they closed just as quickly, leading us to believe that the controlling mechanism was mistakenly left in the ON position. On the first of August, however, when the doors again opened, a man with a face mask stretched under his chin greeted us with a minimally friendly "Come on in! We're open!" My wife and I, our face masks properly protecting our noses and mouths, stepped back from the man and his offer and waved him off. We politely answered, "No thank you." from behind our cloth barriers. The man, by this time, had wandered away. During the pandemic, my wife and I have put limits on unnecessary visits to businesses. We don't "browse" like we did in the "pre-COVID" days. However, the man didn't seem to care if we entered the business or didn't.

There is a small, plain banner that reads "NOW OPEN" that is suspended from the far end of the front overhang about twenty feet from the main entrance. There are no other indications that the place is open for business, let alone a grand opening. Aside from tiny signs printed from a home computer that are taped to the inside of the dark tinted glass windows, Creekside Market and Tap looks about the same as it did when Creekside Co-op closed for good. There is one neon sign that glows in a side window and advertises a local brand of deli meats, but that's it. Also, the former raised outdoor seating area appears to have been converted to an "employees only" cigarette break area, as betrayed by the apron-clad folks congregating at two tables and the prevailing cloud of secondhand smoke floating heavily above them. Not the most welcoming of sights.

Proudly closed!

A little internet investigation revealed that the Creekside Market and Tap is home to four individual businesses — all with different operating hours. They are: Dave’s Backyard Farms, Creekside Restaurant & Deli, Cheshire Brewing Company and Herrcastle farms — all fine business, I'm sure. As a resident of Elkins Park for nearly forty years, I have seen business come and go. One thing I have observed is that when someone opens a new business in Elkins Park, the first thing they decide — immediately upon signing the lease on the space — is what days they will be closed. It is a consistent bone of contention I have with every single business I have seen open and close within the confines of the tiny business district that occupies the one-block stretch opposite the train station. The co-op followed this pattern and the new occupants of the co-op building appear to be carrying on the tradition. Just a mere three weeks after proclaiming their "Grand Opening," they have struck Mondays off of their list of days they will be welcoming customers. And they made the announcement with an odd posting to their Facebook page. "In order to serve the community better?" How is closing a method of serving the customer better?

Penn's Woods.... sort of.

Speaking of hours.... When they are open, the hours vary greatly among the four vendors. Only the deli is open every day that the building is open. The two produce vendors operate towards the end opf the week with Herrcastle offering an additional day over Dave’s Backyard Farms. The Cheshire Brewing Company is open Thursday through Sunday with nearly different hours on each of those days. My wife's parents operated a business within the confines of a huge, multi-vendor farmers market for over thirty years. The rule of the market was: if the building is open, your business is open. Period. No exceptions. It is both confusing for and off-putting to your potential customer when they see a business that is "roped off," denying access for purchases for shoppers who are there right now, as well as being an embarrassment to those vendors that are open. Customers don't know who owns what and they don't care. It really isn't the customer's concern. It is up to the business owners to make their wares as accessible as possible to the customer. That's just plain good business sense. Also, try to spell the name of the state you're in correctly on your website.

Not so fast there...

So, Creekside Market and Tap is not yet open a full month. They have four vendors with erratic hours and they have altered their overall hours of operation to eliminate a day of business. Not off to a winning start. Though, based on comments on a community Facebook page, a smattering of customers were very disappointed by some of the business practices. There were issues of attention and friendliness by employees. As recent as five days ago, a customer stated they were told that the deli stops slicing meat an hour before the posted closing time. There were comments regarding product selection. Most distressing were the comments about employees failure to wear proper face protection while working around food. These comments are met with little to no response. Although, those that were acknowledged, received a response that was downright defensive and confrontational.

Look, I understand that opening a business is a stressful thing. Sure, there is added stress with the cloud of a pandemic hanging above. I know that all new businesses suffer from "growing pains" at the beginning while they work out the kinks. I have seen a few strides Creekside Market and Tap have taken towards enhancements. The beautiful natural wood picnic tables out front are a nice, welcoming touch. I think it might be a good idea to clean up the spotted lantern fly carcasses that are strewn about the sidewalk surrounding those beautiful tables.

Again, I wish Creekside Market and Tap all the luck in the world as their business begins. I hope it grows and expands to include additional vendors and I sincerely hope it is successful. I just hope they don't fall into the same downward pattern that befell the previous tenants.

Unfortunately, it doesn't look good.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com