Archives for posts with tag: Human Nature

                                                NIMBY COMES HOME

     The homelessness situation, typically referred to as a “crisis,” is much in the news.  Cities and states struggle with what to do and who is to pay.  Cable television waxes hysterical.  Regular folks (like me?) are ambivalent about the issue.  I support a humane, just solution for people in dire straits, but I also sympathize with storeowners who cannot conduct business near an encampment or pedestrians and motorists who feel threatened on the streets.  Homeless individuals cannot be painted with a broad brush of moral shortcomings and criminality.  However, to the extent addiction and/or desperation is endemic in the population, it is naïve to think crime and chaos are not more prevalent around them.


     Having lived my adult life as a homeowner in prosperous suburbia, I have not experienced the homeless issue personally.  However, my wife, Katie, and I purchased a second home last year in east-central Massachusetts to facilitate visits to our son’s home near Boston and our daughter’s second home in upstate New York.  This second home of ours is now in the vortex of the homelessness storm.

     Let me explain:  our Massachusetts condo is located in an over 55 community nestled amidst beautiful rolling hills adjacent to a sparkling lake.  The development presently has 250 newly-constructed homes in five 50-unit buildings and will ultimately have 700 units in fourteen buildings.

     Why was a wonderful 400-acre parcel available for condo development in densely populated Massachusetts?  The site was formerly the State mental hospital and also home to wayward boys and orphans.  It’s numerous large, brick buildings housed thousands of patients and juveniles, respectively, over decades ranging from about 1870 to the mid-1970’s.  Many of the State buildings were razed before our construction commenced, but six still stand and are actively used by the MA social services department.  These red brick behemoths ring the borders of our property.  I’m told it took a decade of negotiations between the State, the local town and our developer, to finally approve our development — an over 55 community satisfied the local desire to obtain significant tax revenue without adding an influx of school-age children.


     When Katie and I first saw the site, we inquired about the use of the institutional buildings surrounding it.  

     “Those are social workers’ offices,” said the salesperson.  “They sometimes see outpatients but mostly just pass paper.”

     “But some of the buildings are forbidding,” we noted.  “They have fences and barbed wire around them.”

     “Yes,” said the agent.  “But there are only 10-12 juvenile in-patients left in just one of the buildings.  The buildings are largely empty.  There’s not anything to be concerned about.”

      Well, eighteen months later, the homeless “crisis” has deepened and Massachusetts is grasping for solutions.  Apparently, someone thought of the massive, State-owned, underutilized buildings around our complex.  Now, one building is being converted from office space to housing.  As it happens, that building is closest to our community, in general, and looms over our swimming pool, in particular.  It’s fenced-in (with barbed wire) and floodlit yard is just one hundred yards from two of our completed buildings though not particularly close to our unit.


     How do we feel about this situation, insulated as we are by our building’s relative distance from the likely “shelter,” and the fact we are only present about ten weeks a year?  The year-around residents are abuzz with rumors and debates, not unlike what happens when a hornet’s nest is kicked.

     The first reactions I saw were on-line and uniformly negative.  Residents railed against the developer for not guarding against this possibility or, at least, warning about it.  Now that it is apparently happening, some demand, among other things, significant fencing, lighting and security cameras.  A few want armed guards.  Many protested to the mayor and local representatives though it is my understanding the town and developer have no say, whatsoever, in how the State uses its buildings.

     Before we arrived for our most recent three-week visit, the rumor mill variously described the characteristics of our likely new neighbors on line, as follows:

  1. Hundreds of homeless and/or undocumented single men;
  2. Single parent households with multiple children;
  3. Non-English-speaking refugees awaiting sponsors; 
  4. Recently released prisoners in need of half-way housing; and
  5. All of the above.

     Upon arrival, however, I encountered a more divided and nuanced reaction.  A substantial number of residents perceive the new neighbors as an opportunity to do good, namely:

  1. Tutor young children;
  2. Teach music, art and drama;
  3. Provide job and parenting mentoring; and
  4.  All of the above.

     Surprising to me, a majority of the “men’s group,” which includes a number of retired and near-retired teachers and social workers, are itching to help.  Conversely, a substantial number of single women in the community, in particular, (obviously with exceptions in both male and female cohorts) are negative due to fear of crime. Basically, the lines are drawn on the issue of more fencing, the “do-gooders” see a positive mission of engagement and loath the idea of stigmatizing our new neighbors, while opponents argue the homeless will destroy our property values, endanger our residents and, more specifically, decry the “likelihood” their kids will invade our swimming pool after hours, maraud around our community on bicycles and will, in general, wreak havoc.


     Who’s right?  The most recent information disseminated by community representatives is based on discussions with local and State representatives.  The latter are said to have spoken with levels of knowledge on the full spectrum between complete ignorance and total certainty, but generally indicated there will only be approximately twenty intact families, fully vetted, living on one floor of one building.  That took the wind out of the sails of the naysayers… for a day or two.  Then the questions began circulating, as follows: 

  1. What if the homeless population keeps expanding?
  2. What if the State views this limited placement as a “success” and chooses to expand the program?
  3. What if (pick a catastrophe)?


     What, finally, is my position?  Child and grandchild of immigrants that I am, I’m inclined towards the liberal, more hopeful view of the situation.  However, I’m also aware of the definition of a conservative, by some, as “a liberal who has been mugged.”  Not having personally experienced an assault, am I just naïve? 

     For perspective, I look back to my parents, both of whom were mugged at different times in the 1990’s in Philadelphia.  My father’s head was bloodied, and his wedding ring stolen; my mother’s pocketbook was stripped from her arm, her shoulder permanently injured in the fracas. Most likely, their assailants belonged to the impoverished, if not homeless, strata of society.  Either or both of my parents could have become embittered.  Certainly, each felt disdain, or worse, for the individuals who accosted them.  However, they didn’t let the experience cloud their overall views.  They continued to vote for the more humane of our political parties, to support the right of all people to live in any and every neighborhood. 

     With appreciation for my parents’ moral consistency and admittedly with the luxury of our limited presence at our second home, I’m coming down in favor of this use of the State property.   There must be some little kid who needs help in tennis or pong pong or soccer…. 



My personal experience with anonymous correspondence is limited to one unhappy event.   Around 1990, several years after I opened my law office, the New Jersey Bar Association alleged that the sign posted on the street in front of my office was improper. In the sign I described myself as “Stuart Sanders, Real Estate Specialist.” To me, this represented the truth, since my practice consisted almost entirely of real estate closings.

The Ethics Committee of the Association viewed the matter differently. They wrote that they had received a letter from a fellow attorney who stated correctly, in their view, the word “Specialist” belongs only to those who earn certificates as “Civil” or “Criminal” trial attorneys. Their letter told me to remove or correct the sign within fifteen days. Outraged, I wrote back, asking rhetorically: “What is more unethical: to represent the true focus of my law practice to the public, or to file an anonymous complaint behind a colleague’s back?”Unknown.jpeg

During the next several days, while I awaited a response that never came, I hardly lived five minutes without wallowing in righteous indignation. I tortured my poor office staff and family with a barrage of braying, along the lines of: “I’ll sue them; I’ll assert my constitutional right to freedom of speech; how can they own a word?”

At night, I experienced more than a few sleepless hours with another question: “Who filed the complaint? How do I get revenge? Do I wish for a painful disease or mere bankruptcy to be visited upon my so-called colleague?”

Gradually, after a week or so, the sting of the situation subsided. I paid a sign company to replace the word “Specialist” with “Closings.” I decided that to argue with the Bar’s Ethics Committee would not be a brilliant career move. And I ceased evaluating every local attorney I dealt with to see if they were “the one.” “Don’t give whoever it is the satisfaction,” I instructed myself.




Two years later, I’d nearly forgotten the incident when an elderly attorney from a neighboring town arrived for a closing. Although I’d met him years before, he wasn’t someone I saw often. He’d certainly never crossed my mind as a suspect when I’d laid awake imagining retribution. His colleagues knew him for two things, namely: alcoholism; and, related to that, having run over and killed a youngster with his town’s fire engine while driving to a July 4th celebration. As town attorney and its fire chief, he’d managed to squelch any personal responsibility for the tragedy, but the legal community knew the inside story.

After offering a wet-fish handshake, he said: “I see you’re not in violation anymore.”

“Hunh?” I said, not certain what he meant.

“Your sign,” he said, his rheumy eyes twinkling with mischief and triumph.

“You fixed it. My letter worked.”                                        images.png

I glared at him. Several verbal responses arose in my mind, all barbed with poison. But, as I considered his entire presence, from his tattered and stained sports jacket, to his erratically shaved jowls, to the vast belly that almost prevented him from reaching the closing table, I found myself unable to deliver one. Apparently, the awful things I’d wished for had occurred to him already. In fact, even worse than I could have dreamed.

“Yes,” I finally said. “And business has never been better.”




Fast forward twenty years: I’m nearly at the four-year anniversary of starting this blog and have posted 160 stories and essays. Most weeks, I have between 100 and 200 “views” and am often surprised by which posts are popular. Sometimes, the stories I think are best fall like stones in water. And posts I’ve belabored end up being relative successes.  Readers or “followers” need not be concerned that I monitor their individual reading habits. That level of detail is unavailable. But my hosting site does tell me in what country my readers access the blog.

The overwhelming majority of my “reads” take place in the United States. But many also occur in Canada and Costa Rica where I have friends and acquaintances. Occasionally, a dedicated reader travels to Europe or Asia and checks my blog as they go, leaving me with a tantalizing string of countries. When a friend spent several months in and around Vietnam last year I had my first “views” from Cambodia and Laos; during her honeymoon last year, my daughter delivered my first hits from Sri Lanka and the Maldives.




Last year I posted a story about my father’s unlikely friendship with former Philadelphia mayor Frank Rizzo. It briefly went viral in a minor way when hundreds of readers accessed it over a two-day period. I never learned who they were. Presumably, one person happened upon the story and referred it to friends or co-workers. No one commented, however. How mysterious to not know with whom I’d struck a nerve, and why!

Other times I know exactly who has binged on my blog. There are several friends who do not read every post but, if they know I will be at a social event, might read eight or ten in the day or two before we meet. They discuss aspects of the posts with me in minute detail and often offer insights I hadn’t considered when I wrote. I appreciate their interest.


In the past two months a tantalizing mystery has arisen with a reader I’ve come to think of as “The Brazilian.” “Reads” have occurred almost daily in Brazil. Usually, there is one, though several times, there have been two or three in a day. I cannot think of anyone I know who is living or traveling in Brazil. This person, whoever he or she is, has been remarkably dedicated. I’m flattered! Yet, they have never left a comment. Maybe they don’t realize they can comment or, perhaps, they prefer to remain anonymous.

Is my Brazil reader a student learning English? Is he or she somehow fascinated by the minutiae of my existence or by my views on current events? I can’t tell which stories they have read. They could be reading the most recent posts or they could be scrolling back several years to find stories of interest.

So now, like an actor breaking character and speaking directly to the audience, I’m herein communicating to my reader in Brazil. You know who you are! How did you become a reader? What are your favorite stories or story-types? How did you alight upon my blog in the first place? Are there subjects you particularly enjoy? Do you have any questions I could answer? My imagination runs wild! In my dreams, I wonder if you are a major movie producer who is just waiting for the right moment to offer me a “deal.”

If you’d rather not respond, that’s fine. One of the enjoyable aspects of writing stories (as opposed to editing and re-writing and occasionally abandoning stories that don’t work), is not knowing how they’ll be received after I push the ”publish” button. The mystery fascinates me. At least, having written this post, the “Brazil” questions are out there, I’m less likely to express puzzlement every day. Compared to some anonymous situations, this one is a pleasure.



Dear Readers:
     I have spent the last two-and-a-half weeks on a tour of Spain with my wife, Katie.  At times, the trip was exciting and fun and, at other times, somewhat of an ordeal.  The last time a traveler covered this much territory in Spain, Cervantes wrote an 800 page novel about it.  Compared to his efforts, my explanations, experiences and observations are not profound, literary, meaningful or worthy of being translated into 120  languages.  However, they do offer something that he lacks, namely: brevity.
     Much of what appears below was shared with several readers by e-mail.  That content is reprinted here, with some editing and additional content, with permission from the author.  The process of obtaining permission was extremely simple.
PART ONE:  October 31, 2012, “Hello Mutha, Hello Fatha, We Will Eventually, be in Granada”
     Congratulations to those of you on the East Coast of the US for surviving Hurricane Sandy.   We have followed
your travails on BBC World and I have to say that they show an impressive degree of concern for the old colonies.
We are hurtling through Spain at an alarming rate.  Chevy Chase surely did a movie on this experience.  My first observation is that one should buy more stock in Philip Morris.  Doubtless related to the first observation is that cough drops and sinus medicines also sell well over  here.
Our guide is a character.  He uses the word “well” like a teenager uses “like,” as in:  “Well, Barcelona is a city, well, that is what can you say, well, it is well, Barcelona.”  He has also shared with us that Portugal is the longest standing nation in Europe and that Portugal is the greatest exploring nation in the world and Portugal has the best wine and Portugal has the most soulful people, etc.  This may have something to do with, well, he is a proud Portuguese who somehow drew the Spain assignment this fortnight, and he is not that thrilled about it.
     Nonetheless, we have seen a bit of Madrid on our own, and several days worth of Valencia and Barcelona, respectively, with the group.   The group consists of 35 people from seven nations, including:  England, Australia, Austria, Canada, Malaysia, Singapore and the US.  Several who now live in the US are derived from Iraq.  Since these people, collectively and individually, certainly (when the memories have fully sunk in) warrant entire writings dedicated to them, I will focus here on the travelogue.
       As to Valencia, to the extent I ever thought about it, I thought it was in Italy.  But I was happy to find it in Spain with all its great oranges and fish.  And what architecture!     We enjoyed the stunning beauty of Valencia… A very livable sort of place and we enjoyed the hubbub of Barcelona with its Gaudi and parks and walking areas and shopping, etc.   Basically, as one who would rather live in Philadelphia than New York, if I had to choose, it should not surprise that I preferred Valencia.  But, well, this has been too small a sample to well, make a real, well, comparison.  And to the credit of Barcelona, it is likely the only place a hotel could be in the shape of a large mushroom.  Well.  So you see, well, that the guide is very, well, imitatable and I must stop doing so if, well, I wish to remain married, and if I wish any of you to continue reading.
     The highlight, so far, was a sunset boat ride around a fishing and rice-growing village outside Valencia.  We were fed paella accompanied by ample portions of sangria.  Note that wine is less expensive than water at most restaurants.  We travel towards Pamplona tomorrow where I hope the bulls are on siesta.  More reporting from the paella tour in a couple of days.
PART TWO:  November 2, 2012  “Pamplona is a Lot of Bull”
     From Valencia, we traveled first to Zaragosa, with its massive town plaza featuring a double header, both cathedral AND basilica.  Zaragosa also has a central market (as does nearly every town) featuring fresh fruits, pastries, and seemingly hundreds of pig-related foodstuffs.  Our favorite part of Zaragosa features their native son, the Goya Museum (paintings, not beans, for all you Goya fans).  From there, we traveled to Pamplona, which is a three-trick town: bull running street, holy walk destination and Hemingway hangout.  We drank wine where Ernest did (every establishment in town claims him as a customer) and we ate tapas, which is a Basque term that may mean: “strange food served strangely.”   I did enjoy the bread and local olive oil.  Did you know that the world’s leading grower of olives is not Greece or Italy, but Spain?  Apparently, most of the gazillion acres of olive trees in Spain are owned by Italian companies.  They harvest the olives in Spain and transport them to Italy for processing, and then declare them products of Italy.
      We marched gamely around Pamplona  in a chilling rain and made such sage conjectures as this:  no two ways of flushing a toilet in a Spanish town are ever the same.  There are chains, buttons, handles, knobs, wall-based levers, two-sided contraptions to allow for choice of … Well,  enough of that.
     From Pamplona, we traveled further north to San Sebastián, a snazzy place nestled in the Pyrenees.  Yes, it was nice to see a prosperous -looking town, as the so called “economical crisis” has not hit there.   The Basques, like the Catalans in Barcelona, speak their own dialect and wish to secede from Spain entirely, so that they can be free of what they consider an unfair tax burden.  Basques also have, we are told, a very Germanic, NON-Spanish sort of efficiency.  The city, on the coast of the Bay of Biscayne, is clean and bustling and in close proximity to the French ski resort of Biarritz.   We visited two or three more cathedrals there and in a town called Burgos over the course of several days, and saw a tower for the Knights Templar (powerful back in 1207, or so) in a town unfortunately named Peniscola.   I dovened  appropriately in each chapel with whatever I could remember from my long ago bar mitzvah.
Onward then to Bilbao where we visited the Guggenheim and admired Frank Gehry’s architecture.   Tourism in Bilbao has increased several thousand-fold since the mid-1990’s construction of the museum and it, too, is a prosperous place.   We noted windmills and solar panels all along the highways; nearly all of  northern Spain is powered by wind and solar and it was stunning to see.   It is amazing/sad to see how much farther along this relatively impoverished country is than we are… But I am trying hard to avoid political issues these days.
PART THREE:  November 2, 2012.  “The Rain in Spain Falls, Basically, Everywhere”
    We managed to solve the drought in Spain.  This is not the same magnitude of accomplishment as bringing a week of rain to Phoenix or sleet to San Francisco, as we achieved on previous vacations, but it is still worthy of a simple basilica or two in our honor.  Nonetheless, we continued the transition from palaces and cathedrals to palaces, cathedrals, basilicas and castles.
     From Bilbao, we moved south to Salamanca, a university town.  There we saw the “new” cathedral (16th century) and the old original (11th century).  I imagine the building fund is about to rev up again.  All lit up, the town was magical to see.  However, if one did look up, the discharge from a gargoyle might drown one, since it was raining gatos and perros.  We also saw the walled city of Avila (El Cid, a/k/a/ Charlton Heston) played a large role in killing Muslims there.
     Each town has a Jewish Quarter, which the tour guide makes an astonishingly big deal about, considering that there have been no Jews practicing openly in Spain since about 1492.   He is under the impression that everyone got along swimmingly back in 1320 or so, but I remain skeptical.   No one ever loved the tax collector and that was often the only job made available by the local royalty.  In any event, the Jewish quarter now implies tiny shops in tiny streets with many souvenirs.
        Last evening, we alighted upon Seville, a major metropolis.  Dinner on our own was  successful at a seafood restaurant.  Ham is otherwise a constant at every meal.  Katie’s suitcase is taking its own vacation, having been loaded onto the wrong bus at Salamanca, so we also had some shopping to do.  We are told it will catch up to us later today or tomorrow.  So far, she is coping admirably (and buying necessities on the tour company’s Euro) but if it does not show up by tomorrow, the sleepy province of Andalucia may see her inner-New Jersey.
        We visited a major-league cathedral this morning, biggest in the world, and a palace constructed in commemoration of the Seville exposition of 1929.  Tile was in style, at least for a while.   The Jewish quarter is a massive shopping area where, potentially, I should open up a stand and sign autographs.   We are happy to be missing the final throes of the US election.  The 2016 race will not begin until about February, I imagine, during which time we may be writing from our new home in Panama.
     PART FOUR:  November 9, 2012
Perhaps some of our prayers in all these cathedrals were answered.  America may yet go off the “fiscal cliff,” but at least it is not yet ready to go off the intolerance cliff.   For what it is worth, (and it may not be worth one iota) nearly every  non-American was delighted with the election result.  It is nice not to  feel a need to answer “Canada” as our home country, as we occasionally did when we traveled back in the Bush years.
      Since the last installment, we have finished our stay in Seville and visited Granada and Cordoba, as well as various truck stops along the way that do not make the guide books. We have seen several towns where the Man of La Mancha failed to actually exist.  We have also gotten lost in more Jewish quarters than they have in Israel.   “A business with no street signs,” to quote what my father would surely have said.   In the south of Spain, one adds mosques to the triumvirate of cathedrals, castles, palaces and gift shops.   (I realize that is a quartet; just making sure you are reading carefully).
     Our tour guide created some unusual expectations on our ride to Grenada when he assured us over and over that, well,  we would discover there “the porpoise of life.”   This made me wonder if there was an aquarium.   By this stage of the trip, some of our fellow-travelers were audibly mocking him when he spoke.  We actually cringed  when we heard him activate the microphone.  But, well, I digress…
The mosques initially left us underwhelmed.   Even the Alhambra, an official wonder of the world, was a little dour.   Pouring rain did not help, along with loud, polyglot crowds.   Also, Grenada was somewhat grimy, its walls defaced with nasty-looking graffiti.  There were clusters of swarthy young men in leather jackets hanging around the street corners, indicative of the sour state of the economy in southern Spain.  Fortunately, lest my slightly skeptical view of Arab culture be confirmed, we ended our main travels at the Mezquite Cathedral in Cordoba.  Along with the fact that the town of Cordoba is prettier and cleaner than Grenada,  and the obligatory Jewish quarter is well-marked and interesting, the combo mosque/cathedral is stunning!  Really, the architectural highlight of the trip.  It seems that the Christians let the Muslims do much of the heavy lifting  (literally) back in the eleventh century and then took over in the thirteenth century to complete an amazing cathedral over the top of a flamboyantly elaborate mosque foundation.   While we saw some SERIOUSLY impressive edifices on this trip,  this one topped them all.   A tour has advantages and disadvantages, but I must admit that if we were not part of a tour, by this stage of the trip, I might not have visited “one more cathedral.”  And that would have been unfortunate.
     We broke up the so-so tour group meals in Cordoba by going out for Chinese food.  The whole kitchen staff came out to stare at Katie, a Mandarin-speaking gringo.   Random observation:   Spain utilizes the same wealth redistribution strategy as most American states– from the lower class back to the government– via the lottery.  There are kiosks on every other street that are humming with business from a deluded  population, no matter how downcast the other businesses  appear to be.
PART FIVE:  November 11.  The End of the Road
After two weeks of plying the highways and byways of Spain, it was nice to see our old, original hotel, however humble, back in Madrid.  The tour ended today and some brain cells are coming available again as I delete the precariously remembered names (though not the peculiarities) of my fellow-travelers.  Observation, after two weeks of travel:  You know you have relied too much on BBC World when you know the daily average temperature in Rangoon and the name of the opposition party in Upper Mongolia.
     We had two more days in Madrid, on our own.  The  highlight of the first day was the Thyssen Museum.  We chose it over the Prado for its emphasis on modern art instead of the old religious stuff.  Very nice museum.
     The next day, our last, we walked the most, from the Plaza Mayor, to downtown, to the Prado where we listened to a wonderful classical guitar performer, to the huge Retiro Gardens, and back to the Plaza again from whence we returned to the hotel.  The highlights were several serendipitous occurrences in the Gardens, which are like Central Park.  There was an a capella choir practicing, a huge outdoor photography exhibit on wildlife with English explanations (not always present in museums/cites outside major cities).  We saw the “silver palace,” a destination in the middle of the park, that is neither a palace nor silver.  It is best-described as a huge glass greenhouse decorated with tiles around its foundation.  Anyway, it has particularly beautiful flowers around it and a duck pond that is a favorite photograph destination for brides and tourists.  Perhaps, park strollers are a self-selected healthier population, but it struck us that 90% of the Spanish population was NOT smoking there, a much better ratio than usual.
     On the way back to our hotel, we had an experience that certainly will not happen in Chapel Hill, NC.  We found ourselves overtaken by a demonstration in favor of independence for Western Sahara.  It seems that Spain held it as a colony and then abandoned it in the 1990’s in the face of terrorist bombings.  Instead of setting up an independent nation, Spain simply walked out, allowing neighboring Morocco to annex it.  So… to make a VERY  long story short, the Western  Saharan emigrants (I’d like to have the deodorant concession)  and friends of the cause are demonstrating for independence from Morocco in Spain, since, presumably, the Spanish government is less likely to shoot and imprison them.  Got it?  The 1,000 or so demonstrators were dressed in outfits typical of the Western Sahara,  I presume.  It was more a party atmosphere than an angry one, with drums and horns and ululating women (that has nothing to do with sex, I think).  It was not scary, but it was chaotic and memorable; our faces are now probably somewhere in a security database in Casablanca.  We’re the ones without facial hair (that goes for male and female participants).
       What else can I say?   We had one more so-so meal in what we began to think of as “our neighborhood,” and went back to our room to pack.  We are ready for our comparatively dull existences again.  We never thought we would CRAVE oatmeal, or ANY meal without twelve varieties of sausage, but we do.
Hasta la vista, Your Correspondent


     Never had a commercial event in our small town generated more anticipation than the opening of an ice cream shop known as Scoupe de Ville.

     For months, after the “Coming Soon” sign was posted, the former nail salon at the corner of Central and Main was under renovation. First, the nondescript exterior gave way to vivid streamers of pink and blue bunting. Next, the parking lot was repaved from pitted concrete to smooth asphalt with stripes painted like candy canes. Excitement reached a fever pitch when a half-sized replica of an electric blue Cadillac appeared. It hung from a crane in the parking lot for two days awaiting installation, long enough for everyone in town to see it. Finally, after we tired of telling the children: “Soon, soon, it will be open soon,” balloons and banners announcing “Grand Opening” were hung around the building.
     Children were not the only ones who were excited. Adults viewed the store as a sign of class, of local distinction.      

     “Who needs Baskin-Robbins or Haagen Dazs?” we asked each other. We will have an authentic ice cream parlor. We speculated that it would not be long before a cheese shop and an art gallery would open.
     Needless to say, the first week of business was spectacular. The parking lot was full. People waited in line around the block. Families strategized that it was necessary to have ice cream at four in the afternoon, before dinner, just so that they could sit at a table. Following the decorating theme, sundaes were served in cardboard containers shaped like Cadillac convertibles.
     It was a week or two before the first hints of disappointment seeped out.
     “The service was slow,” said some.
     “My ice cream was melted,” said others.
     “Mine was lumpy,” said one.
      “The prices, my God, can you believe the prices?” commiserated several adults.
       At the end of the first month, there were spaces available in the parking lot and several empty tables in the parlor. The jovial owner, a jowly Floridian, who had beamed in the first week, now appeared sullen. He raised himself slowly from a corner stool to supervise the teen-aged employees.
T     he model Cadillac still gleamed in the center of the dining room but the juke box now had an “out of order” sign. The tables were sometimes dirty. When a dish dropped, the now-quiet room heard it break, clatter several feet, and finally spin into agonizing silence.
     After two months, there appeared a sign in the window: “Check out our new, lower-priced menu.” However, the children had moved on – prices were not their issue.
     “Let’s go to Baskin-Robbins,” they begged. “It’s faster.”
     “Let’s go to Haagen-Dazs, their cones are bigger.”
     After three months, Scoupe de Ville was a ghostly scene. The owner served the few customers himself, since business was so slow. No one was fired, he assured a concerned customer, since most of the teen-aged staff, dependent upon tips, simply quit showing up.
     A “Business for Sale” sign marked the fourth-month anniversary. Hardly anyone noticed when an “Out of Business” sign appeared several months later. By the sixth month, weeds grew in the parking lot; the brilliant colors were faded. Someone said the owner had skipped out on his lease and gone back to Florida.
     “What do you think will go in there?” people asked, eventually.
     “We need a bagel shop,” said one.
     “How ‘bout a Thai restaurant?” asked another.
     “Maybe a nail salon,” one woman said. “We could really use one.”
     “Yes,” nodded the others.