Saving the shipyard

One of the things that distinguished the Philadelphia Inquirer was its frequent use of the reconstruction. Soon after a major news event, reporters would interview the participants to recount behind-the-scenes events and tell the story as a whole, instead of daily increments. The reporting had to be deep, the writing quick.





BEHIND THE SHIPYARD DEAL: A 'HAIL MARY' THAT WORKED
THE NEGOTIATIONS INCLUDED EAGLES GAMES AND CAPITOL HILL INTRIGUE. RISKS WERE TAKEN - BY BOTH SIDES.
BYLINE: Howard Goodman and Russell E. Eshleman Jr., INQUIRER STAFF WRITERS, Inquirer staff writer Craig McCoy contributed to this article.
SECTION: LOCAL; Pg. A01

The clock was ticking on the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard in the late summer of 1995, and the city's desperate play for resurrection - a deal with the German shipbuilder Meyer Werft - was collapsing, too.

A week before the end, Terry Gillen saw it coming. Freighted by foreboding, with 2,000 jobs on the block, the city official looked upon a sea of faces at a union meeting.

"What are we going to do with all these people?" she thought.

She was still wondering when the yard formally closed, on Sept. 15, 1995, then again a few days later, when the Meyer Werft deal died.

Yet within two weeks of that debacle, Gillen and William Hankowsky, both of the Philadelphia Industrial Development Corp., sent letters to every shipbuilder big enough to possibly expand here.

It was a short list, about two dozen companies. They read a simple plea: We have idle dry docks and a pool of public money; are you interested?

It was a long shot, a Hail Mary, a message in a bottle.

But word came back.

Through the industry grapevine, the Philadelphians heard that one company, the Norwegian conglomerate Kvaerner ASA, might bite.

So began a secret, two-year courtship between a region with a sadly abandoned industrial asset and a global high-tech business giant with a niche to fill.

The new new urbanism: Going rural

What do you do with a city with dwindling population, acres of empty lots? Here was a radical idea: Return the land to agriculture.






DOWN ON THE FARM IN PHILA.
SOME PEOPLE ARE BOLDLY RETHINKING WHAT A CITY CAN BE. ON BLIGHTED OR FORGOTTEN BLOCKS, THEY SEE FIELDS OF OPPORTUNITY.
BYLINE: Howard Goodman, INQUIRER STAFF WRITER
SECTION: LOCAL; Pg. A01

Imagine the abandoned factories of Philadelphia's stranded neighborhoods reawakened, producing and pulsing with people at work.

Imagine new life for those brick industrial hulks, in which a bygone Philadelphia made locomotives, hats, saw blades, elevators - now pickings for vandals and shelters for addicts.

Imagine them as Kate Smith does. The agricultural economist, raised on an Iowa farm, aches for the squandered city.

She's eyeing those huge, dark interiors left over from the Industrial Revolution. And she has an idea for them.

Harvest mushrooms.

Why not? Mushrooms are grown indoors. They require a steady supply of unskilled or semiskilled labor, and the city has plenty of that. There's a growing niche market for specialty foods, gourmet or organic.

The idea might collapse when it collides with financial and technical realities. But Smith is optimistic.

"The one thing I know is that everyone has to eat," she says, "and the one sure market is food."

Mushrooms are just one of the brainstorms of a small, unconventional group of Philadelphians - community leaders, intellectuals, businesspeople - who are thinking about the future of the city, and saying "why not?" instead of "no way."

Idea by idea, they are developing a mind-stretching vision of a future Philadelphia. With a nudge here and a nudge there, they're tilting the very notion of "city" to dizzying angles.

Constitution Center gains steam

Part of the excitement of the Rendell administration was his frenzy to create new cultural landmarks for Philadelphia. Here's the creation of one of them.






RENDELL UNVEILS A REVISED CONSTITUTION CENTER PLAN
IT SHOWS A LOWER COST AND A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT LOCATION. VISITORS WILL TAKE AN INTERACTIVE TOUR THROUGH HISTORY.
BYLINE: Howard Goodman, INQUIRER STAFF WRITER
SECTION: LOCAL; Pg. A01

It will be a temple to America's civic religion and a multimedia show, a theme-park ride through U.S. history and a forum for scholars and debates, a tourist lure and an oasis for reviving citizenship's soul.

The National Constitution Center, for nearly a decade a fuzzy concept with a toehold on Independence Mall, is coming into sharper view.

As Mayor Rendell outlined it yesterday, the center will be a $123 million facility on the north side of Arch Street, facing Independence Hall two blocks south. Target groundbreaking: Sept. 17, Constitution Day, 2000.

Flanked by University of Pennsylvania President Judith Rodin at a news conference at City Hall, Rendell announced that Penn will serve as the center's academic arm, producing conferences, radio programs, a Web site and scholarly works to help bring constitutional issues to life.

Rendell also unveiled an 8-minute video, narrated by actor James Earl Jones, former President Bush and newscaster Andrea Mitchell, featuring artists' conceptions of the center, showing how state-of-the-art museum technologies can be harnessed to illustrate how the Constitution affects everyday Americans and has inspired millions of others around the world.

Rendell said center officials intend to run the slickly produced video for government, business and foundation leaders - President Clinton among them - as they launch a national fund-raising drive.

"We have no illusions that this will be easy," Rendell said, evoking a center that will be as much national asset as local tourist attraction. "But this will be a museum of immense importance."
Rendell, chairman of the project since December, said he has overcome his own skepticism about the project. When he took over, he said, he demanded a hard look into whether the would-be high-tech celebration of the Constitution was either practical or necessary.

Now the consultants' studies are in, he said, and it's clear that the center is doable. More than that - in a nation in which six out of 10 Americans are said to be unable to identify the Bill of Rights - it's a must.

"There's an extraordinarily great need," Rendell said, for a facility that will "open entirely new vistas of understanding and knowledge about the Constitution."

Rendell in overdrive

Philadelphia hosted a "summit on volunteerism" that featured three Presidents and Gen. Colin Powell. It was the hyperactive mayor who stole the show.





A WIRED RENDELL PAINTS THE TOWN
HE'S HERE, THERE - EVERYWHERE.
BYLINE: Howard Goodman, INQUIRER STAFF WRITER
SECTION: THE PRESIDENTS' SUMMIT; Pg. B01

Five thousand T-shirted volunteers and an invasion of national media poised expectantly at Marcus Foster Stadium heard the first strains of "Hail to the Chief."

And who should emerge, bounding onstage a few steps ahead of the President, the vice president and two former presidents . . . no one but Ed Rendell.

Who else?

Philadelphia's mayor put his signature all over yesterday's opening of the Presidents' Summit.
Not that he tried to outshine the luminaries. He was just himself - to the nth: a ubiquitous presence, a tireless orchestrator, a gemutlich host, a local hero.

And for a man who has stressed the need for America to repair its broken cities, it was just his kind of day.

Rendell's gamble

Freshmen meet reality

CREATING THE CLASS OF 2000

FOR BETTER OR WORSE, FRESHMEN ENCOUNTER REAL WORLD
BYLINE: Howard Goodman, INQUIRER STAFF WRITER
SECTION: LOCAL; Pg. A01

In their first semester at the University of Pennsylvania, the members of the Class of 2000 have taken a course that none of them signed up for. It won't earn them a single credit or show up on their transcripts. It doesn't even have a name.

But if it did, the course might be titled "Reality 101."

Kristen Thomas took it. An honors student back at her Cleveland high school, she learned that life isn't one big A-plus after another. "Calculus," she sighed, clearly pained, "is kicking me in the butt."

Andrew Lurie took Reality 101, too. What he learned is that the world, even the intellectually charged world of the Ivies, isn't the genial melting pot of ideas and colors he'd expected. "There are these big blocs of people who don't intermix," said Lurie, of suburban Chicago. "It's like you've got the corn on one side of the plate and the potatoes on the other side. It's not soupy."

Jo-Ann Chen, of Chattanooga, Tenn., got a lesson in irony: While she can reach around the world with a few taps on her computer, she can't walk the one block to the library after dark by herself. "It's embarrassing that I don't have that freedom," Chen said.

As for Shirley Zilberstein, of Newton, Mass., she discovered that the top is an awfully small place.
In high school, she said, "we all headed every club. Here we're just tiny little specks among thousands. It's very, very humbling."

For Penn's 2,358 freshmen - winnowed from the largest applicant pool in the school's history - the last four months have been a kaleidoscope of rude awakenings, tempered expectations, quickly cobbled friendships and more work than play, more play than sleep. They've suffered the same discomforts as freshmen everywhere: homesickness, roommates who blare bad music, teaching assistants who barely speak English.

They've also grappled with a problem that doesn't reach freshmen at many other schools around the country: city crime.

Penn sees gains in its recruiting year

From the series Creating the Class of 2000

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Rejection is hard on everyone

From the series Creating the Class of 2000

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Applicants learn their fate

From the series Creating the Class of 2000


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Smaller schools play the game, too

From the series Creating the Class of 2000