Last Harvest: From Cornfield to New Town Read online

The Sadsbury group meets behind the firehouse at 7:30 A.M. on a sunny Saturday. The developer in training Jason Duckworth is handing out paper cups of coffee from the open tailgate of his station wagon. “We have donuts, cinnamon buns, and muffins,” he tells the people milling around in the parking lot. Jason is helped by Christy Flynn, a Wharton student who is an intern in the office. Joe Duckworth is there, too, wearing a baseball cap and a white polo shirt with an Arcadia logo. Everybody has a name tag, although most of the locals seem to know one another, and there is a lot of kidding around. The last time many of them took a bus was probably when they were school children, which may explain the playful atmosphere. When the bus arrives, it’s not yellow but a shiny black luxury coach. Some of the Sadsbury residents exchange glances; they’re impressed.

  Arcadia sent out personal invitations, took out ads in the local newspaper, and made announcements at township meetings. Eighteen people have showed up, which pleases Duckworth. “The last time I tried this sort of thing, only four people came,” he tells me. Everyone climbs aboard. Duckworth briefly introduces himself, Jason, and Christy, and thanks people for coming. There is a smattering of applause, not for Duckworth but for the bus driver as he skillfully eases the huge vehicle out of the cramped lot and into the narrow village street.

  Twenty minutes later, the bus stops at the Londonderry Township building, where a handful of people are waiting in the parking lot. The important thing, as far as Joe and Jason are concerned, is that one of them is Howard Benner, the chairman of the board of supervisors, and another is Richard Henryson, the chairman of the planning commission. The last person to get on is Londonderry’s planning consultant, Tom Comitta, who has been to Kentlands before but wants to encourage his clients.

  The bus is equipped with television screens, and Jason plays a videotape of interviews with Kentlands residents. The residents talk about why they chose to live there and how much they like it. Some say that it reminds them of a New England town, others mention the open green spaces and the lakes. Everyone has something to say about how pleasant and easy it is to walk around the community, how the kids can bicycle to school, and how you can walk to the store. The film is obviously a marketing tool, but it isn’t slick and the statements sound sincere.

  Comitta gets up and, from the aisle, gives a more technical explanation of the planning ideas behind projects such as Kentlands. He lists what people should look for during their tour: the small lots, the variety of types of housing, the design of the streets. He also recounts his own early experiences as a township consultant and his conversion to traditional neighborhood development. He is candid and enthusiastic. Joe Duckworth makes no more comments after his brief introduction. “I prefer to keep a low profile during these tours, and let people make up their own minds,” he explains to me. “Nobody trusts the developer anyway.”

  Meanwhile, the big bus barrels south along I-95. It takes more than two hours to get to Kentlands, which is in Gaithersburg, a Washington, D.C., suburb. The bus pulls up in a parking lot in the town center, and the group files off. The first stop is the office of the neighborhood newspaper. Our guides for the tour, Valerie and Leslie, two attractive women in their early thirties, hand out literature about the development. Both live here. It turns out that they’ve actually worked for the developer, so they aren’t exactly typical residents, but they come across as energetic and friendly, and they have a lot of facts at their fingertips.

  Kentlands is an important milestone in the history of neotraditional design, since it was the first development that applied the concept of Seaside to a suburban community. Planned by Andrés Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk, Kentlands, with two thousand homes, is much larger than Seaside. The project began in 1987, and the first houses went on the market three years later. The early indications were positive. Kentlands, benefiting from Seaside’s celebrity, received national publicity, and sales were brisk. Then, the one thing that real estate developers fear most happened: the economy faltered. This affected the development in two ways. First, home sales slowed down. Second, because of reduced consumer confidence, merchandisers were reluctant to open new stores, which meant that the town center remained unbuilt. For Joseph Alfandre, a local builder and the pioneering developer of Kentlands, who had been counting on the sale of the town center properties to finance the project, this was a heavy blow. By 1991 the economic slowdown had turned into a full-fledged recession. Underfunded and unable to weather the slump, Alfandre was forced to hand over the project to his main creditor, a local bank. Over the next several years, the bank completed construction more or less according to the original plan. By the end of the decade, as the economy recovered, sales improved and land values rose. Kentlands became a success. An economic study comparing the development with other Gaithersburg subdivisions found that, despite the smaller lots, home buyers were willing to pay a premium for the green spaces, the convenience of nearby shops, the townlike surroundings, and the comfortable sense of community.2

  The Chester County group sets off on its tour. The physical reality more than meets the expectations raised by the promotional video. Kentlands has many of the qualities associated with garden suburbs: shady streets, a picturesque layout, houses close together. The architectural style is predominantly Federal, and the compact appearance of the brick and clapboard houses lining the streets really does recall a small New England town. So do the white picket fences. In fact, it’s all so pretty that the first impression is of a place that is slightly unreal. “It’s like Disneyland,” someone says skeptically. But as the walk continues, impressions appear to change. It’s a sunny weekend morning, and many people are outside. A woman on her porch with her baby waves hello. Residents are washing cars, cutting the grass, gardening. In front of a yellow house, in a scene worthy of Norman Rockwell, a group of small children has set up a lemonade stand — 25 CENTS A GLASS says a hand-lettered sign. If the Duckworths had wanted to stage an event for the benefit of this tour, they couldn’t have done better.

  I have visited Kentlands several times, but I am still struck by the sophistication of Duany and Plater-Zyberk’s plan. The small open spaces break up the street grid. The houses are mixed to avoid uniformity, a few town houses nestle along a street of larger homes. The streets are subtly angled, just enough to skew the view occasionally and produce the sorts of “accidental” effects that make a place like Chestnut Hill so charming. Of course, Kentlands is a little too considered, a little too prim and, well, cute. But Chestnut Hill has had more than a hundred years to ease itself into shape, whereas Kentlands has been in existence only a decade.

  Kentlands promotes the notion that it is a small town. There is a Main Street and a Market Square; the area where The Town Paper office is located is called Midtown. “Kentlands is actually more than a neighborhood,” reads the original sales brochure. “When completed it will be a small town with several different neighborhoods spreading over three hundred-and-fifty acres of Maryland countryside.” In truth, Kentlands is not a country town but a suburban master-planned community, bounded by highways, shopping malls, and other master-planned communities. Yet children can walk to school and bicycle to the corner store. The narrow streets do create the impression of a small town, and the proximity of the houses does foster neighborliness. The so-called Midtown area has many live-work units, attached three-story buildings that allow a combination of commercial and residential uses. The mix of lawyers’ and doctors’ offices, restaurants, and shops creates an atmosphere that really does resemble a small-town main street.

  Our group passes an elementary school and a day-care center, a hilly neighborhood of Victorian-style houses, and a clubhouse where teenagers are noisily playing in a swimming pool. It is more than an hour since the tour started. “We’ve been walking quite far. I hope that you’re not getting tired,” says our guide, concerned about the elderly members of the group. “Oh, no,” jokes one of the farmers. “It’s farther to go to my mailbox.”

  It’s almost noon, and
we’re back at the bus. Jason announces that box lunches will be available in twenty minutes. In the meantime, he suggests, people can visit the town center. The businesses here are not much different from what one might find in any small shopping center, and in fact Market Square is owned and managed by a shopping mall operator. But the shops, restaurants, and multiscreen movie theater are in individual buildings, and instead of an indoor mall, there are sidewalks, trees, and streets. The parking lots are behind the buildings, out of sight.

  It’s an attractive setting, yet there are few shoppers. “The hardest thing to make work in a neotraditional development is the town center,” observes Duckworth as we stand on a street corner looking at the empty sidewalks. Although Kentlands has about two thousand families, and neighboring Lakelands is approaching a thousand households, that is still not enough people to support a large number of stores. The problem is that, despite their often stated preference for walking, Americans have developed a taste for low prices and variety, and they don’t mind driving great distances to get them. “Neotraditional development is definitely a good idea,” says Duckworth, “but we still haven’t found the right model for how to put together a successful town center. It’s not Seaside, whose town center works but is really a beach resort. Nor is it Disney’s Celebration, whose downtown is a tourist destination. It’s certainly not this place.”

  It is time to leave. Back on the bus, we contentedly munch our sandwiches and sip soft drinks. On the way home, Comitta summarizes his impressions to the group and asks if there are any observations, pro or con. “Do you know how much open space there is?” asks a man from the back. Comitta isn’t sure; Duckworth says he thinks that it might be 25 or 30 percent. “I like the fact that it was very clean,” says one woman. “It shows pride of place,” chimes in another. On the whole there is not much discussion. It has been a long day, and people are ready to go home.

  Jason goes down the aisle handing out bottled water. He is pleased with the way things have gone. The Londonderry Township representatives, Benner and Henryson, seem genuinely impressed. “Nobody ever comes away from Kentlands feeling worse about our proposals,” says Jason. “By the way, we think that the bus ride is an important part of the trip. It allows us to talk to people in a more intimate environment. It also gives us a chance to demonstrate to the residents that we’re human, too. The public and confrontational environment of the township meetings creates a very depersonalized view of developers.” His father has learned to joke about his perceived role as the “greedy developer,” but for Jason, who has absorbed Robert Davis’s benevolent vision, it’s important for people to understand that he is interested in more than the bottom line.

  8

  Meetings

  Why developers hate to go to public meetings.

  The Londonderry board of supervisors meets on the second Tuesday of the month at seven in the evening. The township building, which is in Daleville, is a long industrial shed with a row of garage bays for trucks and road maintenance equipment. The township offices are attached to one end, a little civic afterthought.

  I arrive early. The gravel parking lot is beside a large unmowed field identified by a sign as the Londonderry Township Park. Lower down the slope, on the far side of the field — I can’t bring myself to call it a park — is a relatively new subdivision whose name I noticed as I drove in: Mindy Acres. Since there are no trees, no hedges, and no fences, I have a panoramic view of the entire development. Except for a strip of asphalt roadway — no sidewalks — everything is green turf, which makes it look a little like a golf course. The large houses, far apart on what look like one-acre lots, are turned this way and that, tenuously connected to the winding streets by long driveways. It’s hard to characterize this artless arrangement. Mindy Acres exists in some not-quite-rural, not-quite-suburban limbo.

  The parking lot fills up with pickup trucks and SUVs, and I go inside. The township hall is a large, undecorated room with a low suspended ceiling and fluorescent lights. There is an American flag in the corner. About fifty metal folding chairs are set up in rows on the carpeted floor. Most are occupied. The three supervisors, who are the township’s elected government, sit at a long table at the front of the room. The chairman, Howard Benner, tall, in his seventies, has long worked for the school district; Clair Burkhart, a ruddy-faced man, owns a local excavating business; and Fred Muller, bearded, in shirtsleeves, runs a small organic farm next to Mindy Acres. Charlotte Wrigley, an elderly lady with white hair, sits at one end of the table with a notebook, while Bob Harsch, the township engineer, is at the other end. He is the only man in the room wearing a tie.

  Tom Comitta bustles in with an armful of papers. Township meetings are his bread and butter. “I have sixty years experience,” he jokes, “thirty years in the day and thirty years in the evening.” He is followed a few minutes later by the Duckworths and Dave Della Porta. Jason is carrying a large leather portfolio, from which he removes several presentation boards that he pins up on the wall. The large plans, colored to highlight the trees and landscaping, are titled “New Daleville.” “It was time to name the project,” he says.* 1 “We wanted Daleville in the name, but the township didn’t want us to use Daleville alone, so we brainstormed different combinations. We considered Daleville Center, Daleville Farms, and Daleville Village. My dad suggested New Daleville, and it stuck.” The room is full, which for Jason is not necessarily a good sign. “But compared to some other projects Arcadia has done, this one has gone pretty smoothly,” he tells me. “We think the vote is going to go our way. But I still have this feeling in my stomach that something could go wrong.”

  Punctually at seven, Benner calls the meeting to order. He announces that the Chester County planning commission is meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss the proposed neotraditional ordinance and has asked for a postponement of the supervisors’ vote until next month. The news that there will not be a vote produces a dissatisfied grumble from the room. The law requires advance notice of zoning hearings, and people have made a special effort to come and have their opinions heard. Benner apologizes for the last-minute change and says that there is no reason why a discussion can’t take place as scheduled. He asks Comitta, as the township consultant, to describe the new ordinance.

  Comitta launches into a spirited explanation of the philosophy of traditional neighborhood development. He talks about the need to rethink conventional planning and criticizes dependency on cars and the large lots of conventional residential developments. He casts the proposed ordinance as a high-minded alternative to sprawling development. Warming to his subject, he points out the window to Mindy Acres. “That’s the sort of thing that we’re trying to avoid.”

  During Comitta’s presentation, a bearded man and his wife who are sitting directly in front of me have been angrily whispering to each other. When Comitta finishes, the man stands up to ask a question. It appears that he and his wife are residents of Mindy Acres. “Do you mean to say that we’ve been doing it all wrong?” he asks incredulously. “All this time? Really?” Then he adds more belligerently, “I want to drive to work. That’s why we moved here. To get away from the traffic and congestion.” There are murmurs of agreement in the room. The audience is a mixture of people, not farmers but rather working people living in a farming area. Many appear to be “new suburbanites” who live in the immediate surroundings. Obviously, they don’t see having more neighbors as a plus. Comitta’s call for denser development has not gone over well.

  “I moved here about ten years ago,” says a mild-mannered man, “and when the house I live in was built, there was probably a meeting like this to complain about it.” When the laughter dies down, he continues. “I’m not against development, but I am concerned about the extra traffic. How will this affect our standard of living? Are we going to be paying for road repairs and improvements afterwards?” There are a number of other questions along the same line. If families with children move into the area, will school taxes go up? What about the c
ost of policing? Couldn’t the township make the developers pay extra to defray such costs, someone asks.

  These questions touch on one of the conundrums faced by all communities in the path of development. The township is legally obliged to accept new residential subdivisions, but the extra property taxes generated by the new residents will not be sufficient to pay for the costs of the additional fire protection, policing, road maintenance, and garbage collection. More families also mean bigger schools. Townships that are next to major highways can hope to attract office buildings or shopping centers, which pay higher commercial property taxes and don’t increase school enrollment or generate traffic on local roads. But there aren’t any major highways going through Londonderry. That means that, in the long run, property and school taxes will probably go up.

  Benner, unflappable, deftly steers the discussion from one topic to another without actually responding to the questions. He asks if someone from Arcadia would like to speak. “It makes sense to have my dad lead the conversation,” Jason says later. “He has the most experience and the most stature.” Joe Duckworth, with his longish hair — no beard this month — and casual clothes doesn’t look like most people’s idea of a developer. He describes New Daleville as a walkable community with lots of open space. Unlike Comitta, he steers clear of polemics. New Daleville is an alternative, he says, a different sort of housing. “It may not be for everybody,” he adds. He politely reminds the audience that it was their neighbor who decided to sell his farm. Arcadia got involved because the township was unhappy with business as usual. He makes himself sound like a guest in their home. He also calmly but forcefully makes the point that the Wrigley tract will be developed, one way or another. The question is how.

  Duckworth explains the master plan. He describes it as a compact village, with sidewalks and public greens. There will be walking trails and play lots. The garages will be behind the houses, he says, reached by rear lanes. He makes the point that half of the site will be left unbuilt. He also talks about the sewage treatment system, which will infiltrate treated wastewater into the ground. “Where will this take place?” asks a man sitting near the watercooler. Duckworth points to an area of open space. This raises a clamor, since it sounds as if the unbuilt area he had mentioned earlier is really a septic field. Duckworth explains that the sewage treatment area is not included in the open space calculation, but the misunderstanding leaves the impression that he has been caught cheating.