Daniel Rubin: Story of rebirth in Elkins Park

The old Ashbourne Market was not for the faint of heart.

You could lose a limb to the ladies in track suits who'd pilot their carts through the sprawling, cramped Elkins Park specialty shop with the daring of demolition derby drivers.

But if you happened to be pushing a stroller of twin boys, those same ice queens would melt before you. Grizzled deli men would bear gifts of corned beef as they leapt from behind their counter to prepare the aisles for your passage.

Ashbourne was our place. Fussy. Particular. And, in its own way, welcoming. It's where a community came together to debate the big issues, feast on small talk. It was our town square.

We left town in 2000 for Berlin, Germany, and when we returned three years later, Ashbourne had vanished. Its owners had sold out, and the new guys hadn't been able to make a go of it.

A succession of down-market replacements followed - none more depressing than the store that sold books with no covers.

With the Ashbourne anchor gone, a wealth of viable businesses started drifting away - a pharmacy, a clothing store, an arts and crafts store, a jewelry store, an ice cream parlor. All closed, taking public life with them.

Our town lost its center.

But this piece is about hope. And second chances.

One year ago, the people behind Weavers Way, the community-owned market in Mount Airy, called a meeting at the Elkins Park Library. They wanted to know if our community was interested in starting a new co-op.

Organizers set out 35 chairs. More than 200 people showed, so many that the librarians had to turn away stragglers.

Last month this new co-op, to be called Creekside, held its most recent meeting. A couple hundred people showed, famished for fair-trade teas, hormone-free chickens and a sense of place.

I wandered around the cars parked on the grass outside the meeting place, observing the heavily stickered bumpers - declarations for midwifery and eating locally. At the door, brochures and tiny boxes of California raisins were pressed into my hand.

"Something good to eat," the presser informed me.

I looked again expecting to find a room filled with characters from one of those Koren cartoons in the New Yorker - furry freaks with kind eyes and generous beaks.

Instead what I saw were all my neighbors. Guys from the dog park. The lady on the corner. The mothers of my kids' friends. They'd come out of the woodwork.

Those who ran the meeting held onto the best part of their announcement to tempt us. The co-op would rise from the ashes of the Ashbourne Market.

One of the organizers observed how she'd chosen our neighborhood for its diversity, but since our people went to so many different schools and religious institutions, there was no place that held everyone together. Creekside, she said, could be such a place.

The organizers explained how co-ops run on their members' energy, money and taste buds. As visions of Esposito's T-bones danced in my mind, we were warned of the risks.

We'd need numbers - to get the building, we must raise $150,000 by the end of January. The board has asked for $50 per year per family over eight years as seed money, but $400 all at once would be better.

Still, people kept leaping from their seats and stepping to the front, checks in hand.

By evening's end, the new co-op had raised $26,000 from 83 members. Creekside's got $56,000 now, and nearly half the 275 families have dug into their pockets for the full $400. We're that hungry.

It will take a community to pull this off. But in this time of downsizing and decline, how rare to have a chance at rebirth.

For more information. see the Creekside Web site http://creekside.coop