Some people go to Kennywood to ride the rides, to scream, and laugh, and feel the wind on their face. Some people go to Kennywood for the thrills, the adrenaline rush. I go there looking for tragedy, like this. Whenever some Kennywood roller coaster chugs "ching-ching-ching" up a slow ascent in preparation for a long, screaming drop, my rule is always to look for the grimy old town of Braddock, just across the river--sight of Pittsburgh's last steel mill and its namesake's great humiliation of 1755. I'm looking forward to reading David Preston's new book, Braddock's Defeat. He apparently paints the autocratic commander in a much more forgiving light than all historians before him.
Kennywood was a mindless escape after the lofty conceits of the Chautauqua Institution, the gated community where wealthy white liberals gather in retro "cottages" and lecture halls to congratulate themselves on knowing what's best for poor people.
Kennywood was a mindless escape after the lofty conceits of the Chautauqua Institution, the gated community where wealthy white liberals gather in retro "cottages" and lecture halls to congratulate themselves on knowing what's best for poor people.
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