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Eberts Lane You can spend your whole life in and around York, and never notice Eberts Lane. Never think you have reason to notice this street that originates on East Market Street between Albemarle and Lehman and ends in the hills of Pleasureville?But Eberts Lane will surprise you. Though the lane runs less than two miles, it's a jumble of contrasts. On Eberts Lane, you find well-tended houses. Most were built in the housing boom following World War II and you find a junkyard and an asphalt plant.You can order parts in a machine shop, buy orchids in a greenhouse, and if you're a member, have lunch, eat dinner or listen to the bands play at VFW Post #556. Certainly Eberts Lane endures much. Route 30 cuts it in two. Route 83 crosses under it. Railroad tracks cross over it.Even more serious, it falls under the jurisdictions of three governing bodies Spring Garden and Springettsbury townships and York City.In the city, most of Eberts Lane runs one-way.But you may not know how rur...
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Man’s Best Friend Puts Young Patients at Ease Penn State Health Milton S. Hershey Medical Center By Marianne Clay Four-year-old “Jake” wails as he crumples into a corner. Ten feet away looms a large, box-like machine, a CT scanner. For the last half hour, Jake’s parents, a Child Life specialist and a CT technician at P enn State Children’s Hospital,  have been trying to both comfort and convince Jake to lie down on the scanner’s table at the machine’s center. “Look,” they say softly, “the table goes in and out of the tunnel like a train.” Their coaxing is not soothing Jake. Will Jake, like other young children, require anesthesia before they can perform this test? “Kaia,” a pediatric radiologist suggests. “Let’s try Kaia.” Kaia’s secondary handler and Child Life specialist for pediatric radiology, Alicia Cesare, quickly calls for Kaia. A few minutes later, a 50-pound golden retriever enters the room, her tail gently wagging. Ashley Kane,  Child Life Program ...
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A Dog Remembered Like a lot of good things, Chuckles came into my life by chance. Fifteen and a half years ago, I was standing at the top of of a 10-foot ladder hoping to patch a crack in a 14-foot ceiling. Outside, a dozen car horns blared. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of a dog cowering in the middle of the busy intersection, so I clambered down the ladder, the three flights of stairs, and out the door. There, tying up traffic, was a half-grown dog, so thin every rib was outlined. His brown and white fur grew in sparse patches. Mostly, I saw a skinny bit of pink flesh that barked. When I scooped him off the pavement, he trembled. Of course, I told myself, I'll take him to the S.P.C.A. But first he needs to eat, to rest, and to stop trembling. He also needed to grow some hair. Later, I'd bring him to the animal shelter. Chuckles, whom I named for his particular combination of silliness and soulfulness, knew better. He stayed for the rest of his long doggie lif...
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