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Previous Articles Exposing Hollywood's anti-German agenda I'm not ashamed to be religious or a liberal 'Beat Me with a Stick' Elmo and other great toys Making a difference: why I do what I do Telemarketing ban has ended a great pastime I don't rule the world, and that's fine with me Making the journey from prejudice to understanding There's no comparing genocide and killing geese All that's left is an empty feeling An unrequited love for some really neat words Foster dads offer hands and hearts ... for the time being. Thanksgiving dinner and other forms of ritual madness. Zen and the art of not getting run over by a Mack truck A lifetime of regrets as another year goes down the tubes Reform Party Convention ends in shoot-out Virtual immortality isn't all it's cracked up to be Insider's look at the Republican National Convention turns up many surprises Car Repair for Dummies, Part One: This is a Car Sadness marks the passing of a beloved mattress At last, something worse than 'Jane Eyre' Every town has a story. Tombstone has a fixation. Forget the Trekkies, the real nutcases are on the Luce Chalk one up for the faceless restaurant customers Feeling sick? Maybe it's time to get a shave. Guest Writer: Toto, I don't think we're in Mayberry anymore Guest Writer: The need for speed Does this mean we won't get free popcorn anymore? Out of the way, Martha Stewart -- I'm in the kitchen now How I'm surviving my brush with 'Jane Eyre' First blizzard of the year evokes frivolous memories, no deep thoughts Isn't it time to jump on the bandwagon with the Real Thing? Forward this column and you can turn e-mail into $300! Trips to the moon, disaster figure in mildew prognostications True confessions (more or less) of a closet survivalist Who understands what dreams may come? Hey, everyone, look -- it's an elephant! Wouldn't 'Senator Learn' have a nice ring? To my little girl: while you're sleeping . . . Special Report: Entering the Baby Zone Battling the suburban white whale Wanted: Politician to tackle key issues Something else to worry about this fall Wanted: Dumber Mice and Better Mouse Traps One More Stop on the Road to Adulthood Follow the fashion leads of the journalist from Krypton This is why naming children by committee never caught on Psoriasis may be ugly, but at least it doesn't leave scars Another casualty of the ancient family curse Quest for baby names too big to handle How the seniors taught me to get down And don't forget your scarf when you go inside Guest Writer: No room for Paradise as vandals force Dew Drop Inn to close The samba of the mad Vulcan Maybe I could be directed by Spielberg The aliens in Rhode Island don't want you to read this Voice of nostalgia is a call to destruction My wife is having the baby, but I look pregnant The end of the world as we know it Run for the hills - Y2K’s a’comin’ fast What's in a name? Shakespeare had no idea Don't waste your energy on the 'gas out' Career choice leaves a lasting mark One Easter leftover, hold the ham please

Guest Writer: No room for Paradise as vandals force Dew Drop Inn to close By Stephen Learn The Dew Drop Inn in Mountaindale, Pa., is no longer in existence as of July 3, 1999, after six years of service. We began having serious vandalism problems after Rhonda and I moved to Indiana in January 1997. Since then, we have returned to the cabin four times, each time to find it broken into and violated despite heavy-duty door locks and a "No Trespassing" sign. The few items of small value which I kept inside (cast iron skillet and Dutch oven, silverware, plates, wind-up alarm clock, topographical maps, etc.) had been stolen and/or scattered randomly through the woods. The place had been turned into a regular pigsty littered with empty beer bottles, cans, cigarette butts and empty packs, melted candle wax, and other assorted party supplies. The place had been desecrated with spray-painted slogans and unwanted autographs on the walls. The wooden storage cabinets on the walls (both upstairs and down) had been removed and probably used as firewood. (God forbid the kids split their own wood after my own cord or so of split logs had been used.) Each time we visited the cabin, Rhonda and I would spend hours cleaning up the garbage and repairing damage, and making the door even harder to get into. Each time I saw the place like this, my heart was broken and my happy place on Earth lost more of its unique charm. We tried hard to keep it going. In a world of stress and problems, the Dew Drop Inn and the farm on which it was located was always a safe haven to retreat to for a few days. Some of the best conversations I have ever had were around the fire pit. Memories of times spent there with friends, family, Rhonda, and just myself will warm my heart for the rest of my life. The Dew Drop was my pride and joy. I can't even begin to figure the number of hours that were spent on the construction- each board cut by hand (remember no electricity), each addition that was added over time, the addition of the front deck, and all the compliments received from visitors and friends. All of the wood used to build the cabin was second hand. Lumber came from all sorts of sources over a three-year period. My childhood playhouse was the beginning, followed by the roof of an old pizza shop, a collapsed corn crib, Kath Berger's chicken coop, window and door shipment pallets, my parents' old picnic table, and others. The cabin was a masterpiece of hard work, determination, and plenty of sweat. It was loved and raved about by all who were lucky enough to visit. It had two floors: the bottom 8 by 12, and the upstairs 4 by 8, which were connected via a ladder and trap door entrance into the top. It had a 4-by-8 front deck with a short unsplit log as a step up. There was a tip-out window in the front and a wood/coal burner surrounded by a full-height brick hearth to retain heat in the winter. The cabin was insulated with fiberglass insulation and sheets of Styrofoam. Several times in single-digit outdoor temperatures it would get so hot inside that my friends and I had to play poker in our undies! Two nails in the downstairs ceiling rafters were to hang our Coleman lanterns which provided great lighting. In the winter, we'd do the cooking on top of the wood-burner instead of outside on the fire. One of the last additions was a rustic outhouse with a chest-deep pit dug one fine, scorching-hot August afternoon by my friend Andy and me. It was 8 by 8, and high enough inside for me to comfortably stand. (I'm 6-foot-2.) The toilet seat was at the perfect height and was attached to a 4-foot-long bench, perfect for storing copies of "Reader's Digest" and the latest Cabela's catalog. When you sat on the seat, you looked out over the faded-red rough-cut lumber saloon style door over a few feet of grass and to a thick screen of trees. The outhouse was topped with a rusty steel-sheet covered roof, very charming in the rain when you could hear the ping-ping of raindrops. The Dew Drop Inn was a beautiful place to camp, hunt, or just hang out. After our last trip to the farm over Memorial Day weekend last summer, Rhonda and I talked about the vandalism problems. Remember, we drove straight there from our home in the eastern Chicago suburbs, about a 500-mile-or-so trip, only to be confronted with a full day's clean up work. We had tried everything, even leaving notes to the kids explaining what a special place this was to us and that our property needed to be respected, all to no avail. Out of respect to our fellow property owners and ancestors this sort of thing could not be tolerated and would have to be stopped. Regardless of our own feelings for the cabin (which were becoming tarnished each time we found it trashed), the place would have to be torn down if things didn't stop on their own. I now know how Grandma Learn felt when she made the same decision about her parents' house 30 years ago. This Independence Day weekend we took Caleb to the farm for the first time, after a week-long camping trip at Linn Run state park near Ligonier with Rhonda's family. I had been telling my boy for over six months how beautiful the place was, describing the property and the cabin to him in detail. He was psyched! We arrived to find the place in worse than ever condition and the outhouse smashed and toppled over. It was heart-wrenching. We surveyed the place with disgust and just knew that the time had come. I cried. We were unprepared for such a huge undertaking, hoping for the three of us to spend a relaxing weekend alone. It was to also be a time for Caleb to learn of his heritage that is in the area. We made a drive to Coalport and bought a sledgehammer, a shovel, and a crowbar at the hardware store. It was tempting to throw a match and some gasoline on the sucker, but the woods were extremely dry due to the drought. We dismantled it and burned 90 percent of the wood in a huge fire on the fire pit. It was a lovely way to spend two 90-plus-degree days. The fire was so hot that to get within 10 feet of it to catch fallen hot coals and half-burnt boards or put out burning grass caused excruciating pain. A stump about five feet from the edge of the fire spontaneously combusted and had to be put out. Sap boiled out of a 2-by-8 on the front porch. (Caleb asked what the watery blotches on the board were. I told him the cabin was crying.) The three of us were exhausted and covered with sweat, scratches, cuts, and soot when it was over. The unburned 10 percent of the boards were neatly stacked in the brush. It will be good to have for future campfires. All that is left where the cabin stood is a rectangular section of dead grass and leaves. There is a neat stack of bricks at the base of the large oak that was next to the cabin. Along with it is the rusted out and nonserviceable wood-burner, the chimney pipe, and a stack of concrete building-blocks. I will haul these items out sometime in the future when I have the truck there again. The four-foot fire ring is now surrounded by a 10-foot diameter scorch mark of ashes and burnt grass. We shoveled all of the ashes back into the pit. Nature will beautify all the rest by autumn. Caleb and I are going to go back to the farm in August for a long weekend. We are planning to pitch our tent on top of the hill where we will enjoy the spectacular view of the surrounding ridges and valleys. It will also be a time for him to learn more about his Bowman ancestors. We want to spend a day at Prince Gallitzin park and rent a motorboat. We will hike until we drop. The cabin is gone, but our beautiful land is as great as ever. Stephen Learn lives in Cedar Lake, Ind., with his wife, Rhonda, and their son Caleb.