page_56 < previous page page_56 next page > Page 56 part of a 'world-class landscape,'" one she felt would have no problem qualifying. 1 But township supervisor Robert Anderson doubted that the area's historic worth could be documented since "most of the buildings on the farms have been butchered so bad." He wondered whether they would be found worthy.2 Although it was symbolic more than anything else, it was hoped that the designation would set at least a moral fence around Mill Creek Valley. But even if historic designation came to pass, with sewer lines for Garden Spot Village effected, Nevin Kraybill said he still believed growth in the region was inevitable. "Let's face it, the area south of New Holland is a population center, and it will be developed. It's just a matter of time," he said.3 Second, there was much activity concerning a replacement for the supervisor slot left empty by Lee Lowry's retirement at the end of 1993. The Earl Township Farmland group prepared to run one of its own in the upcoming November election. And last, on grounds that the June 1993 vote by the supervisors favoring circuitous sewer lines amounted to an amendment to Earl Township's Act 537 Sewage Plan and Comprehensive Planan amendment that, under state 'sunshine' laws would require prior notification and public hearingsveterinarian Keith Olin filed an appeal of the decision with his lawyer, friend, and fellow Mill Creek Valley resident, Christian Eaby. The indirect results of their filing the appeal would put Keith Olin at the center of one of the ugliest episodes in the story of Garden Spot Village. At 9:30 A.M., June 20, 1995, in Keith and Robin Olin's veterinary offices on Main Street, New Hollandan old house now converted to an office and waiting room, with knotty pine floors, a patient Hamilton wall clock, and an old pewter chandelier electrically rewired to hold flame-shaped light bulbsthe light coming through gray-paned French windows is soft. People don't sit in these offices comforting overbred lap dogs. Instead, shelves along the waiting room walls contain products like Micro-Vet Equine Vitamin/Mineral Supplements for horses and Ivomec: 1% injection, a "parasiticide for the treatment and control of internal and external parasites of cattle." At 9:40, fifty-four-year-old Keith Olin bursts into the offices administered by his wife, Robin, wearing a green one-piece industrial worker's uniform and knee-high rubber boots caked with manure. Olin charges in, glances at Ed Worteck and me, and says not hello but "Ready?" "Any calls?" he asks Robin, grabs a white plastic bottle full of pills, and we're off. By ten, Keith, Ed, and I are in Cains, eastern Lancaster County, Ed and I watching while Keith tends to one of Ivan Lapp's Holstein cows af- Â < previous page page_56 next page >