“I CAME from a single-celled organism,” declares Bill Marshall, proudly raising his beer glass. It is not the sort of statement I expected to hear in the heart of what locals call “Penntucky”, a stretch of rural Pennsylvania between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, nicknamed for what many see as its similarity to the Deep South.
I am in the Racehorse Tavern, the closest bar to the “dry” town of Dover, which nestles among the corn, soy and tobacco fields, and Amish settlements. With its 1900 inhabitants, Dover does not normally attract many visitors. But last month it was catapulted to global…
