Hooterville Falls?

 I'm, like, not bein' judgy, I'm just sayin'. A (2) Random Randomnesses column.

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

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“Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy?”. Franklin responded, “A republic, if you can keep it”.  -Elizabeth Powell/Ben Franklin 

Dear Gentlereaders,

Are you familiar with the fictional town called Pottersville, formerly known as Bedford Falls?

Without getting out of bed I can fire up one or more of several competing sports betting apps and gamble away my fortune...alright, my limited resources, but still.

Or, I can roll out of bed, get dressed, head outside, and walk about 100 yards due north from my front door to a convenience store and choose to buy beer, wine, or "hard" iced tea, lemonade, etceterade from a relatively small but fairly representative selection of alcoholic beverages.

On the checkout counter there's a display of colorful cardboard tickets, scratchcards, with easily removable coatings for sale ranging in price from one to twenty dollars each. By removing the coatings, by "scratching" the cards, you can participate in instant gratification gambling games run by the State of Ohio, which by law, has an exclusive monopoly on this sort of thing.

Behind the counter, multiple brands of various and sundry nicotine delivery systems are on display that come with government-mandated warning labels, nicotine being a highly addictive substance that kills a lot of people in the long run. Both nicotine delivery systems and alcoholic beverages are sin taxed by both the State of Ohio and The Fed'rl Gummit. Both products also come with a sales tax mandated by Ohio and the City of Hooterville.  

If I wanted to access a much larger selection of alcohol, scratchcards, and nicotine delivery systems I could continue to walk or drive north over a small bridge into downtown Hooterville and pay a visit to my local Giant Eagle supermarket.

There's an entire aisle devoted to wine, a beer department, and a store within a store, a "State Store," where liquor is for sale by the State of Ohio which benefits from a monopoly on same as well as the requisite sin and sales taxes.

I can also bet money on the daily number, daily numbers actually, as I can bet on 3, 4, or 5 numbers twice a day, seven days a week. 

{Even on Sundays?}

Well sure, why not? We go to great lengths to separate church and state in this country, Dana, even in solidly Team Red states like Ohio. Besides, I'll wager that any given day of the week is somebody's sabbath day in our 24x7x365 culture.

There are daily, weekly, and national progressive jackpot games available as well. Don't forget, ya gotta play to win! 

Ohio has four real casinos, i.e. ones that include table games and scantily clad cocktail waitresses, as well as seven "Racinos" that are pretend casinos attached to race tracks where there are no "free" drinks available from very modestly dressed cocktail waitresses. 

There's a racino a 10-minute drive due south from my driveway. 

Racinos all come with Ohio lottery terminals disguised as slot machines (no table games allowed) where you can pretend to be playing real slot machines. You've probably heard the house always wins? In this case, the house is the State of Ohio.

All winnings on all of the above-mentioned games are subject to local (yeah, I said local), state, and federal income taxes. 

Heavily taxed and regulated weed is also available for sale in Ohio; there's a "dispensary" about a 15-minute drive from my house and others are coming online. I'm told that street weed is cheaper, but I don't know if this is true as I'm so old and boring that I don't purchase either alcohol or weed nowadays.

Many convenience stores sell legal "delta"-8, 9, or 10 forms of weed, that I don't much about, that will allegedly get you high but our five-foot-tall governor and the Ohio Legislature have sworn they're gonna put a stop to that soon.

Certain synthetic recreational pharmaceuticals, for the more adventurous among us who like to roll the dice and ingest substances concocted by who knows who and who knows where, are illegal, but may be purchased "under the counter" if one knows where to shop. 

Others are perfectly legal, till they're not. See, there's an entire industry devoted to inventing new products by tweaking a molecule here or there and creating a substance that must be evaluated by the powers that be before being added to the official list of prohibited substances. 

Ain't technology great? 

Unlike in Pottersville, there are no venues in Hooterville with marques advertising Girls! Girls! Girls! However, there are all sorts of places in Ohio where one can view women (and I assume men) partially or fully nude. I understand they're heavily regulated and there are different rules depending on whether or not a given performer's genitals are on display.  

I've never been to one although I confess to having visited bars featuring "topless" dancers while briefly living in Texas in the course of my misspent youth, which was, unfortunately, a very long time ago. I'm so old and boring that if I walked into a joint featuring totally naked female dancers I'd be too embarrassed to stick around.

I'm so straight that if I walked into a joint featuring even partially naked male dancers I'd vacate the premises ASAP.     

{So, is there a point to all this verbiage?}

Nope, I'm just sayin'. I'm just puttin' it out there for the consideration of my gentlereaders. I'm not bein' judgy. 

I recently accidentally discovered that Patrick Cadell is dead, but Sidney Blumenthal is still very much alive, and I, you're semi-humble correspondent, have willingly begun interacting with AI technology for the first time. 

I thought that Mr. Cadell was the one officially credited/blamed for the Permanent Campaign concept which I've written about at some point in the murky past. But according to Wikipedia, Mr. Blumenthal is. I went a'-googlin' and discovered that both men are credited/blamed to one degree or another by all sorts of people as you might expect given the nature of the WWCK (the Worldwide Web of Contradictory Knowledge), which is how I came to consult Perplexity.  

{Wait-wait-wait. I've perused the preceding paragraphs twice and still have no idea what...} 

Puh-leeze! It's my schtick as you well know, or should by now. And now that you're intrigued, I shall proceed and all will be revealed. It's but one of the reasons my millions of gentlereaders love me. 

As anyone who has ever gone a-googlin' is aware, the Goog's search results seem to have a tendency to favor advertisers and often seem to reflect the progressive political positions of Google's bosses and minions. They're also full of contradictory and/or out-of-date responses. 

I've always wondered why there was no mechanism in place to at least delete out-of-date material. Google's hard at work on updating their cash cow but Perplexity is...well, I asked Perplexity, "What is Perplexity?" and it replied that "Perplexity is an AI-powered (my emphasis) search engine that combines advanced language models with real-time web searching capabilities to provide comprehensive and accurate answers to user queries."

{Cool, thanks for clearing that up.}

Long story short, there's a free version without ads (for now at least) that works waaay better than Google. I'm not going into detail as to why I think that's true, just merely recommend that my online gentlereaders check it out. Perplexity succinctly explained why two different people are credited with the permanent campaign concept without choosing a side, provided the sources it used, and didn't throw a million contradictory links at me. 

I'm impressed, and this old crank is not easily impressed. 

Apropos of not very much but for the record, I communicate with it by typing in my queries on a keyboard connected to a computer as I much prefer to use my phone, as a phone. I realize that "resistance is futile" and privacy is dead, and far be it from me to object to my fellow H. sapiens' apparent eagerness to become cyborgs, but talking to machines creeps me out for reasons that many of my fellow geezers/geezerettes (and some younger weirdos) will understand. 

I'm sure you've seen news stories about people developing relationships with an artificial intelligence of some sort. I don't want to have a "relationship" with a computer program, I don't even want to be just good friends with one. 

In the meantime, back to Messrs Cadell and Blumenthal. 

I blame both of these guys for the fact that whoever the current POTUS happens to be, as well as most members of both houses of Congress, campaigning never ends. 

Perhaps you've noticed? Professional pols...

[Professional Pols: career politicians, often with minimal real-world work experience due to the fact they consciously chose to be career politicians.] 

Professional pols...

(Particularly at the federal level since term limits are an unachievable dream given that for some mysterious reason there's an excellent chance of getting "lucky" playing the stock market or via assorted investment opportunities while selflessly serving the Citizens of the Republic.)

Professional pols who have embraced the Permanent Campaign strategery govern with one eye always on the polls. The way they go about governing isn't primarily motivated by what's best for the country, it's done while always keeping track of which way the political winds are blowing to ensure reelection... or that a cushy job will be waiting if reelection fails.

From Wikipedia: "Strategies of this nature have been in active development and use since Lyndon Johnson, where priority is given to short-term tactical gain over long-term vision. The frenzied, headline-grabbing atmosphere of presidential campaigns is carried over into the office itself, thus creating a permanent campaign that limits the ability of policies to deviate from the perceived will of the people (hence, intensive polling."

The Founding Pasty Patriarchs, many of whom were intimately familiar with those dusty tomes written by ancient Pasty Patriarchs that contained their thoughts on politics and history gave us a democratic republic, not a democracy (if we can keep it) to avoid certain problems. Your semi-humble correspondent has previously summed up these problems by pointing out that if 51% of the citizenry voted to murder the other 49% there might be downsides.    

But as my late wife used to say, there's always a bright side. If the people we send to the Swamp are preoccupied with divining the "perceived will" of the people why don't we just get rid of them all (think of the money and time we'd save!) and use our smartphones to vote for a national CEO to run things who we can vote out of a job whenever we don't like the results and get a new one? 

We could enjoy all the benefits of having a temporary king/tyrant/dick-tater. What could go wrong? Just Sayin'. 

 Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth, Part 7b

Still Eighth Grade

Except for 7a, previous parts are not required to enjoy this part...

(But, here are parts 1, 2. 3. 4. 5. and 6.)

Not breakfast at my house, then or now. Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

 

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"Hearing nuns' confessions is like being stoned to death with popcorn."                                                                                -Fulton J. Sheen  

Dear Gentlereaders,

Our last installment of Me, the Early Years ended with your's truly, a child of inner-city working-class parents, having been randomly/accidentally placed in the "smart" eighth grade of St. Ursula's Catholic grade school and I was about to make first contact with the spawn of suburban middle-middle and upper-middle class parents.  

With the help of a kid/guy (we didn't have dudes back then) named Ed, who served as my first guide in this strange new world, I was able to get my feet under me in relatively short order. Ed was sitting in the front row of the classroom I was ushered into and there was an empty desk next to him.

I was told to sit there by Sister _______ and he, who was obviously very cool as indicated by his red velour pullover top with leather laces where I was expecting a tie to be, not to mention his grey corduroy pants (cords were very "in" that year), took it upon himself to provide an orientation via muted conversations between the various and sundry activities needed to get a new school year rolling.

The answer to one of my first questions was yes, the neckties I hated wearing were technically required. Big BUT, if one didn't get carried away, and depending on the nun/teacher, and if you were in at least sixth grade (seventh was safer), and if our aforementioned universally feared principal, Sister Gabriel, didn't decide you were a barbarian who hadn't yet been entirely civilized and took it upon herself to do so — you could gently press against that particular rule.

I don't know about nowadays, but back then attempting to successfully navigate the many Rules&Regs of the Catholic education system to secure what limited freedom of action/behavior was possible while avoiding getting in trouble — or possibly being sentenced to a stretch in purgatory upon your demise — was as complicated as what I'm led to believe goes on behind the scenes at the Vatican.

For example, to try and detail the series of maneuvers I had to carefully and subtly execute to get out of that spot in the front of the classroom, where I had absolutely no desire to be, would take up an entire column.

Being in the "smart" eighth grade came with certain subtle, unspoken privileges. We were treated a bit more like high schoolers than the other eighth-grade class. We also studied Algebra 1 (taught by Sister...Anthony?), traditionally a ninth-grade subject, at least back then.

{Another teacher whose name you can't remember? Did you fall off your bike that year?}

Not that I remember, but you may be on to something. Anyone wearing a helmet to ride a bike back then would've been considered a sissy and subject to much in the way of verbal abuse.

Not being mathematically inclined, and not being particularly interested in the subject (traits that continue to this very day), I made it through by the skin of my teeth. I spent a lot of time on the phone with a friend named...Roger? doing Algebra homework together; he served as my tutor. The following school year, ninth grade in a public high school, I had Algebra 1 all over again and it was a piece of caramel apple pie thanks to Roger.

Speaking of sissies, I'll wager the boys in the normal eighth grade thought the boys in my eighth grade were a bunch of sissies but I've no memory of any verbal abuse along those lines. It really was a remarkable school year from my perspective. You might think it would've motivated me to study hard in high school, but it didn't. It was this particular group of kids, none of whom I maintained contact with once they continued on with parochial education and I switched to a public school.

The "smart" eighth grade consisted of the kids who were either smarter by nature and/or willing to work hard to get good grades. This was not a thing at my previous school. Smart kids, average kids, and certifiable brutes all shared the same classroom and the same teacher, usually a nun. Present-day Wokies would no doubt applaud the exact same curriculum for all.

This might sound like a recipe for disaster, and nowadays apparently is, but back then all the nuns and lay teachers I was aware of ran a tight ship, and (in most cases at least) the parents were on board. It wasn't till ninth grade, when I found myself in a public high school, that I experienced weak and vacillating teachers who could barely maintain control of their classrooms.

But the empire still struck back.

For example, I didn't personally witness it but Miss H. (she definitely wasn't a Ms.), who taught ninth grade (Pennsylvania) history, and may have been the most boring teacher I've ever known, fled her classroom in tears one day and didn't return for a week. This resulted in several boys being paddled by the onsite enforcer, the assistant principal.

{Paddled!}

Yes, high school boys were still being paddled in the late sixties/early seventies, at least in my world. Fortunately, no one was killed. My Health class (boys only) in high school was taught by Mr. F. who was the football coach and a gym teacher. Pissing him off in class would result in being forced to do enough push-ups to make sure you never did it again.

For the record, I don't think girls got paddled though...

{You're getting ahead of yourself again, Sparky, eighth grade, remember?}

Right. How do I explain this? From my perspective at the time, the important difference between the two eighth grades was primarily cultural? A matter of temperament? Maturity? Yes, all of the above, and more. This was the one year out of my twelve years of formal mandatory education I worked my bum off, just so I could stay.

A few hours later I found myself standing in that field between the school and my house mentioned in our last episode and talking to some of my new classmates, both male and female. I had been successively (not successfully) madly in love with three of these young women by the following June, but being a confirmed bachelor, I played my cards close to the vest and never revealed my feelings to any of them.

I was welcomed with open arms even though I'm sure that at least the girls could tell my clothes were of Spiegel Catalog quality. This continued even after they knew I lived in that very modest house that could be seen from where we were standing.

(Ironically, by the end of the 1970s, Spiegel transformed from low-end clothing that could be bought with high-priced credit to high-end, high-priced women's fashions because Kmart ate their lunch.)

Male members of the other eighth grade, being more normal than me and the rest of the 13-year-old boys in my eighth grade, were running around being normal young men who much preferred being outside than inside a classroom, bouncing off each other and burning off excess energy, dealing with what nowadays would be called their toxic masculinity.

There was at least one of them who probably stayed inside (we never discussed it) but I didn't get to know him till we were forced to bond together to survive public high school and who lived only a few blocks from me, although I didn't know it at the time. In the unlikely event there's a high school version of this series of columns — Mark and Glenn Visit Hell (The high school years) — you'll meet him.

I know for a fact that nobody, male or female, was hiding in the woods behind the school smoking cigarettes, or other things. St. Ursula's was larger than St. John's but still small enough that everyone was up on everyone else's business.

I have no memory of what the young women from the other eighth-grade class got up to; In fact, I don't remember if there were girls in that class, and I was acutely aware of members of the opposite sex of all ages at the time, but I imagine there must have been...

{Ain'tcha glad you're not like that anymore?}

The pot no longer boils but has never stopped simmering.

Strangely, I also don't remember there being much in the way of conflict between the two versions of eighth-grade boys, although there was some. We were carefully supervised and if you've got to catch a bus to get home you can't agree to fight after school if you have no other way to get there.

I can't remember if we went outside during recess, I don't think so, and there was no playground equipment. But at lunchtime, we could hang out in the cafeteria, return to the classroom to read or study, or go outside (weather permitting).

{What's with the read?}

Well, I had been into reading for several years at this point. My closest new friends from another planet also enjoyed reading. They also were news nerds, loved rock music (which was still at the beginning of its temporary glory days), and were enthusiastic, cis-gendered heterosexuals like myself constrained by societal and religious constraints that weren't giving up without a fight (a fight they would lose in short order).

I had found my people! Briefly.

On their own, they had organized an informal book club of sorts and for some reason, they were currently obsessed with Agatha Christie novels (whom I had never heard of at the time) and borrowed, traded, and discussed them enthusiastically. In short order, I was reading a loaned novel. No, I don't remember which one, it's been a long time since I was a fan of cozy mysteries.

{You were a simp!}

I was a shy, reserved, idealistic, semi-nerd who had one enjoyable school year who would go on to never really fit in anywhere although I've spent my entire life trying to do so via adopting this, that, or even that lifestyle or career and who shot himself in the foot, financially speaking, because I never thought twice about burning bridges in search of, it.

I'm now a cynical old fart subject to occasional flashes of light who knows what it is but can't tell you what it is effectively, I can only point at it with my feeble scribbles.

{Yikes! Talk about getting ahead of yourself! What happened to eighth grade?}

Good point, Dana. I should have saved those two sentences for a big finish. Well, let's wrap this baby up, I've already gone on too long.

As mentioned in the previous column, I think that Sister _______ was preparing us for attending a Catholic high school, and how to "take it up a notch." This is pure speculation on my part but in retrospect, it seems obvious. She not only taught us specific subjects, she also taught us a methodology for how to go about dealing with any subject, a study system if you will.

She followed up relentlessly and made sure we were all using her system. We weren't specifically graded for following the system but it was made abundantly clear we better be. It worked for me, I was never demoted to the other eighth grade.

I think I now know why I can't remember her name. She wasn't someone to be trifled with, but we took her for granted, we were obnoxious adolescent know-it-alls anxious to get on with what would no doubt be very exciting lives. She was just another nun... and a humble woman who happened to take her vocation seriously, a possible lifestyle choice we weren't even remotely aware of.

If my parents could have afforded the tuition, not to mention North Catholic High School was located on the Nor'side ah Pittsburgh, and getting there (no car, remember?) would've been a problem, I likely would've had a radically different life than the one I've had. Not necessarily better, but certainly different.

[Note: North Catholic lives on but is no longer in the city. It's now located in an expensive Northern Burb, is coed, and costs about 15k per school year.]

Also, being young and stupid, having had enough of ties, nuns, and priests, and being caught up in the whole late sixties thing (we Boomers were supposed to fix the world, not screw it up) I was looking forward to public high school — till I got there.

Sister _______ made a point of speaking individually to all her students on eighth-grade graduation day (there were only about 30, maybe 35 of us) for a few minutes, and having just assumed I was headed to North Catholic, was shocked to find out I wasn't.

She had tears in her eyes when she wished me the best, which shocked me, but the significance of her tears was lost on me at the time. God bless you, sister, wherever you are.

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth, Part 7a

Eighth Grade 

Previous parts are not required to enjoy this part, not even partially...
(But, here are parts 1, 2. 3. 4. 5. and 6.)                                                                                                                                                                                          `

Not breakfast at my house, then or now. Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

 

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"I went to Catholic school and they basically just said don't have sex, but would never explain anything."-Khloe Kardashian 

[TRIGGER WARNING: Ends a bit abruptly, author overdosed on L-Tryptophan, still passed out in an extremely comfortable recliner. Watch for Part 7b.]

Dear Gentlereaders,

Summer, 1966. I don't know who was first, who woke who, or what time it was.

It was late, everyone was asleep. It had been a very long, hot day and Dad, Mum, Marty, Mike, and your semi-humble correspondent were all sleeping the sleep of the just (or at least the sleep of the exhausted) in the midst of the chaos.

The chaos was the result of having just moved into our clearly too-small house in the Pittsburgh suburbs, the first and only one my parents (briefly) owned. Dad died in the summer of '69 and Mum sold the house in 1970 when we moved in with my big brother Ed in suburban, almost rural Philadelphia. We (mostly he actually) built an addition on the side of his house.

I spent my last year of high school in a new school and living in my sixth house.

I hated the school and the area but our house was nice...and so were the two apartments (homes #7 and #8) I lived in after moving out of the house and before moving back to the Pittsburgh area five years later and began my hippie with a job period. I lived in residences number 9 through 13 before moving briefly to Texas and living through the most intense period of my life so far (residences 14 through 17) before getting "stuck in Ohio" in 1985 (18 through 25) where I remain stuck to this day.

{Let the digressing begin! Geesh! No wonder you're so...}

For the record, I've been living in the same house, Casa de Chaos, for the last 17 years.

Anyway, we went to bed sweating and woke up freezing.

The suburbs didn't come with an instruction manual and we were unaware that due to the shortage of pavement and concrete that served as storage batteries for Summer heat back in the city the temperature in the Burbs often falls significantly at night.

In short order, blankets were secured, somehow Mum knew just where to find them, and everyone went back to bed.

On the first day of eighth grade, I walked the short distance from my house to the St. Ursula Catholic Grade School. There was only the house next door and a small empty field located between our front door and the front door of St. Ursula's.

This was a larger school than its predecessor, St. John the E., with school busses lined up out front (on the Sou'side ah Pittsburgh everyone walked to school) and a short, fat, double-chinned, pissed-off-looking nun who appeared to be in charge was barking orders at students as they stepped off the buses and entered the school. She didn't have a bullhorn but in my mind's eye, she does.

Unaware as to where I might find the eighth-grade classroom I unfortunately had to ask her as she was the only authority figure in sight. She looked at me like a prison warden evaluating a new prisoner but gave me directions that didn't include even a fake smile, much less a welcome of some sort.

Hoo-Boy. Meet Sister Gabriel, the anti-Sister Mary McGillicuddy.

At the end of the top (third) floor hall (St. John's only had one floor), there were two nuns with clipboards standing in front of two adjacent classroom doors. I approached them and asked where I might find the eighth-grade classroom and was asked my name.

They both scanned their clipboards and replied, "Hmm."

One or the other asked if somebody had registered me and I responded affirmatively. Mum was a reliable mom who always took care of business. The current me would've said something like, "Well I didn't just wander in here off the street," with a friendly smile added so as to not frighten/accidentally offend a Normie.

That me said, "Yes, sister."

I was quite nervous despite my cool, new paisley dress shirt and coordinating tie Mum had bought me from the Spiegel catalog and years away from figuring out how to hide my innate shyness behind a wry persona.

{Wry huh? I guess that's one word for it. What's "cool" about a paisley dress shirt?}

As I mentioned previously the "swingin' sixties" had started the year before and paisley prints... well, as mentioned in Wikipedia, "The 1960s proved to be a time of great revival for the paisley design in Western culture."

They huddled together to discuss the matter and one of them said, "Well, let's try him in your class first and if he doesn't work out we can always move him to mine." I found out what that meant later but I didn't have a clue at the time.

I was then ushered into Sister _______'s room and encountered a bunch of kids who had been born and raised on a different planet than the one I had, which I would also discover in short order.

{Sister _______? Was/is she in the witness protection program?}

I might as well get this out of the way up front, I cannot remember this woman's name to save my life. She didn't suffer from Crazy Nun syndrome and she didn't employ wooden ruler palm smacks or knuckle thumps to the chest or back of the head. She was a good, even-tempered teacher who was preparing us for the rigors of Catholic high school, although I didn't realize it at the time. More on that in part 7b.

I had been randomly/fortunately placed in the "smart" eighth grade, as was later explained to me by my classmates, who were unaware that it was just dumb luck on my part. They assumed I was a bit smarter and/or more of a grade grinder, like them, than the kids in the other eighth grade, where, due to my lack of scholarly efforts in first through seventh grade I should have been placed.

My fellow classmates that year (one of whom was the son of a Pepsi vice president) had been born and raised in a financially comfortable Pittsburgh suburb, suburbs (plural) actually, depending on how you define your terms. The "North Hills" area of the greater Pittsburgh metro area consists of a cluster of several different townships but when I lived there at least, it had a distinct identity of its own, including its own (now defunct) newspaper.

I had gone from a working-class inner-city neighborhood with working-class sensibilities to a middle/upper middle-class neighborhood with a veritable snap of God's fingers.

St. Ursula's served relatively prosperous Catholic families and kids (and mine) from all over the area (thus the school busses) as opposed to the multiple Catholic churches and schools that served the predominantly working-class families (like mine) of Pittsburgh's Sou'side, most of which are long gone. I refer to both Catholic churches/schools and to a lesser extent working-class families; there are prospering Millenials and Zoomers gentrifying former working-class neighborhoods all over the Burgh nowadays and rendering them too expensive for the working class to afford.

There are still Catholic schools in the Pittsburgh area of course (St. Ursula's by the way, is also gone) but they now charge tuition equivalent to what it cost to go to college "back in the day." Sales volume and product demand are apparently as important in determining the price of a spiritually based education as it is in determining a given products price in the secular sector.

{It's probably just transitory inflation.}

Probably, thank God (see what I did there) that's over and happy days are here again. Anyway, from my perspective at the time, I was now going to school with a bunch of rich kids, although I now know most of them were just the sons and daughters of members of America's (slowly evaporating) middle, middle class.

{Middle middle?}

America's been slowly devolving into two classes: those who have the resources to stay at least one step ahead of systemic inflation and those who live in fear of systemic inflation.

{The haves v. the have-nots?}

The haves v. the have somes and the have little to nones, we've discussed this before. Both of the latter groups live in fear of the other shoe dropping. But this has little to do with eighth grade, so...

{Since when would you let that stop you? But it doesn't matter anyway, the Donald's going to lead us into a new golden age. I saw it on TV so it must be true.}

[At this point a disembodied voice from off stage, with a thick Irish brogue, rings out, "From your lips to God's ears, Dana."]

So, what happened next, dear gentlereaders? A clash of classes? Dark drama? Hormone-fueled adolescent angst? Tune in next time to find out if...

{Oh please, gimme a break!}

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved

 

 

 

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth, Part Six

Seventh Grade 

Previous parts are not required to enjoy this part, not even partially...

But, here are parts 1, 2. 3. 4. and 5.                                                                                                                                                                                              `

Not breakfast at my house, then or now. Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

 

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"Most of us end up with no more than five or six people who remember us. Teachers have thousands of people who remember them for the rest of their lives." -Andy Rooney

                                                                                

Dear Gentlereaders,

In September of 1965 "Sister Mary McGillicuddy," who changed my life just by being herself, was my seventh-grade teacher.  

Long story short, Sister Mary Clifford, a.k.a. Eileen Soisson, is the nun I always think of whenever I write about/think about/am reminded of nuns, even a couple of nuns that suffered from CNS (crazy nun syndrome) to one degree or another and with whom I crossed paths thousands of years ago. 

She taught seventh grade, was the principal of St. John the Evangelist grade school, and ran a convent. The school and the convent were part of a small, cramped, inner-city compound that also included a church, a church hall, and a rectory. The buildings that housed the convent and the school are still there as best I can tell from Google Maps, but the rest is gone. She was the first nun I knew who seemed to live in the same world that I did.

Well, mostly. She also clearly had a spiritual side that was lost on me back then that I can appreciate retrospectively. I was a 12-year-old adolescent semi-toxic, straight white male preoccupied with girls, the mysteries of sex (not that I was able to connect the two subjects other than in my mind at the time), rock music, TV, movies, reading fiction...and current events.

Yes, Virginia, Poppa's always been a news nerd.   

{Hold up there, Sparky, I have a question. What about sports? Aren't all young men into sports?}

That's why I describe myself as semi-toxic, I've never been into sports... or hunting/fishing/etcetring for that matter. I've always been a weirdo who never felt/feels like I'm "one of the boys."

For the record, hunting in inner city Pittsburgh was, and still is, frowned upon. 

I once went fishing while attending day camp in Shenley Park. Picture inner city urchins in a large, beautiful, inner city park pretending to be interacting with nature. We gathered up sticks to make fishing poles, were given a piece of string and a safety pin to complete our rig, and marched to Panther Hollow "Lake" (a shallow, man made catch basin) allegedly containing fish. 

I didn't catch anything, but neither did anyone else for some reason. We didn't starve though. At lunch time every day we ate American cheese on white bread sandwiches.  

But it's not as if I only sat at home when I wasn't at school watching TV or reading books and the Pittsburgh Press/Post Gazette while listening to music...and hoping for one of those infrequent occasions when I was home alone and could sneak a guilty peek at one of my dad's handful of out of date Playboys in his secret stash. 

I liked swimming, skateboarding, bike riding, and wandering all over Pittsburgh, usually on foot or bike, exploring the terrain as well as no shortage of multiple cultural opportunities (shout out to the Carnegie Museums) easily and safely reachable that ranged in price from free to easily affordable...at least back then. Now not so much. I refer to both getting there on foot or on a bike as well as the price of admission.  

For the record, I liked swimming so much that I used to take all the Red Cross-approved swimming lessons (from beginner to advanced) every summer so that I could get extra pool time in before the tiny, crowded 22nd Street playground pool officially opened for the day. 

When it came to sports, and following or participating in same, most of my running buddies were at least mildly obsessed. I pretended to be to fit in. Peer pressure was strong and I'm embarrassed to admit I was a shy kid who didn't have the self-confidence to go my own way more often. I think part of the problem was the fact that when I was 12 my late marrying father was in his mid-fifties and behaved more like a hands-off grandfather than a dad at a time when I could've used some guidance and advice. 

In his defense I was, and remain, an introverted dude who lives in his head a lot of the time and who prefers to keep himself to himself most of the time. 

{What's all this got to do with seventh grade?}

You asked about sports, Dana. I (a world-class garrulous geezer) merely provided a thorough answer. That was me in seventh grade. May I proceed?

{Well! Far be it from me!}

Sister Mary Clifford, a Pittsburgh area native, according to her obituary "...was a faithful Steelers fan and had a great sense of humor.” I wish I had sought her out once my extended adolescence finally ended at about the age of 35 or so and had an adult-to-adult conversation with her even though I suspect it was unlikely she would've remembered me

Unfortunately, she's not the only person I was too clueless to appreciate in the past, took for granted in fact till I accidentally came across her obit a few years ago. Yet another folder in my Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda file.

Never having been what you might call a natural-born scholar, my favorite thing about school was an unexpected day off. I loved it when I'd stumble, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen on a cold winter morning, where Mun always had a pot of hot oatmeal waiting and KDKA 1020 AM playing on the radio, and was informed there was no school that day.

[The preceding paragraph is sponsored by Olde Frothingslosh, the pale stale ale with the foam on the bottom.]

{Say what?}

It's a Yinzer thing, you wouldn't understand.

In the seventh grade, my second favorite thing about school was unexpectedly getting out of school for a couple of hours to accompany Sister Mary when she borrowed one of the parish priest's cars to run errands that called for assistance from a schoolboy or three, usually grocery shopping for the convent.   

She clearly enjoyed driving. For the record, she always took three of us, and we always sat in the back seat. In retrospect, it occurs to me we never discussed why this was the case. She was a nun, a teacher, and a principal, following her instructions was simply what one did. It never occurred to us what the reason for that rule might be. Different world. 

Not only did we get out of school for a few hours, but we also got to experience an even more relaxed and kind version of the woman who taught us and ran our school. It was more like hanging out with your conservative but funny, and nice, aunt Eileen.

We would ask her questions about parish politics and gossip that weren't discussed in class. Her answers were always diplomatic and reflected the beliefs and practices of a true believer and practitioner. She would gently upbraid us (as opposed to pulling over and administering knuckle thumps) when she thought we weren't trying to at least pretend we were good Christians, an attitude she seemed to effortlessly embody. 

She knew, like all right-thinking souls dating back to Aristotle, that virtue must be taught to the young, that it doesn't usually come pre-installed. Nowadays she would be called judgey by no shortage of her fellow Citizens of the Republic. 

How's that workin' out for ya, America?   

I remember us driving down Carson Street just prior to Christmas in the midst of a sudden, heavy, snow shower. S'tr mentioned that keeping control of the car on the slippery street car tracks was a challenge but she was obviously enjoying it. She talked about how much she loved the Christmas Season because people were so much nicer than usual. Obviously, this was a long time ago.

{God protect us, but I gotta ask, what’s a streetcar? Aren't all cars street cars? And did she ever take girls on these trips?} 

A streetcar is, mostly was, a sorta/kinda electric bus/train car. It rides on rails that are, um, like reverse railroad tracks in that they are grooved, and the wheels of the streetcar ride in the grooves that run a few inches below the surface of the street.

{Oh, okay, like in San Francisco, right?}

Sorta/kinda. San Francisco has trolly cars that are pulled by cables under the street. Streetcars, and nowadays "light rail" cars are powered by overhead electric cables. The Burgh no longer has street cars (which were more of a local neighborhood thing, like buses). They do have a light rail system that's more about bypassing neighborhoods and with limited stops from what I understand, but I haven't lived there for quite some time.

I wonder if it's still easily possible to access the tracks to create giant pennies.

{Excuse me?}

Some older, wealthier teenagers used to put pennies on the streetcar tracks so that passing streetcars would turn them into large, warped copper disks.

{Are you going to claim that you never did?}

Technically I wasn't a teenager. I turned 13 the following summer and was living in suburbia at that point where there were no streetcars, and very few bus lines for that matter, which made getting around quite interesting for a family that didn't own a car or even had parents who could drive. When I was in seventh grade I was still buying soft penny pretzels (about as large as a fat man's swollen thumb) from street corner vendors on my way to and from school. One must prioritize when one has limited resources.

{And what about the girls, the girls never got to go?}

Nope, they were back at school learning how to sew by repairing the priest's vestments. and helping Mel, our school janitor...just kidding, I made that up. I honestly can't remember even though I didn't always get to go. I would assume they and the remaining boys were watching a movie or something.

Told ya, I was a semi-toxic young man living in a toxic man's world, like no shortage of 12-year-old male H. sapiens still are I imagine, despite the best efforts all the wild-eyed Wokies lose in the land, at least I hope so. This column isn't about the feminization of the American nation though, so I won't bring it up. I wouldn't want to trigger anyone.

Finally, as I mentioned, I wasn't always one of the boys in the backseat, but I usually was. I don't remember giving this any thought at the time. In my defense, I strongly suspect that most 12-year-old kids, and most adults for that matter, still take the zeitgeist they find themselves in for granted, and go along to get along. But, man (which, younger readers, is the same as you saying: but, dude), I don't get it.

I worked just hard enough to get by, like I always did till I graduated from high school. Shy, prone to daydreaming in class, a lazy eye, no obvious and/or unusual talents that my classmates might still remember me for. I don't get it. I hope it wasn't pity.

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

Scroll down to share my work or to access previous columns.   

Comments? I post links to my columns on Facebook where you can love me, hate me, or cancel me. Cranky don't tweet (Xclaim?).

Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved