Showing posts with label pittsburgh pa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pittsburgh pa. Show all posts

Friday, June 10, 2022

A Fun Nun

Original title: My Sister of Charity, 12/21/19

Sr. Mary Clifford Soisson, SC

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device 

"For a Catholic kid in parochial school, the only way to survive the beatings-by classmates, not the nuns-was to be the funny guy." -George A. Romero 


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

I'm spending the summer in a cabin on a beautiful lake somewhere in the Swiss Alps, working on my memoirs, and trying to decide if this column will resume post-Labor Day. The market has found me wanting; I'm buying all of my own coffee. So be it, I remain an unrepentant supporter of capitalism. 

My big brother Eddie is currently my only financial patron so I'm starting to feel like Van Gogh... without the world-class talent, but with both ears. I'm also considering publishing only when the spirit moves me. Cranking out columns week after week, while enjoyable, is hard work — well, intellectually speaking — at least for me. 

{It sure ain't roofing or the like you whiney b...}

In the meantime, I'll be republishing (relatively) gently edited columns with updated statistics and fun facts in [brackets].


Six of my first eight teachers were members of a Roman Catholic religious community that has roots extending back to 1809, the Sisters of Charity.

Sister Mary McGillicuddy changed my life, Miss Crabtree, not so much.

[Um, don't you mean Ms. Crabtree?]

No, Dana, I do not. I'm so old that Ms. magazine wasn't published till the year after I graduated high school and which, according to Wikipedia, is when that particular honorific caught on.

Now that name tags read, "Hello, my name is _______ and my personal pronouns are _______  " it sounds/seems almost quaint.

Sister Mary and Miss Crabtree are composite creations. S'ter Mary McGillicuddy represents the six nuns mentioned above. Miss Crabtree stands in for the two lay teachers I had in Catholic grade school. To a lesser extent, she represents the handful of female teachers I had in public high school; the word handful is an indicator of my encroaching decrepitude.

The majority of my teachers in public high school were male, the principal and vice-principal of the two high schools I attended were both also members of the toxic sex, particularly the vice-principals (readers of a certain age nod knowingly).

However, this column is about a real Sister Mary, Sister Mary Clifford who was my teacher in seventh grade and whom I recently discovered died in 2010 at the age of 89.

She was my first and only "cool" nun. She was the first and only nun I liked. She was one of only two nuns I wasn't afraid of. She taught me, at the age of 12 — without meaning to — that nuns were just H. sapiens in peculiar clothes, not members of a separate, parallel species.

Sisters of Charity, New York -1965


Eileen Soisson ("She was a faithful Steelers fan and had a great sense of humor.") was born on the 17th of July, 1920 in the Borough of Bellevue which borders and is butt up against, by gum by golly (sorry...) Pittsburgh (with an h).

Like me, she attended Catholic grade school (hers still exists) and public high school. She received a scholarship to Seton Hill (not Hall) College which was founded by the Sisters of Charity and she took her vows in January of 1942.

She was not only my seventh-grade teacher she also was the principal of the school, St. John the Evangelist, which was located on the Sou'Side-a-Pittsburgh, across the street from the 12th street playground.

For some reason, I was one of her pets. To this day I don't know why.


Being a pet of the principal meant that at least once a week I got out of class to accompany her when she borrowed one of the parish priest's cars to take care of some sort of business, usually grocery shopping for the convent that was right next to the school.

It was never just me—there was always at least one of the other boys, sometimes two depending on our mission—but it almost always included me. In retrospect, I can guess why it was always more than one boy but at the time neither I nor any of my classmates (that I'm aware of) noticed or cared.

Different era...

But, why me?

There was this girl, Ellen (Eileen?) Somebody, who from year to year was always a teacher's pet, but that made sense. She had a beautiful voice and the nuns were always finding excuses to get her to sing.

I didn't give it much thought at the time, just enjoyed it, rolled with it, took it for granted. Somehow, even the other boys in my class didn't razz me about it and normally this was a group that called each out for everything


I have no idea what she saw in me, but I do know why I liked her so much. She was genuinely nice. She kept at least one foot in the real world at all times. She wore her vocation like a corsage, not a crown of thorns.

She clearly enjoyed driving and when I was out and about with her she behaved more like a doting aunt than a school teacher. She'd answer our questions about parish politics, other nuns, her life, etc., questions we'd never think of asking in class (it just wasn't done) as honestly as she could.

But always diplomatically, always taking the high road, never stooping to gossip or backstabbing. Keeping the faith, as it were. Perhaps this was why I caught no crap from my peers — everyone liked her. She ran a tight ship in class but possessed not a trace of Crazy Nun Syndrome.

Please note: If you've ever been exposed to CNS, which was a common malady at the time, no explanation is required. If you haven't, no explanation I can provide will come close to describing it properly. 
 

Prior to Sister Mary Clifford, I had six teachers.

Four Sisters of Charity afflicted with CNS; one lay teacher that was about 150 years old; another lay teacher, for second grade, that taught us how to curse (rather genteelly by today's standards) by conscientiously explaining which words we were not permitted to use under any circumstances.

Eighth grade: different school, different community, unremarkable nun. But I wasn't afraid of her thanks to Sister Mary Clifford's unintentional life lessons. I'm ashamed to admit I don't remember her name as she did an excellent job preparing us for Catholic high school knowing that intellectually speaking, things were about to get a lot more intense.

I do remember that she got tears in her eyes when she discovered I wouldn't be attending a Catholic high school. Callowyute that I was at the time, this baffled me. I think I get it now. Fortunately/Unfortunately (it's very complicated) my parents couldn't afford to send me, so I was off to public high school.

For the record, the nun that ran that school scared the hell outta me, as she would any right-thinking person. Crazy Nun Syndrome. But thanks to Sister Mary Clifford, as my faith slipped away, I knew that nuns were just people, sometimes very special people. Look at her eyes.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day


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Friday, May 21, 2021

Pittsburgh, Pa.

 A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood episode


This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — A Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Viewing with a tablet or a monitor is highly recommended for maximum enjoyment.  
Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"I am a friend of the working man, and I would rather be his friend, than be one." -Clarence Darrow


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

This column/letter is about Mr. Cranky's original neighborhood, my hometown actually, Pittsburgh (with an h), Pa. Pittsburgh, by the by, is the hometown of Mr. Rogers. Cosmic coinkydink or cosmic consilience?

Anyways... The Burgh just turned its back on 1,000 full-time, union construction jobs and kissed off 3,000 steelworkers.


I was skimming a local business publication that serves the Hootervillle, Ohio region and came across a story about U.S. Steel canceling a $1,500,000,000 project to update its Mon Valley Works.

If you're not a Yinzer you're probably unaware that the Mon Valley Works isn't, technically speaking, actually in Pittsburgh, it's spread out across an adjacent "borough" or three. 

Locals know, more or less, where the borders are. But to most out-of-towners (and many Yinzers), lost and/or dazed and confused even with the help of GPS as they try and navigate the City of Bridges — and one-way streets, dead-ends, and death-defying hills — it's all Pittsburgh

To me, the Mon Valley Works is a perfect (and rare) example of the enormous steel-making complexes that were all over my hometown when I was a clip-on tie-wearing, daydreaming, Catholic grade school kid gazing out of schoolroom windows when sister Mary McGillicuddy was expounding on the esotericities of English grammar.

Mon Valley, by the way, is short for Monongahela Valley, named after one of the Burgh's famous three rivers, the semi-mighty Monogahela. 

{You just like writing the word Monongahela.}

Monongahela? Why yes, Dana, I do.  


Now, although the Mon Valley Works is about 100 miles southeast of Hooterville, the Hooterville region is the former home of all sorts of former enormous steel-making complexes, pieces/parts of which are still hanging on. The majority are now rusting hulks or hopeful empty fields. 

So the American steel industry is of interest to we flatlanders. There's no shortage of my fellow geezers/geezerettes that used to make steel, some of them while employed by U.S. steel.

Second paragraph of the article by Marc Levey of the Associated Press (AP):
"Project permits initially stalled by the pandemic never came through, U.S. Steel has added capacity elsewhere, and now it must shift its focus to its goal of eliminating greenhouse gas emissions from its facilities by 2050..."

Well, I thought, that sucks sweaty socks, and moved on. 

Recently, however, I came across a different article about the same subject; I confess I can't remember where. That article placed the blame squarely on regulators at the Allegheny County Health Department, the country wherein Pittsburgh is located.   

I returned to the original article and read it slowly, carefully, and in its entirety. 

Hoo-Boy...

From paragraph 17, "...the Allegheny County Health Department halted the permitting process because of the challenges the coronavirus posed to the public comment process."


Looong story short (based on the article in question and a bit of googlin'). 

Two years ago, in May 2019, U.S. Steel announced plans to turn the Mon Valley works into a primary source "...for high-strength, lightweight and flexible steel that feeds the automotive sector" via a process that was the first of its kind in the U.S.

The plan also included partially shutting down some of a highly polluting, locally controversial coke-producing operation, and adding a new emission control system. 

A thousand construction workers and three years later 3,000 current steelworkers would be breathing a little easier, literally and figuratively.

Fast forward to 4/30/21. U.S. steel announces that while the project updating the coke plant will go forward, the rest is canceled. 


In the last two years, U.S. Steel spent $170,000,000 on the project before deciding to give up. From paragraph 17: "...the Allegheny County Health Department halted the permitting process [a year ago] because of the challenges the coronavirus posed to the public comment process. My emphasis.  

Apparently, there was no possible way to gather public comments in the midst of the Wuflu Plague. 

County officials are accepting no blame; the usual suspects are pointing fingers at each other. Allegheny County and Pittsburgh are Democratic strongholds. My old man's Democratic party (he died in '69) would've never allowed this to happen.

My father's Democratic party, the working man's person's party, is now the Depublican party — often hard to distinguish from the Republicrats, and now the party of tech oligarchs, teacher's unions, and Wokies.   
 

What Have You Learned, Dorothy's?
My Dear Stickies, firms and entrepreneurs are about results. Without a facility and/or profits, there is no business. Regulators (bureaucrats) — competent, incompetent, well-meaning, or otherwise — are all about process.

No one who works for the Allegheny County Health Department will experience having their lives or paychecks disrupted because of this cluster suck. FYI: A cluster suck (sucks sweaty socks on steroids) is worse than a... well, you're likely familiar with the other version.   

Although the county and the city are both Depublican strongholds local Depublican officials will not pay a price. One-party rule, particularly by the party that has abandoned the working person, doesn't work very well in the Rustbelt. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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