A Voice of Kennywood

Kennywood is an amusement park just southeast of Pittsburgh, PA.  One of its features is the Park's public address and musical entertainment system.  Since the 1920s and to this day, announcements made within the Park begin with the words "This is the Voice of Kennywood".

Briefly, during the summers of the late 1930s, my dad (the Munch, called that years later by me and some of my friends because he was about 5 ' 4 ", thereby earning the sobriquet Munchkin) was The Voice of Kennywood.

Guilty as Charged

Several decades ago, there was still a public library in Braddock, PA.  That library was historical; it was the first established by Andrew Carnegie.  It was also the scene of an early life lesson for me.

At the age of eight, I was already a voracious reader.  I regularly borrowed a dozen or more volumes at a time.  Those tomes were usually checked out to me by my Aunt Helen, a library employee.  Having one of my favorite aunts in this role gave me the idea I was a privileged patron.

Aunt Helen disabused me of that thought.  One day, I returned 12 books, all significantly overdue.  Aunt Helen checked them in.  Then she told me that, because these books were so late, I could no longer take out more than two volumes at a time.

I cried.

Aunt Helen smiled, but remained resolute.  The appeal of my sentence failed.

Extra Credit

When I was still in the classroom, I sometimes gave extra-credit assignments that did not directly relate to course material.  For instance, at more than one HBCU (Historically Black College or Univrsity), in courses on basic computing, I regularly used the Russian poet Alexander Pushkin as such a topic, telling my students Pushkin was a point of intersection between their background and mine.  Particularly among young men, Pushkin was a big success in this context.

Now that my teaching is done entirely online and through my blogs (yes, I do consider this teaching), I've got a new topic for extra credit that I want to put  in front of you.  Anyone who can explain clearly the three terms below will receive an award as IPOW (Informed Progressive of the Week)  as well as lots of congratulations.

The brain twisters are:

• Does the First Amendment to our Constitution make any provision regarding the establishment of new religions?
• In the First Amendment, what right, of the American people, is described as needing to take place peaceably?
• For what reason should such actions be taken?

Explaining concepts like these in English without one's eyes rolling back n one's head isn't easy, but it's needed in order to win the award.  I'll announce the winner a week from today.
 

Kochinina and Wax Lips

Side by side on Bell Avenue in North Braddock, just to the west of 13th Street, stood two stores.  The larger, Berta's, was a 1950s precursor to today's supermarkets.  The smaller, Eliskowitz's, was that era's convenience store.  Both served the (mostly Eastern European in origin) working class residents of that part of the borough.   Each was responsible for a fond moment from my childhood.

Berta's first.  As one entered the store, there were shelves with bread, dry goods, and so on to the right, produce bins to the left, and, straight ahead, a refrigerated case that held meats, and a Rusnok delicacy called kochinina.


Kochinina are pickled pigs feet.  Not even I, a to-the-bone, both-sides-of-the-family Ruthenian, could or can handle these gooey goodies.

No groceries at the establishment next door.  But Eliskowitz's carried many items targeted at kids.  Penny candy (yes, penny - one piece for one cent), pretzel rods (also one cent), faux / candy cigarettes, and wax lips filled the display case just inside the door.

One afternoon, I put down big money at Eliskowitz's - a nickel, to be precise.  I walked out with two pretzel rods, a Mary Jane, a Mint Julep, and wax lips.  Pretzels ad candy were consumed almost immediately.  Wax lips were clutched tightly in my right hand, as I proceeded back down Bell Avenue, past our house, and to that of my paternal grandmother.

As I approached the door, I put on the wax lips.  They were in place, bright red and prominent, as I knocked.  Grandma Petrovsky answered, but in a way I hadn't expected.  She shrieked something in her native language.  To which I responded by removing the wax lips and saying "It's ok, bub; they're just candy."

My bubba's closing observation?  "Bozhe moye!  I thought you hurted youorself."

Lefties Galore

My family, at least my dad's, was unusual in being loaded with left-handers.  Of the Munch and his 3 siblings who survived into adulthood, 3 (my dad, my Aunt Martha, and my Uncle Al) were born lefties.  All were "co0rrected" when they entered grade school.

The Munch wouldn't allow our school district (of which he had at one time been an employee, as a junior high school teacher) do the same to / for me.  He realized that this practice, which has since largely been abandoned, was the only known cause of habitual stuttering in adults.  So he put the kibosh on such efforts really quickly.

I'm glad he did.  I like talking far too much to want to contend with stumbling speech ... :-))

Role Models

I've had several role models in my life.  The most significant have been from my family.  But there have also been 2 fictional characters who've contributed to my ideas of who and how I should be.

Family first.  My mom Betty was the kindest soul I ever met.  She accepted unquestioningly, and criticized gently.  My sister Pat exemplifies Winston Churchill's definition of courage - grace under pressure.  My Aunt Martha was sharp as a tack, had an acerbic wit, and used her gifts with humor.

In fiction, my two role models are each professional women who haven't forgotten how to care.  Each appeared in a successful film - Annette Benning's character of Sydney Ellen Wade in The American President, and the unnamed editor of a small-town newspaper in Field of Dreams.

I think all these women would understand and accept wholeheartedly my affection for and appreciation of J. Thadeus Toad.

Two Birthdays

How many of us can claim to have two birthdays?  My dad did; he loved to tell this story:

I was such a big strong baby that the midwife had a hell of a time delivering me.  It was so bad that she went out afterwards and got drunk, and didn't record the birth for three days.

So, every September 7th and September 10th, wish the Munch Happy Birthday ... :-)

Blues Power

Artists like John Fogarty and Michael McDonald can express righteous anger and at the same time offer hope.  Songs like Fortunate Son and Taking It to the Streets use the power of their lyrics to accomplish the former, and the vitality of their cadence to bring about the latter.

Righteous Anger

Rock and R&B have an extraordinary ability to convey strong feelings, including anger.  That being the case, these genres have been part of many protest movements.

Ergo the list below: my nominations for the top ten protest songs of all time.  They're listed in ascending order, from #10 to #1.

1. What About Me  (Quicksilver Messenger Service)
2. I'd Like to Save the World  (10 Years After)
3. Run Through the Jungle  (Creedence Clearwater Revival)
4. Revolution  (The Beatles)
5. Give Peace a Chance  (The Beatles)
6. A Change is Going to Come  (Sam Cooke)
7. Turn the Page  (Bob Seeger and the Silver Bullet Band)
8. Taking It to the Streets  (The Doobie Brothers)
9. Fortunate Son  (Creedence Clearwater Revivial)
10. I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die  (Country Joe and the Fish)

That last is, in this schmoochkie's opinion, the absolute definitive, quintessential, superlative, and all that stuff protest song of all times.  Incredibly effective ...

Toad and Mellenkamp

J Thadeus would have approved of these lyrics by John Mellenkamp (among our favorites of his):

You may drive around in your town
Ina brand new shiny car
Your face in the wind your haircut's in
And your friends think you're bizarre
You may find a cushy job and I hope that you go far
...
Forget all about that macho shit
And learn how to play guitar!

Being Valedictorian

In my high school days, peers and counselors each told me, on more than one occasion, "You could be valedictorian if you wanted to."  To which I invariably replied, "Yeah?  So what?"

One counselor in particular induced a WTF reaction in me when she said "With a verbal SAT score of 760, your math score should be higher than 580."  Like I said, WTF!?!

It took me several decades to realize that the stubbornness which is both my genetic legacy and one of my most common responses to opposition didn't serve me well in this context.  What I've learned, through my efforts to practice Buddhism and just plain old-fashioned tolerance, is that I can be right, and feel myself to be doing right, without having to convince others.  They're entitled to their opinions; I'm entitled to an enlightened self-interest and autonomy.  And I have the responsibility of listening to others rather than dismissing their ideas out of hand ...

Only the Ball Was White

That, and one short, stocky, egalitarian spectator.

My dad had the opportunity to see some of the stars of Negro League baseball  - men like Josh Gibson and Cool Papa Bell.  Both Gibson and Bell played for the Homestead Grays, the steel town of Homestead being just across the Monongahela River from our stomping grounds in Braddock and North Braddock  

Read about Bell, Gibson, and their colleagues in the book whose name is also the title of this post.

Tikhii bitz!

That means be quiet in the dialect of Russian both sides of my family spoke.  It also represents one of my biggest life challenges.

The joke in the family was that I didn't start talking until I was 3 years old, and I've barely stopped since.  That wry observation also gave rise to one of my dear companion's best teases of me.

He bet me that I couldn't keep quiet for 5 minutes.  He claimed and still claims that at about the 3-minute mark the veins in my neck were standing out.

Need I say that the 3-minute mark was as far as I got?

You Heard It Here First

The popular wisdom has it that there are no tied games in baseball.  Well, ...

In Spring Training games, only the regulation nine innings are played.  If, at the end of the ninth, the score is tied, it stays that way.

That's how BMB (Bodhisattva Mickie's Buccos) ended today (Monday, March 9th, 2015) with a 1-1 tie with the Milwaukee Brewers.  Of course, one of the best center fielders to come along in decades, Andrew McCutchen, contributed to the sort-of-win.

Dive into Bucs history here.  Listen ot one of the most famous moments in Bucs history here.

Oh, the Bucs are goin' all the way ... 

Baseball and the Burpee Catalog

Spring is almost here.  That means it’s time to listen to John Fogarty; watch Bill Mazeroski; marvel at Harvey Haddix; check your local library for a copy of This Date in Pittsburgh Pirates History; and thumb through the Burpee catalog 

It’s also time to check out the Pirates’ web site regularly, in order to be up to date on the team, its members old and new, and what’s happening in Bradenton.  And, of course, to enjoy the pierogi race again …

The Almost-Fractured Fridge

As originally told to Bodhisattva Mickie by Aunt Martha

I’ve mentioned before that my dad was all of brilliant, cantankerous, eccentric, idealistic, and temperamental.  The Munch, as I called him (short for Munchkin – he was 5 feet 4), is no longer with us.  But some of his exploits remain worth recounting.

As young people, he, my Uncle Al, my Uncle Joe, and my Aunt Martha conspired to wreck Grandma Petrovsky’s efforts at corralling them.  When Grandma locked the kitchen door (the door through which everyone came and went), they managed still to have their evenings on the town.  Their tactic was simple.  Whoever was the last to leave the house would unlock the window next to the kitchen door.

One night, Al, Joe, and Martha were asleep in their beds.  But the Munch was nowhere to be found.  Until the next morning, that is.  When the rest of the family awoke and started into the kitchen, here’s what they saw.  Stretched out on the couch (don’t ask why there was a couch in the kitchen – I never understood that either) was the Munch, steadily sawing Zs, oblivious to the refrigerator he’d knocked over on his way in through the window.

Picture it.  Window open.  Munch sleeping, albeit thunderously.  Fridge leaning against the wall, dangerously near his head, at about a 30 degree angle.

Ya gotta love it.  And him … J

Thinking With One's Glands

My dad, a brilliant albeit somewhat eccentric, cantankerous man, had several bon mots.  My favorite is You women are all alike.  You think with your glands.  Not too long ago, Iowa Republican Senate candidate Mark Jacobs outdid that comment.

In an interview with Iowa's WHO-TV in Des Moines on Sunday, December 8^th, 2013, Mr. Jacobs stated that the best way to connect with women is on an emotional level.Jacobs' comments came shortly after it was reported that the National Republican Congressional Committee met with aides of incumbent lawmakers to coach them on messaging against women opponents, according to Politico.

My dad was highly educated, a lifelong Democrat, and, like every male on either side of our family, a union member.  Despite his wry reaction to having to live in a household otherwise populated entirely by females (my mom, sister, me, and two cats), he would have been aghast at Jacobs’ remark.  Dad regularly supported his female colleagues on the teaching staff of our school district.  He campaigned and voted for Shirley Chisholm.  He supported and campaigned for women in his and other local unions.  He once threatened a neighbor with, shall we say, serious bodily harm, because the dude was rude to my mom.

It’s a good thing for Mr. Jacobs that the Munch, as I called him (short for Munchkin – he was 5 feet 4), is no longer with us.  If he were, he’d be working, as we all should, to defeat not only such candidates but such attitudes.

Take a Listen

Unless you experience it, you can't appreciate the rich, sonorous, altered-state-of-consciousness-inducing services of the Byzantine Catholic Church.

I'm long since a long-lapsed Catholic cum Buddhist.  But I still consider the Byzantine Mass a gift to all faith traditions.  Take a listen.

Toad and Activism

Merriam-Webster defines nocturne as a dreamy,  pensive composition for piano.  This presentation of the Edgar Thompson Works is a visual and aural nocturne.

The Edgar Thompson plant was Andrew Carnegie’s first mill.  His first Free Library is within a long walk.  Both are effectively on the border between two Allegheny County boroughs – Braddock and North Braddock.

On the 1300 block of Bell Avenue in North Braddock a few decades ago, there were Hungarian, Italian, Polish, Ruthenian, Slovak, African-American, and Jewish families.  The father of the latter had a tattoo on his right arm …Every ethnic group had its own church.  African-American, Croatian, German, Hungarian, Irish, Italian, Polish, Ruthenian, Scots, Serbian, and Slovak parishes flourished.  These were the most visible symbols of North Braddock’s demographic riches.  But an even more powerful one was membership in unions.

The USW, UMW, IBEW, and other unions reflected the diversity just described, and did more.  By wrapping their arms around second- and third-generation Americans, by showing them that, whatever their origins, they had far more in common than in opposition, unions created a powerful force for tolerance and non-violent activism.

Toad would have appreciated that activism …

The Ex Lax Paradigm

As a child of three, I regularly patrolled the 1300 block of Bell Avenue in North Braddock, pushing my toy shopping cart.  (Unlike today’s, my cart was shiny metal, rather than luridly colored plastic.)  The cart’s contents were also only three – a sunny-side-up faux fried egg, a tiny box of fake Tide, and an even smaller box of just-as-counterfeit Ex Lax.

As I walked the beat, I chatted with neighbors and relatives.  There were several of the latter on the block: Bubba (a.k.a. Grandma) Petrovsky, Aunt Martha, Aunt Dorothy, and even Cousin Betty, who’d run a speakeasy during Prohibition, but now had a legal imbibing establishment.

On this occasion, it was Aunt Dorothy who asked, “What did you get when you went shopping, Michele?”  Fancying myself urbane and knowledgeable, I replied, “This is an egg; it tastes real good.  That’s Tide; it gets your clothes clean.  And this is Ex Lax; it makes you poop.”

When my erudite explanation about the efficacy of Ex Lax evoked, not oohs and aahs but rather smiles, I was miffed.  I couldn’t understand that reaction.  After all, the information I’d conveyed was completely correct.  Why were it and I not taken seriously, and given the respect we deserved?

Dissonance of that sort has followed me throughout my life.  In adulthood, one example of the Ex Lax Paradigm stands out in my mind.  I was working as a technical writer, documenting the work of a number of engineers and programmers.  While I have a background in software, it’s not the kind of software those folks – almost exclusively male – dealt with every day.  But while I couldn’t have reproduced their work, I did document it, and well and clearly.  Several of my engineer co-workers were kind enough to compliment me on what I’d produced.  Except for one gentleman, who read me off over the phone for a mistake that turned out not to be on my part, but on his.  When I pointed that out to him, he simply persisted in his criticism, concluding with the observation that what he viewed as my shortcomings in technical understanding were because I am female.

The episode ended with my slamming down the phone and spitting out “Don’t you condescend to me, you smug son of a bitch!”  Or nearly ended.  Several of my engineer and programmer buddies who happened to be around my cubicle reacted in faux horror and fear at my outburst, and took the sting out of the moment as a result.

It’s okay for folks to smile at you.