Uncle Pittsburgh

A common Catholic Prayer is “Hail Mary”.  As kids, we weren’t taught to understand it.  We were just taught to recite it by rote memorization.  Likely because we were too young to read during these early lessons.  It took me quite a few years of saying it wrong before I realized that my young mind had mis-under-heard it

What they said:

Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. 
Amen.

What I heard:

Hell, Mary full of Grapes.  The Lord is wifty.

Blessed are the monkey women and blessed is the fruit of thy wound, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, play with our scissors, now and at the hour of our death. 
Amen.

I jacked this prayer up that bad several times a week for about 4 years!  Grapes made some sort of sense to me because they also made us sing The Battle Hymn of The Republic where God himself is trampling on the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.  To this day, I have no real idea what that means, but as a kid I thought he was stomping grapes like Lucille Ball did in that one episode (why God needed to make his own wine made no sense to me because he had a kid who could magically turn water into wine).

And “Wifty”.  My favorite damned part of this is “Wifty”.  Why?  Because I thought “Wifty” meant you were hanging around heaven floating on a damned cloud.  Like you could be standing on a cloud like a surfboard.  Folks would say stuff like, “Dude the way you wifty that cloud is gnarly in a tubular sort of way”.  Or, you could be laying on a cloud like wiftily laying in a hammock.

I figured the Monkey women were in there as a tribute to Professor Zira.  She was that scientist chick/ape played by Kim Hunter in the original Planet of the Apes. I figured God dug that movie as much as I did.

Why Jesus was a wound, I had no damn clue.

And the Scissors thing.  We were consistently warned not to run with scissors.  So, I thought Mary could run safely with scissors as much as she wanted to.  Kinda like it was her super power.

For three weeks I fought an urge for a chicken sandwich.  Specifically, a spicy fried chicken sandwich, like a buffalo chicken sandwich or maybe a Nashville Hot. But, I staved off this urge because, well, fried chicken sandwiches aren’t exactly a prime part of a healthy diet.

During that third week, I was often driving a between Pittsburgh, Watkins Glen, NY and Coudersport, PA.  I stopped at a LOT of Sheetz for gas, sustenance, and “relief”.  I was on the verge of cracking.  I was no longer looking for an incredible fried chicken sandwich.  I was looking for ANY fried chicken sandwich to rid me of that nagging yen I had.  So, when I started hitting buttons in the Sheetz self-serve kiosk, I knew I was looking not for GREAT, but for “Good Enough”.    Anyway, three different Sheetz did not have any fried chicken.  I was disappointed.

That disappoint lingered until the end of week three when I stopped at a Get-Go.  I started hitting buttons on their self-serve kiosk and was delighted to find a Nashville Hot Chicken Sandwich on the menu!  About 15 minutes later, they gave me my sandwich and I gleefully headed for the truck.

I opened the box and dove in for that first bite.  Instantaneously, the saddest chicken tender I’ve ever seen fell out of the bun and into the box.  It was frail, and tiny and thin as a crepe.   I picked it up and put it back I the bun, right beside its tiny twin.

The second first bit attempt was successful – Assuming we define “Success” as getting a bite into my mouth.  Those two tiny highly processed chicken tenders barely covered the bun and had no chicken like texture to them.  The bun was sweet as a donut.   The sauce was neither hot nor Nashville-y.  Tis a sad day when the best part of a fried chicken sandwich are a the few slices of run of the mill dill pickle topping it.

Two bites and I was done.  I put the sad sandwich was put back in the bag and I drove off. I was embarrassed by its presence, so I stopped at a car wash in New Bethlehem to drop it into a trash can.

I mean, I know I was at Get Go, so I wasn’t expecting Gourmet, but this sandwich rung such a disappointing note.  So disappointing that it ruined my afternoon.  It was so un-good that I was further saddened when I thought about it twice the following day. 

Okay, I’ll admit that I was stupid of me to expect a respectable chicken sandwich from a gas station, but, It’s Get Go.  It’s part of a regional grocery empire that supposedly prides itself on good groceries.  So, someone sat in a board room or a test kitchen, took a bite of this sandwich and said, “Yeah, I approve selling this salty sandwich with two tiny pieces of lousy chicken to dorks with no palate for $8.99. Ya want mozzarella sticks with that? “

Ugh.  I still need a chicken sandwich.

Luke the dog  thinks going for a ride is AWESOME!  He’s riding shotgun. He’s smilin’.  We get to the vets parking lot.  They won’t let us in because of the  ‘rona, so you gotta phone in from to let them know you’re  there. 

Luke and I are hanging in the truck.  We have the AC on.  The radio is pumping out a ridiculous array of tunes (Redemption Song, Ragged Old Truck, Dublin Blues, Cowboy Song, Backstreets. .. .).  We’re in there chillin’ like a coupla villians.  Having a great time and wishing we had burgers and beers to make it better.

About 30 minutes in, there’s a tapping on the window.  It’s a vet tech.  She asks me a couple of questions.  She then takes Luke out of the truck and into the office.

He’s lookin’ over his shoulder at me like, “Dude, Where is this masked chick taking me?”

About 20 minutes later, he returns with a confused look on his face.  I mean, he was put onto a cold steel exam table, poked, prodded, given injections, had blood drawn, and whatever by a bunch of masked people in a strange environment.

When he talks to other dogs about this experience, I guarantee he tells  them he was abducted by aliens who ran invasive tests.

I just ate some tortellini. It’s an awesome pasta. I was in my 30’s before I realized it even existed.

Walk into any of the larger grocery stores and you’ll find an entire alley full of pasta. Dozens of different brands, shapes, sizes, and names.

Back when I was a kid, we only had three kinds of pasta: Spaghetti, Rigatoni, and Ravioli. Ravioli came in a can. A friend avers that he also has spaghetti-o’s; he was in a whole ‘nuther tax bracket.

Oddly the exact same thing happened with dinosaurs. When I was in elementary school, we only had three dinosaurs: T-Rex, Brontosaurus, and Stegosaurus.

The Brontosaurus apparently got fired from the dinosaur kingdom (just like Pluto is no longer a planet), because you NEVER hear about them anymore. But, kids today come home with books filled with dozens upon dozens of dinosaurs.

So, ice sheets are shrinking, but pasta and dinosaurs are increasing at an alarming rate.

Over the years, I’ve had a lot of jobs at a lot of different companies.   By default, that means I’ve had a lol of job interviews. 

About 2015, I was interviewing for an IT Project Manager position at a large health care company.  It was a four hour interview which started and ended with big wigs; The middle two hours was filled in by a motley collection of members of the project team.

One of those team members was a 20ish programmer.  He was earmarked with all of the typical nerd stereotypes (gaunt, pale, socially inept, etc.).

He and I chatted for a while.  The conversation was a bit staccato, but it wasn’t too bad until he asked me an exploratory brain teaser type question.  He said, “If you were stranded on a desert island what one piece of technology would you want to take with you? “

My answer was on the tip of my tongue, but he rapidly continued, “For me, it would be my HTC Vive virtual reality headset.  It’s awesome. I can pass hours with it. . . “  He also spewed forth a few hundred words describing these virtually reality goggles interworking s and specifications.

He finished by saying, “So, what single piece of technology would you want to have when you’re castaway on a deserted island?”

I said, “A satellite phone.”

“Why did you choose that?”, he asked.

“So I can call someone to rescue me and get me off of the island so that I can get back to all of my toys and tools.”

He left the room abruptly.  I didn’t get the job. 

The town you grow up in has deep impact on the fabric of your soul, and towns around here always seem to have a person who adds to the soul and fabric of that community. Well, at least the fortunate towns do. I mean, Wheeling, WV has “MoonDog”. Steubenville, OH has “Tennis Shoe Ernie”. Homestead, PA had the “Homestead Can Man”, and Southside has “Kung Fu Joe”.

The town I grew up in had Kirby. I honestly don’t know too much about Kirby, but when I think of my hometown, Kirby pops up in many of the memories.

When I was a kid, the Starra Baba’s around town often referred to Kirby as: “One of God’s Special Children”. I guess Kirby did have a set of challenges, but kindness, sharing his bright smile, and greeting everyone warmly were certainly his talents. Also on his talent list had to be perseverance.

Why do I say “Perseverance?” Because Kirby had hustle in his blood. He canvassed the town and knocked on doors. When I was really little I recall him knocking on doors and asking the occupants if they had any “Coo-Pawns or Pawp Bottles?” Why did I spell those words funny? One of Kirby’s quirks was that his voice had a bit of a high pitch, and he tended to extend his vowels when speaking.

Bumping into Kirby was heartwarming. For me, it was the way he said, “Hi”. It was an experience. There was full eye contact, a bright smile, and that extended vowel, so it was “Hi-i-i-i-i-i”. The tone fluctuated a bit to, so that two letter word sounded like it had 8 syllables.

He moved on to – of all things – selling homemade potholders door to door. And, he hustled hard at it. I mean seriously, if you grew up anywhere near Duquesne, West Mifflin, or McKeesport, there’s a 95% chance that there is (or at least was) a “Kirby Potholder” in your kitchen. And, if you’re in the 5% who never had a “Kirby Potholder” there’s a 100% chance he knocked on your front door.

These Kirby Potholders, which all had little plastic rings so that you could hang them up, were ubiquitous, however they could confuse friends from out of town. I know I had the following conversation with out of town friends more than once:

“Hey hand me that Kirby Potholder.”

“What kind of potholder?”

“Kirby Potholder.”

“What’s a ‘Kirby’?”

“He’s this guy that makes potholders and sells them door to door.”

The look in the out of towner’s eyes is what made me realize that what we had here was special.

Many, many years later, I realized his name was actually Kirvy and not Kirby. Most of us had been saying it wrong for ever.

Anyway, Kirvy passed away the other day. And, as I mentioned earlier, we weren’t friends or pals. We were just two guys living in the same town, but somehow he touched my life in a positive way. I wish people can say something that positive about me when it’s my time. I wish Kirvy Godspeed. And I wish I still had a Kirby Potholder.

Way back in the 70’s, I went to Catholic school.  That was when the nuns had free reign to rain terror down on you at will.

One of the recurring themes was cleaning your plate. At lunch, they’d give you this compartmentalized tray and place fairly nasty dabs of food in each compartment.   We had to eat it because “People in India are starving”.

No  matter how dry the chicken was, or how pasty the gravy was, or how lumpy the mashed potatoes were, we had to eat it because “People are starving in India”. 

I didn’t even know where India was.   Hell, I pictured India as post-apocalyptic and filled with droves of starving people.

One nun in particular drilled us about this in religion class.  The culmination of her speech was, in short, that people in India are starving to such an extensive degree that they spend their days rummaging through garbage dumps in hopes of “finding a single egg shell so that they can lick the inside of it” for sustenance.

Damn.  Now that’s hungry.

Fast forward a good 35 years or so, and I found myself working with folks from India.  We were about the same age.    As we got comfortable with each other, I said, “Hey, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure”.

“Way back in the 1970’s, were you ever starving over there in India?”

“Uh, no.”.

“Did you know of anyone who was busy starving about that time?”

“Uh, no”.

“Did you ever hear of, or read about, anyone around that time who was so hungry that they spent their days rummaging through garbage to lick the insides of egg shells?”

“Uh, no.  And please stop asking me questions”.

It was the third grade.  I have no recollection of what class it was.  The classrooms were quite large and painted uniformly in a pale green color.

The desks were arranged in neat rows facing the teachers desk.  I was on one of the edge rows. 

The desks were ‘new” models (probably 20 years old).  There was a fiberglass seat attached to a desk with a gray plastic top.  That gray top lifted up to reveal a space where we kept our books and belongings.

So in walks the teacher (a’ lay teacher’ (a/k/a non-nun.    She kicks off class by announcing a pop quiz.   The response to her announcement was an ovation of groans.

She quipped that this will be a fun pop quiz.  A simple pop quiz.  A game of sorts. 

She read off a list of questions.  We wrote the answers down on our blank sheets of paper with our No. 2 pencils.

I don’t recall much of this pop quiz.  I only recall the third question.

That haunting third question was, “Write down how many brothers and sisters you have”. 

My eight year old brain froze;  I couldn’t come up with the answer to that question.

I stared blankly around the cavernous room.

I caught the eye of the lay teacher.  I could tell she was already pissed off.

“David, Is there a problem?”

“Uh, no?”

“Then write down how many brothers and sisters you have!”

I froze solid.  Why?  Because I didn’t know if I was supposed to count all brothers and sisters or should I only count the ones who are still alive.

She strode up to my little gray topped desk, loomed above me and growled, “How many brothers and sisters do you have!”

I said, “Two.  One of each.”

“Then write down two!”

I couldn’t bring my pencil to write that number.

I said, “Maybe I should write down four.  There were originally five of us.”

I didn’t know whether she wanted me to count a dead brother and a dead sister. 

That was apparently the wrong answer, because she went ape-shit.

“Do you expect me to believe that you have no idea how many kids are in your family!  Two?  Four?  FIVE!”

Push your desk over that way and make sure you are facing the wall.

She took my paper away.

She turned to the rest of the class and continued the fun lesson.

I stared at the wall.  The rest of the class had some snacks.

The lay teacher approached me at my wall facing desk.   She bent over and put her face mere inches from my face.  She then snarled, “DAVID – YOU’RE WASTING YOUR LIFE”. 

She grabbed my shoulder and dragged me over to the cloak room.   She reminded me that I’m wasting my life as she shoved me inside and  shut the door.

To this very day, I don’t know whether or not to count dead siblings.

I watched part of the Steeler pre-game broadcast last Monday night.  They had a shot of Mason Rudolph walking into the Heinz field locker room. He was carrying a gym back.  That reminded me that the Sunday before, I saw a similar shot of Tom Brady walking into Gillette field carrying a gym bag. 

These guys make millions – especially Brady.  The teams have equipment managers, physicians, trainers, and all kinds of other folks waiting on these athletes.  What are they carrying into their home locker rooms? 

Towels?  I doubt it.

Ace bandages?   I think the Trainers pass those things out.

Shoulder pads?  Nope.  The equipment manager lugs those around.

What the Hell is in the damned bag!

Growing up, each Mill Town was a self-contained entity.  Each one had grocery stores, apothecaries, butchers, notions, and everything else a person could need.  McKeesport had a department store named “Cox’s”.  It wasn’t posh, but it sold clothing that was nicer than most places.

Every Mill Town also had 20 bars full of Mill Hunky’s.  Today, these old skool Mill Hunks are a dying breed, but God – they were spectacular fun to have a beer with.  A crowded bar room would be a cacophony of voices at full throat followed by uproarious laughter.  It was a game of sorts, or a tradition.  The full-throated voices contain barbs launched at other patrons. The laughs would come from all of the other customers who heard the friendly insult.    The person at the receiving end of the insult would loudly launch a retort, which was also met with hearty laughter.  This was called, “Agitating”.  It would go on for hours.

If a patron took offence to the insult, the barmaid, would say, “Don’t pay any attention to Petey.  He’s just agitating.”. 

Some of these guys were professionals.  Petey was Professional.

(Note:  Remember I mentioned “Cox’s” above).

A guy named Barto walks in wearing a red suit.

Petey says, “Hey Barto, what’s up with that red suit?”

Barto says, “It’s brown.  My suit is brown.”

Petey says, “I think you misunderstood my advice.”

Barto says, “What?”

Petey says, “I told you that you should go to Cox’s and get a seer sucker suit, but it looks like you went to Sears and got a cock-sucker suit.”

(Cue Laughter)