And already 2023 is like, “Buckle up, my friends.”
Honestly, I’m no longer one of those people who looks to each year as a self-standing chunk of time. I’m aware it’s a construct. I’m aware there is no difference between December 31, 2022 and January 1, 2023 other than the passing of a moment. The things I’ve done to change my life over the last three years (health, professional, personal) were not done as New Year resolutions. They were done in a March, a November, a July. I’m aware that behind every smiling, laughing, perfectly framed Happy New Year social media post is a life of ups and downs and troubles and challenges.
I stopped saying things like, “[number] is going to be my year!” because I said that about 2020 after a shitty 2019 and LOL. 2020 was NOBODY’S year except maybe Zoom’s. Zoom had a bitchin’ 2020.
So now I just approach life one day at a time and each day I try to put my head down at night and take account of the small steps I took that day toward my goals regardless of the date or year. There’s real peace in doing that compared to trying to change a life in big, specific ways from January 1 to December 31. Let that shit go, live, change, and most importantly, remember this … social media isn’t real life. Those smiles are often dropped the second the shutter is snapped.
Enough therapy*. Let’s talk.
*Please Venmo me your co-pay for this session.
1. A true loss
Such sad news for Pittsburgh with the passing of Franco Harris at an ironic time, the morning of a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Immaculate Reception (we capitalize it because it is sacred). Just days before the anniversary celebration at the Steelers game.
My interactions with Franco go back decades, as many of you know. He was on the board of directors of the first nonprofit I worked at, The Minority Enterprise Corporation in the Hill District starting in, gosh, 1999? 2000? The day I met him, he put out his hand with its long, mangled fingers and said, “I’m Franco Harris,” and to my credit, I did not shout, “No shit!”
But that’s how he always was. Humble. Assumed nothing.
I worked with him for six years at that nonprofit as I was not only in charge of communications, but also board matters. He was never anything but willing, accessible and kind. Years later, he signed a football for me as a gift for a child with cancer who was visiting from out-of-state. He and his lovely wife came to the friends and family opening party at Las Velas in 2010, and they entertained my young children and nieces and nephews. They bounced along with the serenading mariachi band.
Several years later, I openly questioned his continued support for Joe Paterno, and I don’t regret speaking out about it. I write that here because there are always those people who will either yell at me for speaking up then or those people who will yell at me for not mentioning it here now. Everybody happy?
A number of years went by before I saw him again, just recently. It was at the media preview of the Franco items now on exhibit at the Heinz History Center. He looked and sounded great. I don’t honestly think he recognized me, and I didn’t bother to corner him alone as he was in high demand by the press at the event. I figured I’d have another chance. He waited next to me for his turn to speak and at one point turned toward me, saw the “32” cookie in my hand that I had snagged from the refreshments table, and gestured toward it. I pulled it away jokingly, as if he was trying to steal it. He chuckled.
And just a few months later, he was gone.
I kind of wish I had cornered him after all, reminded him, had one more interaction with him. I’ll probably regret that forever. These are the pictures I snapped that day:
Such meaningless words, but honestly, there are no others: rest in peace. And rest assured that Pittsburgh will care for your legacy forever. It’s as safe as that football you once tucked under your arm and carried to glory.
2. KEEL-BAWS-A?
Can we talk about this please?
Can we talk about the complex this word gave me at one point? When you grow up in a super Pittsburgh house with a US Steel dad and a Clairton mom, you are often served “kabossy and sahr-kraht” for meals. Perhaps a better pronunciation would be “kah-bawsy.” Anyway, you’re a kid. You eat it. You learn to love the weird combination of savory and whatever the hell you call what sauerkraut does to the tastebuds at the back of your tongue.
You learn to read. One day you look at the package of meat your mom bought and you see it is spelled “kielbasa” and you immediately question your parents’ literacy abilities. In what world does kielbasa become kabossy? Where did the L go? Where the fork did the Y come from? Who are you and where are my real parents?
For a long time I wondered if my deaf ears were just hearing it wrong and perhaps my parents had been saying “kielbasa” and I heard it as “kabossy.” I no longer knew the truth. I simply stopped saying the word. “Can I have more [points] of that?”
I didn’t even feel safe saying “sahr-kraht” for fear I’d find it was actually spelled with a P and a G.
THERE’S NO WAY TO BE SURE WHEN IT COMES TO PITTSBURGH.
Pittsburghese is weird. Pass the [points] that.
3. Origins
This is a fascinating and important piece of Pittsburgh history recently unearthed. Students at James Madison University found the original 1749 land deed between George Croghan and the Six Nations tribe transfering the 150,000 acres of wooded land that would one day become Pittsburgh. (I want to remind you that land transactions with native tribes were not as cut-and-dry as deeds such as this would make you believe. There was often manipulation, political maneuvering, warring tribal factions, language issues, dishonesty, desperation and destitution behind some land transfers. Nothing in that period of time was as simple as the written record makes it seem as the struggle for space, place and rights was waged.)
That said, this is extremely cool to read. Here’s a snap of the first page:
If you click this link, you can see all 9 pages along with what I’m going to call a typed translation because I understand how hard this perfect cursive is to read for some.* More on that later.
If you want to know what Pittsburgh went for, it was:
240 strouds (coarse cloth)
400 blankets (hopefully not riddled with smallpox)
460 pairs of socks
200 shirts
20 pieces of callicoe (fabric)
20 pieces of callimancoe (fabric)
20 pieces of serge (fabric)
50 pounds of vermillion (pigment)
50 grosse of gartering
50 pieces of ribbon
50 dozen knives
500 pounds of gunpowder
1,000 Barr Lead (ammunition related)
3,000 gun flints
50 pounds of brass kittle
4 pounds of thread
1,000 needles
10 dozen jews harps (small musical instrument)
20 dozen tobacco tongs
600 pounds of tobacco
Honestly cannot wait for yinzers to make use of this list all, “Pirates are gonna trade Oneil Cruz away for a thousand needles and 460 pairs of socks, just watch.”
Now, why is this land deed in the hands of a Virginia court? Because we were nearly Virginia, but honestly, it belongs here and Virginia should give it back. Maybe they can at least loan it to the Heinz History Center for an exhibit. Or maybe we can trade for it. How does 30 dozen Cap & Cheeses, 700 pounds of pierogi, and a giant deflated yellow rubber duck sound?
Don’t get any ideas, Bob Nutting.
* When one of my nephews was a teen and golfing with my son and other family members, my son asked him to check if a ball on the fairway near my nephew was my son’s ball and my nephew bent down to try to read the script logo and called out with uncertainty, “It says ‘filet’ I think?” Internet, it was a Titleist. Kids cannot read cursive AT ALL. We adults can use this as a secret language which is why I often threaten to change the WiFi password and tack the new one to the fridge written in cursive. Tots and pears, kids.
4. Not for all the vermillion in the world
I meant to mention this weeks ago, but then I took a break from the newsletter so here we are being untimely with the snark. Delayed snark is better than no snark and yes, Delayed Snark is my new band name. We play mostly Limp Bizkit and Nickelback covers, but we do it ironically.
So, here’s something you can actually trade your hard-earned brass kittles* to the Pittsburgh Pirates for … a little jar of dirt.
No, I didn’t just make that up.
Those are not peppercorns, my friend. That is a spice jar of dirt that the Pirates want you to spend the equivalent of 20 dozen tobacco tongs on. But, it’s home opener game used dirt lolllll I honestly just burst out laughing typing that. Game-used dirt from the Pittsburgh Pirates home opener of, weirdly, 2020. Like what??
Let me remind you the 2020 home opener was played without fans due to the pandemic, and also, the Pirates lost. And for the low low price of 20 pieces of serge, you can own some dirt to commemorate the loss during one of the doomiest years in recent memory.
The only way this is worth $24.99 is if there’s 25 dollars rolled up inside in the dirt.
Yes, Pirates, the only way I’m helping you dispose of your dirt is if you pay me a penny. And throw in four pounds of thread for good measure.
*Not a euphemism
5. A correcting of Pittsburgh history
As you know because I’ve been whining about it, I’m in grad school to earn my Masters degree in History with a focus on Pittsburgh history. My favorite major research I did this semester resulted in a paper that changed the historiography (fancy word that just means the historian-established history) of Pittsburgh’s child labor past. Historians have long claimed that child labor wasn’t an issue in the steel, iron, and other metals manufacturing establishments in Pittsburgh. The claim has been that children toiled in the glass, textile, and retail industries, but that the steel, iron and metals firms did not hire children. My research proved this to be incredibly false.
If you want to skip to the good stuff, jump past the historical context, historiography, and causes sections and you’ll get to the numbers, stories, and names I uncovered. I’m proud that my research means the names of these lost children will be read, spoken, remembered. I’m proud that Frick’s and Carnegie’s legacies will now be attached to the children who helped earn their fortunes. The paper is a hefty 29 pages and here for anyone who wants to dive in. There are some amazing pictures included.
Not included is this photo of the 1886 board meeting minutes I found in the Western Pennsylvania Humane Society archives at the Detre Archives in the Heinz History Center that shows the board talking about the boys working in the Frick coke works.
As you can imagine, reading handwriting like this for hours and hours gave me an insane headache. This isn’t even the worst of it. “Filet” indeed.
P.S. If you find a typo in my paper, I literally do not want to hear about it. I refuse to look at it again for at least three months while my brain recovers from the thousands of pages of research I’ve read. Have mercy.
6. Come meet me!
I’ve never done a public reading of my own writing, and my first will take place at City of Asylum on the North Side this Sunday late afternoon. I’ll be reading an essay I’ve never had the nerve to publish. If you’d like to attend, it’s free and you can register here, come and meet me, hug me, and see what the hell I’m really like in real life. Could be good. Could be bad. Will def be awkward.
I can’t even remember the last public event I did. Does anyone know?? Regardless, I’m looking forward to meeting a few of you and be sure to tell me your Twitter or Insta handles so I can put real faces to the avatars.
Also, my personal author website is live if you’d like to check it out here.
7. Pittsburgh Bridge is Falling Down Falling Down Falling Down / Pittsburgh Bridge Is—
The good news is that the Fern Hollow Bridge replacement reopened ahead of schedule after a new bridge had to be built to replace the old bridge that gave up on life and said, “I’m Audi, Cher Horowitz.”*
The bad news is that it looks like the California Avenue Bridge on the North Side is thinking of unaliving itself very soon.
People living near the California Avenue Bridge said pieces of the bridge have been falling off of it. They want something done before someone gets hurt.
Chunks of metal and rusted steel sit at the corner of McClure Avenue and Eckert Street on the North Side.
"There are pieces of bolts, there's metal plates, a 10-foot pole fell off into the middle of the street," Kemmler said.
According to her, there have been customers who have seen pieces fall and, in some cases, have had their cars hit by the debris.
First, I want to say that my Limp Bizkit cover band is now named Chunks of Metal. Second:
The state said the city-owned bridge is in fair condition.
Fair?! We live in a city where giant chunks of debris, ten-foot poles, and actual bridge bolts are plummeting to the ground means that a bridge is in FAIR condition? Does fair stand for “Falling And In need of Repair,” maybe? What the hell does a bridge have to do, other than shit out its actual supporting structure, to get classified as poor in this city? Or is it only considered poor once it falls down, like, “Alas, poor bridge. Tsk.”?
Anyway, we’re all going to eventually car-surf a bridge down to the ground or river. Invest in life insurance, health insurance, life jackets, window breakers and parachutes.
Unrelated, do Jeeps float? Asking for a friend.
*Why can I remember the name Cher Horowitz but I sometimes look at one of my two children and go, “You [snap] [snap], with the face”?
8. We’re done!
Have a great week! Here’s hoping for a recovery for local son Damar Hamlin from his horrifying on-field collapse last night. Just gut-wrenching to see.
Be kind to one another and I’ll see you here next week. Or maybe I’ll see you in person on Sunday and we can be awkward together.
Dorks unite!