Category: default || By jt3y

Whenever it snows, I enjoy listening to the school closings and delays on the radio, even though I'm not a teacher and I don't have any children. It takes me back to childhood.

Remember when there were days like this when you were a kid? I can remember turning on the old Atwater Kent in the parlor to listen to Rosey Rosewell read the school closings while my mother heated up some Postum for me. This is a strange thing to remember, because Rosey Rosewell died before I was born, and we didn't have an Atwater Kent, and I've never had Postum. So let's start over.

If you're a Mon Valley kid, you probably grew up turning the radio over to KDKA when there was the threat of snow in the forecast. And by "threat," I mean, "a snowflake anywhere within 40 miles of the Monongahela River," because when you're a little kid praying that school might be cancelled, well, you can always hope, right?

I used to feel bad for kids who went to places like Yough School District, because they had to wait through the entire alphabetical list to find out if their schools had a one-hour delay, a two-hour delay, a two-hour delay with no morning kindergarten, or ... be still my heart ... were closed.

There were a few schools that always mystified me. What or who was "Providence Heights Alpha"? When I was growing up, it seemed like they were always getting school canceled, lucky buggers. And then all of those "Montessori schools." I had no idea what they were, but there were a lot of 'em.

If anyone doubts that there are a lot of Catholics in Pittsburgh, one listen to KDKA's school closings would disabuse them of that notion. Jack Bogut or John Cigna would read "Riverview" and then they'd be into the "Saints." "St. Angela Merici, closed." "St. Anne, closed." "St. Cecilia, two-hour delay." The poor kids from Shaler had to wait until that whole list was done, and it wasn't even like they could go to the bathroom during "St. Edward's," because for all they knew, there might be no other Catholic schools closed, and then they'd miss their announcement.

And if you missed the announcement, brother, what a pain. You had to wait through a half-hour of weather, banter, news and commercials before they'd read the list again. By then, it was time to get to the bus stop; if you went to the bus stop and your school was on a two-hour delay, you'd be standing out in the snow like an idiot. On the other hand, if you waited to hear whether your school district was on a delay, and it wasn't, you'd miss the bus. Who says childhood isn't stressful?

Luckily for me, the parochial schools I attended never canceled, so listening to the school closings was at best (you'll pardon the expression) an "academic" exercise. The nun who was the principal, Sister Mary Herman Goering, believed in the value of a good education, I'll give her that. Every other school around ours might be closed, there might be snow up to the top of the steeple on the church next door, and we'd have to find a way to school, or get marked "absent."

I'm not sure when that changed. It might have been in March of '84, when we lost most of the third-grade in a drift between the flagpole and the front door. The kids survived by eating a box of Fruit Roll-Ups they found in Timmy Johnson's book bag, and some Pop-Tarts they found in Timmy Johnson's book bag, and eventually, Timmy Johnson.

That eventually turned into a bit of a scandal, as you might well imagine. It was Lent, after all, and the Diocese couldn't decide whether eating Timmy was allowed on Fridays. He wasn't seafood, though as I recall his pants were usually wet. I don't remember how the controversy was resolved, because I was young, but if you looked in back issues of the Pittsburgh Catholic, I'm sure there was coverage.

When the snow melted, the custodian found the third-grade, of course, to the great relief of their teacher, Sister Mary Hypochondria, who was counting on them to meet their goal for the annual Easter candy fundraiser. But for those few weeks, it was pretty nerve-racking. The Bishop came for a visit and the teachers had to sneak the second-graders into the third-grade classroom through the windows while he was out in the hallway.

I thought I'd find a different snow day policy when I got to Serra, but no such luck. The monks were equally reluctant to cancel or delay the start of school; I guess they figured that if they could make it into the building wearing sandals and robes, a little snow and wind couldn't be that tough for teen-agers wearing Dockers and boat shoes.

The official explanation that I got from someone in the office was that we couldn't delay school. Many students came on buses from other school districts that weren't canceling or delaying school, and they would arrive on-time, and everything had to be ready when they got there.

That logic didn't hold up, because what about those kids whose districts did delay school? They showed up two hours late, thus missing parts of three classes and homeroom, where attendance was taken. It also hosed those of us who got rides or drove to school.

I can remember one snowy day when about 80 percent of the school didn't make it in. Those of us hopeless nerds who made it in for first bell got to sit in study hall for two hours, which gave us a lot of time to fold paper footballs and flick them at one another.

Then came college. No one expects colleges to cancel classes. Except one year, when the temperature approached negative oh-my-God and the snow came down in clumps, like on a bad '70s sitcom. The Governor declared a state of emergency and ordered all non-essential businesses and offices to close by 3 p.m., and told all non-emergency vehicles to stay off the roads.

All day, we kept asking the college administration: We're going to close, right? And the word came down, no, we're staying open.

Until about 3:20, when the power company threatened to knock the college off of the grid, and someone said: "Hey! You can go home, now! We're canceling classes!" By which time the Port Authority buses had stopped running.

This, incidentally, was the first winter I decided to commute to school instead of living there, which meant I was neatly hosed.

A co-worker who I considered a friend had a car, and was heading home to the Mon Valley. I figured if he could get me close, I could walk the rest of the way, or find someone to give me a ride.

He lived in Munhall, so I asked, "Can I ride with you as far as Eighth Avenue?"

"Um ... no."

"Wait a minute, come on! It's on your way!"

"No."

"But I'm not asking you to take me home ... just drop me off at Eighth Avenue in Homestead!"

"No, I'm sorry, no."

Now, there are a few explanations possible. Maybe he drove back and forth to campus in a truck that his family used to haul pig manure, and he was embarrassed. Maybe he liked to dress in drag when he drove his car, and didn't want anyone to know. Maybe he had a one-seat car.

Or maybe he was just a jerk. Needless to say, we were no longer friends after that, though I often wonder when they finally found him.

Er, I mean, I often wonder whatever happened to him. Yeah, that's it.

Anyway, I get nostalgic when I listen to the school closings on the radio. And until the statute of limitations expires, I refuse to say more on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me.