#plumbing school philadelphia

[pttedu]

Why Become A PipeFitter? Reasons To Consider It As A Full Time Career In Trades.

Technicians need additional skills and knowledge to become a pipefitter. Read more to learn how pipefitting helps in personal and professional development.

[pttiedu]

Dive into the fascinating world of plumbing and pipe-fitting as we unravel the subtle yet crucial disparities between two seemingly similar professions. From intricate installations to meticulous repairs, witness firsthand the expertise and craftsmanship that sets plumbers and pipe-fitting technicians apart. Join us as we explore the unseen differences and celebrate the unsung heroes behind the pipelines that keep our world flowing smoothly.

[hallmark-movie-fanatics]

WATCH GINNA CLAIRE MASON, DEREK KLENA, ANN-MARGRET, EVE PLUMB AND THE RADIO CITY ROCKETTES IN ‘A HOLIDAY SPECTACULAR,’ A NEW, ORIGINAL MOVIE PREMIERING NOVEMBER 27 ON HALLMARK CHANNEL

Part of the Network’s “Countdown to Christmas” Programming Event

STUDIO CITY, CA – November 1, 2022 – Broadway favorites Ginna Claire Mason (Wicked, “Preach”) and Derek Klena (Moulin Rouge!, “Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt”) star with Emmy- award winner and Academy-award nominee Ann-Margret (Bye Bye Birdie, Grumpy Old Men) in “A Holiday Spectacular,” a new, original movie premiering Sunday, November 27 (8 p.m. ET/PT), on Hallmark Channel, as part of the network’s “Countdown to Christmas” programming event. Eve Plumb (“Bull,” “A Very Brady Renovation”) also stars.

Shot on location in upstate New York and at Radio City Music Hall, “A Holiday Spectacular” features the Radio City Rockettes in speaking roles and performance numbers, choreographed by director and choreographer Julie Branam (Christmas Spectacular).

In 1958 Philadelphia heiress Maggie (Mason) puts her high-society wedding plans on hold in order to sneak up to New York City and make her secret dream come true: dancing live on stage in the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall. While her family thinks she’s staying in New York City with an “approved” friend from boarding school, Maggie is living a completely different life than she’s ever known. She falls in love with New York and dancing with theRockettes. Maggie soon feels caught between two worlds, made even more complicated by her chance encounter with young U.S. Navy photographer John (Klena). Will Maggie find the courage to tell her family what she wants for her future instead of accepting the future that was decided for her?

“A Holiday Spectacular” is from Hallmark Media & Madison Square Garden Entertainment. Dustin Rikert and Jessica Tuttle are executive producers. Tony Glazer and Summer Crockett Moore are producers. John Putch directed from a script by Julie Sherman Wolfe.

[badstepsmoving]

charlie's statistics.

statistics.

nickname/alias. char, charles age. 48 date of birth. july 4th gender. trans-man. to note: charlie is not publicly out, the only people who know are mac and dee. if you write either of those muses, you do not need to go along with this part of my canon (charlie will still be trans, but your mac or dee does not need to know). whatever you're comfortable with. pronouns. he/him/his orientation. biromantic, demisexual. race/ethnicity. white height. 5'5 hair. dark brown, graying at the sides right above his ears. often messy and unkept (and greasy) eyes. green piercings. n/a tattoos. "badnew" tattooes on his left forearm parents. shelley kelly (deceased), bonnie kelly siblings. bunny and candy kelly pets. n/a occupation. janitor and occasional bartender at paddy's irish pub hometown. philadelphia pennsylvania current residence. philadelphia, pennsylvania likes. slimy and slippery things, ghouls, adventures, cats, cheap beer dislikes. loud sudden noises, crowded spaces, being told what to do. hobbies. exploring, dressing in costumes, writing music, singing, hanging out under bridges, wandering the sewers. positive traits. kind, empathetic neutral traits. restless, concerned negative traits. emotionally reactive, quick to anger, reckless alignment. chaotic neutral neurodivergencies & disorders. anxiety, cptsd, depression, autism. personality. very kind and loving, has a big heart. can come across as a bit odd or silly but always means well.

biography.

charlie kelly was born on february 9th, 1976. charlie was raised by his mother, bonnie kelly. his father, however, was never in the picture. he often felt of himself as an outcast, having a hard time connecting with other children. he struggled in school with reading and writing. the only other kid he seemed to connect with was ronald mcdonald, who would end up dubbing the nickname “mac”. during high school charlie continued to be picked on by other students. he was often chastised and called “dirtgrub”. he didn’t fully understand that other kids were making fun of him. he stuck with his friends, spending most of his time skipping class with mac and spending it under the bleachers. when he looks back on his high school experience, he is convinced that he was a cool kid, blocking out a lot of the negative memories. charlie found his love for music in high school, finding it a good way to release his emotions. music always came easy to him. he was always able to listen to a song and play the melody on the piano, eventually he learned how to add harmonies and other musical elements. through out high school he also worked a series of odd jobs to get extra money, helping support his mother by pitching in money for bills. he didn’t spend much of it, he ended up putting most of it away in a savings account. in 1998 he began working as a manager at south philly skate, a local roller rink. mac also got a job at the roller rink. charlie was very passionate about his job, and once he heard word that the owner of the rink, smokey, was going to shut the rink down due to financial troubles, he knew he needed to save the business. so him, mac, and his friend dennis came up with an idea to buy the rink. when they approached smokey with the idea, he informed them that it wasn’t actually the roller rink that he was going to have to shut down, but a dive bar down the street. once “the gang” purchased paddy’s pub, charlie began working at the bar as a janitor.

verses.

one - set post season 16. charlie currently works at paddy's irish pub and lives in a small apartment with frank reynolds. two - charlie has just graduated from high school. he does odd jobs for people in his neighborhood, usually maintenance or plumbing work as well as pest control. (charlie can be anywhere from 18 - 22 in this verse). three - this verse is set right after charlie, mac, and dennis purchas paddy's pub from smoky. charlie is 25 in this verse, and just getting started as a janitor at paddy's. he lives in his own apartment. four - this verse is set after "the gang gets a new member". after charlie is kicked out of the gang, he ends up staying away. he kicks frank out of his apartment, and keeps his job as a high school janitor. he has moved on from the gang, gotten sober, and spends most of his free time creating and writing music. 

[datascraping001]

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[bestprintbuy]

Real Estate Signs

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[sylvinuk-turkey]

Today was another long day but a good one!

We spent the night at our family friend Mehmet’s house, which we could tell the inside was lovely, but could only imagine what outside looked like in the dark when we arrived last night. In the morning, looking out the window and off the terrace of our 2nd floor room it was a beautiful property.

PS. Mehmet knows my nonno (Italian grandfather). They met Mehmet’s first year in grad school at university of Philadelphia where my grandfather was his “mean” academic advisor. I say mean because as Mehmet tells the story, he came to nonno after a month or so into the first semester saying “I have too much on my plate, too many hours. Why did you let me take so many?” And my nonno replied something like, “so many of you international students come thinking you’re so smart, you had to learn for yourself.”

Anyway, they had prepared a lovely Turkish breakfast on the lower terrace which I promptly forgot to take photos of. But like normal Turkish breakfast included a mixed fruit plate (pears and orange slices), a mixed veggie plate (cucumbers, tomatoes and long peppers which are a specialty here in Turkey), cheese, simit and bread, scrambled eggs and of course Turkish tea.

After our leisurely breakfast and great conversation, about Mehmet’s companies and how he’s doing some user research of all things, we started our drive towards Efes (aka Ephesus in English). On our way out of town we saw many wineries, turns out Urla and the surrounding area is known for its wineries. Mehmet said more are being built every day, sadly at the expense of the local surrounding forest.

We were meeting up with Allan and Frank at 1:30p. Reminder, we met up with Allan in Istanbul at the start of their trip, and they’ve since also gone to Cappadocia and on a boat trip. This was the trip my parents were going to take with them, but we’re sadly not able to. Gokay’s parents ended up taking my parents spot on the boat and the four of them had a lovely time.

Anyway, Frank and Allen were coming from the boat (Gokay’s parents went back to Selimiye), and we’re meeting us at Efes for a guided tour. Mehmet, Julia (his wife), Gokay and I were arriving a little early and decided to stop at the “Virgin Mary House” which is about a 10 min drive up the hill from the Efes “upper entrance” where we were meeting them and the guide.

The Virgin Mary house was a quick visit. It’s a 2-3 room stone “hovel” that had been turned into a church honoring the Virgin Mary. You go in one door and out the other in a minute or two. Honestly, the walk from the parking lot to the site was longer (and longer on the way back because it was up hill). Then we drove back down the hill and waited ~10 minutes at the touristy cafe across from the upper entrance eating an ice cream bar.

Once they arrived we used the restroom, added more sunscreen and we were off. It was a 2 hour tour from the upper gate to the lower gate. Such a large city of incredible ruins, and we haven’t even uncovered half of it! The guide said they’re actually doing that on purpose as things are much better preserved and secure underground. The ruins spanned from 3000 BC to 300AD (ish). It went from a pagan site, to Greek, to Roman, to Christianity. So there are pegan temples turned churches, the theater is Greco-Roman (Greek because they had to build up a hillside, roman because they didn’t think people would pay attention with a view so they put a building backdrop). One statue, or what was left of one (photo above) showed they knew the world was round, but that information was lost. They had a library, which we took a picture in front of. They also had plumbing and heating including inside these 7 incredible “terrace houses” they’ve uncovered (photo below). It was amazing!

Once we finished we had a little snack at a local shop near the street bazar, since it was Saturday. Then Gokay and I had a van bus to catch, while Allen and Frank made their way to Izmir for their last day in Turkey. So we said quick goodbyes and went our separate ways.

Our van bus went to Aydin, where we had to wait an hour to take a different bus to Marmaris at 7:30p. We stopped in 3 places on the way plus two police stops, so we didn’t get to the Marmaris bus station (otogar in Turkish) until 10:20ish. Then we had to take a taxi to pick up a rental car. Then Gokay drove the manual transmission car 45 minutes through the dark curvy mountain roads to Selimiye. We arrived around 11:45p, after having taken 6 types of transportation today!!! Phew!

His parents were so sweet to stay awake but we all were in bed around 12:15a or so.

[ainews]

A Pennsylvania middle school is taking a stand for forgiveness after their water supply tested positive for high levels of lead.

The school in Philadelphia, which serves approximately 600 students, had its water supply tested in 2019 and the results showed that the drinking water contained lead levels that were above the federal limit of 15 parts per billion.

The school district closed the taps and began an immediate investigation into the source of the contamination. They found that the lead was coming from the building’s plumbing, which was installed over 80 years ago.

The school district, in an effort to promote forgiveness and understanding, has released a statement that reads: “We understand that this finding is unsettling and we want to assure our school community that we are taking steps to address the issue. We have taken steps to replace the old plumbing and to provide clean and safe drinking water to our students and staff.”

The district has also taken steps to ensure that students and staff are informed about the issue and have been offering counseling services for those affected.

This incident is a reminder that we all should take the time to forgive and understand those who may have made mistakes in the past. The school district’s action is a lesson in forgiveness and the importance of understanding and learning from our mistakes.

[usnatarchives]

Boy's Bathroom, Gloucester Training School 1948, Plaintiff's Exhibit No. 42 for civil rights case Alice Lorraine Ashley, et al. v. School Board of Gloucester Co. NARA ID 159139420.

Girl's Bathroom Botetourt High School 1948, Plaintiff's Exhibit No. 28: Alice Lorraine Ashley v. School Board of Gloucester County. NARA ID 159139394.

#OTD 1954: Brown v. Board Decided

May 17, 1954: In a landmark civil rights victory, the Supreme Court decided unanimously in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka that racial segregation in public schools was unconstitutional.

Separate and Unequal: VA Public Schools (circa 1948)

The fight to desegregate schools started long before the Supreme Court’s decision in Brown v. Board. See the Text Message: Equalization and its Role in Dismantling Racial Segregation in Virginia Public Schools by Grace Schultz, archivist at the National Archives at Philadelphia (related DocsTeach Lesson Plan).

Photos from Alice Lorraine Ashley v. School Board of Gloucester County, one of several cases the NAACP brought across Virginia in attempts to equalize educational opportunities for Black and White students.

Read the blog to learn: Bathrooms: Which school had a single stall outside with no running water? Which school had 5 private indoor stalls, a small vanity mirror, and running water?

Conditions: Which school had central heating, central plumbing, and smaller class sizes? Which had outdoor bathrooms, no central heat, and overcrowded classrooms?

See the records:

Federal Records Relating to the Brown v. Board, ReDiscovering Black History blog by Tina Ligon

Teaching with Documents: Brown v. Board

Teaching with Documents: Bios of Key Figures in Brown v. Board

Eisenhower Library: Civil Rights: Brown v, Board

[handeaux]

Some Curious Tales About Cincinnati Streets And How They Were Named

Over the years, Cincinnati’s streets have been named, renamed, abandoned and vacated. The origin of some of our street names is lost in the mists of time and mythology. Here are a few attempts to sort the facts from the folderol.

Now That’s Plumb Curious

On the very earliest Cincinnati maps today’s Plum Street is labeled as “Filson Strret,” honoring the first local surveyor (and coiner of the name “Losantiville”) John Filson. By 1802, however, Filson Street had become – mostly – “Plumb Street.” There was enough confusion on this and other street names that City Council officially named the downtown streets on 12 February 1814, codifying that spelling, with a “B” at the end. One hundred years later, the Cincinnati Post [25 November 1914] claimed that it was “Plumb” Street “because other streets were platted plumb, or square, with it. While this may have been the case, there does not appear to be a contemporary record to support this theory. To the contrary, it seems that Cincinnati’s streets were “plumbed” westward from Broadway, originally known as Eastern Row. Additionally, it must be noted that the sweet purple fruit was known equally well as “plums” or “plumbs” up to around 1850. Whether by coincidence or not, all city maps after 1850 refer to “Plum Street.”

Beware The Indian Maiden!

As a useful rule of thumb, if you run across an origin story featuring an otherwise unidentified Indian Maiden, consider that legend – no matter the source! – to be unmitigated poppycock. For example, the Cincinnati Post [24 November 1914] claimed that Race Street got its name because two Indian braves raced down that primeval avenue to win the hand of a beautiful Indian Maiden. In reality, Race Street (and Vine, Walnut, Sycamore, etc.) was named by surveyor Israel Ludlow when he created to first official plat of the town. Ludlow used street names borrowed from Philadelphia. Be likewise suspicious of nostalgic old ladies. Mrs. Mary Lawton, aged 80, told the Enquirer [23 June 1929] that her own father, Nicholas Hoeffer, named Race Street after a racing track he owned at Washington Park. Not so, Mrs. Lawton, not so.

Don’t Touch That Name!

Cincinnati street names accrue sentimental ties in curious ways. In 1860, Rosetta Cobb, an elderly Irish Immigrant, sold off a plot of land in the ravine between Clifton and Clifton Heights. She filed a plat with the county naming all the subdivision’s streets for her daughters – Laura, Eveline, Christiana and Julia Ann. Over the years, property sales and redevelopment eliminated all of those streets except for Julia Ann. In 1992, the owners of Clifton Colony Apartments, located at the end of Julia Ann Street, petitioned the City of Cincinnati to change the name of the street because no one could find their apartment buildings. The city reasoned that Julia Ann Cobb and her mother were long past caring. Rosetta Cobb had gone to her reward in 1872 and Julia Ann had married Franklin Underwood in 1855 and moved to Memphis where she remained for the rest of her life. Hearing no objections, the city renamed Julia Ann Street to Clifton Colony Drive. One year later, Ronald Meyer, the city official in charge of street names, got an irate letter from a woman named Julia Ann, demanding Cincinnati change that street name back! Her parents – apparently no relation to the Cobb family – had named their daughter after that street and she considered it to be her very own street.

No Glory For Secretaries

If you can find them, Cincinnati named two streets to honor secretaries. Amthauer Street in Fairmount is sandwiched between Tremont and Harrison and runs eastward from Adler to Pinetree. Until 1908, that little lane was named Spruce Street, but was changed to honor Louise Amthauer, a secretary in the city clerk’s office, during a wholesale street retitling by the Boss Cox machine. Miss Amthauer was a dedicated Republican and later married the county GOP chairman. There is no signage for Amthauer Street, and no pavement – it’s only a paper street. Peggie Lane in Lower Price Hill is at least paved, but also lacks signage. In 1956, Margaret “Peggie” Funk was a secretary in the City Engineer’s Office. The City Engineer needed a name for the driveway abutting Oyler School. “Peggie” was brief, easy to spell, impossible to mispronounce and didn’t conflict with any other names in the system. But the cheapskates couldn’t spring for a sign to recognize Miss Funk.

Got You Under My Spell

Street names appear on street signs, obviously, but also on maps, directories, driver’s licenses and mailing lists. Sometimes discrepancies arise. Copelen Street in Walnut Hills marks the location of Fireside Pizza in the old Company 16 Firehouse. In 1930, the Cincinnati Post [17 December 1930] printed a “gotcha” story claiming the street sign was wrong because the city directory called it Copeland Street. The Post had to eat crow a few days later when Eugene Schellinger, city draughtsman, uncovered the 1855 ordinance naming that thoroughfare in honor of pioneering resident Isaac Copelen, insurance magnate and distinguished Mason, who once lived nearby. The Post got snookered again in 1964, complaining that Wolfangel Road in Anderson Township should be spelled “Wolfangle.” Tell that to the descendants of pioneer settler Gottfried Wolfangel! Not so easy to explain were the manifold misspellings of Whetsel Avenue, honoring Madisonville farmer and military hero Henry Bramble Whetsel. That road winds through three political jurisdictions. In the mid-1990s, an observant commuter noticed the correct spelling on Cincinnati’s signs, but Madeira spelled it Wetsel and Hamilton County opted for Whetzel.

That’s No Lady! That’s A Surveyor!

Jo Williams, born 1981, is a British speed skater and Jo Williams, born 1948, (now Dame Josephine Williams) is a British social worker. Neither of these ladies has anything to do with Jo Williams Street in Northside, which has been connecting Colerain Avenue and Blue Rock Road since 1853. “Jo” in this case is Joel Williams, one of Cincinnati’s earliest settlers. Williams competed with Israel Ludlow to draw up the official plat of Cincinnati. The town fathers chose Ludlow’s plat. Williams attempted to claim the Public Landing through a curious application of squatter’s rights but lost in court. He was more successful as an innkeeper, real estate investor and operator of Cincinnati’s first ferry. A stint as a surveyor has proven effective at getting a street named for you. Jo Williams’ nemesis, Israel Ludlow, is recognized by Clifton’s main drag, while (John) Filson Street, (Joseph) Gest Street and (Eli) Elder Street honor other local surveyors.

Not All Streets Have Happy Endings

Few people give a thought to Northside’s Gulow Street. It’s a short stretch of pavement with a few nondescript buildings and a parking lot, but it has an odd-sounding name. The street honors the memory of August E. Gulow, a merchant tailor who kept a dry goods shop at Knowlton’s Corner for many years. The little byway had been known as Oak Street, but City Council changed the name to Gulow in 1870. By 1900, Mr. Gulow was slipping into insanity, distraught after two daughters died from tuberculosis. The family did all they could to keep the old man out of an institution, but on 5 December 1901, he grabbed a razor and repeatedly slashed his stomach. He died six days later and is buried at Spring Grove Cemetery. His name lives on in that little street.

[okay-victoria]

Random Personal Rant

For anyone somehow here not from the original thread, this started off me getting asked what finishing school is and me getting shit off my chest that is only mildly relevant about how I could both be of the social class that gets sent to finishing school and grows up on welfare.

With an understanding that in many parts of the world it wouldn't qualify as so, as far as the US goes, my dad is from what counts as a very old money family from Baltimore & Philadelphia. Both his siblings went to college and one now owns a major hedge fund, and his sister is married to a C-level executive at a huge conglomerate. His parents went to college. His grandparents went to college. All eight of his great grandparents went to college. My dad...did not go to college. He was not about that life, and while I don't mean it as an insult, when I say his primary occupation until I was ~5 was a drummer in a mediocre band I mean that he opened for a lot of great acts, and if you lived in the Boston to Atlanta area in the 80s you may have heard him play, but he was never a huge national name. But he wasn't an amateur band playing for free at some random local gig either.

My mom grew up on a chicken farm in a Mennonite family in Pennsylvania but also completely rejected her heritage and became a model, sort of like my father, of mediocre status. Not Giselle Bundchen, but had national contracts and if you have a Graco ad/box from 1990-1993 you might see both me and her on it. They met because my mom's friends placed bets, one each, on who could sleep with a member of their favorite local band first and my mom picked my dad and...my mom was actually supposed to go be a model in Tokyo and found out she was pregnant with me and couldn't go 😂

So, after my parents had two kids back to back with a third on the way and determined they needed lifestyles more in line with having three children, they became much poorer than they originally were because my mom stopped working and my dad, with a barely-passed-high-school education but needing a true "day job" worked day labor in construction. My dad's father was too proud to give us money/help if my dad didn't beg for it; despite having eventually four young children my dad never did so we ended up on all the state assistance programs one could imagine. My grandma jokes that dinners at my parents house were BYOC - bring your own chair, because we didn't own any.

My mother and paternal grandmother had no such pride issues and I live in eternal gratitude that my welfare childhood was not as crappy as it should have been because my grandmother would have my mom accompany her on grocery runs and buy us food without my father or grandfather knowing, and every Christmas and birthday my grandparents/godparents could give us the one big ticket gift all the kids wanted that year. But, on the other side, I once got stung by a bee inside my mouth because my brother threw a hairbrush through a cracked window at me and broke it and we couldn't afford to fix it for about two years and a hornet got in one day and rested himself in my coke can (my parents were the very American type that fed me coca-cola in baby bottles at age 8 when I was jealous of my younger siblings lol).

It is hard not to believe in "toxic masculinity" when two men warring over dumbass pride issues would rather their children/grandchildren go without food than suck it up and decide 'help' isn't the worst word in the English language, and you know you've only been saved by two women who came from totally different backgrounds and entirely disapproved of each other but reached out the hand to shake when it came down to toddlers getting the short end of the don't-bend-the-knee stick. It wasn't that either of the men were bad people, I loved them both and got along great with both, but on a societal level I feel they were socialized in a very fucked up way if that was the end result, as both claimed "male pride" in these instances [my dad took multiple thousands of dollars I'd saved from working during college from me during the 2008-2010 financial crisis and didn't tell me and that was the reason I was given for why I hadn't been informed/asked, because it would be too emotionally difficult for an adult man to ask a young woman. My graduation present was them repaying me 1/3 of the money they'd taken from me without asking because I'd like, trusted them when it had been in a joint account that was a holdover from when I was <18 and couldn't have my own bank account].

While in some ways my parents on the surface achieved the American dream of going from nothing to a bunch of money, the real factor in play was that my dad's father was the bank. My parents had no credit and couldn't get real loans. My dad worked construction and during the two major periods that flipping houses was very lucrative, he never had to get an actual loan or pay actual interest, he just had to ask his father to pay out cash and then repay him at a flat 2% interest rate that didn't even accrue over time, just...whenever you are ready, repay the value of the loan + 2%. Because my father was doing something productive, in these instances, my grandfather was happy to pay, because it wasn't giving away money, it was loaning it. I had a very weird situation of mostly being poor but like also getting taken to the "big donors" events at the Kennedy Center and my grandparents regularly buying me a dress as a child worth more than my mom's wedding dress and also needing to pretend I fit in with these people.

And look. When I say "these people"...honestly, by and large, most wealthy people, whether inherited or not, are not the assholes you want to imagine. Most of them are extremely nice. Most of them are generous when it comes to the less fortunate who are in their personal sphere of being. Most of them are just really out of touch. The 100% kindest of all of them that I know once relayed to me that she thought people would be happier if once a year they did what she did...go to the airport with a purse packed full of absolute necessities, buy a one way ticket to the most appealing destination on the flight board, buy your clothes and book your accommodations after you'd arrived, and come back after you felt you'd 'centered' yourself. She didn't understand why there were so many unhappy people who weren't taking this very obvious route to being happier. I didn't quite know how to explain that saying "most" people couldn't afford to do that either financially or from a job/career angle didn't even cover it, as "most" sounds like 70% instead of 99.7%.

I was both my parents eldest son and eldest daughter in the worst combination possible. I was the eldest son because I was the most stereotypically male of all my siblings, in everything from desire to physically fight the battles I was given to dislike of shopping/fashion to lack of emotional connection to my relationships, so I can now fix your average household plumbing/drywall/electrical issue better than most "city" guys I interact with and remain less clingy to them in the process. I was also very much the oldest daughter from a responsibility perspective, I managed our household and from age 10 - 24 managed the finances of our family business, my mom almost died giving birth to my youngest brother after a ruptured uterus that should never have happened in the first place if we had adequate insurance to get her a non-emergency C-section (I was just past 9 years old at the time) and I was informally withdrawn from school for two years to take care of the family when she couldn't because there is no paid parental leave in the US and we got double-fucked by the medical industry because she got a bad "mesh" put in and then had to have a further surgery to repair that which we also had to pay for and didn't have the money to win a lawsuit over.

I don't know quite how to put this, but in the deepest fuck you of the universe, my rich-immigrant-ggggg grandfather's money led to him owning banks, insurance companies, etc, and the family cashed out in a big way when their ownership was bought by and merged with what is now Cigna, one of the biggest US healthcare insurers, and my nuclear family specifically got screwed by the American health insurance industry, but anyway, we were the people selected for that karmic comeuppance so if you want to feel schadenfreude at my expense, I'll allow it without begrudging the sentiment, my family might have fucked up your family’s life too, not just their own.

I got up twice a night to feed my brother because my dad had to sleep unmolested in my room to get to work and my mom was too weak to carry my brother or even hold him against her while she nursed so I had to hold him up to her. Adjusting to living in a city and hearing lots of random noises all the time was not easy when I'd had mom sound instincts from age 9.

I learned to drive the fall my youngest bro was born because my mom couldn't and I had to get my middle brother to preschool and go the grocery store on my own. While I hold absolutely no ill will towards my father or grandfather for this and given that about 1/3 of my paternal family either has an autism diagnosis or should, I fully feel the struggles they both went through to be communicated with, my father wouldn't ask for help, and my grandmother that lived 20 minutes away couldn't give enough help because my grandfather refused to do a single dish on his own as that was outside their "marriage contract" type agreement and she couldn't ever stay with us overnight when there wasn't a clearly-communicated need, so they let the burden fall on a 9 - 11 year old child and that really shaped a lot of my life in both good and bad ways. My youngest brother is 22, and we have only just climbed out of the medical debt his birth left us with between my dad's life insurance and my oldest brother and I paying for the extra cost of out-of-state college tuition.

The irony of all of this is that because my father died before his father, when my grandmother dies, my siblings and I will all inherit enough money (as a non-blood relative my mom, despite keeping her vows to part at death and not having remarried in eight years, is cut out entirely) to make this a non-issue, but my grandfather couldn't conscience spotting his unluckiest child some money in the end of days to pay for my youngest two brothers' education and take that worry off my father as he was dying. The day before he died I had to hold him down in bed to keep him from trying to climb in his truck to go to work because he was so anxious about trying to provide for us in spite of his father having fuck you money, because his father didn't think it was fair to the other siblings (who, at the time, still owned a major hedge fund and were married to a C-level executive of a huge conglomerate). A day and a half later I went back to my job because at the time I was then the sole provider for the family and didn't want to risk asking for the standard week's bereavement leave when I knew I was capable of showing up at work the next day and was fresh out of college so hadn't built up a reputation yet.

My father worked the day each of us was born, so I suppose it is only fair and he smiled at the choice. In spite of what it may seem, I gave a baller and very heartfelt speech at his funeral to all his rich friends that over and above everything, he'd taught us how to be happy with our own lives no matter what, and multiple of them emailed my mom in the aftermath to say they'd reassessed their relationship with their children in light of it, although...tbh I kind of doubt that lasted and they probably changed nothing 😅. The last good talk I had with him, two weeks before he died [his liver was going and it sent toxins to his brain that de-personed him after that and he no longer recognized me as his daughter, but as his sister], I reassured him that though we would all be sad he'd gone, we'd live on just fine without him because that's how he'd raised us, and according to my mom that was what gave him the final bit of peace he needed. Although honestly, I don't think I will ever see the strength in another human again that it took my grandmother to sit next to him and stroke his hand and tell him to close his eyes and imagine he was happy on a beach and die, for God's sake, because he was unaware and in pain and just prolonging it for our sake by then.

That type of obsession my grandfather had with assessing his children and grandchildren on the basis of economic productivity and a very black and white idea of "fair" is one you don't easily forget, I promise you. My hedge fund uncle is currently positioning himself to screw us out of our inheritance because of janky writing in the will and I'm doing my fuck all best to gain the wherewithal to go toe-to-toe with this cold motherfucker in court as the oldest and representative member of my happily much nicer and softer younger brothers who I want to remain that way not because I even care that much about the money, I know what bills affect your credit first and what you can put off paying and all of us have good enough career prospects to do our own thing, but just because I want to give the middle finger to a man that was a multi-millionaire and drew lines on his milk and orange juice bottles when I came over so he knew if I drank what my parents couldn't afford when I was approximately six. Anyway, ask me why I support major reforms in wealth taxation. I don't care who it goes to, just not that guy, you feel?

Having expendable income was very exciting for a bit after I started working but once I got to the hateable point of assessing my annual bonus and internally complaining that I'd spent the money I should have spent on a Sauternes cellar to drop five digits on bedset materials (to be fair they are drop dead gorgeous, very comfy and the factory pays a living wage for people to handmake the sheets/duvets/pillows to people in San Francisco, which is not cheap, so maybe I did more good than harm with that), I two seconds later nodded to myself and went "the government needs to confiscate more money from me". The narrative is always that the "undeserving" will use it for dumb things they don't need like iPhones or refrigerators...?...but like...I could also have gone to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought a very nice sheet/comforter set for at most a tenth of what I paid so am I really spending it responsibly either....?....who is going to get more joy out of this misspent money....?....not me, that is for sure, I probably would have had more fun going to BBB and laying on all the demo beds and buying something there.

My lifelong dream, which may become possible if/when I do have something of an inheritance, is to provide food security for one of the many towns in the US were most residents don't have it. It's the thing I remember the most distinctly over the years. I never could quite believe it when I got to the point that I could just...pay to eat at a restaurant. One of the most disappointed my mother has ever been in me is when I was twenty five and confessed I actually had no idea how much a gallon of milk cost in a city grocery store besides that it was probably between $1 and $5, because I didn't have to know. For now I make a weekly drop off of my excess produce to a mom group I met under somewhat weird circumstances but I was walking through the cut-through that went through the low-income housing back to my apartment at like 2 AM on a Saturday and these moms were out there partying and smoking weed with their kids all strapped in strollers around or the older ones watched by a rotating member of the group and I felt very safe and like these moms had a very good vibe of both living their own lives [seriously for mental health parents but in most cases specifically mothers need to be able to keep up relationships with people their age] but keeping their children safe and accounted for while doing so and trying their fuckin' best against all the odds to figure out how to make that happen when life had dealt them a shit hand.

...anyway, looping way back to the original question of what finishing school is, when I was almost done with middle school my dad had built a legit construction business that then very quickly took off because we lived in a commutable zip code to the now-rich-in-their-own-right people he went to high school with who trusted him to redo their homes. We eventually moved to that zip code but I stayed and commuted back to my old high school. But, i was a pretty wild kid which my father appreciated for a long while because I would follow him around on jobs and enjoy doing physical labor, but once I was mid-puberty and also he had to maybe show me to his high school friends that did not fly.

I snapped - not broke, snapped - my left thumb and my parents had to trap me like a wild animal to get me to go the hospital. Then I got a deep cut that partially injured a tendon in my leg and at eleven I tried to beat the shit out of my dad to prevent him from picking me up to strap me in the car and go to the hopsital. Next I got a deep splinter due to my eternal-barefoot tendencies and it wouldn't come out so got infected and I refused to go to the doctor [another weird back story but I was minorly sexually assaulted [[to be clear, not raped or anything big traumatic]] when I was eight and had to stay in hospital for a week and my parents couldn't be with me all the time so I have a permanent heebie-jeebie about going to the hospital, not true anxiety, I will go if I know I need to and I don't breathe heavy or anything, and I'm actually not permanently weirded out by sex or anything, just doctors in hospitals specifically I kind of unconsciously try to justify not needing to the extent I can rationalize it] and my dad was tired of my antics so he was like "fine if you don't go I will slice your foot in half with a Swiss Army knife to get it out" and I called his bluff and laid down on the floor, stuck my foot on his lap, and he didn't really know what to do when a barely fourteen year old girl called his bluff so my brothers watched in fascinated but horrified awe as I got my foot sliced open spectacularly so that the infection/splinter could come out and I didn't even make a sound out of spite despite it being quite painful to my recollection almost twenty years later.

They saw me cry from pain exactly one time when while trying to break up a fight between all three of them (it was over ice cream) I got pushed and my ankle got dislocated and what actually made me cry was snapping it back in place and they realized it was not a joke. These dumb assholes that I love have ragged on me for "skipping" chores the day after I was in the hospital because the day before that I had to spend 18 hours running Thanksgiving as a good sub-hostess like I didn't have a serious infection that needed treating and couldn't rest because none of them were up to any task beyond peeling potatoes.

After the Swiss Army knife incident, my dad's discussion of sending me to finishing school became real, which I knew when my mom made me take a walk with her and talked about it. Finishing school is like...etiquette school....? In ye olden day when finishing high school was not the norm for anyone, wealthy men finished high school and wealthy women often went to "finishing" school to have a combined education on being a proper lady but also being able to hold a decent conversation with your presumably-educated husband, so it wasn't entirely etiquette non-academic. It was more just like "what a rich man wants in a wife" school, which was sort of household management and knowing enough about cleaning/cooking to correct the staff if they fucked up, how to be a polite hostess, and how to not entirely bore him when you were alone together and had done your five minutes of sex or whatever so actually had to have a conversation. In modern times it has obviously expanded to be less bleak.

I said miss me with that, I can be a girl on my own, so I went full throttle into the girliest sport they offer in high school and ever since have gained the inestimable advantage of knowing how to also use femininity to my advantage, which I am very grateful to my parents for making me learn. It would be great if we lived in a world where that didn't count, but it did/still does, and they really set me up to operate in all the worlds.

It is weird for me to tell the story to Internet strangers because it's one of those things that makes your parents sound terrible and abusive in the general tone of the Internet nowadays, and while I support gender nonconforming children I don't remember my childhood or parents that way. But, I feel like the bits and pieces of my life I've given don't always make a ton of sense together without the context, so here it is, and in the end, I think a number of parts of it are areas where you can probably understand where it makes me have the opinions I do when I write.

Anyhoo, this makes my life sound far worse than it is, I actually have a great life and I am not unhappy with it at all and feel I was on the whole blessed with many more turns of luck than unluck, so, please, do not take this as a depressed artist rant, it is more like a rant of a very energetic person who rants about a lot of things all the time and didn’t need to come out but just did because the question was asked and the time was right with my life being in a bit of flux to think about how I got where I am and where I want to go and why.

Always remember no matter what problems it seems like I have, if I didn’t solve them on my 2 year round the world traveling hiatus I took from working, it’s my own fault, I definitely had the time and money to solve them and just chose not to.

[pttedu]

What Are Some Of The High-Paying Sprinkler Fitting Jobs To Look For?

The pipefitting industry offers ample opportunities. Read more to explore some high-paying sprinklerfitting jobs that suit your interests and objectives.

[pttiedu]

Discover the nuances of a promising career with "Becoming A Steamfitter or Pipefitter: Key Differences." This concise guide unveils the essential distinctions between these two trades, providing clarity for aspiring professionals. Dive into the intricacies of steamfitting and pipefitting, understanding their unique skill sets, applications, and industry demands. Whether you're navigating career choices or seeking to specialize, this resource equips you with insights to make informed decisions. Explore the world of pipes and steam systems, and chart your course towards a fulfilling and successful career as you unravel the key differences that set steamfitting and pipefitting apart.

[hallmark-movie-fanatics]

‘A Holiday Spectacular’: Ann-Margret, Eve Plumb, Derek Klena, And Ginna Claire Mason To Star In Hallmark Christmas Movie

EXCLUSIVE: Hallmark Channel has greenlit A Holiday Spectacular, a new Christmas movie starring Academy Award-nominated Ann-Margret, Eve Plumb, Tony Award-nominee Derek Klena, Ginna Claire Mason, and featuring the Radio City Rockettes. The movie will air as part of the 2022 Countdown to Christmas programming.

The story is set in 1958 when a Philadelphia heiress named Maggie (Mason) puts her high-society wedding plans, to a man she doesn’t love, on hold in order to sneak up to New York City and make her secret dream come true: dancing live on stage in the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall.

While her family thinks she’s staying in the Big Apple with an “approved” friend from boarding school, Maggie is living a completely different life than she’s ever known. She falls in love with New York and dancing with the Rockettes.

But she soon finds herself caught between two worlds, made even more complicated by her chance encounter with young U.S. Navy photographer John (Klena). Will Maggie find the courage to tell her family what she wants for her future instead of accepting the future that was decided for her?

Clink the link for the full article over at Deadline.

[chiseler]

The Bombing of Black Wall Street

O.W. Gurley 

On the night of May 13th, 1985, as Derek Davis has so eloquently documented in previous issues of The Chiseler, the Philadelphia Police Department dropped a packet of C4 explosives onto the West Philly house occupied by MOVE, a black radical group whose sociopolitical agenda was fuzzy at best. You should read Davis’ stories to more fully understand how and why this came to pass, but suffice it to say in the end eleven people in the house (including several children) were killed, and some sixty surrounding homes—an entire city block’s worth—were allowed to burn to the ground.

At noon on September sixteenth, 1920, a group of anarchists detonated a horse-drawn cart packed with explosives and shrapnel in the middle of Wall Street, killing thirty-eight capitalists and sending hundreds more to area hospitals.

Nine months after the Wall Street bombing and sixty-four years before MOVE, an incident which in a way echoed both events took place in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but with far more devastating results. The Bombing of Black Wall Street, as it was sometimes known, would go on to be just as forgotten, at least in white history books, as both the MOVE and Wall Street bombings.

In 1906, a wealthy black entrepreneur named O.W. Gurley moved from Arkansas to Tulsa, where he bought up forty acres of land on the northern outskirts of the predominately white town. He had a plan in mind, and would only sell parcels of the land to other African-Americans, especially those trying to escape the brutal economic conditions in Tennessee.

Within a decade, the resulting thirty-four square block community, which had been dubbed Greenwood, had evolved into one of the most affluent regions of the state, and certainly the wealthiest and most successful black-owned business district in the country. A few of the new residents had even struck it rich when oil was discovered nearby. Along with the grocery, clothing and hardware stores that lined the main commercial strip, Greenwood boasted its own schools, churches, doctors,  banks, law offices, restaurants, movie theaters, a post office and a  public transportation system. The houses had indoor plumbing, and, even that early in the history of aviation, six of the residents owned private airplanes. Thanks to Segregation laws which prohibited blacks from shopping in nearby Whites-Only stores, the African-American residents of Greenwood shopped at their own local stores, which kept money circulating in the community, only bolstering their economic strength.

By all accounts, the people who lived there were extremely proud of what they had forged, especially the school system, insisting each and every child of Greenwood receive a full and solid education.

Although generally referred to as “Little Africa” or “Niggertown” in the Tulsa Tribune, Tulsa World, and other local papers, the residents of Greenwood preferred to think of it as Black Wall Street, a nickname that has stuck to this day.

As you might imagine, the much poorer white residents in surrounding Tulsa resented the wealth and success of their black neighbors. This resentment was only fueled by the local papers, in particular the Tribune. Taking their lead from the local chapter of the Klan, more often than not the Tribune’s writers insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary, on caricaturing the residents of “Little Africa” as either stupid, shiftless, shuffling drunks or drug crazed, wild-eyed criminals and rapists running wild in the streets. Meanwhile, editorial writers over at the World even recommended conscripting the Klan to restore law and order to the community.

Combining the reality with the grotesque cartoon proved to be a poor white racist’s worst nightmare. Not only were those blacks in Greenwood subhuman, they were rich subhumans. Jesus God Almighty!

The simmering anger reached the boiling point on May 30th, 1921 when seventeen-year-old (and white) Sarah Page accused nineteen-year-old (and black) shoeshine man Dick Rowland of rape. Page worked as an elevator operator in Tulsa’s Drexel Building, and claimed Rowland attacked her while she was  on the job. No one really knows to this day what happened in that elevator, but later investigators who’ve looked into the case genrtally agree there was no rape. Rowland would claim he either bumped into Page accidentally or stepped on her foot—he couldn’t remember. At the time it didn’t matter. The following morning’s Tribune ran a racially inflammatory, lurid account of the fictional crime in which they essentially declared Rowland guilty. A hearing was scheduled for that afternoon, and the paper further erroneously reported the gallows was already being built outside the courthouse for that night’s hanging.

Whether or not a rape had occurred was, to be honest, irrelevant. It was simply the easiest and cheapest way to rile up the angry white masses. If the paper had run an article about economic disparity and racial class resentment turned on its head, all it would have encouraged its white readers to do is flip forward to the sports section.

The residents of Greenwood understood this, and on the 31st, the day of the hearing, a group of men, some of them armed, showed up outside the courthouse in hopes of protecting Rowland.  When they arrived they found themselves facing off with the much larger (and better-armed) angry white mob, there to ensure Rowland was hanged, trial or no trial.

Words were exchanged and a few scuffles broke out. A white man reportedly approached an armed African-American WWI vet, and demanded he hand over his gun. When the vet refused and the white tried to wrest it from him, the  gun went off, and the riot was underway.

Realizing they were outnumbered, the mob from Greenwood retreated towards home, only to be pursued by the white mob, both on foot and in pickups.

It’s worth noting that the confrontation outside the courthouse had gone on for several hours before the few cops onhand to keep the peace finally called for backup. When all hell broke loose after that gunshot, the cops quickly began deputizing whites on the fly, giving them the authority to make arrests. A few did, and an internment camp set up at the local fairgrounds quickly began to fill. Most of the new deputies didn’t bother, and just started shooting.

As the white mob entered Greenwood, they immediately began looting and torching every building they passed. For the next twelve hours they rampaged through the neighborhood, whooping and hooting as they smashed windows, kicked in doors, took potshots at fleeing residents, and set fire to anything that wasn’t already ablaze. Several eyewitness reports claim two small planes flying over the community started dropping what some believe were kerosene bombs and others believe was dynamite on the already raging inferno. Firemen who arrived on the scene to douse the fires were turned back at gunpoint by the rioters.

The number of white families from nearby neighborhoods—a lot of mothers and children—who gathered around the edges of Greenwood to watch the carnage has led some to believe the attack was planned well in advance, likely by the Klan. They were just waiting for an excuse.

The National Guard arrived shortly before noon on June 1st, but by then most of the rioters had gone home. Along with trying to control the flames, the Guardsmen also began arresting Greenwood’s residents. By the time the fires were put out, all thirty-four square blocks of Black Wall Street had been burned to the ground. An estimated three hundred had been killed, another eight hundred hospitalized, ten thousand were left homeless, six thousand were being held in the internment camp at the fairgrounds, and six hundred businesses had been destroyed. No whites were arrested or charged for their role in the massacre.

Some of the dead, it was reported, were buried in mass graves, others dumped in a nearby river, and still others dropped into the shafts of a local coal mine.

The coverage of the destruction of Black Wall Street in the following day’s Tulsa World included the headlines “Fear of Another Uprising” and “Difficult to Check Negroes.” To this day, white media outlets continue to refer to the incident as “The Tulsa Race Riot,” when they refer to it at all. The Tribune quietly removed the front page story about the alleged rape from all their bound editions, and all police and fire department files about the incident mysteriously vanished.

The day after the riot, all charges were dropped against Dick Rowland (who had been safely hidden away in a jail cell throughout it all), and upon his release he quickly and quietly left town.

Only one of Black Wall Street’s buildings was left standing, and those who survived vowed they would rebuild. They did, too, to an extent, but they were never able to fully reclaim the spirit and status the community once had. Making things more difficult, Greenwood was in a prime location in terms of business expansion. City politicians, anxious to reclaim that land, began devaluing Greenwood property, hoping they might encourage residents to sell out and move far away.

Ironically, the real death blow to Black Wall Street came when Segregation was overturned in Oklahoma in the late ’50s and early ’60s, and most Greenwood residents decided they were happy to take their business to formerly whites-only stores.

Seventy-five years after the massacre, the state of Oklahoma ordered an investigation into the events of May 31st-June 1st, 1921. When the investigation ended in 2001, it was suggested a scholarship fund be set up, and reparations be paid to the families of the victims. A few scholarships were handed out before the program was discontinued three years later, but no reparations were ever paid.

by Jim Knipfel

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