Academic Regalia. May 17, 2018

Copyright © 2018                                      John F. Oyler

May 17, 2018

Academic Regalia

I have been privileged for the past twenty-five years to be associated with the Civil and Environmental Engineering Department at the University of Pittsburgh, as an adjunct professor. Legally my assignment has been half-time, teaching two courses each semester. Despite being an outsider I have managed to insert myself into the department structure sufficiently to be invited to Faculty meetings.

Commencement at a large University tends to be highly impersonal because so many students are involved. Traditionally the School of Engineering has had a separate, additional ceremony in which each student is recognized individually. Even that process has become unwieldy, so this year it was decided it would be replaced by individual ceremonies for each department.

At a recent meeting our Department Chairman reported this change and added that our graduating seniors this term had requested that our Faculty members participate in full academic regalia. Although I thought this was a fine idea, some of my colleagues protested, mainly because they didn’t possess caps and gowns. That was resolved by finding a cost-effective way of acquiring them.

I was sure I still had the cap, gown, and hood I wore when I was awarded my doctorate at Carnegie Mellon in 1972. I have very pleasant memories of that day. The ceremony was held outdoors on the campus on a lovely Spring Day. Our children were three, four, and six years old at the time and had a great time playing on the lawn. I saw a television photographer taking pictures of them and resolved to watch the 11:00 news that night. Much to my surprise, they were ignored, but the one graduate shown receiving his diploma was me.

My route to the degree was tortuous. After I returned from the service and went back to work at Dravo, I began taking night courses at Carnegie Tech, mostly because it was obvious there was a lot I didn’t know about Civil Engineering. Eventually I acquired enough credits to qualify for a Master’s Degree, which I received by mail.

Four years later I had acquired a wife and was quite proud of her when she earned her Master’s Degree at Pitt and went to work for the Pittsburgh Guild for the Blind as a counsellor. At that point we were living comfortably on two salaries, with no offspring in sight. Knowing how much I enjoyed learning, she suggested I investigate pursuing a doctorate.

I quickly determined that this would require my spending two semesters in residence as a full-time student, passing a qualifying examination, and then working on a dissertation part-time. My employer agreed to let me take a partial leave of absence, as long as I could work half-time.

Shortly after I entered into this schedule, my wife announced that she was pregnant. We eventually went from two good salaries to half of one, but starting a family was well worth it. Despite numerous setbacks I did eventually complete my obligations and was awarded with a degree. I will always be grateful to my wife for encouraging it.

Fortunately I have retained my regalia all these years; sure enough I found it in the back of my closet, in the original plastic bag that housed it when it came back from the cleaners forty six years ago. I was pleased that the fancy hood with its deep blue lapels and Tartan plaid lining appeared to be in good shape. The gown however had obvious mold spots; a trip back to the cleaners was obviously required.

All that was missing was the mortar board; it had to be under all the trash on the closet shelf, or, worse yet, the trash on the floor. This precipitated a massive cleaning operation which uncovered all manner of surprising things, but no mortar board.

Not to worry, I will purchase a new one at the University Store on Fifth Avenue (fancy name for the old Book Store). Sure enough, they have manikins displaying academic regalia in their front windows. Once inside it was not obvious how one goes about ordering regalia. Eventually someone in information put me in touch with a lady who understands such things.

Turns out faculty isn’t permitted to wear mortar boards; they have their own unique headgear. “We can order it for you, but we can’t guarantee it will arrive in time for this term’s Commencement.” Frustrated, I resorted to twenty-first century technology and accessed Amazon.

I was pleased to learn that I could order a “tam” at an affordable cost and have it delivered in a few days. Unfortunately it came in a variety of colors – decisions, decisions, decisions ! When I reported my dilemma to my colleague, Julie Vandenbossche, she promptly advised me that dark blue was appropriate for Engineering Schools. A week later I took a selfie of myself in a dark blue tam and circulated it to my colleagues.

Actually an interesting alternative to the tam is a “beefeater”. Whereas the tam is octagonal (or sometimes hexagonal), the beefeater has a circular rim and a floppy top. The ones I found on Amazon were only available in black. Perhaps I will consider one for my next academic affair.

In addition to our department affair, I learned that I needed academic regalia for another event, the Graduate School Commencement services in the Peterson Event Center. Shawn Platt, one of my favorite students, defended his doctoral dissertation successfully and was scheduled to graduate this term.

His advisor, Kent Harries, is on sabbatical at the University of Bath in England this year. He was able to come back for the defense but not for the graduation ceremonies. Shawn asked me to substitute for Kent and perform the “hooding” function. This was a great honor, one that I deeply appreciate.

In the Graduate School Commencement, each doctoral candidate is recognized individually. He goes onto the platform where his advisor then carefully places his hood over his head, avoiding the mortar board corners. The newly hooded doctor is then presented with his diploma by the Chancellor.

It was a grand affair, appropriately full of dignity. I found it to be very impressive and was honored to be part of it. It, of course, was dominated by foreign students. At least three fourths of the School of Engineering Ph. D’s were foreign nationals; it is easy to wonder if this is an appropriate use of our academic resources.

Our Department Graduation ceremony was held in the Ballroom in the Student Union. It was a real treat to see all of my colleagues in their formal attire. In the past forty-six years academic regalia fashions have evolved dramatically. I am comfortable with my somber but elegant black gown, but it almost is out of place today compared with the colorful robes than are so prevalent today.

I had concluded that my favorite was a tie between Leonard Casson’s bright orange robe and Andy Bunger’s burgundy one, until my daughter Elizabeth showed up in her Stanford ebony and cardinal robe, complete with university symbols on the lapels. It was more red-winged blackbird than cardinal, easily the fanciest of all.

I was delighted with our ceremony; it was well attended by students and faculty, plus a large turnout of friends and family. It began with a formal procession of all the elegantly robed Faculty, followed by the equally elegant students. Chairman Radisav Vidic welcomed the students and guests. Then Dr. Tony Iannichione and Senior Pete Eyre each gave excellent, relevant talks. After that each of the forty-two students graduating this semester was individually introduced and formally congratulated by the Chairman.

The recessional seemed almost regal to me; it was followed by a reception in the lounge that once was the Schenley Hotel side porch, with its marvelous views of the Cathedral of Learning across Bigelow Boulevard. The reception provided the Faculty with the opportunity to meet the families of these wonderful students who are entering into a new phase of their lives.

They are a remarkable group of young people. They score well for diversity – twelve women; four black students; and students from Nepal, China, Thailand, and Latin America. We do have lots of local students; Amadeo Hirata, who was elected outstanding Senior is a graduate of Taylor Allderdice and one of numerous students benefiting from the Pittsburgh Promise.

Six of them have earned commissions from ROTC programs and are heading off for active duty. At least five of them are going on to graduate school in the Fall. Most of the rest already are committed to good jobs and will soon be functioning as effective engineers-in-training. If, as I suspect, they are representative of Civil Engineering students throughout our country, our future is in good hands.

  

 

Donora: Cement City. May 10, 2018

Copyright © 2018                                      John F. Oyler

May 10, 2018

Donora: Cement City

The April program meeting for the Bridgeville Area Historical Society was an interesting presentation on a progressive (at least at that time) planned development in Donora early in the twentieth center. The speaker was Brian Charlton, a self-described “conceptual historian” whose talk was focused on connecting concepts: social, economic, industrial and demographics. 

Mr. Charlton’s credentials include teaching history in the Belle Vernon School District, serving as curator of the Donora Smog Museum, and being a co-author of the Arcadia publication, “Donora”.  His specific subject was “Cement City”, a Donora neighborhood that includes about eighty residences constructed from concrete.

The speaker began by discussing Thomas A. Edison. He caught my attention immediately by referencing two movies I saw nearly eight decades ago – “Young Tom Edison”, with Mickey Rooney, and “Edison, the Man”, Spencer Tracy – and the caricature of Edison, the hard-working genius inventor, that they presented.

According to Mr. Charlton, Edison was much more than that. In addition to being a hard-boiled capitalist, he was also altruistic and a pioneer in social engineering, and very concerned in his legacy. Late in the nineteenth century he became interested in a commercial venture milling iron ore, a business that was not successful.

A by-product of this process was a large quantity of finely ground sand which he sold to cement producers. This contact got him interested in the production of Portland Cement and the founding of the Edison Portland Cement Company. To generate uses for his cement he experimented with making concrete furniture, refrigerators, and even phonographs.

In Edison’s mind the ideal concrete product was affordable housing. His experiments in this area led to numerous improvements in technology, including re-useable forms, continuous pouring from a derrick high above the forms, and the process of pumping concrete. He became convinced this technology would revolutionize the housing industry and provide quality housing for low income families.

Philanthropist Henry Phipps partnered with investor Charles Ingersoll and builder Frank Lambie and began to construct communities of concrete houses. The basic design was “American Four Square”, a post-Victorian style that was sometimes called “Prairie Box”. The houses were square, with four boxy rooms on each floor, a hipped roof, a center dormer, and a large front porch.

They began to build houses throughout the northeast and Midwest and eventually perfected the construction process. In 1916 the American Steel and Wire Company greatly expanded its production facilities in Donora, creating a shortage of affordable housing in that community. To counter this they hired the Lambie Concrete House Construction Company to build sixty single and twenty duplex residences, which they would then rent to foremen and middle management personnel.
When Lambie encountered problems maintaining schedule, two other firms were contracted to participate – Boston’s Aberthaw Construction Company and a Pittsburgh firm, the Nicola Building Company. Fourteen months later the neighborhood, dubbed “Cement City” by its residents, was complete and fully occupied.
American Steel and Wire sold the properties to John Galbraith in 1942; eventually they were purchased by private individuals. They have been lovingly maintained; in 1996 they were listed on the National Registry of Historic Places. The Donora Historical Society conducts popular walking tours of “Cement City” on spring and fall weekends.
Edison’s innovative technology resulted in the construction of several hundred houses; its failure to match the cost effectiveness of conventional “stick frame” houses built with dimensioned lumber, (about sixty percent more expensive) was too great to overcome.
I was puzzled at some of the technical information Mr. Charlton presented and have communicated with him regarding it. I was surprised to learn that Edison pumped concrete in 1915; most references trace the origin of that technology to about twelve years later.
I also was puzzled about the addition of bentonite to Edison’s concrete recipe. Bentonite is useful today as drilling mud, as a slurry for slurry wall construction, as a seal for landfills, as a binder in pelletizing, as an absorbent in Kitty litter, and as a laxative. It is reported Edison added it to his concrete mix to hold the slag (coarse aggregate) in suspension and retard segregation.
The entire topic of Edison’s concrete recipe is interesting. One source reports a ratio of one part cement to three parts sand to five parts slag, a significant difference from the typical one:two:three recipe prevalent in those days. A quick check of the quantities reported in Mr. Charlton’s excellent article in the Western Pennsylvania History Magazine, Fall 2013, suggests that the finished concrete weighed significantly less than one hundred pounds per cubic foot; concrete typically weighs about one and a half pounds per cubic foot.
Interestingly, the result of my correspondence with Mr. Charlton has been his suggestion that I do some research on “Edison concrete” from an engineering perspective and sort out the truth from the body of information that currently is available. Sounds like a good idea; perhaps Edison had some knowledge about materials that has not survived.
It would indeed be a treat if we could recover some samples from the existing houses and subject them to physical tests and petrographic examination of microstructure. The light weight and implied pumpability of Edison concrete could have been produced by purposely introducing voids in it; after all his concrete phonograph is reported to be made of “foam concrete”.
Mr. Charlton’s presentation was well received by the audience, as much in response to his skill as a communicator as to the content of his talk. He did a fine job reporting on a relevant historic event, one with significance to social, economic, industrial and demographic concepts. 

The next Historical Society program meeting will be at the Chartiers Room, Bridgeville Volunteer Fire Department, on Commercial Street, at 7:30 pm, Tuesday, May 29, 2018. Ms. Marjorie (Dolanch) Stein will speak on “Early Upper St. Clair, Pa.” The public is cordially invited.

  

 

A Wandering Octogenarian Mind. May 3, 2018

Copyright © 2018                         John F. Oyler

May 3, 2018

A Wandering Octogenarian Mind

According to the Third Amendment of the Octogenarian Bill of Rights, it is permissible for people eighty years of age or older to engage in mind wandering rather than thinking logically. I certainly am taking full advantage of this right lately. I begin focusing on one subject and, a few minutes later, am obsessed with something completely different.

For example, at our recent workshop on George Washington in southwestern Pennsylvania, I mentioned that the primary unit for length used in Washington’s surveys was the “pole”. Washington’s survey of a 400 acre plot of land was a perfect square with sides each 258 poles (4,257 feet) long. I explained that the term pole was synonymous with “rod” and “perch”, and that it was sixteen and one-half feet long.

Incidentally, the unit “acre” was established as the amount of land that one man could plow in one day, a plot 660 feet long by 66 feet wide (43,560 square feet). Early surveyors measured distance using a measuring stick sixteen and a half feet long; hence the term pole. Consequently, the acre was forty poles long by four poles wide.

We believe Washington used such poles in his surveys; it is well documented that Mason and Dixon brought calibrated poles with them for their well-known survey of the boundary between Pennsylvania and Maryland.

At this point my wandering mind produced the term “smoot” as another unfamiliar unit of measurement. In 1958 Oliver R. Smoot was a pledge at the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity. As a prank, his pledge class was instructed to measure the length of the Harvard Bridge, which connects Cambridge and Boston via Massachusetts Avenue, using young Mr. Smoot as a measuring stick.

He stretched out, with his heels at one end of the bridge, and a chalk mark was applied at the top of his head, a distance which turned out to be five feet and seven inches. He then got up, moved to the chalk mark, and the whole procedure was repeated. This was repeated three hundred and sixty-four times, ending up twenty seven inches from the other end of the bridge.

Eventually Mr. Smoot got tired of getting up and lying down, so his fellow surveyors resorted to picking him up and depositing him, just like any other measuring pole. The official length of the bridge was recorded as 364.4 smoots. In successive years other Lambda Chi pledge classes renewed the markings. On the fiftieth anniversary of the original prank, a plaque was installed on the bridge commemorating it.

The term became official in 2011 when it was added to the fifth edition of the American Heritage. More recently its immortality was insured when Google added it to its list of units available in Google maps. WMBR, the MIT student radio station broadcasts at a wavelength of two smoots.

Ironically, Oliver Smoot’s fifteen minutes of fame in 1958 was the precursor of a distinguished career in the field of standards. He  was Chairman of the American National Standards Institute (ANSI) from 2001 to 2002 and President of the International Organization for Standardization (ISO) from 2003 to 2004. Small wonder the unit smoot has become a household term, at least in Cambridge.

Other famous recent Cambridge characters include “Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers”. Officially named Ray and Tom Magliozzi, their popular NPR radio show, Car Talk, was aired live from 1988 to 2012 and is still being heard as reruns. When our son John was a student at MIT in the late 1980s, he took us to visit their Cambridge auto-repair shop, the Good News Garage. Somewhere I have a photograph of me standing in front of it.

Which leads me to another Cambridge legend, Harvard student “Rinehart”. Years ago I shared an apartment in Gary, Indiana, with a fellow Dravo employee, Dick Lux. A big fan of Swing Era jazz, he introduced me to the Count Basie classic, “Harvard Blues”, which features Jimmy Rushing as vocalist. It is an improbable blues song about a Harvard student in the 1930s.

The student “wears Brooks clothes and white shoes all the time.” I presume “Brooks” is Brooks Brothers and the shoes are the classic “white bucks”. He gets “three C’s and a D, thinks checks from home sublime”. “I don’t keep dogs or women in my room”. That’s easy to understand, but then Rushing inexplicably sings, “Rinehart, Rinehart, I’m a most indifferent guy”. For years I wondered who Rinehart was.

Recently I learned that there was a custom at Harvard for students to shout “Oh, Ri-i-i-inehart” at the top of their voices, in public places and public events. Apparently there was a Harvard student named James Bryce Gordon Rinehart, class of 1900, who was the subject of this fad. One version of the story is that he was a popular tutor, and some helpless scholar would stand in the Quad and shout his name when he needed help.

My favorite pastime on Saturday evenings is to listen to “Saturday Night Swing Session” on radio station WQLN (Erie) via the Internet. Years ago its host was Bill Garts, a Meadville resident whom we got to know through the Allegheny Jazz Society concerts. In those days we listened to the program live in the summer when we were at our cottage at Conneaut Lake.

After Bill died the program was continued by Phil Atteberry, another gentleman we had met through the Jazz Society. Among other things, Phil teaches English and jazz history at Pitt-Titusville. His fascination with jazz is inherited from his father, who grew up in the Swing Era. I always enjoy his programming, especially the second hour when he focuses on a specific theme.

Recently he featured an of performances by Jimmy Rushing, many of which were recorded when he was a vital part of the Count Basie. One of them, of course, was “Harvard Blues”, after which Phil discussed its unusual history. Its lyrics were written by a prominent journalist, George Frazier. He graduated from Harvard in 1932 and wrote Harvard Blues that year. By 1941 he was a well-known jazz critic and was able to persuade Basie to record the song with Jimmy Rushing as vocalist.

Although the lyrics made no sense to either Rushing or Basie, they managed to produce a classic, one that is a favorite of most jazz fans. Phil discussed the Rinehart reference and admitted he had been skeptical about the various speculative explanations regarding its origin. Recently, however he was reading John Dos Passos’ masterpiece, “1919”, and found a reference to the “Oh, Ri-i-i-inehart” custom there. Incidentally Dos Passos also graduated from Harvard in 1932; perhaps he and Frazier were drinking buddies.

So my mind has wandered from a young George Washington to an equally young John Dos Passos. The “Oh, Ri-i-i-inehart” custom has reminded me of a similar story, the origin of name “Hoya” for Georgetown athletic teams. Better leave that for a future column.