Streets commissioner is calm in the wake of the storm

Clarena Tolson has just taken a call from Maura Kennedy in the mayor's office when her BlackBerry rings. It's Stephen Buckley, deputy commissioner for transportation.

"Excuse me, hold one sec," says Tolson, crunching the receiver of the landline between her shoulder and one ear, and planting her BlackBerry against the other.

For the next 15 minutes, the 49-year-old commissioner of the Streets Department juggles these two conversations - plus several more.

"Yes," says Tolson, in a steady alto. "That's absolutely fair. And make sure it's not just the routes, but the exact locations causing pressure points. . . . Are they impassable? That's nobody's fault. . . . Detours or closures? Because they're not parking by the curb. . . . OK. That's cool. But that's it? Confirm. Sounds too good. . . . We need to go to another phase with some of these residentials."

For a woman who has been working 20-hour days for more than a week - leading an army of 1,800 employees, directing a fleet, both city-owned and leased, of 500 backhoes, front-end loaders, dump trucks, and tri-axles in a laughably unwinnable battle against snow that just won't quit - Tolson seems surprisingly calm during her work yesterday.

"I'm a pretty even-keel person," she says. "I do well in pressured situations."

Evidently. Despite careful planning and the city's best round-the-clock efforts, residents throughout Philadelphia have cursed her department, and frequently her personally, in their anger over unplowed streets, buried cars, gridlock, and the rutted ice that has made driving in Center City feel like the Olympic mogul competition.

"I get it," Tolson says. "People have been patient. They understand we had 45 inches of snow in five days. But when you have to get somewhere, you want to get going, and it can be frustrating."

One of her deputy commissioners appears with a status update on the trash and recycling picked up during the last two days. Enough trash to fill two truckloads remains uncollected in South Philadelphia, he reports, because the roads were blocked.

"Are they impassible?" she asks. By the end of the day, he says, they won't be.

Tolson calls out to her assistant. "Hey, Jackie? Get me John Wright. I need to know about snow and ice injuries."

Back on the phone, she says, "Steve, did you get in touch with SEPTA for an update on the routes they're having trouble with? Tell them they need to update. We did a lot of work overnight. . . . You guys did an excellent job. Be encouraged. Take a quick nap. . . ."

"Maura? Can you just tell Doug because we're still plowing I won't have the costs until the end of the week?"

Another call comes in on her BlackBerry, this one from the School District. Michelle Obama is planning to visit the city. A motorcade route has to be cleared.

"Wow!" Tolson says. "So, what school is she going to come to? Where is that?"

Tolson's been in this job for six years, and before that she served 10 as deputy commissioner in charge of sanitation. She and her husband, Gus, a human resources administrator in the private sector, have three children, two daughters in their 20s and a teenage son. Tolson says she has tried to teach them to find the good in every situation. Young women especially, she says, need to be encouraged to become leaders. She found that encouragement at Girls High, she says. She went on to study management at the Wharton School.

The oldest of three children, Tolson grew up in Philadelphia and was practically bred for public service. Her mother, Joyce, recently retired after a long career as a Housing Authority administrator. Her father, Edward Wiggins, is a former state legislator and administrator with the Parking Authority.

"I sincerely think of myself as a public servant," she says. Which is why, every day, she dons long underwear beneath her office clothes and drives through the city to check on her work crews' progress and to talk to residents.

Setting out for Oregon Avenue and Rosewood Street, she says, "I think it was Patton who said, 'One inspection is worth 1,000 reports.' "

On her way out of the Municipal Services Building, she runs into Camille Barnett, the city's managing director.

"I've been complimenting you all morning," Barnett tells her.

Tolson, looking embarrassed, thanks her and heads for her waiting car.

"Oh, man," she sighs, realizing she left her glasses back on her desk. The lack of sleep is taking its toll, she says, confessing that during one of the recent storms she only managed to get 20 minutes of sleep in her cold car somewhere in South Philadelphia.

"Overall, people understand the challenge. We haven't let up. Once a city like this gets saddled with this much snow. . . ."

It's hard to complete the sentence without sounding as if she's making excuses. "We have to address the realities," she says.

The city's streets are narrow. Parking is tight under the best of circumstances. And snow removal is a slow, painstaking process.

Heading south on Broad Street, she passes block after block of cars parked down the middle of the four-lane thoroughfare. Turning onto Oregon, she sees cars double-parked. Slipping over little islands of ice, she explains that these streets were plowed and salted, but people created these slick patches by tossing back the snow that fell on their cars and the sidewalks.

"I'm looking at strategies to have people not park on the street so we can clear to the curb," she says. "It's important for me to be innovative."

In Mount Airy and South Philadelphia, the department worked with block captains and experimented with a system in which residents agreed to dig out their cars, dumping the snow in the street, then drive away and allow the plows to come through afterward.

It was only partially successful, she says. "The process was slower than we had hoped. Coordinating all the residents was difficult."

She gets out of her car and walks up Rosewood. Outside the Bella Beauty Salon, a beeping tractor backs up and then forges ahead, scraping off the ice tracks.

"Thank you so much," says Kate Tuso, an unemployed legal administrator who has lived in the neighborhood all her 55 years. "I called 311 because the garbage trucks couldn't get down here to pick up the trash and I didn't want pests to show up."

"I appreciate your patience," Tolson says.

A small group of residents gathers. One complains that due to the uncleared snow, several neighbors have missed chemotherapy appointments, but most treat Tolson with respect.

"Where are you going to put this stuff?" asks Carlo Cipresso. The 61-year-old veteran looks at a mountain of dirty snow. "If you had dump trucks waiting, you could take this away."

Tolson explains, gently, "As you can see, this is a slow process. If we had a dump truck waiting all this time, we'd block the street. What we do is put the snow in these piles and then, when the road is clear, bring in the dump trucks to carry the piles away."

Cipresso seems mollified. "I would have liked to get out sooner," he says. "But I can understand. It's a big city."

"The most important thing you can do is understand," Tolson says, thanking him. "It takes time."

He nods, adding gruffly, "But it would have been nice if we got out sooner."