Last Thursday, the digital clock — that sometimes grew by as much as $172 per second — went dark.
It wasn’t because the power went out (although a recent power outage did screw with it). It isn’t because the State Employees’ Retirement System and the Public School Employees’ Retirement System are now fully funded.
Rather, it’s because the clock’s keeper, Barry Shutt, has finally given up his crusade to get lawmakers to take action to the address the two pension systems’ unfunded liability.
He took the clock home.
“I’m waving the white flag,” said Shutt. 76, of Lower Paxton Township. “Reality is what it is. They’re not going to do anything about it.”
The debt, according to the pension plans’ latest financial reports, is approaching nearly $60 billion. Over the years, the debt has risen and fallen as the value of the pension systems’ assets grew or declined in response to the financial markets. Twice a year, Shutt adjusted the clock accordingly.
He admits health issues also entered his decision to remove the clock although he toyed with the idea of ending his advocacy effort before as lawmakers told him they fixed the problem in 2017. That is when a law passed eliminating the traditional defined benefit pension plan as a retirement savings option for most new employees.
The law change, however, didn’t address the debt, he said. It just quit adding to it.
Shutt, a retired director of the state Department of Agriculture’s Bureau of Food Distribution, has said he regrets accepting a retroactive pension enhancement granted to public employees in 2001 that contributed to the massive debt. At the time, he said he had been told the plans were fully funded.
Becoming aware of how unsustainable that enhancement made the pension systems sparked Shutt’s crusade. He hoped he would not saddle his three grandchildren with the debt burden.
On Sept. 14, 2014, Shutt parked himself on a folding chair along Front Street in Harrisburg, outside the Governor’s Residence with a sign that read: “Pension Reform? Roll it back.” He recalls getting some interesting looks, as well as drawing some passing motorists to honk their horns; others gave him the finger. His presence also drew then-first lady Susan Corbett out to visit him.
“She said you know we have a lot of people out here doing protests at times but none of them is as quiet as you,” he said.
Shutt eventually moved his reform fight to the front steps of the Capitol and in 2016, to the Capitol Rotunda where his pension clock made its debut.
He moved his clock to the Capitol East Wing where for several years, it sat on a table by the entrance to the cafeteria. Passersby couldn’t help but see it when they went to buy a cup of coffee or lunch.
Shutt placed a jar by the clock to collect contributions toward paying down the debt. He said he turned the money over to the Department of Revenue during former Gov. Tom Wolf’s administration.
On many days, Shutt came to the Capitol to sit by his clock where he chatted with anyone who inquired about the clock. In 2018, he recalled former York County Republican Sen. Scott Wagner came by and told him the state should charge him for the electricity the clock was using.
That prompted Shutt to call the clock’s manufacturer to find out it cost $3.87 a year to run the clock. He had a big check made up in the amount of $7.74 for the two years the clock had been in operation – along with writing one from his bank account – and delivered them to Gov. Tom Wolf.
Wolf received them and Shutt recalls him saying the big check cost more than the amount on it.
“I said yeah, I know but I had to make the point,” he said.
During his advocacy about the pension debt. Shutt made many other memories that he now recalls with a laugh. That includes how his wife found out how much the clock cost him.
The couple attended a fundraiser for a fellow pension reform advocate Shutt befriended, former state Rep. John McGinnis, in Altoona. While recognizing various people in attendance, McGinnis looked over at Shutt and introduced him by saying this was the guy with the thousand dollar pension debt clock.
“My wife looked over at me and said ‘you’ve got to be out of your mind,’” Shutt said, chuckling. “He outed me in front of her, in front of all those people.”
Shutt’s clock was moved to a more remote area near the East Wing’s indoor fountain when renovations to the cafeteria were being made a couple years ago. It sat there barely noticeable across from a large climate clock and another clock that counts the days since the state House sent over gun safety bills to the Senate Judiciary Committee where they have idled.
Shutt removed the clock without any fanfare and took it home placing it on the landing of his staircase. He said it will sit unplugged if his wife has anything to say about it.
“I told her when I go, don’t put some silly picture in my obit,” Shutt said. “Put one of the clock and say ‘He tried.’”
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