My Own Private Byzantium

There existed in my youth things that exits no more. Places of a one time significance, strong with a one time substance , but now gone, along with the people that occupied them. Vanished but for the memories. These memories form my own private Byzantium. My own ghosts of a fallen empire. My personal Constantinople existing under the golden dome of remembrance, where each old picture, each recollection, serves as an icon.

I like, with your indulgence, to place one of these Icons before you , to share my devotion.

The Sister of Carlo

On the north side of Dickinson street at Wilder, between 12th and 13th street, there once stood what was called a variety store. What was a variety store? Well it was not a grocery store, or a book store (scant few of these in South Philly), or a clothing store , it sold nothing particular - but it sold variety. That meant it sold bits and pieces of things- like cigarettes, news papers, candy, milk, pimple balls (remember them), cheap things, you know - variety.

The proprietor of this shop was named Carlo and hence his shop was known as Carlo’s, I don’t believe it actually had a sign or anything giving its name however. Carlo was a very nice man, what in Italian we would call simpatico. He followed what must have been good business practices of the 30’s as he was a most obliging shopkeeper who peddled his merchandise anyway his customers wanted, or could afford. He sold pimple balls by the half and cigarettes by the piece. Carlo was a soft spoken man with a faint smile who never left his house and shop, as I never saw him walking along Dickinson street. Carlo never married and lived his life in the rooms above his shop. Rooms he shared with his Sister.

Carlo’s Sister was always known to us as just that- Carlo’s Sister. She never had her own identity but lived her life as an extension of her brother. Like her brother she never married and the two lived in fraternal bliss, enjoying a sibling affection of which I could only dream. Carlo’s Sister was a looker in her youth and still kept the shadow of these looks when I knew her. The 1940’s must have been a golden era for her as she remained true to its memory for the rest of her life. I say this because she always looked as if she walked out of a 1940’s film noir- Laura of 12th street, Barbra Stanwick of the Dickinson. Her hair, makeup, and dress were always perfectly preserved in the style of the 1940’s, right down to the padded shoulders. Not that I am criticizing, the look became her very well and it was astounding that she kept, and could still get into, her outdated wardrobe thirty years later. She preserved the 40’s pure in her look, and despite the anachronism of her dress, was a happy bubbling personality. Nevertheless she must have had her own private Byzantium of which she could never let go.

My grandmother Mary Mazzola Oratorio enjoyed a friendship with Carlo and his sister , a friendship sustained over many years. My grandmother would often take me to Carlo’s for a treat, some silly candy cigarettes or cheap toy, gifts I enjoyed with great relish. When visiting her sister Anna Mazzola Postiglione, who lived on 13th and Dickinson , Grandmother often brought me along. Since this journey caused us to pass Carlo’s variety store, I was promised a treat at Carlo’s if I behaved at my great Aunt Anna’s. Of course no matter how incorrigible I was, and I was very incorrigible, I received the treat after every visit.

My grandmother, whom we called Ma, lived with us on a small widow’s pension. She was a generous person which was a hardship for her as she had no tangible assets. She never owned property, or a car, or stocks and with the exception of one short period in her life, always lived with a relative- her parents, then her in-laws, then each of her daughters my mother Dolores and my Aunt Geraldine. It always seemed natural to have my grandmother around as she was truly one of the most natural people I have ever come across. Born in South Philly in 1911 of immigrant parents ( Geraldo Mazzola and Serafina Paglia from San Donato near Caserta) she had only an 8th grade education. I won’t say she was intelligent, she was not that, she was just good , honest, and caring. Qualities perhaps worth more then intellect and discriminating tastes. She was a child of the depression and could control money as only a person who went through that hardship could. Even as late as 1994 (the year before she died) she could feed about 6 people a great dinner with clams and macaroni for about $20 in total!!

I remember my Grandmother would talk with Carlo and his sister at great length and with great delight about all kinds of things, always cheerful and laughing. When speaking to my grandmother Carlo was animated and loquacious, contrary to his normal reserved self. I don’t know what was the reason for Ma’s friendship with Carlo and his Sister. Perhaps they shared many experiences as my grandmother lived in the neighborhood since 1930. I would also assume Carlo’s Sister and my Grandmother shared make up and clothing secrets while listening to a fireside chat or the Baby Snucks show on the radio. While this trip to the store became a social visit , I played with all the silly things Carlo sold and always got a good bit of candy, some of which was given to me by Carlo and his Sister. I enjoyed my trips to Carlo’s.

Unfortunately these trips became fewer as I grew older and spent more time in school and had less time to go about with Ma. Carlo also became older and his store less stocked, soon he closed 2 days a week, then 4, and soon closed his doors forever in the late 60’s . His sister made no attempt to run the shop after he died and during her walks around the neighborhood, while still smiling, looked forlorn and lost without her brother. But she lived along and alone in her 1940’s memory play, until I stopped seeing her altogether in the late 70’s.

After her death the shop was sold and became a home. Now it is another overpriced row home on Dickinson Street with owners who may or may not know about the nondescript little variety story and the owner and his sister who augmented each other and lived by permission of the 40’s.

I can still see in my mind’s eye the layout of this shop with the afternoon sun illuminating the dark corner and warming the stacks of Philadelphia Bulletins. I remember the chatter of my Grandmother with her particular speech pattern, she always seemed so happy when talking to Carlo and his Sister as they must have reminded her of a freer more open time in her life. And I remember Carlo’s Sister with her padded shoulders and wave of roll curls looking like the lost Andrew Sister.

Carlo’s little variety store was just one of many shops along Dickinson Street between 11th and Broad, before the strip malls and mega stores upset our little village.

This icon – my Grandmother, Carlo, Carlo's Sister, the afternoon sun and the happy conversation.

My own private Byzantium

Melrose Aternum

Or coffee and last suppers...

Changeless consistency, endlessly guiding us toward the comfortable , the known, the safe. A mother’s womb holding her children forever in court. That is the Melrose diner., so safe , so predictable, so South Philly.

It stands there like a sentinel on Passyunk Avenue watching the rise and fall of men, politicians, cultural icons; but always true to its coffee, its butter cream cake, its platters… It may sound silly but I ask anyone from South Philly- am I wrong??? My old cousin Dunni can rise from her grave at Holy Cross and come to the Melrose and think she were as yet alive and it was 1973.. or 1963.. or 1953 for that matter… Palumbo’s has gone under , as has the Latin Mass, the Broadway movies, the Aqua Rama, , Vet stadium, the Dante.. Moyamensing prison. Yet Melrose remains . I am certain that were I to enter the Melrose now at anytime of day or night, I would be greeted with a bouffant of twisted hair and a black uniform and a what you want hon. I can’t even get that kind of consistency from my own family.

The Melrose, its counters, its solid and weighty tableware , its communal booths, it’s fresco along the wall of Industrial South Philly in the 50s? or is it 60s? Its consistently good food. It’s little ticker with nonsense information slivering round the cornices. The cash register with the miniature toboggan track attached that caused the coins to tumble and fall into a small plastic cup directly in front of you. I was always very intrigued by this machine.

The Melrose captured SP’s beat - changing menus 3 or 4 times a day to meet the needs of its clientele. The breakfast, lunch and dinner crowds and then the late night- the real magic time .. from 11 pm to 5 am , yes for who eats at these hours save those with some magic in their life. ? Late night at the Melrose would usually begin with the Gamblers fresh from a bus to Atlantic City or the track. Gambling is perhaps the greatest vice in South Philly. I never in my life ever knew anyone that ever became successful or wealthy from speculating at the track, the casino or in the numbers. Indeed I know of a number of fine people brought low by this vile addiction. The Melrose provided a respite for the speculative kind. After a big loss at the trifecta ( what ever the hell that is) when your pony ran in the wrong direction- come to mother Melrose for a coffee and a platter, gain courage before you return home to tell the wife.

The more interesting sorts came in after the closure of the Discos and night clubs. Disco was a religious cult in old south Philly, and Melrose was its sacristy. More may have actually gone to the larger Penrose ,but Melrose served the hierarchy of South Philly Guido Culture. At any give Sunday morning at around 3 am in the late 70’s , you could see a who’s who of South Philly youth and criminal elements.. At the Melrose you could compare notes about who spoke to whom , who danced the best , and who would most likly be locked in Venus’s embrace and with whom…. Might even see the odd exchange between two fellows as a result of some ill chosen action or words at one of the great discos like Valentino’s or Her Place in New Jersey or La Dolce Vita or the Branch in Philly. But few fights ever happened at the Melrose, that went against the tradition of Melrosian sanctuary.

However this sanctuary stopped at the cashier’s booth, for there were people who left the Melrose to never be seen alive again, perhaps as a result of mob business or some South Philly bravado.

There once was a disreputable red headed youth of fiery ill temperament who would shoot you if your cousin parked in front of his house and would punch you if you walked within 3 feet of his girl. He walked the line between bad and worse and one day his temper got the best of him. He made a distinctly poor decision - he decided to stab ( yes stab with a knife, how vulgar) two bouncers at a South Philly disco that existed on the side of McKean street where the sun sets. One bouncer died , the other recuperated in Methodist hospital as some kind of hero. As the owners of the bar belonged to a secret society of Sicilian origin the little red boy suddenly found himself held in a most pejorative light from said owners and secret society. This secret society had scant faith in local law enforcement’s ability to apprehend the red reprobate and bring him to justice, and so they decided to bring justice to the boy. So laddie went into hiding in South Philly. Why he chose South Philly as opposed to Wyoming I have no idea- he most likely was ignorant of the vast expanse of the American Republic west of 26th street. Still his South Philly hideout served him well for a few months , but youth is eager and he could not stay in hiding long. Perhaps his red hair gave him courage , coming no doubt from some distant Norman or Viking ancestor that plundered his way into Calabria. He was after all not the type to stay quite about anything. He reappeared, to our surprise and for all to see, in the Melrose one Sunday morning around the magic time of 3 am. The Melrose dinner at any time is not a place to seek anonymity. Even in an age before internet and mobile phones, word got out soon enough and by the time his cake came he had a escort waiting at the door to ferry the boy to the marshes that surround south Philly and a meeting with a bullet thought the top of the head as he knelt in submission. Swift and precise in old SP… This was not a mob hit , it was a mob fix- they fixed a problem and we all sleep easier. The Melrose had, by the way, nothing to do with any of these events , they just supplied the coffee.


Not everyone came to the Melrose for their last meal, some came to listen. The communal booths provided ample opportunity to eavesdrop and share ideas. You could listen to the conversation facing you or take pleasure in the fact that your neighbors were enjoying your stories. There calls to mind one rather strong memory impressed in my head- it was about 1971, a late spring afternoon. I went to the Melrose with my parents during a school holiday. We sat opposite two illustrative examples of South Philly cumardom. Two women in housedresses, one with immense hair that swallowed her head in a bleach blond rapture, and the other with short black locks. The women with the swallowing hair had that slow bleated speech pattern while the other had that husky voice somewhat reminiscent of a tired and ill Enzio Pinza. The Pinza women was discussing her morning , "Oh I been up since 5 , I had a pot of coffee and a pack of cigarettes for breakfast." Perhaps this accounted for her deep voice. Her friend with billowing high hair responded with, " oh you get up too early." the caffeine and nicotine addictions were not an issue. I would assume the women with the peculiar breakfast now lies where no cigarette could ever do her anymore harm… I wonder what became of her bleached advisor?

I also remember a time in 1970 when I decide to discuss with my father the living arrangements of my Uncle Louis and a women he was keeping company with at that time. I asked innocently enough if they were married or just living together ,which brought both sides of the booth down in hysterics or as they say in SP they bust out laughin’. I never did discover my uncle’s marital status.


When ask about Rome ,the British monk and mystic the venerable Bede said that "as long as the coliseum stands, Rome stands". Well I could paraphrase this …as long as the Melrose stands South Philly stands…. And I think it always will

For after all

Tutti che sappia va al Melrose
Everybody who knows goes to Melrose..

The Candle Man Can…..

Do you remember San Biagio day? Biagio- (pronounce B-Ā-G-O) was an important Saint.. In case you don’t speak Italian the English version is Blaise- Saint Blaise- but we did not use the English because Saint Blasie sounds like a TV detective - Blaise Saint Private Eye on NBC… Anyway we all knew Saint Biagio was Italian so why use the ‘Medican name….Many of our friends were named Biagio in his honor, and a few towns in It-Ly were also known as San Biagio.. Of course had we but consulted the lives of the Saints we would have discovered that in reality he was from Armenia , but hey that sounds Italian.

So why is this 3rd century Armenia saint important to Italians and South Philly. San Biagio was a saint of great power, for he could get us out of school. Yes every February 3rd the good sisters would bring use to a special mass the morning of his feast day ..The mass in Honor of San Biagio… Yes no school for the morning, just a low impact aerobic work out.. up… down.. knell. stand… After the mass the true meaning of San Biagio day was made known- you see in addition to scholastic schedule adjustment, San Biagio was also the patron saint of ..the throat. Yes San Biagio was in reality a 3rd century Armenian Otolaryngologist.

To protect we youngsters the dear priest would perform the time honored ritual of the Blessing of the Throat.. Quoting from the Rubrics of Roman ritual… bless the throats of the faithful ( we do nor bless the throats of the unfaithful, even if they ask) with two candles tied together with a red ribbon to form a cross. … The priest places the candles around the throat .. using the formula: "Through the intercession of Saint Biagio, bishop and martyr, may God deliver you free from every disease of the throat, and from every other disease. In the name of the Father and of the Son, + and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." Because the celebrant makes the sign of the cross with his right hand, it is best to apply the candles with both hands. Then the celebrant withdraws his right hand to make the sign of the cross, while continuing to hold the candles in place with his left hand. For the convenience of the celebrant the formula should be printed on a small card, attached to the candles… sounds tricky doesn’t it….priest had to be rather dexterous for this one…

Yes, after mass we would line up and knell along the altar rail , remember those , while the priest would produce two long beeswax candles tied together and put them at our neck in a grip that was somewhat reminiscent of Anekin Skywalker’s beheading of Count Dookoo in Star Wars III, the priest would then intone the sacred words protecting us from throat ailments … After a few years of trying to handle the candles and with one hand, while blessing with the other, a problem that sometimes resulted in dropping and breaking the candles, the church with acumen produced a new improved saint Biagio candle- two L shaped (yes L Shaped) candles fixed together in a scissor like object that could easily be held with one hand … Now this Candle Vise was a fearsome thing, and you did not exactly feel warm and cozy as the priest came at you with this instrument from some long ago inquisition.. But subject we did, for it was after all San Biagio day.

The candles were never lit. The reason for this I do not know but I feel it may have something to do with the wide use of Aqua Net Hairspray in South Philly during the 60’s . I would imagine this action saved a number of women from instant Immolation.

After the mass and the blessing by Father Anekin, we all went back to class to be told by the good Sisters that we were now immune from any illness this winter… Heaven forbid if you did get sick after the blessing... It was pure heresy… I knew kids sent to school ill by their parents in the days following the blessing, for you could not admit to the blessed sisters that the blessing and the abnormal candles had no effect.

Here is a tidbit about San Biagio that sister Margaret Mitchell never told us. He once saved the life of a child who was choking on a fish bone…I guess this was before the Heinlick maneuver.

St. Biagio day was a yearly ritual in South Philly. I have never seen a scientific study to plot the effects of the blessing. Did it work? I had a relative that reckoned the candles were actually spreading sickness. I also knew people that swore the oddly shaped candles and particular blessing kept them healthy through the cold wet South Philly winter.

I do not know if this ancient ritual is still performed in South Philly …Too old a catholic practice to keep these days.. besides the churches don’t have altar rails any longer- where you gonna knell???. Maybe now they bring in a Hindu Fakir to put the mark of Vishnu on your head and pray you don’t get a cold?? Or perhaps they pass out vitamin C in place of communion? I would however really like to know what happened to the L shaped candles – I could use them for a grand Saint Biagio Dinner party… But no fish please..

ROW ROW ROW YOUR HOME… ….
GENTLY TO THE BANK….

In South Philly we lived in row homes, and they still do, except now they are possibly called Compact Vertical City Domiciles (CVCD) valued at $220,000 each in my old neighborhood. If you divide the price by square foot , South Philly has got to have some of the most expensive real estate in the solar system. What an interesting phenomenon, up there with the Aura Borealis I think.

For years property values in South Philly were extremely stagnate and in some areas slipping downward. Consider for the same period the price of a SEPTA bus ride, .35 cents in 1974 and $1.50 by 1996, (must be $22.50 by now). Now consider the irony that Cologero’s home at 12th and Cross stayed stagnant at $45,000 during the same time. Now the same house can go from $190,000 up.

I am happy to hear about the rise in real estate. I have known many people who put $15,000 to redo a kitchen in a house worth $35,000 or $20,000 to put up a new front. Put up a new front, what a South Philly expression- go to California and say “I will put up a new front, ” and they may think it is some personality alteration workshop that you attend.

I knew a person on my block that put nearly 50 grand into home repair in the early 80’s and the house was only valued at 55 grand! But you see in old south Philly these guys were there to stay. I knew of one enterprising person that purchased two row homes, knocked out the walls and joined them to make a larger Mega Row Home (MRH). This cost a staggering $45,000 in the 1970’s, yet both houses together were valued at $55,000…. We all laughed at this absurdity…. HAHAHA but recently this house has sold for an unbelievable $370,000… so HAHAH who has the last laugh now? Well not the man who spent the money and joined the homes because he died and his son thinking the neighborhood was going downhill, dumped dad’s MRH folly for $53,000 in the early 90’s….. The guy who bought the home, despite advice that it was a bad investment , had a right jolly good stroll to the bank…There’s the old South Philly irony.,.


Well let’s step back to the old pre boom days- what was a row home like in the old days, say the 70’s? The front was normally a monument to Italian stone masonry and brick setting (or laying as they say in SP). Depending on the taste and budget some of the fronts were marvels in design with long vertical windows or turned steps, or little brick patios in front… Patios???- about 5 sq feet, just enough for Conchetta to place her beach chair- yes we called folding chairs beach chair, even through the chairs never saw a beach. They would be better classified as Cumare Portable Sitting Devices (CPSDs). This allowed the Cumare a spot in front of their home where they could spend the warm summer evenings in conversation with their neighbors about such significant ideas as the reasons and justifications of the various prices at the Ac-ame , all to the eternal annoyance of young man like myself that just wanted a good night sleep..

Passing the summer cumare, your entry to the abode was via a vestibule – a private chamber between the front door and the inner door. The vestibule was often some kind of time vortex as this part of the house would retain its original 1900 feel with Crystal light fixtures ,tiled or mosaic floors , original wall coverings and doors etc.. Why this part of the house often remained untouched is anyone’s guess, but open the door into the living room and like Dorothy in Oz, you were greeted with a rush of South Philly modernity, which has nothing in common with common modernity.

Let us start our virtual tour with the living room- they always looked very good as if it was never used.. Now that may be because it never was used.. but the Cumares were very clean and kept a spotless well ordered house. One of my neighbors on Dickinson street had a house so pristine that we called it the House of Wax - how they managed to keep it like that with a gaggle of kids and relatives is and remains to me, a profound mystery.

As for the furnishing there were 3 styles:

Style A- imitation Louie pick a number furniture, a nightmarish copy of the furnishing of royal 18th century France. Perhaps there was a connect here as the French royal family, Bourbon, were also the kings of Naples. Also Italians build and design Versailles as well as the grand palace at Caserta outside Naples – all with fittings Conchetta on 8th street would love. Style A was represented by gold leaf furniture ( not real gold leaf just gold paint) , coffee tables with gold leaf and dark smoked glass tops ( which were historical anachronism as such tables never existed in the 18th century ) , plastic slip covers that provided greater protection then was given to the mummy of any XVIII dynasty Pharaoh , velvet wall paper… need I go on? Pay a visit to Synder avenue and chances are you will see at least 15 examples of this between 10 and 13th street.

Style B - circa 1930’s to 50’s. This was not an historical revival but the original furnishing as either they could not, or would not, refurnish the house. These homes often had some real gems if you like antiques. They may be a bit musty and have the feel of a tomb, but they were interesting. Horsehair and velvet, oak and mahogany , large black phone that weight at least 10 pounds, original wood floors with carpets, glass panel doors.. the old never used piano. I liked these houses they were fun. These homes were inhabited by living antiques themselves, Gumbas of great longevity, people who saw the world of the 1970’s as if it was still the 1930’s.

Style C- This would have to win the prize, for it was South Philly Modern , yes that
hideous , repugnant, revolting and comfortable South Philly vision of modern furniture. You know the stuff they use to sell on Passyunk avenue—glass bars with stone duck pedestals or imitation leopard skin upholstery or large acrylic lamps with mirror mosaics, screens in shads of reds and yellows- large prints of women in hats in various shades of brown and the obligatory large imitation peacock or ostrich feathers ( we saved the real plumes for the mummer’s). Shag rugs – yes wall to wall carpets 15 inches thick, often in various shades of dark brown. I can not even remotely describe the effect of a small row house with wall to wall dark brown shag carpets- it was like you entered a part of purgatory reserved for unusually strict penance. In addition to shag carpets you might also come in contact with a special ceiling called a popcorn ceiling. For those unaware of the pop corn ceiling this was an incredible South Philly scam of the 70’s and 80’s. They would show up to your home in a large motor vehicle that resembled a water truck. The workers would cover everything in the house with plastic and then via a large hose apply a thick plaster like subsistence to the ceiling. This substance , which was surly not of this world, contained particles of another unknown substance that reflected light and shone like so many distant stars. It was called pop corn because it had the look and texture of popcorn. When new and white one may even have an interesting first impression, like a Christmas nativity grotto. The house sparkled in the interaction between the ceiling the acrylic lamps and mirrors, producing an eternal starry night of the dream house of South Philly…. But even if one liked this surreal effect, in 4 years it would have discolored to a horrid off-yellow and chip and stain and give the effect of one of the rooms in the 4th circle of Dante’s Inferno… This is where the scam came in , you see it only cost about $700 to put this monstrosity on your ceiling- but it cost $1800 to take it down!!! I would imagine some enterprising Napolitano was behind it all.

No matter what style the living room took you also had the SP interior design coup de grace, that collection of knick knacks- porcelain and glass and metal things, lace table covers, plastic fruit and flowers, a religious frieze of Mary or St. Joseph or St. Rita or St. Theresa, the cheap tourist memento from Rome or Venice or Wildwood or the Poconos…. South Philly Kitsch.

Then there were the cellars or basements. Wretched little spaces beneath the houses that in the old days granpop stored his wine and cheese. Many families realized the potential of these spaces and attempted to use the area as an additional room to help with the camped living conditions upstairs. In South Philly these basements were only dug down 5.5 to 6 feet, so their use was never practical unless you paid the money and had it dug down at least another 2 or 3 feet. Most of the people I know would just lay a rug on the cement floor, put sheet rock or paneling along the walls, add a drop ceiling and ecco- you have an instant fixed basement or if you were really pretensions- a family room. Drop a TV into the subterranean pit ( which until cable was useless as you had almost no reception) along with some chairs and a bar and you were set. Of course you had the washer and dryer and water heater - great big things they were as well – but you put up some kind of partition and ‘hid’ them… Then you had what we called a Calabrese basement- this because the Calabrese people were notoriously diminutive in stature (along with their hard headedness) and so the rather low ceiling did not prove a hindrance to them. However, those who were not Southern Italian hobbits, risked concussion at every turn.

There was a dinning room- or dinning area on the first floor , but this was the deadest space in the house as dinners were set on it perhaps only a few times a year. The table was large with 6-8 chairs and took up a lot of space, until grandmon took a turn for the worst and her bed would be set up here so she could die in view of everyone like the Empress Maria Teresa.

The heart of the South Philly home was the kitchen- always at the back of the house on the first floor. More was spent on the kitchen then any other room. The kitchen not only saw the preparation of food but it also served as the social center- for the women of the house spent the day there- cooking, ironing, reading the papers, some even put a TV in the kitchen to watch their stories. It had a phone and was connected to the world... All female guest, and some male guest as well, were entertained in the kitchen. Usually mom spent the day in the kitchen cooking, watching TV, speaking with her friends, hosting visitors… all within reach of the stove and refrigerator; you could have an active social life and still make your gravy. This was an age when many women did not work outside the house so such a life was possible. The Kitchen was the HQ of the house and ,as in the case of a relative of mine, the Gossip Control Center (GCC) of the neighborhood- there was not a birth ,divorce, argument, petty crime, job promotion, loss of virginity, or home improvement that did not find its way into my relative’s kitchen and discussed and explored at length- while preparing veal Scaloppini or Cavatellis or Biscotti- Good food and Gossip- wasn’t South Philly fun!

Then there were the bathrooms- always one.. and in some cases you might even have a small powder room on the first floor or basement. The powder rooms were a great bonus as the row homes were crowded affairs. The bathrooms were always very small and unbearably hot in the summer. Mombassa , on the equator, in Africa , on the hottest day of the year, has nothing on a South Philly bathroom in July.

The bedrooms numbered 2 or 3, had large closets (cause they had a lot of clothes), the required crucifix over the bed , and maybe a picture of some long dead relative that no one could remember. Bedrooms had the oldest most kewlist furniture in the house, since no one would hardly see it they tended to keep the weddings set or their parents bedroom set which was always a nice old piece. The seclusion of the bedroom saved it from the South Philly Mod look, you see you only decorate what people can see. In South Philly we decorated the public rooms far more then the private, if people can’t see it, why decorate it? Private space and private reflection did not exist.

The houses had back yards also- 7 by 8 affairs, maybe a bit larger- we called them back yards but they were smaller then the bathrooms in most hotel lobbies. But we used them and played in them and Lucy grew her Basilica, and the kids set up their pools in the summer…and they hosted many a summer barbeque.. The barbeques in South Philly were strange affairs as dad stayed outside and cooked and the rest of us ate in the cool air conditioned kitchen …If it rained we sent dad an umbrella.

The south Philly row house. When I grew up most of these homes held on average 4-8 people! In my house we had 6, and the craziest thing is I never felt cramped!! Old row home life, with its lack of privacy and hideous design, were also the places where families lived, loved, grew and died. High School graduations, proms, weddings, funerals were all held in these house- they were vessels of memories and holders of dreams. I can look at my house now and smugly admired it , but in the cloud of my dreams I often visit the old row homes and take stock of what was …and now what is. But is it worth $370,000?????????????

Gorillas in the Gravy
ORPirates of the Schukyll

 I remember a daily plague  visited upon us on South 10th street in the 60’s and 70’s, a sordid memory of a daily  invasion  at approximately 3 pm- for it was the danger time. For danger was unleashed upon the hapless residents of south 10th street in South Philadelphia ,a pox upon the good neighbors … For it was the hour of the Goretti Gorillas. Yes the time when the all Girls high school of St. Maria Goretti (Virgin and Martyr) at 10th and Moore opened its cloistered gates and spewed it hoard of South Philadelphia teenage ninjas princesses into the streets. No one who saw this massed invasion could ever forget them in their blue uniforms with color coded patches (representing their year group). Some with red sashes across their breasts signifying them as officers in some elite guard ( they were in reality some kind of student officer) . And their weapons- the sarcasm, the make up, the popping gum,and the dreaded key. Yes the locker key \ hung from a long ribbon attached to their uniform which these young Amazons swung with speed and agility – surely able to knock a man into South Jersey.

St. Maria Goretti, whose ancient Alma Mater rings out in musical memory  “We face the world our flag unfurled “ ..or was it skirts unfurled….? How , you may ask, do I know this song, my sister and a trolley car lode of cousins  were force to learn it, and I forced to listen to them learn i,t again and again and again. Not to mention the 35 odd St. Maria Goretti Graduations at the Civic Center I was required to attend.

St. Maria Goretti that fortress of femininity , sheltered from we boys that attended the all boy John Neumann High School ( St. John after 1978).

When the sexes are segregated at this tender age. It causes a strange chemical reaction that effected the Neumann boys, making them  triply immature in the presence of these young nymphs, allowing our adolescence to bloom in all its stupidity.  There were the occasional ‘raids’ during senior week when ( after pre-arranged plans with a secret group of 5th column girls) a gang of Neumann boys would rush into the holy sanctuary,  perhaps gaining a prearranged piece of undergarment and always  chased by the good sisters ( some of whom could have stopped Lee at Fredericksburg) and father Welsch (wasn't that the name of the Principal in the 70’s?). This followed by a stern telephone call to father Pollinio, the principal at Neumann,  to which assuredly he replied "you sure it was our boys I don’t think so."

To add to this the boys from Newman were dismissed earlier. They then cut across the swatch  of row homes and incestuousness streets  to stand outside the classroom of their beloved and call out their girl’s name as well as recite an ode to their love, totally disrupting the last period class and often resulting in Sister Helen Morgan poking her head out the window and threaten to come down and get medieval…

Bishop  Neumann High School,  originally called Southeast Catholic High School  and located at 8th and Christian ( siteis now luxury condos),  It changed names to Bishop Neumann and moved to 26th and Moore in 1956. Goretti was always there.. well since the early 60’s.

Neumann was certainly an institution, to be sure. While we did not, like the Goretti Gorillas , have uniformswe did look smart with our shirt, tie, and jackets. It was not however the Oxford -Brooks Brothers look , but the pink shirt and clip on bow tie  and an oval labelled corduroy Jacket , purchased  from Arnold’s on Passyunk Avenuethe, the  Savile Row of old South Philly.... who knew polyester could be so sweet.  Bow ties were very popular in the 70’s , not as a fashion statement , but because you could clip it on to one collar cuff and open the top shirt button , affording a sense of freedom ,as you did even remotely sense your were wearing a tie, but the good Norbertine fathers that ran the school caught on to this and forced us to button up in the late 70’s.

We Newman boys had our traditions , good Football & Basketball teams called the Neumann Pirates and a fantastic theater program with the legendary Frank Perry. Frank Perry was the Florenz Ziegfield of old South Philly. He recently retired after teaching  at Neumann for like 47 years or something. Can you image 47 years at Neumann. He produced more shows then Ziegfield.

Also note,  we always got it wrong in South Philly -it is pronounced Neu-man not New-man. We said Goretti correctly however (of course she was an Italian saint).

Goretti had a fine program but since my Goretti memories are mostly of the forbidden Amazons and the cloistered walls  I have little first hand experience of it. It had a great orchestra and Girl’s basketball team as well as  much more effective and organized Student associations and student government. Neumann’s student government reflected the politics of South Philly with each year group sprouting its own Tayoun and Cianfrani .. but never a Rizzo.. the good father’s would never allow that- they were the Rizzos.

I lived at 10th and Dickinson ,a few blocks from Goretti,  but being of the incompatible sex I was sent all the way to 26th and Moore Street to attend Neumann. This meant each morning I would have breakfast walk a half block to my friend Robert Giangirodano’s house, where his mom Grace (Graziele) gave me Breakfast II, then wait for Stanley Ianeri from 12th and Camac to join us, have Breakfast III while he had breakfast II, and then walk the half block to the Twin Shoppe at 10th and Tasker to board the Number 40 SEPTA  bus along Tasker to 26th street,  and then walk a few blocks to school. The SEPTA bus ride was it’s own story. The bus route took it thought what could be described as a neighborhood not exactly in harmony or receptive to the predominately Italian clientele on the bus. Not that I suggest any ethnic tension, heaven forbid- never in old South Philly- but there was the occasional accidental tossing of a bottle or rock or off hand remark tossed at ,or from, the bus. But for Neumann boys danger was our business…

We were told in 1971 that the Archdiocese, in its wisdom , was going to make both schools coed and save me the entire trek as I lived a 15 minute walk to Goretti. So we  waited and a few years later ( 35 if your counting) they decided to close Neumann all together and join both schools and stick them in the Goretti site. Yes finally cooed education after only 35 years, just in time for the 21st century. But by then we lost our fear of women and were married, divorced, married again,  and some even begin to look favorably on segregated education when their kids became teens.

Now they have closed the old halls of Neumann and the boys have  finally got into Goretti. I guess it is like St John the good Bishop married St. Maria ? I am not sure if that is theology sound. Have they added a statute of Bishop Neumann next to that of St. Maria Goretti with her combat boots??

If this was the UK they would call it St. John in St. Maria’s High School or St Mary on St John's School .....

To be sure  the new school will now make it’s own history and create a series of new and different memories.

Have the Pirates of the Schukyll and the Gorillas in the Gravy joined forces? Poor South 10 street .

Sunday of the Gnocchi

Sunday is here and as I sit on my balcony this morning drinking my coffee with the expanse of Bornenese jungle and hills spreading out below, and listening to the call to prayer from the distance Mosque , I reflect on my Sunday of the Gnocchi.

For those unfamiliar with a Gnocchi, it is a small potato dumpling served with heavy red sauce – or GRAVY (as we say in SP) . A delicious treat but so heavy that many of us in SP call them sinkers. But the expression Sunday of the Gnocchi would conjure to any South Philadelphian of Italian origin a special set of memories- the Sunday Lunch or Pranzo which centered around a special dish of Pasta -almost always home made or homemades as we say.

When I was a kid a Sunday usually began with my maternal Grandmother Maria (Mary) Mazzola Oratorio , whom we called Ma, preparing the kitchen table for the holy ritual- the preparation of the homemades. She kept for this purpose a long extremely heavy rolling pin- darkest wood and resembling the village staff of a sharman if anything. This sacred instrument was kept along side the refrigerator and the kitchen wall. So important was this stick that we were under strictest orders never to disturb it. The refrigerator, by the way, was a large heavy GE model that I don’t think every broke down in 30 years.

Ma would spread out the flour and eggs, apply pressure and the PIN, and within 20 minutes had a good amount of thick heave Pasta dough- which she then shaped as required , or added ingredients when Ravioli or Gnocchi was on the menu. I often helped with important jobs like applying the fork to seal the Ravioli or stringing the Fettuccini or Spaghetti.

The tables in SP were always strong so as to take the force of the pressure and the rolling pin- they were Homemade ready tables. My grandmother could make the finest homemade pasta- really among the finest I ever tasted. Her homemades were very rich and heavy and I have only tasted similar pasta in rural southern Italian trattorie or extremely fancy Bolognese restaurants. I think my father enjoyed her presence in our house because she could make such good homemades- making good homemades is definitely a highly respected art in SP- up there with brain surgery.

By the mid 80’s there existed a thriving fresh pasta business in SP and you could buy them anywhere and cheaply- and considering the time and effort it took to make them, many people started to buy their homemades. Often I would hear one of my mother’s lady friends tell her she had to go buy her homemades.. But how can you buy homemades- they are not homemades if they are not made in your home. But of course in SP Homemades is a proper noun that refers to fresh pasta. We could call it Fresh Pasta when we buy it- but we will always call it Homemades.

Nowadays to make Homemades you have all sorts of imported Pasta machines etc.. at the cost of hundreds of dollars. Ma only needed a table and a stick- primitive technology but producing a superior product. Mericans take note.. ( ‘Mericans for my Anglo friends means Americans , (Americani in proper Italian) , used for all NON Italians in America)

But Sunday mornings were not just the ritual of the Homemades - it was also the day of Catholic worship. Most of the old timers were basically Roman paganist with loyal devotions to the Saints and rituals of the church- and an ambivalence toward the priest as well as limited understanding of catholic theology. When the 70’s ushered in post Vatican II hideous remolded churches and polyester vestments and guitars and mismatched rituals copying ( rather poorly) the feel of a folk music bar then the millennium of Italian spiritual feeling- these old timers just kept up the novenas to St Rocca and St Jude and their rosary and paid little attention to what the priest was doing or the guitars were strumming.

Our church was the Annunciation BVM at 10th and Dickinson. As an altar boy I often served Sunday mass, and living across from the church always got me the prime time slot of 6 am or something. My family was not particularly religious but many would go to Sunday mass, especially if there was a need.. health problems, need for money or a new washing machine etc.. My paternal Grandmother Teresa Braccia (Mama) left some small donation to the church when she died , and her name was engraved on a diminutive plaque in the back of the church. I think some of my relatives only went to church to see the plaque. They must of felt like benefactors because Grandmother left a water censor. Little did they know what I knew. I who was an altar boy and knew the secrets - as the old sacristan Horace pointed out to me, there was a massive safe in the upstairs sacristy holding hundreds of cheap electroplated church ritual objects donated in memory of someone and- never used… too crass and cheap for even the post Vatican II church.


One my relatives however , was an active believer and in tune with the changes in the church. My Great Aunt Madalena, you know the Duchess’s daughter, she was a regular at the 12:15 mass and then came to our house with church bulletin in hand to discuss the theological arguments of the priest’s sermon - the quality of the ritual and the attire of the other women at the mass. As well as many other pronouncements on the events and lives of the people of the Annunciation parish. Especially important was the list of marriages, deaths and sick people to pray for.

Oh guess who died- Gepoop I knew his sister Lucy, what a shame he was so young ( he was 92)…They said to pray for Mario on 9th street he took a heart attack and is in intensive care, I saw him last week I can’t believe it…or.. Mary Calavita is getting married , they’re going to use the Venice plaza for $30 a head ( a fortune in 1971) where are they going to get that kind of money…. This was her sermon in the kitchen. My grandmother just continued to make the pasta- she and Magdalena did not get on smashing well- although it never stopped Madalena from visiting a few times a week … Live and let live that's how the old ones were.

The big event of a Sunday was the Pranzo or lunch. In Italy the main meal of the day is lunch, taken in Rome at 1:30 and Naples at 2:30 pm ( I don’t care when they eat in Miliano), and followed by a nice siesta. Even today all of Italy closes between 1-5 for the afternoon pranzo and siesta. In America that tradition was impossible to keep – so the tradition of the midday family meal was reserved for Sundays. So about 2 or 3 pm we would always sit down to the pranzo-a multi coursed meal that in a restaurant would cost a small fortune. Usually you had guest or were a guest. Of course the guest were always family or close Cumare. I don’t think we ever had a Sunday pronzo guest at 1010 Dickinson street in 30 years that was not a blood relative or cumare with the exception of one or two people.

It was like every Sunday was Thanksgiving.

The conversation at Pranzo centered around the family , and by family I mean the whole damn extended tribe. The feast lasted a good 2 hours . Then you had the post pranzo show- you would just sit at the table , drink coffee and eat cannoli and accept visits from Cumare and family after their pranzo. They would come with cakes or cookies and sit in the kitchen and continue the same conversations started earlier about Gepoop, Mario and Mary Calavita with comparative studies with other deaths, illnesses, and wedding parties.. per secular seculurum- or until the sforatelle ran out.

The men went to the living room to watch the game- this was about the only time the living room was actually used- I think they had living rooms for the day the husbands did not work -so they could leave the wives alone. The game was either Football or Baseball. Baseball was extremely important in SP and any Sunday during the season would have to include the memoirs of Harry Calas announcing the games.

Sometimes we had variety. Occasionally my dad , my Uncle Romeo and I would spend Sunday morning at Holy Cross visiting the graves of the dearly departed, and there was a hell of a lot of departed. When I would go with my Uncle it was at least a 3 hours affair- he put flowers on the graves of people who died before he was born, which was 1919! After this exhausting seek and search game you sure needed that plate of Gnocchi. Actually my Uncle Romeo knew Holy Cross better then the groundskeepers- he could find the grave of any gumba in 5 minutes. That could become a new survival game- HOLY C you work in teams and are given a list of 30 gumba graves to find as well as a few boxes of flowers , and locked in the cemetery till you deliver all the flowers- first team that gets out alive wins..

Sundays could also mean, if it was in-between sport seasons , that dad would take you to the movies- maybe the Broadway at Broad and Synder or the Savoy at Broad and Morris or where ever it was. Great features too- perhaps Frankenstein Conquers the World or Viva Las Vegas.

But what ever happened - Sunday was special to them all. How I remember the home smelling of gravy, Giuseppi Di Stefano on the Stereo singing Neapolitan songs, the windows steamed up from the cooking....some Cumare inviting themselves for Pranzo.... Al Albert’s Showcase… Larry Ferrari .. These were my Sundays of the Gnocchi.

THE DUKE OF PASSYUNK

or

CALAMARE AND CORONETS

Consider this- how many of you have met someone in the neighborhood to hear them tell of their great and noble Italian family… how their ancestors over there were all people of high repute and ancient title…

I knew many in the neighborhood, one women who came from a part of Southern Italy that as of 2005, still had bombed out buildings from WWII! And this is the provincial capital. She would often tell me how “ her people was all important back in It-ly .. her grandfaders and greatgrandfaders was dukes and bishops and had der ownn pews in de churches and wentt around wit people holdin theire umbrellas..” Grandfathers who were Bishops?? HMMMM Perhaps Pope Pius IX allowed this God forsaken province the right to a married Episcopal? Or perhaps they were bastards???? Or perhaps she was Malad (deluded) or a spacone wannabe inventing glorious lineages to hid the fact she led a most mean existence. I would hope her illustrious ancestor Il vescovo (Bishop) would at least have been able to say a proper Latin mass and give a proper name to their country of origin - Italia as opposed to It-ly

My own Great Aunt Madalena (????- 2005: no one will every know her real age., we just know when she died.) who was the daughter of Rocco Oratorio (188?-1950) and Maria Farina (also 188?-1950), consistently told us from childhood the same story…. My Great Grandmother Maria Farina was the descendent of the Duke of Farina – ( I would image it was pronounced Fa-ri-na with an accent on the Fa). This Duke was a man of great wealth and renown, but his wealth was squandered by his son who seemed to have been Maria’s uncle or great uncle. Maria came to America with her father and sister and a bit of money, leaving some property behind in Italy. Maria came from a small hamlet called Miglianico ( http://www.miglianico.com/ don’t you love it how these places have there own web sites!!) outside Chieti and on the beach near Ortona in the Abruzzo. Apparently she brought from Italy some beautiful art works, marbles, chandeliers from the old palace to grace the new palace on 12th street off Dickinson , where she and her husband Rocca lived. This house is still inhabited by her grandson my Cousin Onesto (called Junior by us as his dad was Onesto senior, dad died in 1969 but guess what- we still call him junior, and always will, and you know why). My great aunt Madalena remembered how the cumare from Miglianico treated my great grandmother with high respect as she was La Figlia della Duca. My great aunt also often made reference to our Italian inheritance- some land back in the old country. As I often traveled to Italy and went to the Abruzzo , she suggest I seek our this property and tell them of my renowned pedigree. For most assuredly I would be given the keys to the Palazzo Fárina and a carrozza (a carriage not the guys from the twin Shoppe) emblazoned with my family crest and paraded triumphantly back to my ancestral home, where I would be enthroned upon the basanegol throne and given the symbols of Abruzzese power- the Chittara (to make spaghetti) and the Zampoli (Bagpipe) to sooth the sheep…. Or maybe they may just tell me to take un bel caminato ( take a walk) …

There is something I don’t get with these stories -why would ANYONE leave the beauty of a large Palazzo with liveried servants , carriages , and acres of land, to come live in a little row home on Isminger street and take the 12th street trolley with the escutcheon of PTC instead of your grand family crest? Even if for political or personal or financial reasons you went into exile, how about a 5 bedroom Flat in Paris instead your highness… That’s what Oscar Wilde did, he chose Paris instead of Synder Avenue to escape his personal and political problems. That is what the great Abruzzese poet Gabriele D’Annunzio did to escape financial problems, he choose Paris over 9 street. . Paris in the Fin di Sielce (1900) was very cultured and liberal, more, I would think then South Philly at the time. Surely an unhappy or impoverished noble of culture and pedigree would be happy there and find a productive or at least an interesting life, far better then selling fish on 9 street?

I can find no hard evidence of the duke of Farina- but then I never went to Maglianico to look, I have only been to the places associated with my Braccia name. Perhaps I feared it was all a con, an elaborate Abruzzese scam- yes we will process your grand and ancient title, there are however $5000 in administrative costs.

I do know in southern Italy there were two types of titled nobility. The first were those of the Ancient Regime ,with titles in existence before the Northern conquest of the South (1861) or as some call it the unification. These were real nobles and had long histories. Then you had the New Nobles , created after the formation of the Kingdom of Italy- many of these were wealthy people who accepted the new Italy and jumped on King Victorio Emmanuelle II’s band wagon and were rewarded with a title. In the years following unification many of the Ancient Regime nobles did i loose power and wealth, and some may have found their way to America. Would like to hear any real stories – with proof. As far as the new nobles were concerned, they were on the top of the food chain in Italy and I sincerely doubt any came to the shores of the Delaware.

I never saw Maria Farina’s marbles and art works. Maybe the Duchess exchanged them with Randazzo for some tomatoes during the lean 1930’s???? ( in case you don’t know –Randazzo’s was the produce shop next door to the 12th street home, that is until the 70‘s). My guess is my Great Grandmother had a well to do uncle who lost a small family fortune. She was more well to do then her neighbors, and her dad came here with more then a shirt on his back- and he may have given cumare Andunedd’ a few bucks in 1895 and that’s how it started.. Oh Grazie Marinu tua padra’ra un brav’uomm com'un ducca ( Thanks Maria your dad was a great guy like a duke). Personally I do not think Great-Grandmother made any claims of nobility, I think my Aunt Madalena weaved the many stories and memories of her mother ( who only spoke Italian) into this story of the Duke- and once finished Aunt Madalena liked the cloth and wore it every day.

They say my great Grandmother Maria was a real lovely person and a superb cook and family matron. My mom always said the nicest things about her, as did cousin Junior and his brother Micky (all her Grandchildren) and she provided a loving home and many memories. Her life ended in a great family tragedy as she, her husband Rocca, and her son Romeo (my grandfather) all died within months of each other in 1950. But maybe that’s how nobles are- my Great Aunts Madalena and Sussana ( Susie) , Maria’s daughters , both died within days of each other last year! I guess that’s a family thing?? Lets all die together so we don’t have to share the line at heaven’s gate with vulgar commoners.

I once even turned profit with this story. When I lived in Helsinki Finland (1996-1998) I was allowed to join a prestigious private club called the House of Nobility ( reserved for those with noble lineage) as an associate member, because of my claim. I was sponsored by a friend who was a real countess (which was useless as Finland did not recognize titles) .. I think they all guessed it may not have been true, but the thought of this dark Italian American among the white ghosts of Finland must have appealed to their singular Scandinavian sense of humor. The picture above is me in December 1997 dress up for a do at the House of Nobility.

But why not give ourselves titles today? I could be the Duke of Passuyunk and you could be the hereditary prince of Tasker , or the comte d'cross street, or the Grand Duke of Synder ,or the Princess Dowager of Packer Park ….. Or just a spacone with absurd pretensions….

Remember we Americans threw out the kings, and I guess that’s why our ancestors came here in the first place!

Maria Farina Oratorio provided a loving home and many memories worth more then all the senseless titles…. Our ancestors were hard working courageous people- we don’t have to put imaginary coronets on them.

Moyamensing Prison

I read a post in Philly BLOG in which someone said they never knew or heard of the Moyamensing Prison!! WOW How could someone not know about something that was only torn down in 1968…. Isn’t it great to know that there is fresh blood in South Philly, that does not call things by bygone names. Like I still refer to Bond Bread at 10th and Reed–Bond Bread -like the company folded in the early 70’s and their bakery at 10th and Reed closed in the 60’s, to be replaced with an Acme then a Pep Boys and now a CVS and Dunkin Donuts ( thanks for reminding me Natalie) … Well at least that’s what was there in 2002- with the uppification of the neighborhood who knows? Maybe now it is a Sushi Bar and Yoga center.. Off the topic again sorry.Just to make an historical point - the swatch of land between Passyunk, Dickinson, Reed, Gerritt, 11th and 12th street was from 183 omething to 1968 the site of the Moyamensing Prison. The Prison it was and damn well will always be for me. They can raise a freaking pyramid there and I will call it the prison Pyramid.

For a good history and pictures check out http://fantes.com/passyunkdevcor/moyamensing.htm

It was build as part of a prison reform movement in Philadelphia in the early 19th century. It was large, made of stone, airy and had things like solitary cells etc.. That was reform 1830 style. It was called the Moyamensing after Passyunk’s sister creek- the Moyamensing ( where Moyamensing Ave is now.) Why did they not call it the Passyunk prison I do not know. Maybe Moyamensing sounds like a better name for a prison. The prison was part of a few built by the city with I believe Eastern State Penitentiary at 22nd and Fairmont as the only surviving example of this style prison, if you are into 19th century American prison architecture. The architect was Thomas Walter and this was his best work. The best part of it was the Debtor’s prison with its Egyptian Revival façade that was on Passyunk closer to Reed street.

This section turned out to only be used for women as mercifully Philadelphia changed its debtor laws by the time construction was finished. But like we do in SP we call it by its original name FOREVER- even if the debtors prison was only use for women we will always call it the debtors prison, never the Women’s prison .. like I will always call it Bond Bread or the Prison Acme.. Get the point- we don’t accept change.

You may be able to tell from this photo that the Prison was an architectural masterpiece. The Debtors' Prison wing façade was salvaged by the Smithsonian and is now in DC. Can you image a little bit of Passyunk avenue in Washington. I believe a similar façade still exist on Walnut street round fifth , with an office block behind, was this the same architect?. It was modeled after the Temple of Amenophis III, along the Nile. Isn’t that too much …a temple on Passyunk Avenue., meant to hold people who did not pay their bills on time.. a temple to Amenophis III .. Oh Pharaoh of the two lands- son of Amun, Priest of Thorth , brother of Orsirus .. accept this cheese steak as an offering for success in the numbers.

When the prison was build in the 1830’s , this was about the city limits to the south , with only a few houses nearby and farms further off- farms in South Philly… But the neighborhood grew and developed around the prison. By the Civil War the area had a few work shops and factories (including an armament factory that had a tremendous explosion in 1863 or 64 and showered body parts along Passyunk Ave) , by the 1890’s the prison was now surrounded by a solid and built up working class Catholic neighborhood.

It was at this time that the Moyamensing prison held its most infamous inmate. His was America’s first known serial killer , H.H. Holmes, who killed maybe 200 people, many in Chicago. He was arrested while in Philadelphia and his terrible trail of murder and mayhem was revealed within the walls of the prison. His crimes shocked and fascinated America and I guess he was our first Pop Culture criminal. He was hung in the prison in the 1890’s and if you are interested I suggest you read Erik Larson’s Devil in the While City, it even has a chapter entailed The Moyamensing prison.

The neighborhood by 1930 ( now predominantly Italian) was just too crowded , making it an unwise location for a prison. The prison ceased to hold violent criminals in the 30’s or 40’s as it would pose too big a threat to the neighborhood- and too easy an escape opportunity for the inmates. .But I would guess the neighborhood had even more violent criminals then were held in the prison.

By 1964 when it closed , I think it only housed people with parking offences. The least execution was in the 20’s?? The prison closed in 64 and in 1968 after years of discussion as to what to do, Philadelphia decided to just knock it down and destroy this massive structure and let it sit as an open eyesore for about 10 years. Today we would have turned it into luxury condos… the Cells at Passyunk…or Prison House.

I don’t know what the city’s motivation was – perhaps keeping a massive empty building invited all kinds of problems from squatters to Satanic masses.

I don’t know what it did to the property values of the homes adjoining it? My grandparents lived at 1107 Garrett and my dad always spoke fondly of the old Prison like he was living next to an amusement park. Great stories like the New Year’s Eve when some Gangster friend of my Grandparent’s came over and shot out the lights on the high wall. But I really have a problem believing this story as the Braccias (my family) are very squeamish around guns and such people what carry them- despite any bravado. My Uncle Joe for years spoke of his gun, but I never saw it, I wonder if he even realized it would need bullets. The Braccias did not need guns, they had sharp scissors (family of tailors) and even sharper tongues.

As a kid I was really impressed by the massive fortification and its wall. My Grandmother Mama would walk around the wall – that was a real exciting passigiata for her. Her main point of interest was a large stone shaped like a shoe. She would often stop and point it out to me, no not often, ALWAYS, apparently it was a ritual she enjoyed with my Grandfather Francesco. Forget the Medieval turrets and Egyptian Revival- lets look at the stone that looks like a shoe. There’s the old irony again….

My father would often point out the parts of the building that fascinated him and then tell me to be good because this is where bad people end up. Of course after telling me what a great wonderful building it was – the argument lost some of its logic. But I got the point.

I have a theory that many of the people who grow up directly behind the prison –on Gerritt street- did not turn to crime because the prison provided for them a sort of subconscious reminder of the wages of sin. Now I can’t prove that, but that’s what I think.

In 1968 after Mayor Tate let go the wrecking ball and knocked a hole in the great wall- they let it stay open for a day or 2 and allowed the neighbors to come in and take a loot.... I mean look. I have to tell you I was fascinated by my one time inside the prison. I can still remember the rows of cells, the infirmary, the inner court. Now my grandmother Mama was very friendly with a guard at the prison and he would let her in all the time. That’s what my uncles would tell me- as if this was some kind of badge of honor to be allowed to sneak into a decrepit prison. I am sure for 2 bucks and a cappiccola sandwich any body could have been brought into the inner sanctum and see where H H Homes was hung.

All that is left today are two things- the mind block that still makes some of us call the space the prison , and a wee bit of the wall which has been preserved along Reed street and 12th- coming up , I believe , but two and a half feet. The space is now well used commercially ( even has a Starbucks) and with the senior citizens center provides a good hub for the community, but you know with the prison shortage in American.. we could sure use the Moyamensing prison again….

South Philly Mob Memories I

Chicken and Pizza

I am not sure if there still exits a real honest to goodness South Philly Mob of the old, as Pat Cooper would say , Mothers and Fathers of the Italian Association or the M...A…F…I...A.. type. What I read suggest it seems to have gone the way of our Lady of Good Counsel Church on Washington Ave and Palombo’s. Well maybe that is true. But it sure was part of South Philly when I grew up.

Angelo Bruno was the man. The Gentle Don of Old South Philly , this is his picture. He ruled for 20 years or so and never had to kill people. He did seem to keep the books closed on new members and kept most of the power and wealth to himself- hey but who said the Mothers and Fathers Association was necessarily an equal opportunity employer or subject to anti-trust regulations.

Real old south Philly – you know 1920’ and 30’s -had real gruesome criminals- The Lanziotte brothers .. shootings at 13th and Wharton etc.. but all that was prohibition days.. Black Hand.. chesta e mia vicin’ ,as they say in Godfather II.

Angelo Bruno was murdered in 1980 ending the years of a peaceful benign mob and ushering in a few years of real warfare. Angelo was replaced by Phil Chicken Man Testa , or so they say- maybe it really was all a bunch of calumny against Italian Americans and these were just businessmen? However the interregnum period following Bruno’s death created a Rome in the 3rd century mentality with some led by ambition to think that if they raised their legions and murdered the Emperor, they could themselves be declared Emperor.

One such character lived in my neighborhood. He was a real tough guy- you know the kind - he would shoot you for parking in front of his house. Of coursed he was not a member of the Association, he was as they say, a wannabe, an unofficial member- a mobster without portfolio.

In early 1981 he decided to take out Phil- assassinate him and perhaps who knows …be raised to the purple and hailed as Mobsterum Imperator by the Senate and the Made Men of South Philly.. or at least the new Don would bring him into the Association as a reward , and he could flash his membership card at the Mansion House or the Villa di Roma – good for a 20% discount… Oh sorry.

Well our friend employed the services of a 22 year old waiter in his plans and they devised a singularly interesting way to deal with Mr. Testa…. A method steeped in the customs and traditions of South Philly… A pizza Bomb! Yes a pizza with anchovies, pepperoni and nails.. set to explode and do more harm then all the fat and carbohydrates ever could.. The kid he used to help was very industrious- a good product of the local parochial schools where he must have excelled in Math, mechanical engineering, problem solving and critical thinking. He also was involved in one murder already – I think one of those after Disco, Melrose Diner things.. you know you looked at my girl and disrespected me or something, now you must I wack…

Well come the ides of March and like Cassius and Brutus these two conspirators delivered the blade or Pizza (there must have been other conspirators but like the man in the grassy knoll they never came to light- they say it was ordered by under boss Pete Casella who himself did not live long enough to profit from it.). As Mr. Testa was not home they left the pizza between the screen door and front door of his home in Gerald Estates- the Versailles of old South Philly.

Phil returns …opens his doors and …KABOOM - a Pizza deal gone horribly wrong.. Like Tsar Alexander II , Phil had his legs blown off and bleed to death.. Ghastly really when you think of it…. And boy what a sound- I and my girlfriend were nearly thrown out of bed by the sound. It was the South Philly Big Bang. Did terrible damage to the windows and doors of the many adjoining palaces in the Estate of Steven Gerald. And to make matters worse it became a macabre tourist attraction for a few months with people driving and gawking at South Philly’s very own Daly Plaza.

Well old Phil was dead and how did that benefit our friend.. Nulla Nulla- nothin’ he remained outside the mob he tried to burst into.

The real mob however took a year to figure out what went down (as they say), and when they did our friend’s days of shooting people for parking mishaps was over. Word first made its way on the street in late winter 1982. La Cosa Nostra was onto the pizza conspiracy, and they were not in the practice of forgiving such unauthorized conduct.

The breath of vengeance was felt in the neighborhood. The grim reaper’s shadow was seen on Passyunk avenue, the ferryman was waiting on the Delaware. They say it was about 5:30 am in early Spring when our hero was last seen or heard running and shouting around 12th and Reed near the old Mario’s luncheonette; and like one of Spalafucile’s victims from Verdi’s opera Rigoletto, disappeared. His next appearance was in Termini’s parking lot, rolled up in a carpet like Cleopatra… but with half his face blown off. Termini’s, that bastion South Philadelphian pasticcerie ( what I would not give now for a Termini zepole as I write this).

I remember my uncle Micky sent his driver to get the obligatory boxes of cakes and such to bring to the family home of the deceased. But alas the foolish man had it put in a Termini’s box!! Which my dear uncle Mickey , for propriety’s sake, had us quickly change to some non descript container. Termini’s that week had many request for their products to NOT be placed in anything bearing the Termini’s logo, perhaps Termini’s could have sued the Mothers and Fathers Association for defamation of corporate reputation?

And oh the neighborhood was abuzz with rumor, facts, and fantasies. He head was cut off, his face blown off, it was a terrible mistake, an accident, as he did not do it. The last was really the most absurd statement – George W. may go to war for imaginative fears or excuses but not the Mothers and Fathers of the Italian Association.

The mother of the deceased insisted on an open casket to quell all rumors of appalling disfigurement- but to do this the undertaker had to reconstruct part of the face in wax… he strongly warned the remaining siblings to keep mother OFF of the body or the face would dissolve in her hands….a thought almost as gruesome as poor Phil with his legs blown off.

Keeping mother off the body did prove difficult as she made a few leaps at the casket, but as she was somewhat crippled she never made a direct hit on the face. Of course one could smugly say that had she shown as much interest in instilling a sense of moral integrity and respect for fellow humans in her son, as she did in rabid displays of grief, perhaps her son would still be around ….but ..Judge not, lest ye be judged. Matthew 7:1. The poor women's grief was real enought.

Our poor friend did get his sought after mob association, but by passive participation in a mob hit. There’s that old South Philly Irony again.

The young man who helped ,by the way, was apprehended by the police before the mob ,and that definitely saved his life. He now sits somewhere in jail, his youth wasted away in ways I would rather not think- this is God’s Irony.

Yet my memories of the dead man are positive. He was very fond of my parents, he did a lot of work for my uncle’s construction firm and he was the man who did work on our Basement at 1010- practically for free- back in 1979. That was nice of you...thanks..…

Evil has many faces, yet I don’t think any of these people were evil. But they are dead, and the mob is dead, but I wouldn’t exactly say the world is any safer.

The Real Ghost of

The House on Dickinson Street

I grew up in a house at 10th and Dickinson street ..this was a house of real Ghosts.. Ascolta.... the house was build in the 1870’s replacing an older wooden structure and is close to Passyunk Avenue, which in more distance times was the Passyunk creek named after the Passyunk Natives that were the original inhabitants of this area.- you think they went to the Melrose after a big Pow Wow???
The present brick house was raised in the late 1870’s to provide permanent housing for the growing settlement of workers in the area. The area was populated mostly by Irish Catholics who also built the nearby Church of the Annunciation BVM (c.1855). By the 1910’s Italians were increasingly moving into the neighborhood and displacing the original Irish inhabitants. By WWI the house was occupied by an Irish Fireman and his family. I know this as I was told of the fireman from long dead neighbors Dolores Pinto and her sister Clara who lived next door.
The Irish firemen moved out and by the 1920’s or very early 30’s a Angelo La Greca, who was an undertaker, took ownership of the home and used the basement and first floor for his La Greca Funeral Home. He lived with his wife and four children (Maria, Angelo, Florence (Philomena), and Margie(Margaret)on the second floor. I guess he did a good business, funerals are a staple of South Philadelphia life and at this time their were lots of people in South Philly ( considerably more then today) and medical science in the 30's and 40's could not, as it does today, guarantee a octogenarian life span … So I reckon Mr. La Greca had a steady stream of customers, 6 feet under south Philly style.
By the 1950’s Mr. La Greca was dead (I wonder what funeral director he used?) and his widow, a nice lady I remember only as Mrs. La Grecca ( she died in 1968), sold the house to my parents in 1959… but that did not sever the ties with the La Greca’s- Maria La Greca married my uncle Denny Braccia and my Uncle Denny also lived in the house on Dickinson Street for a while. Soon my Aunt Maria settled into 1107 Garrett , the house where my dad was raised - and my dad moved to the Dickinson street house- the house where my Aunt Maria was raised—this is the extent of irony in South Philadelphia- you lived where I lived ,I lived were you lived, we are all the same and change means no change at all…just move the pieces around the board..
So what about the ghost… well just consider the army of corpses that flowed into 1010. Consider the innate superstition of Southern Italians… Consider the fixation about the dead and dead things in old South Philly (as this blog demonstrates) and do your need any more encouragement to believe?
When I was a child so many of the Cumare ,the ever present women who somehow had a connection with you via distant blood, origin in the same little village in Italy, service as bridesmaids, godparents etc.. , would sit in our kitchen- the heart of the home in South Philly , if I today suggest to my guests we move from the living room to the kitchen during a social visit they would really think me odd… in old South Philly if you suggested to sit in the living room instead of the kitchen you were considered both odd and a Spacone (a show off).
…. anyway ….the cumare would often sit in the kitchen and reminisce about the many funerals they attended in my living room and the quality of the corpses and the coffins and how Cumare Filamena in 1937 threw herself upon the casket of her father Didanudd with wild abandonmen.Even my great Aunt Rocchina (Connie) Mazzola ( Don’t remember her married last name) who died in 1942 was laid out at 1010. That also is South Philly irony.
So there I was an impressionably child growing up in this house of morbid memories of the dead, as well as a constant and copious amount of mail addressed to the La Greca Funeral home with all sorts of good deals on coffins, hearses, flower holders etc… (we continued to receive this mail until the late 1970’s!!). As we grew up my sister and I always felt a presence or presences in the house. But listen dear reader and envision - this house was less then 1000 sq. feet, yet contained my parents, my sister, my grandmother, my Aunt Geraldine, and myself.. as well as the cumare and family what lived close by and were frequent callers.. It must have been rather busy and noisy and the ghosts would certainly have had to compete with the living for both space and attention.
My sister and I never wanted to be alone in the house—we never could be alone -EVEN if we wanted to….Even if we tried.. that’s why we did not need burglar alarms, back in the 60’s and 70’s only houses where no one was home were robed and I don’t think that house was ever empty between 1960-1980 for more then 4 or 5 days in total. Now we never encountered any spectral appearances-or I never did.. maybe my sister did, she would-they would come to her before me….
Time did its Tarentella and we grow up and moved out.. I moved out of the house in 1983 and my sister moved in and out and in and out and finally back in, in 1987…
My father died in the house in 1988 and for months my mother, grandmother, sister and her two children told me stories of sounds , voices etc… My Grandmother swore she was once in the basement a few months after my father’s death and while moving a garment bag that contained my mother’s wedding dress , heard my father’s voice as he spoke how beautiful was the dress … Then after my mom died (in Methodist hospital not the house) my sister had a round of stories of hearing her voice….. My niece and nephews had a few stories and my niece conducted a séance, I was told, and got the name Denny…. (did my uncle who died in 1980 come by for a visit??) Ok these are expected stories from people distressed over death or adolescent fantasies…
My work took my out of the US when I moved to Syria in 1991. In 1994 following my mother’s death I took possession of the house which eventual just held my Grandmother- alone, a state she never really liked as she was always surrounded by people. I visited the house a few times a year but always with my grandmother and her friends and family in court, however in the summer of 1995 a few things changed- my Grandmother had recently passed away and the house became truly empty. My wife and I spent the summer of 95 alone in the house , I even spent 3 weeks in June 1995 totally alone as I arrived before my wife to attend to my Grandmother’s funeral … Now this is when I really did sense- the ghosts. You see all my years at 1010 I was hardly ever alone in the house! Now I was… really was… I can’t say I saw anything but heard things, like muffled sounds.. footsteps.. certainly felt like something was in the room with me.. Ok a row home in south Philly has it creaks and cracks and the noise from the street could be mistaken for all sorts of things. But still I refused to stay alone in the house and made sure the house was fill of guest or I stayed out till dawn. My wife said I was just influenced by my memories.. But she has also admitted she felt things….
My sister in law ,who knew little of the house’s pasts , and took care of the property , sometimes spending the odd night or so. This all stopped abruptly after hearing and sensing… things…and feeling the presence. She remains very convinced that 1010 was and is hunted… Also I would sometimes get emails from family and friends in South Philly who asked who was in my house as they drove or walked by and saw or heard something. But the house was empty.. Did Old Mr. La Greca’s customers come back?? Did the dead Braccias return?? Or did a substance abuser seek refuge in the shadows of empty home?
The house remained empty until 2002 when, after considering the opportunity cost of keeping the house solely as a terrestrial center for phantoms, we decided to rent it.
In 2005 I sold the house and gave up all the ghosts, at the time of the sale my sister in law had a talk with the man who was renting the house. This tenant was not from South Philly and alien to southern Italian superstitions and beliefs , but he volunteered what he felt was a secret to my sister in law. You know he said, the house is hunted. .he then told a story of strange sounds, a presence ..the sense of being watched.. Now a young family has taken the house.. in a few years I will pay them a visit and ask if they also have seen or heard the GHOST OF THE HOUSE ON DICKINSON STREET.