Do You Hear The Rumble?

The 23
In America the center of the city is referred to as downtown, remember Petula Clark Downtown… But we in South Philly never go downtown we go Uptown, hence the south Philly phrase- Ohh I’m gon Uptown.. or where you get dat, uptown? We get it right in South Philly cause for us center city Philadelphia is a trip NORTH and so UP, if you live in a Northocentric world. Perhaps in Australia going north would be going down as they have inverted world maps down under. But South Philly is not Oz.

So let’s go uptown…

As a kid in South Philly it seemed like another world, another city so different from the streets I lived on, from my little village, my piece of paese at 10th and Dickinson.

A trip uptown was a big event for me as a kid. It was reserved for Saturdays with my father. Dad would take my sister Theresa and I out every Saturday for a trip uptown including lunch and a toy at Kiddy City on 12th and Market.

Uptown was always fun, so big so different and so far away. Until dad got a car our trip uptown was via the old PTC route 23 trolley, PTC (Philadelphia Transportation Company the predecessor of SEPTA) taunted the 23 trolley as the longest trolley /tram route in the world. Perhaps it was, it went from South Philly to Chestnut Hill and back. Chestnut Hill , I was 25 the first time I every saw Chestnut Hill, can you believe that, well at least I have been there…

The 23 trolley, was the preferred means of transport. Heaven forbid we walk the 2 miles to center city. When I was a kid I thought center city was so far away, when I actually started to walk uptown in my 20s I realized - it is actually VERY close. I think the view of uptown as being far away was more a psychological then a physical thing. In our South Philly time and space continuum, Uptown was a different galaxy- a different dimension . Uptown was our little taste of Anglo America. The America that wore bow ties and Brooks Brother tweed, the America that used mayonnaise. Mayonnaise, I don’t understand Italo South Philly’s aversion to mayonnaise? I can assure you it is and has always been used in Italy. Well mostly north of the Naples and Dixon line but go to Firenze, Roma, Bolognia. Milano you’ll get it and they use it. In the Northern Marches (le Marche) many put mayonnaise on their Pizza! Even in Naples they use it in the summer salade del Riso (rice salad). But in South Philly we believe it is some kind of Anglo ‘merigan thing, well gumbas- it ain’t. Still I would NEVER put mayonnaise on my Pizza , and Italian mayonnaise is WAY better then Hellman’s

The 23 trolley , build circa 1947. Just like Carlo’s sister preserving a bit of the 40’s in our every day life. A great idea for a ghost story- a ghost 23 trolley haunting 11th and 12 streets- take a ride and meet Eleanor Roosevelt.

The 23 trolley, I will always remember the rumble. Living a few feet from the trolley stop my early life was pulsated by that rumble. I had relatives that lived on 12th street and had the trolley rumble in front of their house every day, year after year-their own 5.1 earthquake. But they got their revenge- On New Year’s they would toss fire crackers at the raging 1940’s beast, it did no good. Now the old 23 is gone and many are trying to resurrect it, for in the scheme of things we loved the rumble, loved that 40’s style.

The 23 trolley gliding over the cobblestone, many laid by my maternal great Grandfather Geraldo Mazzola. Yes my Great Grandfather was a master cobblestone layer, he died in 1930 as asphalt was emerging triumphantly as the road covering of choice in Philadelphia, so he did not live to see his mastery become redundant.

The 23 was not the only trolley uptown- there was the 47 on 8th/9th street, but as the 23 stopped on my corner we only reserved the 47 for return trips, if we happened to be at 8th and Chestnut.

The trolley ride allowed for the careful observation of people and personalities. I found especially interesting those suffering from what I called Trolley Anxiety Syndrome (TAS). This malady was normally suffered by Italo America women and resulted in a nervousness and fear of missing their stop. In its manifestation it would cause the sufferer to continually ask what street they were on and then rise at least 2 blocks from their stop and pull the cord, signifying that they wished the trolley to stop. Of course the conductor would stop, the women would not get off ,as this was not her corner, and the conductor would raise his hands in frustration and utter comments I would rather not post on this Blog site. What was especially strange about TAS is that in Philadelphia the bus stops on every street corner, so if you missed your stop for heavens sake just get out at the next corner. But as we all know, South Philly has it’s imaginary boundaries, the next corner may be in a different world or dimension then your corner, and you may never find your way back.

Obviously the 23 trolley ride was half the fun. But what did we do when Uptown?

I remember my walks along Market and Chestnut street and the great flagship stores Gimbels at 8th and Chestnut, Lit’s and Strawbridge & Clothier at 8th and Market-and of course John Wannamaker’s at 12th and Chestnut. These stores are now all gone all except for the buildings. Well Gimbles was torn down but mercifully historical preservation has saved the others. I recently heard that the last of the great shops- Strawbridge’s- has closed. I don’t understand why in Philadelphia we must destroy our traditions? In London you can visit Harrods or Fortnum and Mason and they have changed owners many times ( for heavens sake Harrods’s is owned by an Egyptian!) yet the traditions stay the same! Sadly Urban America has become infected with big mega stores and name shops, a set for shopping sprees envisioned in an Orwellian nightmare.

Sometimes we would stop at St. John’s church at 12 and Chestnut to light candles in the chapel. This chapel was particularly dear to my family for my maternal Grandmother Teresa Antonucci Braccia (Mama) claimed miraculous intervention from the saints of this chapel in saving her from a hysterectomy, and allowing her to produce her brood of children that became the Braccia’s.

All trips uptown also meant lunch ,and my dad was partial toward the Horn and Hardart automat at 9th and Chestnut. You would glide a tray alone a row of little compartments all with something to eat, place your change in the slot, open the door and take your food. A novel assembly line way of food selection. I was very fond of the Baloney sandwich with butter. I have only encounter this culinary delight at a Horn and Hardart, but must say I do not think I would want one now. At H & H clients shared tables, my best memories were of the old men with beards eating soup and my father telling me not to stare… well let me draw a veil over this particular vision.


Sometimes we would visit Rittenhouse square- the seat of WASP Philadelphia. Dad would tell me stories of his father Frank Braccia I , who ran a successful ladies tailoring shop at 18th and Walnut- catering to the mayonnaise crowd. Indeed one of these WASP women, a Margaret Bloomal was enamored of my Grandfather, but realizing she would never get him settled on the son and married my uncle Joe. My uncle Joe is an interesting personality as he has managed to maintain the understanding, maturity and personality of a spoilt adolescent even as an octogenarian. He has long ago buried Aunt Margaret but still uses mayonnaises. His greatest achievement has been in wealth distribution , for he distributed his wife’s inheritance via the racing tracks of South Jersey.

Off Rittenhouse square stood a small luncheonette, the name of which I have long forgotten. I remember after feeding the pigeons in the park dad took me there for an ice cream Sunday. I remember especially the counter man who would amuse us as he wiped the counter, prepared the food and juggled the glasses. All with great skill and in a demonstration of another lost art- the entertaining lunch counter juggler.

After a day uptown we boarded the 23 trolley to return home to the comforts of planet 10th and Dickinson, turning our back on the Anglo world and its mayonnaise , yet happy and anxiously waiting next week’s outing.

I sometimes hear the rumble of the 23 trolley, the trace memory has become sensory. That ghost trolley passing the Moyamensing prison and Billy Pinto’s house and taking my grandmother to St. John’s and myself my sister and my dad to Horn and Hardart for Boloney and butter sandwiches.

Do you hear the rumble?