Ghost of South Philly

Bicentennial

2006-06-28T20:46:00.000-05:00

July 4, 1776. The day those ‘medicans’ signed the declaration of Independence and brought forth ta dis continent a new nation….

My family was in the Abruzzo and Campania at that time, but dreaming of America. South Philly was here in 1776, well some what. Do you think Tommy Jefferson and Johnny Adams went to Marra’s on Passyuink avenue and discussed breaking ties with Great Britain over a Pizza with Alligge (Dialect for Anchovy) … Did Bennie Frankie take the delegates for a Cheese stake at Genos, he could of cause they all spoke English, of course not sure the Vento family (owners of Geno’s) were speaking much English in 1776…

July 4, 1976. The bicentennial , the great celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of that revolutionary act.

1976, the blossom of the Disco age, which I always felt was like Swing revisited. We led a modern version of the lives of our parents. They swung with sharp clothes to the Big Bands. Our generation danced to upbeat music not so dissimilar from Swing, with suits and ties to match, mine custom made by Rocco Tarrelli on Broad Street. In 1976 the great clubs were Her Place and the Branch in South Jersey and the Library in Philly. Or was the Branch in Philly and the Library in Jersey?

I along with many others graduated from John Neumann High School that June. I remember that graduation from Neumann- the black and orange gowns ( why did Neumann pick Halloween colors?). Cardinal Krol pronouncing Neumann correctly. (Noy-mann not New-mann) , but to us this pronunciation was reminiscent of Curly in the 3 stooges- hey Noy-mann… I also remember the Graduation lunch with my friends and their families at the Monk’s Inn on Front street. Also my graduation party with pots of Roast Pork , baked ziti, Ricotta cream cakes and galleons of something red from California - we had at least 120 people in that 600 Sq foot area that comprised our first floor and back yard. I sported a great new suit made by Rocco Tarrelli and I took in like $550 is cash!

My generation of baby boomers was a hybrid between our inward thinking parents and our outward thinking children. We still had a sense of ethic and neighborhood identity, as well as ethnic sounding names. Unlike the youth in SP today that may be named Ashley or Tiffany Ann. Ashley Nunnziato - what an incongruity of nomenclature… But such is the curse of assimilation.

After graduation was senior week, which for us was spent , Dinah Shore. Well down the Shore- but SP pronunciation was always somewhat reminisce of this great songstress. Ohh I’m gon dinah shore…

Yes Wildwood June 1976 what a grand time we had. I had my first real taste of youth and freedom. I went with my friends the Gatto twins and Tom D’Acchille and a group of girls. I remember a rather strong fondness for Southern Comfort that week, even to the point that we added it as a secret ingredient to our macaroni gravy. Yes Italo American teens cooked, at least we did in my day.

But the real event of that summer was the Bicentennial. Philadelphia Mayor Frank (I know wats good for da people of dis city) Rizzo , Governor Shapp (remember him.. few do) , and President Gerald Ford at the Liberty Bell. I also remember visits by the king of Sweden Karl Gustaf pick a number as well as HRH Queen Elizabeth II. There was also the Eucharistic Congress at the Spectrum attended by a Polish cardinal named Karol Wojtyła.

South Philly took the Bicentennial seriously, wall and pavement paintings were created- some survived into the early 90’s. Many streets hung lights and banners, most houses had flags. I remember my dear friend Robert Giangordano hanging bunting between the houses on the 1000 block of Cross street, he did so like to decorate. There was the vast assortment of mementos being sold at the twin Shoppe, little liberty bells, commemorative plates, pewter objects, interesting additions to South Philly Kitsch. There was even some kind of carnival set up in the old prison lot. Annunciation Church had special Masses and Monsignor Di Giacomo extolled the virtues of American democracy as well as Mary our men-tor in heaven. It was a little Christmas in July, we even had a summer mini mummer’s parade. There were also the many barbeques in our postage stamp back yards, how ever did we fit so many people in that space??

July 4, 2006 Now American celebrates 230 years and you know what, Philadelphia with its Tammany Hall politicians, English only signs, and insular neighborhoods is still the cradle of our democracy, the Roma and Athens of America, and still the best place to be for the 4th of July.

February 11, 1941

2006-06-18T08:52:00.000-05:00

Life in the ante bellium South.

South Philly that is and the bellium being WWII. The men working at their crafts, the women keeping house- life pulsated by holidays, births, deaths, weddings, and feast days. The young enjoying American culture. Jimmy Dorsey was the top band man of 1941 and had the big hits including Green Eyes, Maria Lena and Amapola (vocals by Bob Eberly and Helen O’Connor), The Maltese Falcon was the big hit at the movies that month- playing perhaps at the Straford at 7th and Dickinson or the Broadway at Broad and Snyder.

South Philly must have been a busy place then. The population was nearly double what it is now and each neighborhood was it’s own little village complete with church and businesses. Streets were fill of familes and many children.

Of course the world was not at peace in 1941, but most in South Philly went albout their lives with little concern of war in Asia and Europe. I would imagine however Mussolini’s antics gave some Italo Americans something to think about, especially the resident aliens.

But in the ante bellium south life went on. The Cumare looked forward to their diet of wakes and weddings so as to eat and discuss the qualities of corpses and brides. Men hung out at the corner discussing baseball or the old country. The kids went to James Wilson Elementary or South Philly High (one side for boys and an annex for girls). The 23 trolley slid along 11th and 12th street like a long rattling pendulum

This uniformity of existence was interrupted on February 11, 1941.

Greenwich Street , or Green Witch as they say in South Philly ( just for the record in the Anglo Saxon language known as English Greenwich is pronounced gren-itch so remember that when ordering a Cheese steak at Geno’s). Greenwich is a small side street that runs east
-west between Dickinson and Tasker. The 1100 block is chinked to accommodate the effect of Passyunk Avenue which vanquishes 11 street between Tasker/ Dickinson and throws the symmetry of the street into disarray.

Along this serpentine stretch of Greenwich on the evening of February 10, 1941 the main gas line beneath started to leak. By early morning the escaped gas ignited and caused a terrific explosion. Tearing through the basements of 8 row homes and resulting in a ferocious fire. Gas explosions were common enough at the time and often happened in the early morning when people were asleep and could not smell the gas. The fire soon engulfed the homes and leaped into the cold morning air- reaching above the squat row homes. Calling the neighbors to witness.

A police officer, 54 year old James J. Clarke was walking his beat ( yes in old South Philly Policemen walked a beat , evening at night) and was among the first to respond. He heroically rescued people but was crushed by a falling wall as he tried to free a women and her two daughters, all 4 died (+Requiescat in Pace). The fire and explosion leveled the houses but fortunately only Officer Clarke and the women and her two daughters died. South Philly had it own little Blitz that morning which left a ruin on Greenwich street. The homes were never rebuilt and the land was cleared and left as 8 empty lots. The lots bought by neighbors to store cars or grow vegetables.

I heard this story from my dad when ever we walked along that street devoid of houses (it still may be but with the property boom I would think homes have since been built there?). My dad lost a school mate in the fire, one of the two youths that officer Clarke tried to save, and I think it left an impression on him, for he never ceased to remind me of the story when we passed the street.

My dad is gone but Nick from 12th street sent me a great remembrance email of the event. I quote:

I recall them (my Parents) waking me to see the flames leaping high into
the early morning dark sky, which we could see from our back window!

.. I was a quite excited kid who could not wait to get on the
scene to get a first hand look! I got my chance later that evening after
supper, as no one was allowed near the street any earlier… the fire was
out, except for some sparking embers, which would reignite now and then. ….

For us kids Greenwich Street became an adventure! We'd play, climbing
among the ruins and at times exploring a couple of the partially exposed
cellars, pretending the playful, imaginative adventures which kids did then…

Thanks Nick.

The Greenwich explosion of 1941 brought the neighborhood death and destruction . I always felt a shudder walking along that street and those empty lots, but that was most likely my Southern Italian superstition taking hold….

A few months later on December 7 South Philly awoke to an even greater explosion.

The Cumare Denied

2006-06-10T09:56:00.001-05:00

Cumare Nicollett’ denied a cheese steak at Geno’s

At times like this it is perhaps for the better that old Nicollete on 13th street is safely in the bosom of heaven. Nicolette came from Ortona in the Abruzzo and lived in South Philly from the 1920’s until her death in 1994 at the advanced age of 104. Over 70 years in the hood! She was a whiff of Abruzzese mountain air, a living relic of Il Regno del due Sicilie (The Kingdoms of the two Sicilians) on Moore Street. She spoke the most archaic Italian, a mixture of classic grammar and Abruzzese dialect. This language was akin to Shakespeare’s English. She used the Italian equivalents of thee and thou as well as classic Abruzzese pronunciation, Rigollucc’ for Verdi’s opera Rigoletto, Dunedd for Antonetta. She cooked and drank her anisette while offering interesting comments on the world around her for those who could understand her, and few could by 1980. She dressed in floor length skirts , her white hair in a bun, the emblematic old Italian lady, the kind that populated South Philly in great numbers at one time. I am happy I knew Nicollett for she was history enlivened , it was like getting to meet my Mazzola and Paglia ancestors from this picture. She represented a generation that was already mostly dead when I was born in 1958.

But despite the fact that La Cumare Nicolett was a special person, a living relic of the Great Italo-America experience, she could not get a cheese steak at Geno’s at 9th and Passyunk.

Why? She never learned to speak English and I am also unsure if she ever actually became an American citizen. So in times like these perhaps it is better old Nicollete has shaken the mortal coil she wore so long, because she would NOT be able to get that cheese steak at Gino’s because they only except orders in ENGLISH- as there sign proclaims this is America order in English. It is academic because even if Nicky were not dead she had no taste for sliced meat fried in onions and vegetable oil with processed goo meant to be cheese, on what for her was soft bread. Perhaps this is why she lived to 104. But that is not the point, La Madonna Nicolette would be denied a right to the South Philly delight even if she wanted it, cause she would be deemed somehow un-American. I do wonder if the English only law would apply to them what stand behind the counter? I have brought friends to Geno’s from places as far away as Ohio and Britain and they thought the Geno employees were not speaking English.

Yo we tak inglish here wat u wan, wit or witaut ?

I had a British friend tell me that Geno’s should not hire people to work with the public if they cannot speak English!! Ma Figura vi..(imagine) try a stay in central London, does anyone speak English in the West End any longer??? The speaking of English is seems is growing everywhere in the world but is diminishing in English speaking nations.

Non English speaking Immigrants- just like Nicolette.

English and immigration elicits in South Philly a classic responses: Oh my granfather came here the right way and talked American.. des Mexicans… A few things are very wrong with this argument. First Immigration laws in 1900 were WAY more mild then they are now and most ( if not all) Illegal immigrants today would be legal in a moment were the pre WWI laws reinstated ,and second illegal entry into the US from Calabria in 1900 would require some very good swimming. I venture to say that were Calabria attached to Rhode Island then a good number of our ancestors would have spared themselves Ellis Island and jumped the fence.

For years I heard stories of my much admired paternal grand father Francesco (Frank) Braccia, a successful designer/tailor who immigrated in the 1890’s at the age of 12 and made a great name for himself in Philadelphia and loved America and made all his kids learn English as he did. A great American success story, and it was.

I am trained as an historian (I am , Temple University 1986) and through the years I have done some research including trips to our village in Italy , (Altino (Ch)) and reviews of census records. I discovered some fascinating things. My paternal great grand father Luigi , lived in South Philly from the 1890’s till 1930 and never spoke English or became a citizen. My grand father also never seemed to take the citizenship of the country he loved so much and was a registered alien in the 1920’s and into the 1940’s (he died in 47). Grand father also had Fascist tendencies, I have been told. Didn’t Mussolini declare WAR on the US??? I discovered a few other things but I am saving them for my ‘book’, which as my uncle Denny would say, will be a best seller or end up in the cellar.

I also know of many other families ( including my mother’s) in SP with similar stories, people staying in America for many years , never speaking English or speaking it very poorly and never bothering to become US citizens. My point is the argument My Grand Father came to this country, needs in my mind some justification with hard evidence. I would like to see the official records of the ancestors of many in South Philly who embrace such xenophobic views. If we could , I think we would see a lists of alien residents and an English spoken with less proficiency then most Vietnamese or Mexicans on 9 street do today.

I love the past- but see it for what it was. The main reason many Italians learned English and became US citizens by the 40’s was because the US government forced this course of action on the Immigrants.

Remember frattini how the Italo American suffered from xenophobia and discrimination- From Woodrow Wilson’s remarks about Southern European laziness to the KKK and lynching of Italians in New Orleans- largest lynching in US history!! Italians, in the popular 1900 view, were a superstitious and violent race bringing nothing but criminality and radical political philosophies while taking jobs away from real Americans. During WWII some Italian aliens were interned or treated suspiciously ( this even included the great singer Enzio Pinza!!!) . The one thing Hitler and Roosevelt agreed on is that Italy was a back stabbing nation . In my neighborhood lived old Philomena on 7th street who had 3 stars in her window during the 1940’s (the stars represent the fact she had three boys serving in the war) yet she had her radio confiscated by the FBI cause she was an alien- she told the FBI , through an interpreter , to take away the stars and give her back her boys.

I guess what upsets me is when Italo-Americas, themselves the descendents of immigrants who were victims of xenophobia and enforced assimilation, embrace anti immigrant stands and justify it with romantic views of the past.

We have many concerns with immigration today, but can not sort it by exhuming 1920’s xenophobia. America was founded by a bunch or WASPs looking down on Irish Catholics and holding the Black man below contempt not to mention the savage Indians. They felt America was threaten by the Irish Immigration in the 1830’s then black migration and freedom after the civil war, America to them was threatened even more as non English speaking immigrants poured into America in the late 1800’s, and it continues- now with Hispanics. America is changing- it has ALWAYS BEEN CHANGING- since 1781 it has been a nation in change. Were John Adams and Alexander Hamilton or Woodrow Wilson to have a look at America today they would be shocked- it has become a non American polyglot decadent land, fill of non Whites and Catholics and Jews, hardly anyone with the proper language or education ( read the Education of Henry Adams to get a view of the OLD WASP way of thinking) …. My point , immigration made America it did not destroy it dispite the dire predictions. America’s future is her future not the past- and anyway if we go back to the pasts , who’s pasts? The good old WASP past (sorry everybody else) ? The White Ethnic 1930’s pasts ( sorry WASPs and everybody else) ?

It is all nonsense, solve our problems the good old fashion American way, by changing adapting and respecting individual differences.

I believe Immigrants MUST learn English and be assimilated as a matter of course- not force. Our ancestors did assimilate and learn English ,but over a 40-60 year period!!! I am sure by 2050 all the Mexicans in South Philly will be speaking English and assimilated- it did not happen in 10-20 years when our people came so don’t expect the new immigrants to do it much faster. And damn you Geno’s but La Cumare Nicolette has a right to her cheese steak .. as she would say

Ma che fate voi (But what does thou) ?

Do You Hear The Rumble?

2006-06-05T00:29:00.000-05:00

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?

SPDS

2006-05-17T00:26:00.000-05:00

We live in a world of apprehension, a new age of uncertainty where terror and chaos sleek just around the corner. A world where someone might drop a plane on you or sneak in and take your job, where enemies peer at us in hate and envy through the gates of our democracy. … Well that at least is how Fox news makes it out.

But no one can deny we have security problems and concerns- terrorism , illegal immigration- we stand like Horatio at the bridge holding off the wild hordes. What can we do? How do we make the Republic safe from attack and illegal entry? What is the solution, more restrictions, martial law, cohorts of our Legions guarding airports and borders? The Lady in the Harbor holding up the sign CLOSED in place of her torch??

But fear not oh troubled citizens, the solution is just down the street, we have had it in South Philly all along. I call it the South Philly Defense System or SPDS. How does it work- the SPDS employs unseen forces and imaginary boundaries that keep people and things outside a neighborhood. It is the system that allows us to build with confidence a $400,000 home a street away from crack houses and criminal gangs, yes they don’t come around our way. Yes our way, not my way, our way, that collective phases that we in South Philly know to be pregnant with meaning, pregnant with the solutions to our problems. It keeps the wild hordes in their wild enclosures and allows us to make a happy life in the shadow of chaos.

What do I mean? let me draw your attention to a recent conversation I had with a much loved cousin, a women of some culture and great style, a women who understands her neighborhood. In a recent telephonic exchange. I mentioned that I would like to purchase an investment property in South Philadelphia as property values are very good. I was considering purchasing a shell in an upcoming area and restore it. I had identified a 3 bedroom row home at 15th and Reed for 5 figures. Capital, I thought ,15th and Reed just two blocks from 13th and Reed where the property rates for a 3 bedroom row home are 6 figures and climbing. Feeling bright and happy about my impending coup I spoke with my cousin. “What!” my cousin shouted at me- “15th and Reed are you Crazy (one always doubts sanity in SP when confronted with innovative behavior) It is SO bad you can’t go there.” “But..” I responded, “it is 15th and Reed you are at 12th and Reed 3 blocks and 350 meters away.” “Yes,” my cousin responded “but I don’t go around there, it’s so bad they have all kinds of drug addicts and criminals.” “But it is 2 blocks away from the great South Philly revival, as properties become scarcer and prices drive upward the house at 15th and Reed must increase in value.”
“Absolutely not” I was told “that neighborhood is terrible and hopeless.” Yes like Dante’s Hell Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate (abandon every hope, you who enter). As we say in South Philly.. I remained… I was stupefied, incredulity flooded my thoughts, “it can not be” I protested, “my investment vision is clear and based on hard facts and basic laws of physics and economics.” Still my cousin insisted, I asked her to go check it out, to cross the 2 blocks and see- “I’m not going there she said!” Never into that land , to quote more Dante, la città dolente… l'etterno dolore…la perduta gente ( the city of suffering, eternal sorrow and the lost people) . She spoke Ex cathedra- The neighborhood was very bad and she would never move the 300m meters to her left and set foot there, under any circumstances. My cousin then suggested we get together in Singapore or Rome in the future.. Yes we can not even remotely consider visiting 15th street from 12th street but I will come to the other side of the world and see you…….

If defies logic- How can such a thing be? For after all, were I an inhabitant of la città dolente on 15th street and knew that just 1 or 2 blocks away lived people in relative comfort and wealth with 6 figure homes and cars, I would simple walk the few steps to enhance my crime among a more affluent clientele. But alas, and here is the point, they don’t! Yes somehow in South Philly there exist a defense system that keeps the lost inhabitants (la perduta gente) away from those blessed occupants of the city of enhanced priced homes. I took additional council from real estate agents and other friends and relatives in South Philly, and was told the same thing, no 15th street ---very bad.

That’s the way it is in South Philly… That’s the SPDS.

While my idea of a home at 15th and Reed remains on hold I do reflect upon this story. And in an epiphany realize that between 13th and 15th street lies the answer to the Nation’s security problems. Were I president of the United States (it could happen) the second thing I would do after lifting the Cuban Embargo ( light ‘em up) would be to send a team to South Philly to study this phenomenon and find a way to adapt it for the nation. Just imagine , in southern California and Texas we wouldn’t need cohorts of troops or fences or even border guards. The forces that hold chaos in check along Reed street would function to stop illegal border crossing. Our airports would be safe for terrorist would be paralyzed by the same force that keeps the gangsters on 15th street off 13th street.. Condoleezza Rice can declare the nation safe and like some Connie from 12th street say with certainty- they don’t come around our way.

Of course I am unsure what forces come into play to allow this? A Spatial differentiation where matter is limited in its dimensional habitation? Perhaps it is some residue magic left over by the Delaware tribes that lived along the Passyung and Moremensing creeks in bygone days? Perhaps it is something to do with the soft clay beneath the city streets? Or the sprit of Frank Rizzo protecting the old neighborhood, a new Michael with a flaming sword over South Philly, or rather certain parts of it.

But it is there believe- why else would a person pay $400,000 for a house down the street from murderer’s row.

Of course the whole thing could be a mirage and based on false misguided interpretations and unsubstantiated fears, perhaps the bad neighborhoods are not so bad and la perduta gente not so lost, perhaps people in south Philly live there own version of the TV show LOST and are unaware of the true forces that control their universe? I know of people that immigrated to South Philly from Italy and after 40-70 years still could not speak English.. I know of people in South Philly that after 60 years have still never seen Allegany Avenue or Germantown or Chestnut Hill…. Could perhaps the SPDS be nothing more then the reflection of people’s own parochialism and insularism- we never go there -so they never come here.

Well after I am president and after the Cubans are smoking again, I shall send the brighest minds in the nation to investigate for I know we can harness the power of the South Philly Defense system..

The SPDS , defense for a new age of uncertainty.

Robert, rimembri ancora Quel tempo della tua vita mortale

2006-05-09T07:59:00.000-05:00

I always think of him in May, the month that saw his birth and death. The sweet May that gave and took, as in the life of the Buddha.

We lived a half block apart and saw each other regularly from birth. My first strong memory of him was in the Capitolo Playground at 9th and Reed in 1963 when he was 6 and I but 5. He was 6 months older, which in that youthful time seemed a great difference. I remember that afternoon in the playground swinging with him while he told me his first plans for the future, the future that bekons to youth, his plan was to be a priest, or a firemen.

We bagain our education at the same time, in school his 6 months advance was nullified. We spent 8 years together at the Annunciation BVM Elementary school at 12th and Reed and an additional 4 years together in Bishop Neumann High School, both of us celebrating our graduation into the world in 1976.

By 1976 we were fast friends. We knew each other’s dreams, likes, and interests. As he worked at the Twin shop at 10th and Tasker, where I spent most of my free time in the 70’s, we seemed always together. My friend had a great gift for design and decoration and turned the Twin Shoppe windows into works of arts. His skills were appreciated and had he tried I believe he could have had a career in design.

My friend’s name was Robert, and he was my oldest friend as I turned to adulthood.

We had many memories and shared experiences from Kindergarten to 12th grade, not to mention birthdays, weddings, parties, for we were our own cumpare- or rather a 1970’s teenage version of it. Robert and I shared the harrowing number 40 trackless trolley ride to Bishop Neumann High School. We shared nights out , days off during snow storms, and evenings at the Twin shop with Tony Comatose and the brotherhood of the guys who hung at 10th and Tasker. I became friendly with his family and spent part of every holiday season at his house. He came from a very close knit clan and they had the greatest of family parties and food.

When adulthood came and snatched us from our south Philly safety nets- I to university and marriage and Robert to a career as a hairdresser, we still shared ideas and discoveries, nights out and at times a mutual waywardness.

During the summer of 1985 while I was on an historical tour of Italy for 3 months, Robert kept my wife company and free from boredom.

I even worked for Robert selling Easter flowers at 13th and Synder and 10th and Tasker, putting myself up as an expert on flora. We did good business and perhaps should have opened a flower and plant shop.

As the 80’s progressed we both became more involved with our personal lives and did not see each other with the frequency of older times.

Then came 1987 and Robert became ill, ill in a terrible progress of sickness; and it dawned upon me that Robert would not survive. Robert took his illness well, as did his family , and his last months while somber , were fill of friends and love.

During those last few months I spend as much time with Robert as I did when we were children at the Annunciation school or teenagers at Bishop Neumann High School.

I told him of my trips to Europe and the people I met, of things I was up to, we talked of our past, of the swing at the Capitolo play yard, and even of the future, as if talking of the future would erase the reality of the present.

The last time I saw him alive was a few days after his 29th birthday in May 1987, he was by then in the very arms of death and left us soon after (+Requiescat in Pace).

His funeral was majestic, with people from near and far , new friends and old family, and 6 strong men to carry his wooden coffin upon their shoulders - like that of a fallen prince. His older brother spoke an eulogy which used the song Moon River to illustrate aspects of Robert and his personality. An effective tribute, so effective that when I hear the song I think of Robert as if Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Audrey Hepburn never existed. A fitting testament, Robert loved good things and had style and would have approved of it all.

His treasured mother, to whom he was so close, carried herself with a profound dignity that was to me a source of great comfort.

Being from South Philly I have been to lots of funerals and wakes, but Robert’s was the most touching. Perhaps because he was so close in friendship and age, for in taking Robert Death’s angel brushed me with his wings.

I reflect on Robert every May. It has been 19 years since he died and nearly 43 years since the swings at the Capitolo playground. I can not say I still mourn for Robert, for so many years have come ,and so much has happened since he left. But I still think of him and try to remember as he was. This recalls a favorite poem- A Silvia by the poet Giacomo Leopardi. The poem reflects on the memories of the past through a remembrance of a girl Silvia who died many years ago. It is not a poem of lost love but of a lost age. I quote parts with my own comment.

A Silvia
by Giacomo Leopardi (note: my translation is more literal then poetic)

Silvia, rimembri ancora (Silvia, remembering again)
Quel tempo della tua vita mortale, (the time of your mortal life,)
Quando beltà splendea (when beauty still shone)
Negli occhi tuoi ridenti e fuggitivi,( in your sidelong, laughing eyes,)
E tu, lieta e pensosa, il limitare (and you, light and thoughtful,)
Di gioventù salivi? (went beyond youth’s limits)

Robert had beautiful green eyes , and remains in my memories always young, as he never grew old.

Allor che all'opre intenta (you sat, happily content,)
Sedevi, assai contenta (intent, on that work.)
Di quel vago avvenir che in mente avevi. (the vague future, arriving alive in your mind)
Era il maggio odoroso: e tu solevi (It was the scented May, and that’s how)
Così menare il giorno. (you spent your day.)

Robert was always content in what he did, with that vague future arriving in his mind in a scanted May. The scented May that gave and took.

Che pensieri soavi, (What sweet thoughts,)
Che speranze, che cori, o Silvia mia! (what hopes, what hearts, O Silvia mia!)
Quale allor ci apparia (How it appeared to us then,)
La vita umana e il fato! (all human life and fate!)
Quando sovviemmi di cotanta speme, (When I recall that hope)
Un affetto mi preme (such feelings pain me,)
Acerbo e sconsolato, ( harsh, disconsolate,)
E tornami a doler di mia sventura. ( I brood on my own destiny)
O natura, o natura, (Oh Nature, Nature)
Perché non rendi poi (why do you not give now)
Quel che prometti allor? perché di tanto (what you promised then? Why)
Inganni i figli tuoi? (do you so deceive your children?)

Why does Nature not give what it promises? Or are these promises our deceptions?

Tu pria che l'erbe inaridisse il verno, (Attacked, and conquered, by secret disease,)
Da chiuso morbo combattuta e vinta, ( the closed death fought and won)…
Anche negaro i fati (Fate has denied those years.),
La giovanezza. Ahi come, ( the youth ah how)
Come passata sei, ( you have passed from me)
Cara compagna dell'età mia nova, ( dear companion of my first age)
Mia lacrimata speme! (my tearful hope)
Questo è quel mondo? (Is this the world, the dreams)
questi I diletti, l'amor, l'opre, gli eventi (the loves, events, delights,)
Onde cotanto ragionammo insieme? (we spoke about so much together?)
Questa la sorte dell'umane genti? (Is this the fate of humanity?)
All'apparir del vero (At the advance of Truth)
Tu, misera, cadesti: e con la mano (you,unhappy one, fell, and with the hand )
La fredda morte ed una tomba ignuda (the cold death and the silent grave)
Mostravi di lontano (you show us from the distance)

This is my tribute to Robert Giangiordano (1958-1987).

Sleep peaceful Robert and dream of swings.

The Blood of the Volsungs or the Lesbian of Snyder Avenue

2006-05-01T05:10:00.000-05:00

In Germanic mythology the Volsungs were the race of human heroes whose blood held the hope and heroism of mankind. The Volsungs twins Seigmund and Seiglinda produced Siegfried the greatest of heroes.

In modern literature Wagner told their story in his Ring operas and Thomas Mann in his short story The Blood of the Volsungs retold the story via two twins enamored of Wagner’s opera Die Walküre as well as each other.

But the Volsungs in old South Philly????

My Volsung tale is not a story of real incest but a story of a family that was so close they were, as the Volsungs.

The name was Comatose, well not Comatose but it sounded as such. The oldest was Tony and he lived with his brother Lou and two sisters named Angelina and Lucy in a row home on 10th street. No member of this family every married or had children or even dated, they lived together in the house where they were born and raised. After the deaths of their parents they existed as a family of 4 little orphans holding out together, protecting their Volsungs blood. These young orphans ranged in years from 45-55 when I knew them in the mid 70s. I knew this clan from my time at the Twin Shoppe at 10th and Tasker. Lou and Tony were charter members of the Brotherhood of the Guys who Hung at 10th and Tasker.

Lou was the more sociable of the brothers, he worked as a parts manager for a plumbing supply company. Manager was stretching it as he was the only member of his department. He possessed however an encyclopedic knowledge of plumbing parts and he could discern a washer ring seize with his eyes closed. Had knowledge of plumbing supply parts, instead of philosophical , literary , historical and ethical knowledge, been a ranking in the Ming dynasty Lou would have held the highest order with a ruby hat and 15 chair bearers , directly below the Son of Heaven

In practical terms however Lou was illiterate , a malady also shared by his two sisters. As he grew older he was subject to stress and nervous disorders, leading to a series of small nervous breakdowns. By the late 70’s he would only leave his house to go to work, only coming to the corner on the rarest of occasions. Enjoying the occasion holiday at hospital, yes he would in between nervous breakdowns check into a hospital for a few days of rest.?? Now I am not an expert on stress or nervous disorders, but what kind of stress could a man have who had nay wife nay children, nay bills and lived in the bosom of a family that took care of most of his needs , as well as unparalleled expertise in his career? Perhaps he was concerned that plumbing would go through a revolution in part manufacture and replacement? Perhaps the institution of plastic plumbing was a death knell for the traditional copper pipes he knew so well??? Since he could not read he could not so easily be re-tooled. This may have made Lou nervous.

Despite Lou’s expertise in plumbing parts and nervousness , brother Tony was the head of this clan of South Philly Volsungs. Tony was very much the typical South Philly guy of his age- as tall as he was round with a bald dome and a constant sneer. Tony held a position in a box factory doing something that is now done by a computer. He was, more fortunately then his siblings, somewhat literate, so I guess Tony was given the major roles in their Volsung commune, roles like reading the bills and the TV guide for everyone. Not withstanding his ability to read on a 5th grade level Tony had limited life experiences, limited even by the limitations of South Philly in the 1970’s. He did how ever, often speak with great authority about all kinds of things. This authority of opinion afforded him a sort of leadership role among the older men that every evening were the satellites of 10th and Tasker.

Tony held himself especially as an expert in human personalities and relationships. I recall an illustrative example of this self proclaimed expertise. There existed in the late 1970’s at 10th and Synder a colony of women considered to be from a Greek Island famed for its poetess Sapphro (the island, were your classical history Momentarily deficient, is Lesbos-hence its inhabitants are Lesbians). These followers of Sapphro, in the less open and declusive 70’s, were seen as something extraordinary by the older men of 10th and Tasker, and often the subject of discussion by Tony and his minions. One evening a member of the colony entered the Twin Shoppe. Tony led his minions thought the door to stare and gawk. The woman bore not even the hint of a Greek accent and was well dressed, attractive and spoke with a vocabulary suggesting a far better education then those surrounding her. Perhaps she was the first of the gentry to come to South Philly, a scout sent to investigate the suitability of South Philly for Gentry colonization or Gentrification? The girl was cognitive of the audience she had and after her purchase exited in a grand way with sweeping glances and smiles. Her exit elicited a number of comments from the men of the corner, all to be silenced by Tony Comatose who then pontificated on the girl and the nature of her sexuality. Tony could tell with one glance that she was a Lesbian, that was for sure, he also knew that she was attracted to men, that like Broad street she went in both directions. This extra information was discerned by Tony because the girl had turned and smiled at him, proof positive of her amorous view of men. Tony then went on to say the women was not a full member of the Lesbos sisterhood, but had been co-opted into associate membership following ill treatment by a man. Having been heartbroken and unlucky in an affair with a man she then turned to her own sex for comfort, this Tony pronounced with the authority of the late economist John Kenneth Galbraith discussing the affluent society. Tony when on to expand his ideas , men must be careful in their relations with women for if we hurt them then they will turn to Lesbianism, all said to the nodding heads and ahs of his audience. How Tony who could hardly read, never left the neighborhood , and at the age of 55 was , I strongly believe , still a virgin , able to discern or understand another’s sexuality is an additional profound mystery of my youth. Perhaps the situation he and his siblings lived in granted Tony sensitivity and a level of perception to recognizing alternative lifestyles.

The Snyder avenue woman was not impressed as we never saw her again, wonder why???

Of Tony’s sisters neither held a job outside the home but they were experts at frying food and cleaning a house they hardly ever left except to shop for more food to fry.

What ever these four were really up to defies human understanding. They were our own Volsungs, protecting their blood, keeping their family unit in place and undisturbed despite the advance of age. I wonder what sort of child these Volsungs would have produced were they so inclined? Would they have created South Philly’s first Guido Hero? An Italo American Siegfrido capable of lifting the Melrose dinner on its side and cleaning 9th street in one afternoon?

This Volsung family enjoyed their little kibbutz and lived secure in their ignorance , happy in between nervous disorder while protected their blood of the Volsungs.

Tony remained 10th and Tasker’s own Pontifix Maximus and augur of the various signs sent to us by heaven.

The Eternal Return

2006-04-25T01:11:00.000-05:00

There are recollections that seem to run like an ever looping film, a memory train that never arrives at the station. Forever running in your head and with time deluding you into thinking that this is not nostalgia but flesh and blood , current not past. Per secular secularum. This story takes such a journey, a memory that transcends the cerebral and enters the temporal. The Eternal Return.

Billy Pinto was the light in his mother’s eye. His father died while Billy was a small boy and his mother embraced her only child as both offspring and surrogate husband. This is not as odd as it seems, family plays an important part in the life of Italian Americas and mother son relationships are often very strong , made stronger when a father is absent.

So they lived in Oedipal contentment in a small angular home, called so because it sat on a corner or angle of a small street off Passyunk avenue. The house , unlike other homes in the area, had a small garage which held various motors.

Cars and motors played a part in this boys life. He grow to beauty and was the type of man that caught the eye of men and women, I don’t imply this in a vulgar sense but in a sense that he could attract man and women to him regardless of sexuality. He had a natural charisma built on his good looks and open personality.

Billy was related to my neighbors and his family held cumpare relationship with my Aunt Maria’s family. I first remember Billy in the late 60’s when he worked at a local petrol station that existed on Passyunk avenue and Dickinson street.

Amazingly there was once a time when gas stations would be located on street corners with scant regard to safety. The station was owned by a real character in the old neighborhood, Augustino Auggie Di Giacomo, the father of a man , also Augustino Di Giacomo, that in the 60’s -80’s was vice Principal at St. John Neumann High School. The son was a career educator and a man of integrity and intellect, the old man was the father of educators and an education in himself. Old Mr. Di Giacomo spent the live long day in soiled tee shirt bemoaning the latest tragedy to engulf the Phillies which , in the late 1960’s and 70’s under its obtuse manager Danny Orzark, was without rival the worst team in Baseball. The old man was at times crass or curt and I would suspect he was also disenchanted by the fact that just 50 meters away, at Dickinson and Garrett street, stood a similar gas station owned by a man whose name sounded like that of a Spanish Conquistador- Ponzio. How either of them did business and raised their families in close competition and at a time when fewer people had cars and gas was only 20 cents a gallon , is another profound mystery of my youth.

Billy , with a very 1960’s Mod mustache, provided a breath of freshness and youth to the ancient tottering business. In addition every girl I knew from my sister to my cousins were in love with him. Many a father was directed by their daughters to take petrol at Di Giacomo’s so that Billy could pump the Gas. Perhaps the old man brought Billy there for that purpose? Billy Pinto was a better more attractive gas pumper then either Old Auggie or rival Ponzio, to be sure.

Billy also rode a motorcycle and had an interest in the machines. In a positive way, not like Mob Guy. Billy was never any type of crook or gangster wannabe, he was just a kid that liked bikes.

Billy was the kind of guy boys of my generation looked up to. He always would share a story with you or help you out when playing half ball or any of the other streets games we played back then.

When I worked in the Twin Shop at 10th and Tasker Billy would come in alone or with one of his cohort of friends, especially a man named Reds, and entertain us with what really were the most uninteresting stories, but Billy had a way to make even the mundane sound momentous.

I remember one summer night in the late 70’s when a group of us were hanging out on the corner of 10th and Tasker until a policemen drove by at 2 am and told us to please get off the street cause the neighbors were calling and complaining about our noise. Billy convinced the policemen to drive us to the Melrose.

Yes Billy was a fixture in the neighborhood and the various corners that comprised its social life. Like a fish he swam through the South Philly social scene of the time, everyone’s friend, everyone’s buddy.

As I grew up and went thought college and moved about South Philly after my marriage, Billy was always there. I would walk through John Wannamker’s on a Saturday afternoon and bump into – Billy Pinto. I would go to a disco in Atlantic City and see -Billy Pinto. I would leave Mara’s Pizzeria on Passyunk avenue and in comes- Billy Pinto. When I lived on South Street at 3rd (1983-87) I would often see Billy at a bar and then we , his friends , and my wife would stand around 3rd and South talking and joking, turning Philly’s little Soho into a South Philly Hang Out corner.

Billy never married and never had any long term girl friends that I knew of. He lived with his mother in the house with the garage and was joyfully content with the arrangement, as was his mother.

I remain totally uncertain of what it was he actually did for a living, but he did something , and it was legal. His passions seem to be his motors and his mates.

As the 80’s gave into the 90’s Billy remained unchanged like the Picture of Dorian Gray and I continued to run into him everywhere I went. When I left South Philadelphia in the 90’s and would only return at Christmas or the summer , I would still run into Billy at most of my outings.

It seemed to be our Karmatic destiny that we would cross paths continually.

As the 21st century approached it seems Billy Pinto would remain forever cruising the streets and the local shops. He was destined to be one of those quintessential figures in South Philly, a perennial nice guy , the kind you would always stop and have a chat with. Billy was the kind of guy that typified many of the good qualities of Italo South Philly, warm unthreatening friendship, consistency, and a sense of community.

However we delude ourselves when we take comfort in consistency , for nature is not consistent. Life is fortuitous and you must always be ready for the unexpected. One spring day in 1998 Billy was attending to a car in the garage of his home. The car was idling and Billy had gone in front of the car to get a tool, perhaps the emergency break was not set or did not function. The car moved, Billy was hit. A freak accident. Billy died ( Requiescat in Pace).

I was greeted with this sad news when I returned to Philadelphia that summer. It was very hard to believe as Billy was young and just seemed to be a permanent figure in the neighborhood. It seem incredulous to me that he was dead, until the next day while walking along Passyunk avenue I caught sight of his mother, a slender women with dyed hair, one look into her eyes confirmed what I could not believe. Billy was dead. The look in his mother’s eye haunts me still, for it was the most melancholic glance I have ever seen.

I still find it hard to believe he is gone, on subsequent trips to Philadelphia I would ask- how is Billy Pinto, to be responded with a cocked head and- Frank Billy died, remember.

But when I think of South Philly I still have visions of Billy surfing its streets and businesses, this is the memory train that never reaches the station.

Billy Pinto is now a thought possessed by a fondness of the past, of nights at the twin Shop at 10th and Tasker in the late 1970’s, of South Street in the 1980’s.

It is a trick our memories play on us, we subconsciously see the present through the eyes of the past.

Nietzsche had a theory that everything that has happened, happens again and again, The Eternal Return he called it. Perhaps Billy Pinto is for me like an Eternal Return. Perhaps in a quantum physics time warp Billy still makes his rounds of South Philly and pumps gas for old Auggie Di Giacomo.

The Sacred and the Profane Or Peace, Palms, and Gossip

2006-04-19T00:52:00.000-05:00

With Easter upon us I think of Old South Philly and its curious mix of the sacred and the profane. I remember the Easters of my youth as fun affairs with a mess of religious services candy and Ricotta pie.

It would start on Palm Sunday when we excitedly went to church to get something for nothing- Palm. Palm played an important role in Old South Philly- every crucifix over every bed had a stalk of decaying palm running thought it, never quiet sure what purpose it served. I did know a cumare named Angelina that claimed with the authority of a hierophant that old Palm must be burnt every year and its ashes washed down the kitchen sink or else you would have bad luck.. This was the Sacred Rubrics of Angelina There was also an entire Palm culture with people who were experts at twisting and shaping the Palm into all sorts of things, rather like a balloonist at a child’s party. People sold these Palm Sculptures and braids along 9th street or Passyunk Avenue. They were not blessed so I surmise people bought them as decorative items only. Although I never knew what was so decorative about twisted, braided , and dried palm. Still a large piece of this would bring many a smile to many a cumare. I always thought it looked best on a grave

Palm Sunday would also bring a flurry of visitors as there was a tradition to visit people and give them a piece of palm. So Palm Sunday saw an army of guests bringing peace, palms, and gossip. My great Aunt Magdalena, the daughter of the Duchess, would lead the pack. She was especially good at securing copious amounts of palm, perhaps she bribed Horace the old sacristan at our church or smuzzed a member of the Sodality, but every Palm Sunday she entered out kitchen with enough stalks of the stuff to cover Passyunk Avenue had Christ desired to enter South Philly in triumph. Which was perhaps a good thing that He did not so desire, as I am not sure what sort of reception a long haired non Italian that went about with poor people and prostitutes and preached love and forgiveness would have met with the discriminating rancorous people I grew up with.

Palm Sunday would also require one of those odysseys to Holy Cross cemetery with my Uncle Romeo. Many a dead Gumba received palms on their grave, complete with tidbits of stories from my uncle Romeo about the great Gumbas of the past, hints of the world before my birth in 1958. I believe on an average Palm Sunday we palmed about 63 graves.

Holy week - I remember my father was enthralled by the fact that the Wednesday of Holy Week was traditionally referred to as Spy Wednesday, I think he remained us of this consistently from Passion Sunday to Good Friday. I never knew what was the cause of my father’s obsession with Spy Wednesday, yet he was enthralled with it. On Good Friday he would also make the claim that no one ever suffered as much as Christ. This was rather odd as my father was not in any conventional way religious, he respected the church because it was , in his eyes, an Italian institution. There was no conviction apart from an ethnic identity, he would just as soon pray to Iupiter Optimus Maximus if Rome erected his temple anew.

I was an altar boy and every Easter was corralled into a number of acolyte and servant duties; for this we were rewarded by Father Carbo, chief of the altar boys, with a very large butter cream filled Easter egg. Father Carbo was a very nice priest and well liked by us all, he also was rather portly and prone to wearing a large black cape. Needless to say he was a sight walking along 10th street, especially when the wind took hold of his cape.

About our gift Easter egg, it was large and must have weighted 2 kilos. My Grandmother Ma saw this egg as an commodity of great value and tried her best to ration it. She would dole out to us exceedingly thin slices, this guaranteed a long life to the Egg. A life that far exceeded its shelf life. By late May it was an unhealthy additional to our refrigerator and my mother would quickly dispose of it. My Grandmother’s desire to conserve had only resulted in waste, yet again the old South Philly irony.

With Maundy Thursday would come the visits to the seven churches, a social outing at best. I remember many of my female relatives from La Duchessa Magdalena to my Aunt Norma would make a tour of the local churches on the feast of the institution of the Lord’s Supper. Of course to them it was like a Churches of the Rich and Famous tour, at about 10 pm they would pile into our kitchen and the comparisons would start- Did you see the flowers at St. Edmund’s ohh so cheap.. The draperies was so beautiful at Stella Marris, St. Monica’s does a good job, That altar at St. Paul’s looks so cumary…No reference was made of Gethsemane, The Blessed Sacrament, or God’s Grace.

Good Friday was for dying eggs,. “Why do we dye eggs at Easter?” I would ask. The response ranged from “cause you do” to “the colors represent the blood of Christ…” It was not until years later that I discovered that the egg in fact represents birth and renewal.

Easter Sunday - baskets and the new clothes from Passyunk avenue ( Arnold’s and Kiddy Land did their best business at this time) and a day out. Perhaps we spent the day at a massive Ravioli and Roast Pork dinner at my Aunt Norma’s after an egg nog and Ricotta pie morning at my Aunt Maria’s ( she made the best Ricotta pie) or perhaps the Easter Show at Palumbo’s (I recall one Palumbo Easter with Jimmy Durante with his Midriff formed dancers).

I also remember the time we all ( and by all I mean the entire Braccia clan) spent Easter at the famed Pub Tiki restaurant at 17th and Walnut in Center City Philly. The Old Pub Tiki offered traditional Pub and Polynesian food (??) and the perfect place for a group of Italian Americans to spend Easter. I remember my paternal grandmother- called Mama- sitting in one of those high backed rattan chairs like Morticia Addams. She loved the PuPu platter. Mama was a creature of 19th century rural Italy so her enjoyment of a PuPu platter was indeed an incongruous event.

There were also the great times spent at the Twin Shoppe at 10th and Tasker, Easter was a very busy time for them as they made Easter Baskets to order- and what orders they received. In Old South Philly adults also received Easter baskets! Yes perhaps filled with cigars or gourmet food and wine.. or jewels.. And the twin shop made them all to order. Large immense baskets in the shape of ships of the line and absolutely bursting with treats. Viola, wife of Joe one of the twin owners, was extremely apt at creating these baskets. I remember the Easter season working in the twin shop and the crowds of people and the many made to order baskets, as well as the conversation that touched on everything from movies to opera. We sometimes worked till 2 am !

So Easter was fun, but to be honest some of the best Easters I every had were not in South Philly at all but in Damascus Syria. I lived in Syria from 1991-1996. Damascus has a 30% Christian population and takes Easter very seriously. I very much enjoyed the somber and serene churches and the ancient rituals in Greek, Aramaic and Latin as well as visiting the 7 churches in the Christian neighborhood of Bab Touma every Holy Thursday. What was nice about Easter in Syria was no one came to visit on Palm Sunday with gossip about their neighbors, people understood the meaning of their faith and the rituals it practiced, and they visited churches as a sign of devotion, not to critic the decor.

So Fear not there is life beyond South Philly, and to be honest things are sometimes even better.

Still, sure would like a great big Twin Shop Easter Basket with Jellybeans, Chocolate and Cigars as well as a chunk of Aunt Maria’s Ricotta Pie.

One other thing, Easter also is the arrival of Spring , but I am in the tropics where every day is summer… I sure do miss spring..

So to all - have a Happy Easter a Kosher Passover a prayful Maulidur Raza and enjoy the Spring.

MOB GAL

2006-04-08T08:51:00.000-05:00

MOB GAL

Some people are born to crime, others thrust into it by privation or inclination, but a few bypass birth and situation and marry into it.

There lived in my proximity a girl known to be of good family. Good being defined as from the right part of Italy and with a family in a strong Cumpare relation. Cumpare relations were build by families over the years by participation in sheared births, weddings, confirmations, and deaths. So if say you were an usher at someone’s wedding and they were the Godfather of your son and your brother was the pallbearer at the funeral of their father- then you could say you were Cumpare or in dialect Cumbars or Gumbas 3 times.. got it .So judgment of a family as good or not good was a personal and relative thing.

This girl was considered by my family to be of a good family because she came from the same part of Italy as us and we were Cumbars about 127 times…

The girl grew to young adulthood in the mid 60’s attending the Amazon academy or St Maria Goretti. Teasing and doming her hair and highlighting her eyes she embraced the 60’s as Carlo’s sister embraced the 40’s.

At the age of 16 she met a young man a few years olden then she. He was a stranger, un straniero, for he came from a far away land, around 7th street. His family could be traced back to a large island near Calabria , and he rode a motor cycle. Yes that vehicle reserved only for depraved criminals , not a big Lincoln that good criminals who worked for Angelo Bruno would use. Needless to say he was judged not to come from a good family for he was not Cumpare, not from a good part of Italy (in reference to the girl’s family) and drove a motorcycle.

The Motorcycle Man was an upcoming Mod mobsters who led a dangerous free life in the outback of South Philly , the Lakes on Patterson Avenue. ( for those uninitiated into South Philly, the Lakes refer to the manmade FDR park and small lake reserves at the end of the peninsular South Philly sits on).

The young girl from the good family became enamored of the man on his free riding bike. The sprit of the 60’s had entered South Philly.

Her family were grief stricken with the arrangement. This was, I should note, one of those families in which decent from a Duke or Count was claimed. I need not remind the reader that Count’s daughters don’t marry Motorcycle dudes.

So the fated couple settled on a course of action that was unthinkable, unfathomable, unimaginable, and completely unbelievable to her family and neighbors. They ran away- they eloped … they skipped town ..they married silently and swiftly in a Pennsylvania courthouse ( the girl lied about her age ).

This action was more then just a shock it was a betrayal of the great and noble traditions of a South Philly wedding. Yes a grand South Philly wedding with all the trimmings. The priest in white polyester, the off pitch singer, the white dress, the rented blue tux from Chadwicks on Broad Street, the straciatela (an escarole soup with tiny meat balls called Wedding soup), the Tarantella, the serenade at the brides house with Vinnie Gumbats and his accordion/mandolin band , the little white bag bursting with currency filled envelopes like a Chinese New Year celebration , and the grand cutting of the cake so majestically heralded by the band leader at Palumbo’s the Bride cuts the cake, the bride cuts the cake Hi Ho Didero the Bride Cuts the cake… Well I can understand why they eloped. In fact these weddings would cause any sane person to envy the unmarried and the celibate. A lifetime of solitude was small price to pay to avoid the old fashion South Philly Wedding. I will admit they were splendidly fun if you were a guest, and perhaps that was why her neighbors and family were upset as she denied them all a chance to sing and dance and eat the tiny meat balls floating in ‘scadole ( escarole in dialect).

But the couple knew her parents would never approve and they saw no choice but to run away and wed.

Her family was mortified. I remember the long line of her relatives and cumbars coming to our kitchen, this was our equivalent of CNN Breaking News, along with our own mini McLaughlin group of pundits and prognosticators commenting at length on this action and its ramifications.

The family, amazingly, put it about that their daughter had died! Causing some of the neighbors to raise a collection to offset the funeral cost!

Yet the deed was done and the family realized it would be less scandalous to accept the marriage then to disown their child. I am unsure if the collected money was ever returned, maybe it was put into a funeral mutual fund?.

The Girl shed the Goretti uniform and the two zoomed around South Philly like Synder Avenue Easy Rider. The Biker man engaged in all types of petty crimes. The girl enjoying being the moll of the bimotored gangster.

As the 60’s turning into the 70’s the true nature of their personalities came through. The motorcycle and helmet were exchanged for a Bonneville and cap, she stayed home and cooked up a hurricane. Children came rapidly as a testament to their affection. They moved into a little row home and entered cumardom.

The Guy was more then just tough, he existed on the plain of bold, brazen and strident criminality. He moved like a satellite around the world and henchmen of Angelo Bruno ( SP Mob boss 1960-1980) and if not a made man was being made. He was a fixer and I don’t mean household appliances. He fixed people of their bad habits, not showing respect, not paying their debts, incorrect filing of numbers files.

The good little Girl married the mob, and she loved it.

As life progressed his work and their lives became somewhat stressful. He released the stress by staying out with the guys or with a girl or two on the side. Now his wife, the Mob Bride , was opposed to this behavior as she sought a man who could pamper and take care of her and give her all the attention her looks and upbringing required.

By the dawn of the disco era (late 1970’s) their marriage was on the rocks, the rock being Gibraltar. Mob Guy flew into a rage at the slightest pretext. While he never struck the girl, well not really for if he did she would be the Mob Corpse Bride, he did break plates and furniture. He even committed an unspeakable act- he once lifted from the stove the Gravy pot and threw its tomato based contents about the kitchen- coating the walls and floor with thick red sauce, afterwards it looked like a Bull had been sacrificed on the kitchen table.

She soon left the Mobster and sought refuge with her family. Mob Man felt hurt and betrayed and with his particular sense of morality this only inflamed an already burning situation. He harassed his estranged wife and even showed a bizarre sense of humor as he once called the girl’s aunt claiming to be her recently deceased husband. He even sent an undertaker to collect his wife’s body at the home in which she was staying. The girl now made press with how she was being harassed by her husband to her attending audience of friends and relatives.

She demanded , and often received, a good deal of money from Mob Guy, but it was never enough. She once took him to court for child support , showing up bedecked like the Tsarina Maria Fedonova compete with diamonds and rubies ,protesting her poverty and declaring the hunger of her children . The judge cruelly, asked why she did not sell her jewels to fed her children.

She also began to make the rounds of Discos and night clubs in Philadelphia, New Jersey , and Atlantic City. In frosted Farrah Fawcett hair and dangling jewelry. She had her share of beaux , but somehow Mob Guy always found out and the mere mention of his name deflated even the most desperate of libidos.

I once encountered Mob Guy at the Dolce Vita night club at Front and Chestnut in May of 1978, he told me, in regard to his wife, Boy she became a real whore, to which I said yes indeed ( he was not the sort you disagreed with). I did want to say , I am sure she was a whore when you married her and now she has turned you into a ‘gudanud (Cuckold in dialect and a very very insulting remark), but had I said that I would surely not be here today.

Stuck in a struggle with Mob Guy the Mob Gal found no one who would keep her company, as no man in his right mind would even speak to her unless he sought passive suicide. Anyway she found normal men dull and uninteresting after her years with the Mob. The Girl was not unintelligent and found a way out of her predicament, a way to return excitement into her life, she found another mobster! Yes another man, a man with red curly hair, freckles, a winning smile and working for Mr. Gambino’s firm , I believe. Thinking herself safe , she flaunted the freckles and curls at every disco she could. The mob is wonderful the second time around. Mob Guy was very sore about this, he threatened. He once drove his young son to the apartment of Freckles in New Jersey and while sitting in the car told his son this is where your whore mother’s boyfriend lives and I am gonna shoot the son of a …

One Saturday night in august as Freckles was on his way to pick up Mob Gal, he was met by a shadowy figure.

Three shots and a quick getaway through the forest of South Jersey.

Oh how Mob Gal howled and assumed an imitation of widowhood for her audience. Mob Guy was suspect number #1. He protested his innocents from Washington to Oregon avenue. How could I do such a thing, he said I would be the first one the cops come after, I ain’t nuts. The argument did make a great deal of sense, yet we all knew he did it.

My grandmother Ma , who had a fondness for this man, defended his innocence for he told her he did not do it and he would never lie to her. Ma was not related to the mob guy and never associated with such people, so why she thought he would confess to her and then believe it perplexes me. I believe it was because they both disliked the same people, so she trusted him.

Soon the papers began to report that Freckles was secretly relaying information to the Feds! Yes he was a snitch , a turncoat, a rat. The mob had to silence his song. It was being viewed as a mob hit not a South Jersey Othello story. We figured the Mob Guy saw a golden opportunity to sort out his wife while advancing his career with the Mothers and Fathers of the Italian Association (M.A.F.I.A.).

Mob Guy was arrested and put on trial. He swore his innocence, his lawyer tried his best but the state had forensic evidence and the testimony of his son regarding the conversation in the auto proved very difficult to discount, even for the sharpest Philadelphia Lawyer. I would assume mother gleefully coached the boy for his appearance in court.

Mob Guy, swearing his innocents to the end and protecting a number of people in the process, was found guilty by a jury and sentenced to 20 years to life.

And so the Mob Gal was freed from the Mob Guy. Mob Guy continuing to protest his innocents, spent the 80’s and 90’s as a guest of the state of New Jersey. He missed Reganomics, the Fall of the USSR , Gulf War I, the Clinton Boon years, the birth of the internet and Monica Lewisnky. He mellowed in prison with privileges provide by the Mob in his benefit plan. He even allowed for a proper divorce from Mob Girl.

Ex Mob Gal became cheerless without the excitement of mobsters, shootings and trails around her. Her audience grew bored. By the mid 80’s she made contact with her ex behind his prison walls and by 1990s they were fast friends again. Freckles remained in his sepulcher.

To fight the boredom she also took up with another man, a petty crook who bounced checks by the dozen . She enjoyed this liaison as well as the renaissance in her relationship with the caged Mobster. However there are only so many checks you can bounce , so many relatives you can borrow from, and so many probations you can break. Soon Mob Gal and Rubber Check guy fell on hard times. Prison and the poorhouse yawned , opening for them the road to indigence.

But step in fate, Mob Guy was released! Yes like a Deus ex machine Mob Guy reappeared , released on good behavior. Why is it mobsters can behavior in prison but not in civil society? Mob Guy now enjoyed a place of great honor among the made men, for he did his time and kept his mouth shut. Soon he had home, business and new girl friend (mobsters can always get a date, remember that). Who says crime does not pay.

Feeling for his ex wife he opened his doors in a sign of great forgiveness and they all moved in together under his care, Mob Guy , new girl friend, Mob Girl and her petty criminal Check Bouncer. I would assume Mob guy gave Rubber Check lessons on how to be a real criminal. They were all very very happy! Mob Guy and Girl back together again despite the past, or perhaps because of it. Freckles had no comment.

But Mob Guy was getting older and ill, I saw him in the early 21st century at a funeral (funerals are always a chance in South Philly to catch up with the quick and the dead). He hobbled in like an old war hero and despite the fact that we had not seen each other in over 20 years, I normal don’t visit prisons except for the Moyamening, we had a very nice long conversation, discussing the past and the future. Prison certainly made him a reflective mobster.

Mob Guy was nearing however the end of his road, a few years later he joined Freckles. His ex wife was with him to the end and finally got to play a real widow, unfortunately her audience had long left.

At his funeral Mob Girl reflected on the past, it was a long motorcycle ride from the lakes to Holy Cross, and with sadness she bid Farwell to Mob Guy.

Mob Girl has grown into a happy matronly grandmother and continues to enjoy herself.

I guess the moral of this story is love conquers all, or the power of forgiveness, or perhaps that people sure do use each other or Gals like mobsters.

Or maybe Gals love to forgive mobsters then can use.

2006-04-03T23:25:00.000-05:00

Death Mayhem and Family Feuds

After the Moyamensing prison was razed the city of Philadelphia left it as an open wound in our neighborhood for close on to 10 years. We were at a lost not knowing what to make of the vacuum where once stood the stone edifice. We still referred to the space as the Prison, sometimes refining the description to the Prison Lot.

The Prison Lot was a monument to municipal plight. Yet we played soft ball there, had snowball fights there , held mock battles there, and even skated on the water puddles when a freeze set in. But people dumped trash here, did drugs here, engaged in sexual tryst here and left and discarded all sorts of things they no longer wanted, from appliances to cars. It was a playing field of the absurd.

Old autos would be dumped unceremoniously and eventually removed by the city of Philadelphia to their old car grave yard. Meanwhile we got to play in the broken vehicles. An urban decay theme park was born in the shadows of the Moyamensing prison.

There was one car we did not play in however, the burnt car, the Scorched Coupe.

The Scorched Coupe

The Scorched Coupe occupied the Prison Lot for a few months in 1974, a time when I was nearly 16 and no longer playing in abandon cars. But even if I were to still play in abandoned cars, I would not go near the Scorched Coupe While it sat in the Prison Lot I, like everyone else, carefully avoided it..

The Scorched Coupe told a story of death mayhem and a family feud. A story that shattered the lives of two families and caught in its tentacles two boys I knew.

I begin the story in 1971 while I was in 7th grade at the Annunciation BVM elementary school at 12th and Reed. Midway through the school year it was decided to move me into a different math group. This Math group included some 8th graders. Among the 8th graders was a boy name Sabbie, short I would imagine for Sabatino. He was a dark Italian of hot temperment , from a family equally known for their dark looks and hot tempers. Sabbie was a tough kid but not a bully, don’t mess with him and you would be alright. Cross the boy and that Southern Italian temper would singe you. I had seen him in enough fights to know not to cross him.

I had some initial concerns about the new Math class as it was run by a nun/teacher I did not know, Sister Carmel Maria, and had a number of bad 8th grade boys- including Sabbie. Imagine my angst when Sister Carmel Maria placed me directly in front of Sabbie. I feared for my life for surely I would commit some terrible faux pas like speak to him or step in his shadow. Amazingly things turned out quite the opposite, Sister Carmel Maria turn out to be one of the best and most caring of the Nuns that ever taught me and Sabbie was in reality a friendly boy who easily helped me and took help from me. He even spoke up for me when other more bulling students made negative comments. Sabbie and I never became friends , he was older and very different from me, but we did get on well. After a few years we were both at John Neumann High School and he would even stop in the hall and say hi to me.

While in High School I started to hang at 10th and Cross Streets. Hang, short for hanging out, was a major aspect of teen life in old South Philly. You had your corner or place and mine was 10th and Cross. I hung with a nice groups of kids- among them Stanley, Roy, Carmen, Mary, Wendy, Karen, Danny, Joanna, Jeanni , Biagio ( watch those Candles) and a boy a year younger then I named Steven.

Steven was a natural comedian and one of the most easy going and funniest kids I ever came across. We became fast friends and I always enjoyed a night out with him and the 10th and Cross gang at the CYO Dance or the Colonial Movies, which looked and smelt I would imagine like some porn house, or a meal at Fiore’s Pizzeria on Passyunk Avenue or the little steak and hoagie shops along 11th street. During these nights out Steven would entertain us with jokes as well as humorous stories of the neighbors that lived on his street. Steven lived on a small side street around 12th and Tasker- a street that dead ended, literally. We called it the Blind Street, or Blind Camac as it was a franchise of the famous Philadelphia street that runs the breath of the city from South to North.

This Street was also shared by a number of other friends and acquaintances, Stanley, Roy, and Biagio, Sabbie even lived around the corner.

I can not lie and say in old South Philly we lived in a gravy hazed Nirvana. We did not, people had likes and dislikes, prejudices, obsessions, vices, envy, bad habits and some families even had feuds. In the summer of 1974 our nights out started to darkened by some not so funny stories, stories that involved Steven and Sabbie- or rather their families.

In Old South Philly parking was a God given right to some and as I have mentioned in other stories some people took parking issues very seriously. Perhaps it is a sort of delayed road rage? The steady chain of terrible events that broke upon the blind street began with a parking. Sabbie’s family had a new 1973 Gran Prix Coupe. A car of great value and beauty in old South Philly. However a disagreement over a predetermined parking space for the car caused a conflict between Steven’s parents and Sabbies brother , father and mother. This soon spiraled into a fill fledged Feud between the two families. The feud resulted in nightly shouting matches and threats thrown about the blind street while the Cumares were putting on the water for the macaroni and setting their tables. Since Sabbies family were not known for their calm disposition or smooth dealings with people, it was becoming obvious to us all that the situation was headed for a tragedy. Steven was spending less time with us as his family did not want him out and about for fear he would be attacked or jumped by Sabbie and his brother. I can recall one night when the Grand Prix made a turn onto Cross street and Steven hid behind us as I waved to Sabbie as he passed in the passenger seat. This situation was made worse by the fact that both families hunted and were known to possess fire arms.

By the fall of 1974 the situation was about to blow. The explosion came one crisp early fall night as the sun was begin its decent along Tasker street. Sabbie with family came to Steven’s house for what was to prove the final showdown. Threats, shouts , curses then Steven’s father appeared at the steps of his row home brandishing a gun , calling Sabbie’s family off, telling the wolfs to leave. In the course of this increasingly out of control situation Steven’s father fired a warning shot ,then leveled the gun toward Sabbie’s mother. Sabbie leaped to her protection. The gun was fired ,why -accident, fear? But fired it was and Sabbie took it full in the chest falling back into the arms of his mother and brother.

The violence had been unleashed , the feud was consummated.

Sabbie, only 17, fell back. His family realizing their son was mortally wounded, were brought to reason, they let go of the feud to save the boys life. Sabbie’s brother loaded him into the Grand Prix and rushed to St. Agnus Hospital. Sabbie was gushing blood in the car, staining the seats with his expiring life.

Sabbie died in the emergency room soon after. (Requiescat in pace).

I was with my friends at 10th and Cross when word came via Biagio, we rushed to what was now a crime scene. Police everywhere , neighbors in the street all pontificating on how and why this happened. Good neighbors, where were they while this feud was boiling over? Where was the Old South Philly sense of community they all like to talk about? Why didn’t the cumpare bring peace instead of hiding behind their gravy pots discussing with zeal in their kitchens each new twist in the feud.

Among the crowd was a girl who claimed to be Sabbie's girlfriend, a post I believe she held unofficially. She was a pretty girl but a fashion catastrophe. She gave what must still be her greatest performance of grief and whaling, and of course fainting into the arms of her friends- certainly providing the comic relief.

Steven’s father had already been taken into custody. We were able to comfort Steven who was pale and distraught. Soon his extended family came and spirited the boy away from the tragedy. The sun had set and we were left amid the throng the pundits and the curious. I stood by the curb and below me on the sidewalk I noticed what was the stain of Sabbie's blood, illuminated by the street lamp. The spot of the tough kid who once befriended me. I looked up and saw sister Carmel Maria the nun who originally seated me in front of Sabbie. She had came to comfort those that would be comforted. Her expression revealed a sincere sadness as she taught both Sabbie and Steven.

Sabbie's brother was maddened with grief and remorse. He drove his once prized car now stained with the blood and stink of death to the Prison Lot. Once there he cursed the vehicle plummeting it with rocks and his fist- blaming the car perhaps? His tirade ended with him setting fire to the car. Engulfing in flames the recent misery. No one dared douse the flames, including the firemen.

The fire burned itself out, the Gran Prix was now the Scorched Coupe.

Steven’s father was arraigned on Manslaughter charges and received a very light mostly suspended sentence. Mitigating circumstances the jury and judge felt. Steven moved out and away from South Philly and we never saw him again.

I lost two friends that fall night.

Sabbie’s family also moved- but only to the next street. They never again engaged in a feud.

Sabbie’s brother married and named one of his sons Sabbie, he was a good neighbor and eventually left South Philly in the late 1980’s.

The Scorched Coupe remained in the Prison Lot for a few months and then, like Stalin’s body, was quietly removed.

2006-03-31T07:25:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-28T02:26:00.000-05:00

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..

2006-03-21T08:58:00.000-05:00

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..

2006-03-15T22:53:00.000-05:00

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?????????????

2006-03-06T10:54:00.000-05:00

Gorillas in the Gravy
OR
Pirates of the Schukyll

I remember a daily plague that was visited upon us on South 10th street in the 60’s and 70’s- a sordid memory of an habitual invasion that took place at approximately 3 pm- for it was the danger time. For danger was unleashed upon the hapless residents of south 10th - 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 onto the street. 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 which hung from a long ribbon attached to their uniform which these young Amazons swung with incredible speed and agility – surely able to knock a man into South Jersey.

St. Maria Goretti, whose ancient Alma Mater rings out to all who remember- “We face the world our flag unfurled “ ..or was it skirts unfurled….? How do I know that song- my sister and a trolley car lode of cousins that attended the school were force to learn it, and I forced to listen to them learn it again and again and again. Not to mention the 35 odd St. Maria Goretti Graduations at the Civic Center I was required to attend.

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 some kind of strange chemical reaction that caused the Neumann boys to be triply immature in the presence of these young nymphs. But we boys sometimes took action. 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 cloister- perhaps gaining a prearranged piece of undergarment and always being 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 was 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…..

Then their were the times when the boys from Newman, who were dismissed earlier, cut across South Philly to stand outside the class room 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…

We Neumann boys were a bred in our self. Originally the school was called Roman Catholic and located at 8th and Christian ( site has been for years 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 uniforms; we did look smart with our shirt, tie, and jackets. It was not however the Oxford Brooks brother look , but the pink shirt and clip on tie with open shirt neck and an oval lapelled corduroy Jacket – bought from Arnold’s the men style shop on Passyunk Avenue. 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 button and afforded 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. You know he only recently retired after teaching and working at Neumann for like 47 years or something. Can you image 47 years at Neumann. I think he produced more shows then Ziegfield.

By the way 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 an 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 did have a great orchestra and Girl’s basketball team as well as a much more effective and organized Student associations and student government. Neumann’s student government sort of 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 and take the Number 40 bus along Tasker to 26th street and then walk a few blocks to school. The SEPTA bus ride was itself 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 only lived a 15 minute walk to Goretti. So we patently 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, juts 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 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..

I guess 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 .

2006-03-05T08:56:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-04T01:01:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-03T10:32:00.000-05:00

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….

2006-03-02T01:54:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-01T01:28:00.001-05:00

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.

2006-02-28T02:56:00.000-05:00

Twin Shoppe

Old south Philly social life pulsated by corners which served as surrogate Italian Piazzi to the Italians of the Diaspora. Often these corners were anchored by a store. Few corner stores had the staying power and social pull of the Twin Card and Sweet Shoppe at 10th and Tasker streets. It had been a card and malt shop from the 1930’s owned by a guy named Oliveri – then in 1950 twins Joe and Carmen Carozza from 8th and Tasker bought it. The twins (and they were Identical) were WWII veterans who after the war worked in a cigar shop in center city Philadelphia where they knew my Grandfather Franceso and his sons my uncles Denny and Joe. Hard working were these Sicilian lads- in a time when hard work alone could guarantee success. They pooled their resources and took over the shop at 10th and Tasker rechristening it the Twin Card and Sweet Shoppe. It was a Malt Shop- Card Shop- Gift Shop. Cigar Shop- and convenience store. Opened 6 then 7 days a week 10-11!! Way before WAWA, 7-11, CVS . Staffed by the twins and their wives- Shirley , Carmen’s wife (Chamberlain could have used her at Munich) and Viola, Joe’s wife -as well as a gang of kids who worked in the shop-like myself and my dear buddy Robert Giangiordano (1958-1987) . The store was the center of the social scene of 10th and Tasker- sharing the intersection with Joe’s bar, Sisco’s grocery, and Vito’s ice cream and card shop- yes two shops selling the same stuff across from each other. Priceless was the treasure I acquired from my days at the twin Shop. It was an Education in South Philadelphia. The Damon Runyan personae- from mobsters and their wives to Sceets to Bella and Mary to Al and Bob and Ace the barber , Flash and well you name it, if they lived in South Philly in the 50’s-70’s they all came to the Twin Shoppe. It was a river of Mezzogiorno barges.. Everyone had an angle everyone had a story…I met people like old Roberto Zinni from my Grandfather’s village in Italy and old times fill of stories of the South Philly in the 1910’s and 20’s. The store was also an incredible business success- for a while the largest card seller south of South Street. But by the 1980’s , the twins were being surpassed by mega stores and new marketing strategies they could never understand. Business slowed , old loyal customers died, often Frannie Carmen and Joe’s sister would greet me with the famous south Philly line…Guess who died. .Joe died in 1998 and Carmen sold the business in 2001. Now a younger man has taken it over- focusing on Cigars and rebuilding the parts that were falling down. And I am happy to say- the Twin Shoppe continues. But oh what ghosts must haunt that building-more on these ghost later.

2006-02-28T02:22:00.000-05:00

The year is 195 something- the place- the Latin Casino –well maybe not but some bar joint frequented by Italo-Americans in either Philadelphia or its satellite South Jersey. The man on the left is my father Frank Braccia (1926-1988). Next to him was the Raunchy Night Club Entertainer Belle Barth- the female Lenny Bruce and one of the great Jewish red Hot Mamas, her famous line- "Hey, I'm 65, I'm fat and I can still take five guys a night. I pay them now, but that's okay," next to her is my mother Dolores Oratorio Braccia (1932-1992) on the far Right is my mother’s first cousin Michael (Micky) Mezzaroba (1937-2002). For years this picture was hung in our house like some icon of great power- Micky even had his own copy of it- The Power Working Icon of The Supper in Jersey.. ST. Belle Among the Gumbas.. . It must have been a hell of a night cause my parents and Micky often spoke of it. Missing from the picture is Rita -Micky’s wife whose father was Charlie of Cheap Charlie’s variety store at 12th and Wilder. Maybe this was before Micky married Rita? I should ask Rita…as I don’t why she was not in the picture?? These nights out were very important for my dad’s generation - trapped as they were in small row homes, bursting with family, neighbors , and oceans of Gravy- fortunately such large extended families did mean there was always a baby sitter about so you could take the odd Saturday night and swank it baby….. Of course they were always well dressed- not always with a lot of cash but well dressed. My grandfather Franceso was a tailor so clothes were important to my family. I guess that is true of all Italian families.
Hey by the way did anyone see the end ceremony of the Torino Olympics… Maddun’ I seen better shows at Palumbo’s… Ah what do you expect from NORTHERN Italians.. Anyway Micky was like an uncle to me and his life and times is the stuff of South Philly legend- he was born with little and never finished school- but built a multi million dollar construction company called MIRI as well as a bar and restaurant called Fresanco. Micky is gone and MIRI went with him and that’s the way it is down in South Philly. Many family businesses don’t outlive the founder. My mother was Micky’s secretary for years and they were like brother and sister- that too is the way it is in South Philly … There is a city in northern Borneo in Malaysia called Miri! Nothing to do with Micky but real coincidental if you think about it. I who lived but 2 blocks from the Miri office at 12th and Dickinson now live 2 hours from the city Miri in Malaysia…. Do the gods jest??

2006-02-21T07:47:00.000-05:00

MAMA
This is Mama- not Mamma but Mama- two short staccato syllabus. She was my paternal Grandmother 1881-1967. Her name was Teresa Gianantonio, her family came from Bascilicata in Southern Italy but she was born in Buenos Aires in Argentina. She was a real force in our family and her children (all 7 adored her, one of my Aunts had a problem with her- but that is a another story.) she is in front of her home at 1107 Garret Street near 12th and Dickinson in South Philly. Mama married my Grandfather Franceso Braccia in or about 1907 or 08. My Grandfather came from Altino in the Abruzzo and by 1910 was an established designer and tailor of women’s clothing. He spoken English very well and was a success. Despite some reservations from his family ( she was after all not Abruzzes ) he formally courted her. Her family being very poor , were rather happy to have their daughter catch the eye of such a promising man. Teresa worked in the Bayouk cigar factories in North Philly as, I believe, a cigar roller at … Maybe that’s what I love Cigars…She accepted Francesco’s proposal and they were engaged – I have been told it was Teresa’s mother who insisted on the match , so that my grandfather could help support his wife’s family. My grandmother’s family was a hoot- Uncle Falucc (Fa-Lucc with a as a long vowel) who never had a career or permanent employment, and Uncle Harry who lived in rented rooms and whose only job seemed to be selling toys on Broad street during the Mummer’s parade- what he did the rest of year I have no idea. Francesco and Teresa were married and soon moved to the new Italian neighborhood around the Moraymensing prison , (where today stands a large Acme ( or Ak-a-Me) and community center at Passyunk Avenue and Dickinson-Reed) and purchased a new home at 1107 Garrett street. Teresa while a happy bride was unsuited to domestic life, as she could neither cook nor clean and Frank did not desire she learn these skills from her mother whose simple Basilicata food and style of housekeeping left a lot to be desired by Francesco. Frank soon turned to his paisani at Palumbo’s ( remember the famed restaurant off the Italian Market-9th Street?) who sent a chief to specifically teach Teresa how to prepare good Abruzzesse food ( Spaghetti alla guitara, Balotte, etc..) as well as set table and organize a house. While she soon learn to do this to Frank’s taste, in child bearing there were a number of problems. Terese had 2 or 3 stillborns, each follow by bleeding etc.. A doctor warned that unless Teresa had a hysterectomy she would surly die in the next attempt to have children. Had Frank and Teresa heeded this advice you would not be reading this BLOG as I would not be writing it. Instead of heeding the doctor Frank and Teresa, on the advice of neighbors, turned toward the divine and Teresa made a novena to the Madonna at St. John’s church at 13th and Chestnut-I recall that Mama always loved to go to this church and light candles in the downstairs shrine ( which was so beautiful before the remodeling of the early 70’s) - well God hears all prayers and in 1913 Teresa gave birth to a healthy boy- a dieudon (gift of God as the French say) and they called this child Luigi after Franceso’s father. Luigi was soon fallowed by Romeo, Rosa, Guiseppi (called Joseph), Donato (called Denny) Norma (After the Bellini opera) and finally in 1926 by Frank (my dad). I remember Mama as a resourceful and forceful person- we were all in awe of her because my father adored her- a real Oedipal thing- very Italian. When she died in 1967 my mom wore black for 30 days like some Queen had died! She was a real tough mother in law- never felt any of her daughters-in-law could take care of her sons the way she did.. She was probably right, but oh what a mother in law she must of have been. When I would ask my mom she would just roll her eyes. But that’s what the old timers were like.. hell she was born in 1881!! I remember her standing on the stoop of her house waiting for us (how did she know we were on the way??) I wonder if in her wildest imagination she could have thought, while standing on her Garrett street stoop in 1963, that Little Frankie would grow up, grow old , and be writing about her and posting for all the world to see in something called a BLOG via something called an internet……

2006-02-20T09:46:00.001-05:00

SALVE! I am Frank Braccia born and raised in South Philly- having my heimat 20 years ago and now travel the world with my memories in tow. But South Philly haunts me like a siren’s call. However I am lashed to the mast ….…. Don’t know about my future but oh what a past….So come and share my memories and add some of yours..