On a beautiful moonlight evening in the summer of 1942 my appearance underwent an abrupt and dramatic change. I was seven years old when it happened.
Each summer, the Colombo Lodge sponsored a fund raising street carnival. Poplar Street between 40th and 41st streets was blocked to vehicular traffic and festooned with strings of red and blue and yellow lights. Booths housing various games of skill and chance filled the street as barkers and carnies enticed all comers to step right up and win a prize for the little girl. Men pounded a sledge on a padded spring that would drive a weight upwards to ring a bell. Women danced in the street as local musicians played the latest Tin Pan Alley tunes. Both sexes mingled to try their luck at the large outdoor bingo table. Freshly grilled Italian sausages and meatball sandwiches and roast beef were available in abundance. Soda and other soft drinks could be had street side from trunk sized ice filled coolers. Adults would slip into the Colombo Lodge for a cold beer. The summer air was charged with festivity and I was missing it all.
My father had gone to the Colombo Lodge earlier to help set up for the block party. My mother was playing cards with some of her friends and the evening was wearing long and dully as I was forced to stay at home with mom and listen to adult chatter. Mom had promised to take me to the block party, but I could see that it was going to take quite a while before that would happen. My mother was one of the best card players in West Philadelphia. She could play Rummy or Poker with anyone. Stakes never bothered her. She was equal to any pressure that a raised bet could cause. At the end of a hand she could tell you your cards before you laid them out in front of her. She would amaze me when we sat down to play Rummy together. All game long, I'd be waiting for a particular card, the Jack of Spades, for example. Mom would declare Rummy and show me the Jack of Spades as her discard. She'd say that she knew that I was waiting for the card because of several plays which she had observed me make earlier in the hand. She was patient with me and taught me a great deal about tactics and strategy. But I could never beat her. She loved cards and maintained her own gambling purse, which was never mixed in with household money. The gambling purse was strictly hers and no one, not dad or me or my siblings or the parish priest or the gates of hell could prevail against it.
She was a traditional Italian-American housewife, hard working and family oriented. The meals were always skillfully prepared, plentiful and on time. The house was spotless and the laundry always fresh and clean, and none of those chores stood in the way of her weekend card games. She was warm and caring and with a tongue that was sharper than cheddar. She was sometimes too quick to speak. Her tongue could get her into trouble, but you always knew where she stood, though you might just as well not have cared to hear about it. I inherited her quick tongue and put it to use. I begged, cajoled, annoyed and harped. I whined. I pleaded. I beseeched, implored and entreated. I promised to get to Poplar Street by leaving through the alleyway behind our house so that I was not even going to be close to a street corner or near any automobile traffic. I swore to go straight to the lodge and check in with my father before I engaged myself in any of the festivities – that was an easy promise, dad had the money. Finally she relented and I zipped out of the back yard and skedaddled through the alley. I approached the colored lights of Poplar Street in a lustful run, stepped out of the alley onto the concrete pavement and the lights went out and I awoke on the floor of the corner drug store in a pool of blood, blood on my sailor suit and on my face and shoulders. My father was holding me in his arms and looking down at me and people were talking. “Take him to the hospital”. I hugged my father and sobbed and begged him not to take me to the hospital. They cleaned me up at the drug store and dad carried me home. I was a bloody mess. The doctor came to the house the next day and declared that my nose was broken and my septum was deviated. He advised either an immediate operation or a wait until I was fully grown before surgical correction. I begged again that I wanted no part of a hospital and my parents decided to wait until I was 18 for the rhinoplasty and the straightening of the septum. From that day and all through my teen years I suffered frequent nocturnal nosebleeds. I would awaken at night to discover blood on my pillow and sheets. I got so used to it that I wouldn’t even bother waking my parents. I doctored my self, changed the sheets and went back to sleep. For eleven years, until the rhinoplasty, my nose was as bent as a prizefighter.
It took me years to piece out what had happened. I was married and had children of my own when I solved the mystery. I was deliberately and cruelly run down by a neighborhood bully twice my age who sped his bicycle at me just as I emerged onto the concrete sidewalk. I swore revenge, but never had to take it. “Revenge is mine”, says the Lord. As an adult I inquired as to the bully’s whereabouts and was informed that he lives as a solitary and lonely recluse who never leaves his house. I’d still like to bust his nose.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Family Days in Old Atlantic City
Summer, 1946 - World War II had ended the year before. No more telegrams from the war office creating widows and bereaved parents. The war was over. Our boys were coming back home, and the country was proud to welcome them - swords into plowshares, convert the economy.
I was to spend the summer of 1946 at Camp Happy. I was 11 years old, and had no idea what to expect although I entertained a vague hope that there would be uniforms and a group of people eager to live by camp rules that were to be doled out by sagacious purveyors of wisdom, selfless beings who had only the good of the camp community at heart. I anticipated an idyllic Eden where I would spend my time swimming, learning to row, playing baseball, and enjoying nature and the great outdoors.
Camp Happy fell far short. I was miserable. There were barracks fights, petty brawls, endless teasing, pecking orders, sub-rosa rules with which I could neither fathom nor comply. It was there that I first experienced mass punishment. It didn't matter that I had done my chores and stood quietly in line. If there were an article stolen, a not uncommon occurrence, if someone failed to get to an outhouse on time and left a pile next to a cabin, or for any one of a score of reasons, there would be no dessert that night, or no movie, or no something. My soul would cry "But I didn't do anything", and I would well up with tears that I dared not display. This was not Utopia.
I ran away. I persuaded a family to drive me out of the camp. They had come to the camp to liberate their son with whom I had developed a friendship. They were going to Philadelphia and I pleaded with them to put me near a Number 15, 38, 42, or 40 trolley and I would find my way home. I explained to them how I would proceed if dropped off near any of those trolley lines. I had more than enough carfare and all of my clothes in a bundle. I was ready and able. They loaded me and my bag into their black Pontiac and dropped me off by the #42 line. I took it, connected to the #15 trolley via some creative walking inspired by dead reckoning. When I got to the #15 trolley line at Belmont and Girard and presented the pass to the conductor he disdainfully asked me if I had found it. I was tired, having just decided to use the pass rather than walk the four or five blocks to 40th Street, but I was up to the task. I named the boarding intersection, told him where I had exited the 42 and how I came to Belmont and Girard. He was impressed and I rode on to good ole’ 40. I walked south on 40th one block, then turned west onto Cambridge.
My home was in the middle of a block of brick rows. Most of the houses had grass plots in front; all had yards behind. The living room and largest upstairs bedroom of the two story faced Cambridge Street. The kitchen was located to the rear of the house and faced the yard and the back alley.
Our house was one of the few with no grass plot. The entire front of the house was cemented except for the iron sidewalk doors, which were opened infrequently. It was a gala neighborhood occasion when the iron doors opened in the summer. Our basement was the chosen storage area, agreed upon by the entire block; it was the sanctum sanctorum of that indispensable summertime appliance, the wrench to the fire hydrant.
We were important folk because we housed the hydrant wrench. Everyone on our block knew where the wrench was kept. No one would ever tell the police where it was housed, a touch of Italy in old Philadelphia, silence in front of authority. Before the holy appliance could emerge from its sanctuary, certain rituals had to be strictly observed. One person had to station himself - It was always a boy who was stationed. But I saw my cousin Phyllis, Uncle Gypsy’s daughter, stand and defy two policemen who came to shut down the hydrant on a particularly hot day after all the boys, including myself, had fled to nearby porches for safety. We all knew about search warrants. Phyllis just stood there in open defiance. The police never bothered her - at the 41st Street corner, another at the 40th Street corner to look out for police. After both corners were declared secure the cellar doors would open and two, always two, people would remove the holy appliance from its tabernacle, conceal it in a cloth and carry it briskly to the hydrant. Several people would disperse up and down the street as additional security guards and the hydrant would be turned on, full blast. The wrench would be rewrapped immediately and then disappear into the cellar, returned to its resting place. The youngsters frolicked in the water, while the adults enjoyed the respite from the city’s sticky heat. Cellar door openings in the winter were basically non-events, strictly house concerns like coal delivery, or removal of coal ashes.
I walked up to my house and tried the door. It was locked. That meant no one was at home, unusual for the time of day and season. I went to 4040 Cambridge, Aunt Tilda's house where I was always welcome. This was the house that my grandparents Tuoni lived in, and it always felt good to be in it. Aunt Tilda greeted me with surprise. She thought that I was away at camp for the summer. I told her that it was an awful place and that I had run away. Then I learned that my parents, and new baby sister, Nancy was about six months old at the time, were spending the summer in Atlantic City. My father was doing major repair work on Aunt Jule and Uncle Morris's boarding house on Pennsylvania Avenue and the family was staying there for the summer. Well, how do you do? An entire summer in Atlantic City. Aunt Tilda provided bed and breakfast. Uncle Morris showed up the next day in his big black Packard, my clothes were already packed, and I had a summer at the beach.
Atlantic City was a family town. Hard working people would leave Philadelphia to spend some time at the seashore. Aunt Jule’s place, called Jule’s Cottage, was typical. The first floor, except for a common entrance, was the province of the host family. The second and third floors contained bedrooms and two or more baths per floor. Some bedrooms were interconnected so that parents had easy access to the children's room. Uncle Morris got a cot for me and I shared a bedroom with Nancy. The basement was a common area. There were several cooking stoves with ovens for baking and roasting, a like number of refrigerators, and a good supply of tables and chairs. Everyone in the kitchen was extended family. The atmosphere was festive. "Try some of this sausage", "She makes the best tomato sauce", "That pie smells great", and so on through the coffee and the figs and the nuts.
The Boardwalk was magic, sudden happy encounters with old friends, a chance meeting and my first romance, soft ice cream cones, George C. Tilyou's Steeplechase - The Funny Place, Steel Pier with its diving horse, prestidigitators, carneys, lanolin salesmen, ethnic stores, and salt water taffy. You name it.
The beaches were crowded, but clean, and all within a short walk of my lodgings. What a summer! I got brown as a beetle. I learned to body surf, ride waves as it was called. I scavenged the early morning beaches, amused my self all day walking the sands as far as Margate, testing all of the beaches, and settling on one for the season. I dug clams and played by pilings, but I only got to Steel Pier once. I begged and begged and finally the great day dawned. I leaped out of bed and immediately threw up. So did several other people in the house, from eating tainted apple strudel the night before. My stomach churned, my eyes filled with tears. I doubled over in pain and ran a slight fever. My father was ready to call off the trip. I begged him to wait until noontime. I drank some weak tea and ate nothing. The fever abated and most of my strength returned. It was through a supreme act of will that I recovered enough to set out with my father to behold the joys, wonders and mysteries of Steel Pier. I got to see the diving horse, acrobats and tumblers, and finally a magic act. The magician was a spellbinder, Black cape lined in red, black top hat, blue hazy spotlights, flowers and streamers popping out from a tin can, his hat, or his breast pocket. He did card tricks that boggled my mind. I was especially impressed with the card tricks since I was learning to play cards from my mother, who was one of the best card players in West Philadelphia. She could play Rummy or Poker with anyone. Stakes never bothered her. She was equal to any pressure that a raised bet could cause, and she generally knew what card or cards you were waiting for. She would amaze me when we sat down to play Rummy together. All game long, I'd be waiting for a particular card, say the Jack of Spades. Mom would declare Rummy and show me the Jack of Spades as her discard. She'd say that she knew that I was waiting for the card because of several plays which she had observed me make earlier in the hand. She was patient with me and taught me a great deal about tactics and strategy. But I could never beat her. She loved cards and maintained her own gambling purse, which was never mixed in with household money. The gambling purse was strictly hers and no one, not dad or me or my siblings or the parish priest or anyone could touch it. She was a traditional Italian-American housewife, hard working and family oriented. The meals were always skillfully prepared, plentiful and on time. The house was spotless and the laundry always fresh and clean, and none of those chores stood in the way of her weekend card games. Esterina la gambella (Esther the gambling lady). She was warm and caring and with a tongue that was sharper than parmesian. She was sometimes too quick to speak. Her tongue could get her into trouble, but you always knew where she stood, though you might just as well not have cared to. I inherited her quick tongue. Mom was stout, like all of the Perrettas.
My brother,Tom came home from the Navy that summer. He took Nancy to the boardwalk and had a photo of her and him taken at a photo shop. It was a great picture, Nancy sitting on a wooden horse, barefoot and smiling broadly, Tom in his U.S. Navy enlisted man's uniform. The photo was so well made that a copy of it sat in the photo shop's window for several years. Tom still has the picture.
I was to spend the summer of 1946 at Camp Happy. I was 11 years old, and had no idea what to expect although I entertained a vague hope that there would be uniforms and a group of people eager to live by camp rules that were to be doled out by sagacious purveyors of wisdom, selfless beings who had only the good of the camp community at heart. I anticipated an idyllic Eden where I would spend my time swimming, learning to row, playing baseball, and enjoying nature and the great outdoors.
Camp Happy fell far short. I was miserable. There were barracks fights, petty brawls, endless teasing, pecking orders, sub-rosa rules with which I could neither fathom nor comply. It was there that I first experienced mass punishment. It didn't matter that I had done my chores and stood quietly in line. If there were an article stolen, a not uncommon occurrence, if someone failed to get to an outhouse on time and left a pile next to a cabin, or for any one of a score of reasons, there would be no dessert that night, or no movie, or no something. My soul would cry "But I didn't do anything", and I would well up with tears that I dared not display. This was not Utopia.
I ran away. I persuaded a family to drive me out of the camp. They had come to the camp to liberate their son with whom I had developed a friendship. They were going to Philadelphia and I pleaded with them to put me near a Number 15, 38, 42, or 40 trolley and I would find my way home. I explained to them how I would proceed if dropped off near any of those trolley lines. I had more than enough carfare and all of my clothes in a bundle. I was ready and able. They loaded me and my bag into their black Pontiac and dropped me off by the #42 line. I took it, connected to the #15 trolley via some creative walking inspired by dead reckoning. When I got to the #15 trolley line at Belmont and Girard and presented the pass to the conductor he disdainfully asked me if I had found it. I was tired, having just decided to use the pass rather than walk the four or five blocks to 40th Street, but I was up to the task. I named the boarding intersection, told him where I had exited the 42 and how I came to Belmont and Girard. He was impressed and I rode on to good ole’ 40. I walked south on 40th one block, then turned west onto Cambridge.
My home was in the middle of a block of brick rows. Most of the houses had grass plots in front; all had yards behind. The living room and largest upstairs bedroom of the two story faced Cambridge Street. The kitchen was located to the rear of the house and faced the yard and the back alley.
Our house was one of the few with no grass plot. The entire front of the house was cemented except for the iron sidewalk doors, which were opened infrequently. It was a gala neighborhood occasion when the iron doors opened in the summer. Our basement was the chosen storage area, agreed upon by the entire block; it was the sanctum sanctorum of that indispensable summertime appliance, the wrench to the fire hydrant.
We were important folk because we housed the hydrant wrench. Everyone on our block knew where the wrench was kept. No one would ever tell the police where it was housed, a touch of Italy in old Philadelphia, silence in front of authority. Before the holy appliance could emerge from its sanctuary, certain rituals had to be strictly observed. One person had to station himself - It was always a boy who was stationed. But I saw my cousin Phyllis, Uncle Gypsy’s daughter, stand and defy two policemen who came to shut down the hydrant on a particularly hot day after all the boys, including myself, had fled to nearby porches for safety. We all knew about search warrants. Phyllis just stood there in open defiance. The police never bothered her - at the 41st Street corner, another at the 40th Street corner to look out for police. After both corners were declared secure the cellar doors would open and two, always two, people would remove the holy appliance from its tabernacle, conceal it in a cloth and carry it briskly to the hydrant. Several people would disperse up and down the street as additional security guards and the hydrant would be turned on, full blast. The wrench would be rewrapped immediately and then disappear into the cellar, returned to its resting place. The youngsters frolicked in the water, while the adults enjoyed the respite from the city’s sticky heat. Cellar door openings in the winter were basically non-events, strictly house concerns like coal delivery, or removal of coal ashes.
I walked up to my house and tried the door. It was locked. That meant no one was at home, unusual for the time of day and season. I went to 4040 Cambridge, Aunt Tilda's house where I was always welcome. This was the house that my grandparents Tuoni lived in, and it always felt good to be in it. Aunt Tilda greeted me with surprise. She thought that I was away at camp for the summer. I told her that it was an awful place and that I had run away. Then I learned that my parents, and new baby sister, Nancy was about six months old at the time, were spending the summer in Atlantic City. My father was doing major repair work on Aunt Jule and Uncle Morris's boarding house on Pennsylvania Avenue and the family was staying there for the summer. Well, how do you do? An entire summer in Atlantic City. Aunt Tilda provided bed and breakfast. Uncle Morris showed up the next day in his big black Packard, my clothes were already packed, and I had a summer at the beach.
Atlantic City was a family town. Hard working people would leave Philadelphia to spend some time at the seashore. Aunt Jule’s place, called Jule’s Cottage, was typical. The first floor, except for a common entrance, was the province of the host family. The second and third floors contained bedrooms and two or more baths per floor. Some bedrooms were interconnected so that parents had easy access to the children's room. Uncle Morris got a cot for me and I shared a bedroom with Nancy. The basement was a common area. There were several cooking stoves with ovens for baking and roasting, a like number of refrigerators, and a good supply of tables and chairs. Everyone in the kitchen was extended family. The atmosphere was festive. "Try some of this sausage", "She makes the best tomato sauce", "That pie smells great", and so on through the coffee and the figs and the nuts.
The Boardwalk was magic, sudden happy encounters with old friends, a chance meeting and my first romance, soft ice cream cones, George C. Tilyou's Steeplechase - The Funny Place, Steel Pier with its diving horse, prestidigitators, carneys, lanolin salesmen, ethnic stores, and salt water taffy. You name it.
The beaches were crowded, but clean, and all within a short walk of my lodgings. What a summer! I got brown as a beetle. I learned to body surf, ride waves as it was called. I scavenged the early morning beaches, amused my self all day walking the sands as far as Margate, testing all of the beaches, and settling on one for the season. I dug clams and played by pilings, but I only got to Steel Pier once. I begged and begged and finally the great day dawned. I leaped out of bed and immediately threw up. So did several other people in the house, from eating tainted apple strudel the night before. My stomach churned, my eyes filled with tears. I doubled over in pain and ran a slight fever. My father was ready to call off the trip. I begged him to wait until noontime. I drank some weak tea and ate nothing. The fever abated and most of my strength returned. It was through a supreme act of will that I recovered enough to set out with my father to behold the joys, wonders and mysteries of Steel Pier. I got to see the diving horse, acrobats and tumblers, and finally a magic act. The magician was a spellbinder, Black cape lined in red, black top hat, blue hazy spotlights, flowers and streamers popping out from a tin can, his hat, or his breast pocket. He did card tricks that boggled my mind. I was especially impressed with the card tricks since I was learning to play cards from my mother, who was one of the best card players in West Philadelphia. She could play Rummy or Poker with anyone. Stakes never bothered her. She was equal to any pressure that a raised bet could cause, and she generally knew what card or cards you were waiting for. She would amaze me when we sat down to play Rummy together. All game long, I'd be waiting for a particular card, say the Jack of Spades. Mom would declare Rummy and show me the Jack of Spades as her discard. She'd say that she knew that I was waiting for the card because of several plays which she had observed me make earlier in the hand. She was patient with me and taught me a great deal about tactics and strategy. But I could never beat her. She loved cards and maintained her own gambling purse, which was never mixed in with household money. The gambling purse was strictly hers and no one, not dad or me or my siblings or the parish priest or anyone could touch it. She was a traditional Italian-American housewife, hard working and family oriented. The meals were always skillfully prepared, plentiful and on time. The house was spotless and the laundry always fresh and clean, and none of those chores stood in the way of her weekend card games. Esterina la gambella (Esther the gambling lady). She was warm and caring and with a tongue that was sharper than parmesian. She was sometimes too quick to speak. Her tongue could get her into trouble, but you always knew where she stood, though you might just as well not have cared to. I inherited her quick tongue. Mom was stout, like all of the Perrettas.
My brother,Tom came home from the Navy that summer. He took Nancy to the boardwalk and had a photo of her and him taken at a photo shop. It was a great picture, Nancy sitting on a wooden horse, barefoot and smiling broadly, Tom in his U.S. Navy enlisted man's uniform. The photo was so well made that a copy of it sat in the photo shop's window for several years. Tom still has the picture.
Grandma's Gift
The Gift of Four Bits.
Almost everyone my age, and there are less and less of us each day, knows that two bits is twenty-five cents and that four bits is fifty cents. This is the story of how my grandmother’s gift of a fifty-cent piece has lasted a lifetime and has profited me much over the years.
On my eleventh birthday, I visited my grandmother Perretta at her grocery store. Grandma invited me into the kitchen and sat me down with my favorite treat; a “bird in the nest”, a cupcake with the top removed and the center dug out and then filled with a delicious white cream. The cut out top was split vertically and nestled on the cream filling in the shape of a “v”. It did look like a bird in the nest, and I was as much in love with the name as the pastry. Grandma wished me a happy birthday and then presented me with a shiny new fifty-cent piece.
This was big money. Quarters, I had held in my hand before and had been able to exchange them for a ticket to the local movie theatre and two candy bars at the snack counter. Consider that plump freshly made bagels were available at Gold Medal bakery at three for a dime; a cup of coffee was a nickel and a slice of pie ten cents and you’ll understand what that fifty cent piece represented. The shining four bits in my hand opened up a world of pleasurable possibilities. I was beaming when I said thanks and good-by to grandma. I skipped out of the store and proceeded … where? What was I going to do with this bonanza? Then the devil hopped on to my shoulder and whispered one word into my ear. “Rudy’s”, he said, “Rudy’s”. It came upon me from the darkness like a train in the night, pitch-blackness, a flash of light and then a thunderous roar, “Rudy’s”
Rudy’s was a double temptation. Its location put it on the other side of Fortieth Street, which meant that I had to cross a very busy avenue with two sets of trolley tracks just to get there. While my folks did not exactly forbid me from crossing Fortieth, they were wise enough to know that it became a neighborhood right of passage for children my age; they let me know that they frowned upon it. I needed good cause to cross those trolley tracks. The second temptation involved the forbidden fruits of the store itself.
Rudy welcomed the neighborhood kids into his store with the same smile that the spider reserved for the fly. He sold loose cigarettes at three cents each, or four for a dime, more than doubling his money on a pack. Most of his cigarette clientele consisted of junior and senior high school kids. Adults had enough money to buy a full pack if they wanted one.
The counter at the front of his store was laden with glass jars filled with cheap candy. The back room was dark and housed several pinball machines and the only slot machine that I had ever seen. I was fascinated with the slot machine. You put money in it and it gave you nothing, but every so often, at least I had heard tales, your nickel returned twenty-five or even fifty cents while bells rang and lights blinked on and off. I entered the store and slunk up to the counter and with sweaty palm gave the fifty-cent piece to Rudy and asked him for a quarter and five nickels. I’ll never spend that quarter here I said to myself as I pocketed it and then drew slowly towards the slot machine. I stood in front of it for a few moments and then reached into my pocket, pulled out a five cent piece, dropped it into the slot, pulled the lever and stood for a breathless moment watching the wheels spin and come to a stop showing two of one figure and one of another. It took my nickel and gave back nothing. I tried again and a third time and a fourth and a fifth. The slot machine just blinked silently at me after each attempt. Twenty-five cents were gone and I had nothing for it. I was defeated, but wait, I still had another quarter. I can do it. I ran to the front counter and was greeted by a smiling Rudy who had five nickels waiting for me. I went back to my silent adversary and gave it another nickel and another until I was penniless. And then it hit me, and hit me hard. Grandma had given me that money as a prize and I turned it over to Rudy and got nothing in exchange. I was disgraced. I had dishonored my grandmother and in a fit of passion had squandered the gift of silver. I left the store, head down and tail between my legs. I swore never to do anything like it again.
To this day I do not gamble. I never wager. Any time I try, that sinking feeling returns and I remember how I had disgraced my grandmother’s wonderful gift. Thanks grandma for the love and the lesson. Rudy will never get another nickel out of me
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The Dell Theater
THE DELL THEATER
in the early 1950s, Philadelphia
The neighborhood movie house was located on Girard Avenue, midway between 40th and 41st Streets. It was born as the Grant Theater, and reincarnated just after WWII as “The Dell@.
Movie houses in the pre-TV era were important community and social centers. Each neighborhood theater reflected its communities, and the Dell was no exception. Its customers were evenly split between the Italian community, occupying the West side of 40th Street and Jewish community which lived on the East side. The ethnic divide continued into the theater, which consisted of a wide center aisle and two narrower side aisles. Seating conventions were rigid. From the back of the theater, as you looked at the screen, the left side aisles were populated by the Italians, the right side aisle by the Jews. Older people, couples and dates occupied the center. The youngest movie-goers sat closest to the front. Teenagers sat about half way back, and moms and dads sat behind them. The center front had some spill over between the younger Italians and the Jews. As I entered puberty I learned that it was the place to sit if you wanted to meet a Jewish girl from the other side of 40th Street.
Neighborhood theaters like the Dell were usually smaller than the large Hollywood Studio owned theaters of center city. Big studio productions from MGM or 20th Century Fox were first released at a down town theater owned by one of the major studios. After a run of several weeks, in some cases months, the big production movies would drift into the neighborhoods where they could be seen less expensively and locally. Downtown theaters could charge more than one dollar. Neighborhood theaters like the Dell charged much less. We paid .39 per adult and .20 per child for admission, an increase from the Grant=s wartime charge of .25 per adult and .10 per child.
No one seemed to mind the price increase, and the Dell did a booming business. The changeover was spectacular; new red tile facade, maroon and gold wall to wall carpeting which even extended into the renovated lobby, a rejuvenated and enlarged candy/popcorn counter, soda machine, redone men and lady's rooms, and uniformed ushers, a job I took at about age 14.
While the Dell=s main entrance faced busy Girard Avenue two fire exits, mandated by the city Fire Marshall, were placed on either side of the screen at the front of the theater. The fire exits were always closed from the inside, but when opened, they let out onto the "Court", which was a space of about one house width between 4023 and 4027 Cambridge. We soon learned that the exit could also be used as an entrance, and devised a plan whereby we could enter the movie house without paying. The plan was fairly simple, and we never abused it. To my knowledge, no one was ever caught "sneaking in", and management never discovered the gambit. It required some guts and the full cooperation of all involved. ... One person would pay his way into the theater. He would take a seat on the left hand side in the very front row. He would wait until the show started, and under cover of darkness, would crawl from his seat squiggle under the heavy velvet curtains that hid the barred exit corridor. Once safely behind the curtains he would lift the bar from the door, freeing the door lock. This being accomplished, he would knock softly to let those outside know that the bar had been lifted and the door could be opened. The outsiders waited two or three minutes to permit the inside man to crawl back under the curtains and return to his seat. Those times in which I acted as "Inside Man", I added an elegant touch by not returning directly to my seat, but by sauntering to the candy counter where I would purchase my candy bar while being as far from the scene of the crime as the dimensions of the movie house would permit.
As I said, when I was 14 years old I finally landed the coveted usher=s job. Sadly, it lasted only a few months. I liked it well enough, but if truth be told, I abused the privileges associated with ushering. Like most neighborhood theaters at the time, the Dell usually showed three different features per week. This meant that the theater marquee had to be changed to advertise the new features. The usher couldn't do the job alone so he was permitted to hire an assistant who received no wages, but who had unlimited free movie rights. The job as usher's assistant was considered a plum and I made the proper initial choice, selecting my friend and school chum and Cambridge Street pal, Anthony Peruto for the job. Anthony was amazing, he could climb the ladder and hook himself onto the top step with one leg, stretch almost horizontally and place letters with startling speed and accuracy. I, on the other hand had a carefully concealed fear of heights, and soon turned over the second story job to Anthony while I ran the needed letters up and down the ladder. We were a great team, and usually got the marquee speedily in place. My boss, Mr. Rubin, the theater manager was well pleased. But, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I hired another assistant, my friend Nick Nero and then a third, my cousin Jim Perretta. No combination worked as well as Anthony and I. In truth no combination worked as well as Anthony and anyone else. Too many people were receiving free movie privileges. It couldn't last, and it didn't. Mr. Rubin terminated my employment.
Jim and I took it out on the new usher, a fellow named Bob who wasn't even a 40th Streeter. He came from the other side of the train tracks to get to his job. I am ashamed to report that Jim and I roughed up Bob one night as he and his assistant were engaged in putting up the new marquee. The truth of the matter is that I followed Jim=s lead here. I wish I hadn=t. I still regret it. To this day Jim maintains that it was my idea to beat up Bob. Who knows? There are three realities, the event, the event as remembered and the event as retold.
in the early 1950s, Philadelphia
The neighborhood movie house was located on Girard Avenue, midway between 40th and 41st Streets. It was born as the Grant Theater, and reincarnated just after WWII as “The Dell@.
Movie houses in the pre-TV era were important community and social centers. Each neighborhood theater reflected its communities, and the Dell was no exception. Its customers were evenly split between the Italian community, occupying the West side of 40th Street and Jewish community which lived on the East side. The ethnic divide continued into the theater, which consisted of a wide center aisle and two narrower side aisles. Seating conventions were rigid. From the back of the theater, as you looked at the screen, the left side aisles were populated by the Italians, the right side aisle by the Jews. Older people, couples and dates occupied the center. The youngest movie-goers sat closest to the front. Teenagers sat about half way back, and moms and dads sat behind them. The center front had some spill over between the younger Italians and the Jews. As I entered puberty I learned that it was the place to sit if you wanted to meet a Jewish girl from the other side of 40th Street.
Neighborhood theaters like the Dell were usually smaller than the large Hollywood Studio owned theaters of center city. Big studio productions from MGM or 20th Century Fox were first released at a down town theater owned by one of the major studios. After a run of several weeks, in some cases months, the big production movies would drift into the neighborhoods where they could be seen less expensively and locally. Downtown theaters could charge more than one dollar. Neighborhood theaters like the Dell charged much less. We paid .39 per adult and .20 per child for admission, an increase from the Grant=s wartime charge of .25 per adult and .10 per child.
No one seemed to mind the price increase, and the Dell did a booming business. The changeover was spectacular; new red tile facade, maroon and gold wall to wall carpeting which even extended into the renovated lobby, a rejuvenated and enlarged candy/popcorn counter, soda machine, redone men and lady's rooms, and uniformed ushers, a job I took at about age 14.
While the Dell=s main entrance faced busy Girard Avenue two fire exits, mandated by the city Fire Marshall, were placed on either side of the screen at the front of the theater. The fire exits were always closed from the inside, but when opened, they let out onto the "Court", which was a space of about one house width between 4023 and 4027 Cambridge. We soon learned that the exit could also be used as an entrance, and devised a plan whereby we could enter the movie house without paying. The plan was fairly simple, and we never abused it. To my knowledge, no one was ever caught "sneaking in", and management never discovered the gambit. It required some guts and the full cooperation of all involved. ... One person would pay his way into the theater. He would take a seat on the left hand side in the very front row. He would wait until the show started, and under cover of darkness, would crawl from his seat squiggle under the heavy velvet curtains that hid the barred exit corridor. Once safely behind the curtains he would lift the bar from the door, freeing the door lock. This being accomplished, he would knock softly to let those outside know that the bar had been lifted and the door could be opened. The outsiders waited two or three minutes to permit the inside man to crawl back under the curtains and return to his seat. Those times in which I acted as "Inside Man", I added an elegant touch by not returning directly to my seat, but by sauntering to the candy counter where I would purchase my candy bar while being as far from the scene of the crime as the dimensions of the movie house would permit.
As I said, when I was 14 years old I finally landed the coveted usher=s job. Sadly, it lasted only a few months. I liked it well enough, but if truth be told, I abused the privileges associated with ushering. Like most neighborhood theaters at the time, the Dell usually showed three different features per week. This meant that the theater marquee had to be changed to advertise the new features. The usher couldn't do the job alone so he was permitted to hire an assistant who received no wages, but who had unlimited free movie rights. The job as usher's assistant was considered a plum and I made the proper initial choice, selecting my friend and school chum and Cambridge Street pal, Anthony Peruto for the job. Anthony was amazing, he could climb the ladder and hook himself onto the top step with one leg, stretch almost horizontally and place letters with startling speed and accuracy. I, on the other hand had a carefully concealed fear of heights, and soon turned over the second story job to Anthony while I ran the needed letters up and down the ladder. We were a great team, and usually got the marquee speedily in place. My boss, Mr. Rubin, the theater manager was well pleased. But, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I hired another assistant, my friend Nick Nero and then a third, my cousin Jim Perretta. No combination worked as well as Anthony and I. In truth no combination worked as well as Anthony and anyone else. Too many people were receiving free movie privileges. It couldn't last, and it didn't. Mr. Rubin terminated my employment.
Jim and I took it out on the new usher, a fellow named Bob who wasn't even a 40th Streeter. He came from the other side of the train tracks to get to his job. I am ashamed to report that Jim and I roughed up Bob one night as he and his assistant were engaged in putting up the new marquee. The truth of the matter is that I followed Jim=s lead here. I wish I hadn=t. I still regret it. To this day Jim maintains that it was my idea to beat up Bob. Who knows? There are three realities, the event, the event as remembered and the event as retold.
The aromas of grape mash and coal ash filled the Cambridge Street air every Friday evening and Saturday morning. Almost all of the houses on the block had a head of household who could and did make wine. My grandparents and uncles were no exception. Grandpa Felice and Uncle John, who was married to Grandma Filomena’s sister, lived at 4024 and 4026 respectively. Aunt Elvie and Uncle Mauro Cellini lived at 4028. The backyard fences separating the three adjoining houses were torn down and a huge grape arbor provided cool summer shade and autumn grapes.
My grandfather and Uncle John made the strongest tasting wine imaginable. You could float a silver dollar on a weak batch and dissolve it in a strong one. I never liked to drink it, but grandpa softened my introduction to vino by slicing a fresh peach, dipping it in his wine and handing it to me. While wine was prominent, drunkenness was almost non-existent and alcoholics lived in some other neighborhood. The consumption of spirits was never a big deal and the adult role models demonstrated temperance. I thank them for that. Today, I have a glass of vino with my evening meal and haven’t drunk to excess since I was 15 years of age. I’ll get to that story later.
Grandma Filomena was a Contadina from Southern Italy, and like all of the Contadina she could grow anything, plant or animals. She kept chickens in the yard, killed, plucked and cleaned them and gathered eggs from the hens. I saw her take a live chicken in her hands while she was facing in my direction and then do a 360-degree spin. When she was facing me again the chicken had been silently and swiftly dispatched to Colonel Sanders Heaven. It ended up in the pot that evening. To say that she was an intuitive cook was to greatly understate her style. When asked for a recipe she would usually say, “Somma dis, somma dat. Two hands, mix’em up.” She sure could cook!
I loved early Saturday mornings in October. The sun was usually shining and the “al fresco” air combined with the aromas of grape mash and anthracite ash to form a heady atmosphere which could drive any 12 year old for a weekend. I loved to watch the street come to life in the morning. If I awoke early enough I could watch the lamplighter as he strolled down the street balancing an eight-foot ladder, four feet in front, four feet behind, The ladder held two pails, one at each end. One pail contained soapy water and a brush, the other held clear water. The lamplighter would approach the lamppost, set down his pails, place the ladder against the post handles, climb the ladder, turn down the switch which would cut off the gas flow until the evening, raise the iron top of the light which was hinged to a stanchion, carefully lift off the protective glass cylinder, descend the ladder, wash and brush the cylinder in the soapy water then rinse it in the clear water, re-ascend the ladder, replace the glass, flip the cast iron top back in place, descend the ladder, gather his materials and proceed to the next gas light. What a job! I wanted it so badly that I never failed to get up early every Saturday morning to watch him. I n the early evening, just before dusk, he would reappear this time carrying a pole with a small hook on one end which he used to flip the switch and set the gas light a-glowing for the night. After careful study, I was able to identify the on/off switch, shimmy up the post and save the man the trouble of setting the light a-glow for the evening. I became the unofficial lamplighter helper.
Saturday was trash and ash pick up day. By late morning Mr. Di Colla would appear driving the ash pick up wagon. His horse,Toby, knew all of the stops by heart. Mr. Di Colla would slowly drive the wagon onto Cambridge Street. Toby would stop every so often and Mr. Di Colla would lift the ashes into the wagon. He was a kind and gentle man whose son would eventually marry my oldest sister, Lillian. He spoke very little English, but his ready smile and pleasant demeanor let us know that we could pet Toby and even hitch a ride on the back of the wagon as it crept down the block.
My grandfather and Uncle John made the strongest tasting wine imaginable. You could float a silver dollar on a weak batch and dissolve it in a strong one. I never liked to drink it, but grandpa softened my introduction to vino by slicing a fresh peach, dipping it in his wine and handing it to me. While wine was prominent, drunkenness was almost non-existent and alcoholics lived in some other neighborhood. The consumption of spirits was never a big deal and the adult role models demonstrated temperance. I thank them for that. Today, I have a glass of vino with my evening meal and haven’t drunk to excess since I was 15 years of age. I’ll get to that story later.
Grandma Filomena was a Contadina from Southern Italy, and like all of the Contadina she could grow anything, plant or animals. She kept chickens in the yard, killed, plucked and cleaned them and gathered eggs from the hens. I saw her take a live chicken in her hands while she was facing in my direction and then do a 360-degree spin. When she was facing me again the chicken had been silently and swiftly dispatched to Colonel Sanders Heaven. It ended up in the pot that evening. To say that she was an intuitive cook was to greatly understate her style. When asked for a recipe she would usually say, “Somma dis, somma dat. Two hands, mix’em up.” She sure could cook!
I loved early Saturday mornings in October. The sun was usually shining and the “al fresco” air combined with the aromas of grape mash and anthracite ash to form a heady atmosphere which could drive any 12 year old for a weekend. I loved to watch the street come to life in the morning. If I awoke early enough I could watch the lamplighter as he strolled down the street balancing an eight-foot ladder, four feet in front, four feet behind, The ladder held two pails, one at each end. One pail contained soapy water and a brush, the other held clear water. The lamplighter would approach the lamppost, set down his pails, place the ladder against the post handles, climb the ladder, turn down the switch which would cut off the gas flow until the evening, raise the iron top of the light which was hinged to a stanchion, carefully lift off the protective glass cylinder, descend the ladder, wash and brush the cylinder in the soapy water then rinse it in the clear water, re-ascend the ladder, replace the glass, flip the cast iron top back in place, descend the ladder, gather his materials and proceed to the next gas light. What a job! I wanted it so badly that I never failed to get up early every Saturday morning to watch him. I n the early evening, just before dusk, he would reappear this time carrying a pole with a small hook on one end which he used to flip the switch and set the gas light a-glowing for the night. After careful study, I was able to identify the on/off switch, shimmy up the post and save the man the trouble of setting the light a-glow for the evening. I became the unofficial lamplighter helper.
Saturday was trash and ash pick up day. By late morning Mr. Di Colla would appear driving the ash pick up wagon. His horse,Toby, knew all of the stops by heart. Mr. Di Colla would slowly drive the wagon onto Cambridge Street. Toby would stop every so often and Mr. Di Colla would lift the ashes into the wagon. He was a kind and gentle man whose son would eventually marry my oldest sister, Lillian. He spoke very little English, but his ready smile and pleasant demeanor let us know that we could pet Toby and even hitch a ride on the back of the wagon as it crept down the block.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Welcome to Philadelphia in the 40's and the 50's
I grew up in a small Italian American enclave around 40th and Girard Avenues in Philadelphia.
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