110833821
Maybe I’m the last one who should be writing this column, but someone had to write it. I’ve never marched in the Mummer’s Parade. There used to be a sharp division in my family on New Year’s Day. My father and his brothers grew up marching in the parade. The men on my mother’s side of the family, except for my Uncle Georgie Blair, were decidedly indifferent. I usually joined those men in watching the college football bowl games.
It wasn’t until I was married that I acquiesced in going out to South Broad Street with my wife to watch a few string bands. I didn’t quite get why the crowd stacked outside Methodist Hospital was so enthusiastic as they called to one another, and danced in the street. However, I did enjoy bundling up in the bright sunshine and greeting friends and remaining relatives, some of whom would leave their suburban homes to return to South Broad Street to greet the New Year. I finally had to admit that if there were anything wrong with the Mummer’s Parade, the fault lay in myself.
On Jan. 1, all the city belonged to us. I became proud as hell of that. My Aunt Betty began the tradition in our family of holding open house in her Wolf Street home. As each of us arrived there, she greeted us with hot soup, her famous sausage bread and countless other homemade goodies. My aunts greeted each of us as if we were the light of their lives, and I guess in many ways, all of us were. I think their love warmed us as much as the food and the warm home.
My mother-in-law also held open house for those of us at the parade. By now, the bowl games had faded into insignificance for me. It was just wonderful to visit her South Iseminger Street home. We’d discuss which string band we thought should win. She served a delicious roast pork on fresh Italian rolls — we waited in line outside a bakery for what seemed like hours for those rolls — Italians prize their bread. She served the best homemade potato salad you ever ate. As the sun set, we watched the parade together on the color TV in her living room, the happy sound of the string bands became the soundtrack of our lives on New Year’s Day. And then as it happens with all families, our beloved aunt was gone and so was the happiest woman I ever met, my mother-in-law. But our family on both sides held strong. The tradition, we hoped, would never die. My sister-in-law and my wife carried on. Open house still meant roast pork sandwiches and homemade potato salad. The parade seemed better than ever.
I’m not sure why there will be no parade in the heart of South Philly this year. There are good economic reasons I’m sure. I guess the parade will be tighter, the participants fresher as they perform around the judges’ stand. I’m certain there will be fewer gaps between string bands, and the TV folks are incredibly happy. The point of this column is not to point fingers or assign villains or even to understand the byzantine politics that have surrounded the parade for years. I understand why it is important the parade help attract tourists to a city that seems always in dire straits when the matter of the budget comes around. And there is no doubt the crowds have dropped off in recent years in the places where we used to rendezvous. Some of the most ardent devotees of the parade are gone and many others have become too old to venture out into the cold to greet their friends the way they did in bygone years. All of that is true. And yet …
What I do know is what has been taken from us. I know that there will be no crowd of well-wishers outside Methodist Hospital. There won’t be any of the old faces singing and dancing in the street. There won’t be young parents holding their children aloft so they can get their first glimpse of our history and tradition. Not in my part of South Philly anyway. The vendors selling hot chocolate, pretzels and sandwiches will have no crowds to buy their wares. There will be no friends and family returning to our area this year on Jan. 1.
The colorful bands are elsewhere. So is their music. In the place where the parade thrived, where it was born, it will be just another day. The streets will be eerily quiet, the sidewalks empty. To understand our loss, one only has to pretend that one day the Mardi Gras mysteriously disappeared from New Orleans. No, we don’t have to travel too far in terms of distance up Broad Street to find the parade, but in emotional terms, they might as well be marching on another planet.
There are, no doubt, good reasons for changing the route of the parade, but you’ll pardon us if we think that no reason is really good enough. You’ve not only broken our heart; you’ve stolen the very heart of the parade. For the parade isn’t only fancy plumes and beautiful colors, it is the spirit and tradition of a people.
The parade is us.
Contact the South Philly Review at editor@southphillyreview.com.
110833821
110833831
