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Neighborhood Memories

by Al Mastrangelo

These are memories of my childhood growing up in South Philadelphia in the 1950’s.

Early childhood memories revolved around the neighborhood, Chadwick Street. All the families living on our narrow block were working-class people with fathers going to factories or their trades. Mothers took care of the home and children. It was a very traditional 1950s upbringing. Many families were approximately the same age with multiple children. There were also retired couples who spoke Italian with little English.

Most of the families were of Italian ancestry; there were German or Irish families as well – probably 85/15 ratio. No other ethnic/racial groups were present; the street was an enclave. Most families had post WW2 boomer parents. All my early friends were from the street, and we were all close in age. Initially, I did not have any friends from outside of our street.

In summer, we played baseball in the many opened parking spaces, dead box with bottle caps, marbles, chink (like handball), half ball – broomstick bats and a rubber ball cut in half, Army and war, touch football, tossing baseball cards against the wall, cowboys and Indians, hopscotch, roller skating with metal 4-wheeled skates that clipped to our shoes, hide & seek, dodgeball, ‘you’re it’ and bicycling. We played with toy soldiers and built forts on the large front step. We built scooters from skates and wooden crates and raced in the street. In winter, we played in the snow, built forts on the corners and in the alleys, and had many snowball fights. When it rained, we played in the entry way to the house. 

My friends and I would ride our bikes around the corner together. There was an older man with one leg – about my father’s age, who lived on the west side of 17^th Street. He would sit on a lawn chair. We never spoke to or acknowledged him (to my regret), but Dad knew him from Church. He was Bill Guarnere of Easy Company of 101 Airborne, from Band of Brothers fame. He lost his leg in the WW2 battle of Bastogne.

On hot summer afternoons, one of the neighbors had the special wrench and would open the fire hydrant. The torrent of water would reach to the other side of the street. We would play in the water and douse each other using buckets while the women would wash down their pavements. The police would eventually show up and turn off the hydrant. 

During summer months, Bambi Cleaners offered free Tuesday children matinee tickets to the Broadway Theatre. We would bring a sack lunch and go as a group. The theatre was always packed. A few shorts like 3 Stooges, cartoons, or Lone Ranger preceded a film. Several of the films were ‘B’ horror films like It came from Outer Space or The Giant Gila Monster. I distinctly remember seeing the film, Ben Hur, at a Tuesday matinees; we ate our lunch during the gory chariot race scene. 

Broadway Theatre 

Our street had 36 families living in 14-foot-wide row homes (1083 ft²). There were interesting events, noises, and odors associated with close quarters living. Odors made a big impact on me at an early age and continue to this day. Air conditioning was nonexistent; the windows were open day and night in warm weather. You could walk down the street in summer and identify each family’s meal by the odors. 

Our next-door neighbors, Angelo and Teresa, cooked aglio-e-olio in their back kitchen every Friday. The alleyway separating the 7 feet between the two houses had a  short iron fence. Both houses had large windows in back and side and the back yards were tiny (8X14 feet). The neighbors used lots of garlic; during the summer, the odor of their frying garlic permeating our house would upset my stomach. 

We heard neighbors corrective punishments and shouting matches through the walls. Older neighbors would congregate in their back yards on summer evenings and talk until wee hours making it difficult to sleep. With no air conditioning, we slept with the windows open. We heard the 17^th Street trolley every 15 minutes and the bus once the line was converted. Church bells rang every quarter hour; the Quartermaster whistle blew at 0800 weekday mornings. Sometimes we heard the rooster from the chicken store on the corner. These were the normal sounds living in the inner city.

Several homes had coal furnaces to supply heat. The coal delivery truck would extend a chute through the basement window into the coal bin making much noise and dust. Sometimes we would pick up the pieces that fell off the chute.

Each street corner in the neighborhood had multiple stores. On our corner of Chadwick Street, we had a chicken store, which had live chickens that they slaughtered and prepared on demand. An exhaust fan carried the heat feather particles and animal odors from the bird holding room onto the street. At Easter, each year they would sell baby chicks and ducks for 10 cents. We kept the chicks in a cardboard box at home with a light for warmth for the holiday – then return the birds to the store to meet their fate. 

On our other Chadwick and Ritner Street corners, we had a butcher shop with hanging sides of beef on hooks and saw dust on the floor, Al’s grocery store, and a candy store. The candy store sold water ice in paper cups for 2 and 5 cent through the side yard opening in the green wood fence. Nearby, we had two pharmacies run by the Gallagher family. I called early girlfriends from the phone booth at the Ritner Street pharmacy and admired the display of old laboratory equipment on dark wood shelves.

Across from the pharmacy and diagonal to the church was Tony’s hardware store. Tony had floor to ceiling shelves filled to the brim with supplies, fittings, tools, and fasteners. Access to the uppermost shelves was from a rolling ladder that traversed the length of the store. Tony had almost any item or tool you would need for hardware, plumbing, and electrical work. We bought nails by weight at the worn wooden counter surrounded by an array of items. Bulk nails were stored in wooden casks. I recall buying 8 penny nails for Dad and Tony breaking open the wood lid of the nail cask. He would weigh the nails on an old beam balance with large brass tray and wrap them in old newspaper. 

TONY’S HARDWARE STORE

The Ritner Street soda fountain featured 5-cent Coca Cola or cherry cola and other fountain drinks in paper cone cups inserted into metal holders, malts, pump dispensers for the various toppings, ice cream sodas, milk shakes, and hand dipped ice cream. There was a nickel pinball machine, a juke box, and red rotating stools at the counter like you see in old films.

Almost every corner had small shops. There were three other butcher shops all with wood shavings covering the floors, 4-5 other grocery stores, 3 candy/sundry stores, and a fresh fish store on Wolf near Broad. These stores were all located within walking distance of our house – no need to leave the neighborhood. 

Often Mom would give me a quarter for a loaf of bread at Al’s grocery where Tastykake blueberry pies were 10 cents. We would go to Mike’s on Wolf Street to buy a 5-cent soda or a 10-cent rubber ‘pimple’ ball. We had 2 bakers for fresh bread; Lanci  had the best crusty bread. We had three pastry shops nearby. 

LANCI BAKERY

There were shoemakers plus an authentic Chinese laundry where Dad had his shirts washed for 12 cents; the detergent and starch odors were strong as you approached the small wood counter. Ciliones cheese store sold the best imported provolone on Jackson Street. Three barber shops were within a short walk from the house. Dad and I went to Mike’s barber shop on our corner. Like Dad, Mike was a WW2 veteran. Mike served in the Marines and was a Japanese POW; he was always noticeably quiet cutting my hair.

Most of the small community stores are gone now and buildings have been converted to homes or apartments.

There were no supermarkets nearby until Penn Fruit opened on Oregon Avenue in 1955. I would walk with Mom to buy groceries there - wheeling her folding wire grocery cart to meet Dad after he got paid his weeks wages on Fridays. I recall buying Christmas trees there and carrying them home with Dad in the snow.

Abbotts milk was delivered by horse drawn wagon early in the morning; the quart glass bottles with paper caps and cardboard center seal were left on the top step and later in an iron basket on our railing. Mom complained when sometimes the milk froze, and the cream separated or leaked out. Horses were stabled on 16^th Street occupying an entire city block – what an odor!

Freddy, the huckster, sold fruits and vegetables from a large horse drawn green wagon – shouting his arrival on the street. The pretzel man sold 3 small pretzels for 5 cents and featured paint brush dispensed mustard. The pretzel and knife sharpener vendors came through the street slowly pushing their small bicycle wheeled carts announcing their presence with bells. We had a pushcart ice cream vendor - later replaced by the Good Humor and Mister Softee trucks during summer evenings.

Milk Delivery Wagon,  Pretzel Vendor

As we grew older, we would be out in the street every summer night and on many weekend winter nights talking with friends. Our friend base expanded to include several guys from the nearby streets. Our street was the center of the action – everyone congregated on our block. As we aged, games ended and we would just sit or stand, horse around, sing, and talk late into the night, especially in summer. Our neighbor from across the street would yell at us to keep quiet. Each of us had birthday parties in our cellars where we danced to 45 rpm records and played ‘spin the bottle’.

Friends on Our Steps 1963

In the introductory photo, the former location of the butcher shop is the near left corner, and the chicken store is near right corner. Chadwick Street appears much smaller and the pavements narrower when we visit our old neighborhood now. The house interior seems so much smaller and confining. The neighborhood has changed considerably; the streets appear much dirtier with trash strewn about; many more cars and congestion are apparent. There does not seem to be the pride evident that we had living there when I was growing up.

Copyright © 2024, A. J. Mastrangelo, Material Matters International, LLC.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce any portion of this article in any form whatsoever.

A J Mastrangelo is 100% Italian - father was born in Caserta and mother’s family comes from a hill village Casa di Sopra, Cabanne di S. Stefan d’ Aveta, in the Genoa region. 

Al is a Chemist by training and spent his early career formulating new products for the electronic materials market. He moved into management and spent 30 years developing new businesses in the circuit assembly and semiconductor packaging segments working in 68 countries. In 2004, he started a consulting business, mentoring companies and young chemists / chemical engineers in product development and strategic business management.

Frank Di Piero was born in Chicago and is 100% Italian origin. He has traveled to Italy many times and attended two study abroad programs in Italy, one in Roma and one in Firenze. He is the former President of The Harlem Avenue Italian & American Business Association and was on the committee to start an Italian American Studies Program at Loyola University Chicago. He is a Director of Casa Italia, and LITTLE ITALY Cenetta. He is a volunteer at Casa Italia Library and the Italian Cultural Center.

People Don't Visit Anymore, But They Should - By Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Can we bring back the home visit?

“Peter, go to DeLuise’s Bakery and get some pastry. You nevah know who might stop by.” --- Oh, Anna.

When I was a kid, people visited each other often. Everyone had a supply of pastry, at least a Napoleon or two and some sfogliatelle, for the potential.

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But that’s the way it was. “Put the coffee on. We’ll be over.”

Yes, the home visit was a staple of the day. It was because our grandparents and their friends were making their way in a new world and, amid the turmoil of uncertainty and need for acceptance, they wanted comfort and solace through conversation, mutual understanding, coffee, and sweets.

Look at these friends of Grandma’s, those of the quirky names, who peppered my youth; Fullomane, Frangeesk, Jeezumi, and Goombamike; fascinating characters who visited often enough to leave a lifetime of palpable memories.

Fullomane (Philomena) was a large, buxom lady, serious and melancholy, clothed forever in the black of perpetual mourning. Her hair was stamped to the back of her head in a bun pierced by an ornamental needle. A round plump face was defined by a chin that hosted a mole which was fertile ground for the three or four curled strands of hair that protruded from it. Above her chin was a wide mouth turned south at its corners, its upper lip shadowed by a brush of hair.

She and Grandma spoke in edgy tones while washing clothes or cooking, sometimes weeping when they discussed the problems of those early years in America. When they sat for lunch, Fullomane’s bosom, pushed north by an ample midsection, exploded. She could place a napkin on her natural table, and never lose a morsel of food. Despite marital problems, Frangeesk (Francesco) and Fullomane arrived at Grandma's house on Saturday evenings to sing and dance, Frangeesk playing the accordion while Fullomane danced the Tarantella, a dance originating in southern Italy, presumed flirtatious, but more likely a pagan ritual to cure insanity. It chased the demons of the tarantula’s bite. Was Fullomane’s role flirtatious or insane?

Her husband Frangeesk was a character. The vile, recycled wine smell encircling him was abominable. It ponged of sweat trapped by garlic. His appearance matched the disorder of the smell. He wore a wrinkled, dark blue, three-piece pinstriped suit with high black weathered boots laced to the top. His shirt, once white, was now a sweaty yellow. His cold beady eyes in the center of a wrinkled face and fronted by a nose that looked like a sparrow’s beak complemented the cackling laugh that spilled from his sawed-off, crooked yellow teeth. A messy mustache that harbored flecks of stuff defined his twisted mouth. His garbled dialect was coated with a smell that backed me away. Most of the time, I succeeded in avoiding Frangeesk, but he tickled my curiosity one day.

He walked to our house from his home on Federal Hill, a walk that started with a trip to his wine cellar followed by a stop at a local bar. He sat in our kitchen. His entertainment began when he asked me to come closer. Though cautious, I was curious and inched with gummed soles toward him. As I approached, he opened the jacket of his three-piece suit, revealing his buttoned vest. In the right side vest pocket, he carried a watch and an attractive pearl-handled knife attached to a chain, which was attached to a vest button. He was holding something with his curled hand. It moved. The beak of a frightened animal, a sparrow, opening, gasping.

Frangeesk summoned me again with his crooked finger and dirty nail,

“Vieni, vieni, non metta paura. No be ‘fraid.” Ugh! The smell.

As I shuffled closer, he released the bird. Startled, I jumped back, not realizing that the bird’s foot was tied to a string tied to a button on his vest. The bird flew straight up only to hit the end of the tethered string, “boink,” and snap back, “twang,” flapping his wings, going nowhere, still trying, but now with his neck broken. Then he fell limp. As Frangeesk cackled with laughter, spewing spit and smell, Grandmother and Fullomane sported a sickish smile. I did not like him, but he taught me a lesson; stay away from smelly, wrinkled old demonic men.

Most of the friends were nice.

There were Jeezumi (Gesumia) and Goombamike (Cumbare Michele), a beautiful twosome; comfortable, small, and quiet; wrinkled, and hunched over like forest gnomes. They were gentlefolk, not given to the volatility of Fullomane and Frangeesk. Rather, they murmured with never-ending, muffled, secret, and close conversations. Huddled together, they seemed to weigh the world on their rounded shoulders, but they were nice to me. And they smiled.

Tiny and stooped Jeezumi wore a black housedress and black shoes. Her stockings spiraled up her short legs. When she sat, her crossed legs and tiny feet barely touched the floor. She held her hands intertwined in prayer on her lap, the right thumb always atop the left, her small arms exposing tortuous veins that flowed to those hands like rivers. She had a kind oval face with rimless glasses resting quietly on her nose. Goombamike had a gentle smooth face with a lamb chop pad of gray hair atop his head. A small unlit Stogie was tucked at the corner of his mouth, some spittle leaking to his chin. He wore suspenders that pulled his striped pants well above his waist, and on his feet were black wrinkled boots like Frangeesk’s, my grandfather’s, and all the other Italian men. The shoes, the faces, and the clothes had the same grain… shriveled with age, lined with wear. They were such an adorable couple, and I liked them.

Frangeesk, Fullomane, Jeezumi, and Goombamike; their visits were routine. The doors and the hearts of our three-story home were open to these friends. It was an extraordinary time when people visited to chat and share problems, sorrow, joy, coffee, and sweets. They looked for the comfort and understanding of friends in a strange new land. These friends contributed to my education; one that made my sense of sharing, belonging, and comfort so natural, and genuine.

Why has that dwindled to near extinction?

In that world of immigrants in a strange land, people needed comfort from those who understood them and shared the same culture and values without prejudice. They needed each other. They needed to talk. They spoke the same language. Visiting was part of survival.

Women were at home much of the time. Men worked predictable hours. Neighborhoods were safe, housing familiar people in the same homes for a lifetime. Those dynamics have changed. People move for opportunities elsewhere. There seems to be less need for a connection to the community, and less time to make that connection.

Consumerism has driven people from their neighbors. Personal lifestyles take precedence over community connections. Families look after their affairs with less concern for their neighbors.

Life is hectic. Work hours are no longer predictable. Who is at home, and when, is a moving target. Visit? They are lucky to visit each other. Packed schedules, commutes, sports deadlines, etc. leave little time.

And fear. Stories of neighborhood crime are pervasive. “We’d better own a gun” has replaced “We’d better have some pastry.”

While there’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself, it has blunted our sense of community. We rely less on each other. We seem not to share resources or difficulties. It seems that we should.

I am optimistic. Something seems to be changing. We are realizing, I hope, that we need community. The work-life balance equation is becoming popular. My children are trying to live it, and thus I am encouraged. Will it rekindle the home visit as it once was? I doubt it. But there may be a variant.

I say figure out what that variant is and give it a try. I say bring back Grandma’s friends. They’re harmless. They’re fun. They’re the subjects of tales. They’re kind. They keep us happy, sane, welcomed, and entertained. And in sweets.

Do you think the home visit should return?

If so, you’d better get some pastry.

My Italian Ancestral Roots and Rare WWII History in Italy

BY: Richard Leto

This August, I made the journey again, this time with my cousin Michael D’Imperio to visit our famiglia ancestral roots in Comune di Biccari (Region of Puglia-Provincia of Foggia). My maternal grandparents Aniello and Elisa (Basile) Lucera emigrated from Biccari to America back in 1902/1910 as part of the Great Arrival.

My cousin Michael’s great-grandfather Ferdinando D’Imperio also emigrated from Biccari to America back in1889 and his great-grandmother Lucia (Basile) D’Imperio emigrated in 1895. They all settled in the Little Italy enclave of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (South Philly) where we were both born and raised.

We were able to stay in our close family friend Lucia (Galdi) Marone’s village house reminiscence of a typical hamlet (Borghi). A true medieval casa near the towns historic center and mother church of Biccari.  Our days were filled with visiting distant relatives, relaxing in the main piazza, and most notable participating in the historic annual festival/celebration of the town’s patron saint; San Donato. The parish priest Don Leonardo Catalano had me read a gospel passage during the novena mass of San Donato along with my cousin participating in the mass offerings. making for a truly memorable experience.

After our stay in Biccari we traveled to the seaside resort of Termoli (Region of Molise) on the Adriatic coast. Spending time at this beach area we knew we had found the “Italian Riveria.” This area was truly spectacular from the pristine waters of the Adriatic Sea to the historic castle (Castello Svevo of Termoli) just outside the door of our hotel Santa Lucia. Here in Termoli, in the provincia of Campobasso our trip takes us back to the role America and the Allied forces had in Italy during WWII.

Sometime ago by way of social media I had connected with Marco Altobello an author, journalist, and educator from Campomarino (Molise-Campobasso). I had expressed interested in meeting Marco since we were nearby him in Termoli. We shared a likening to his research regarding the WWII history of the Ramitelli airfield the Allied forces used during WWII. So, we met Marco in Termoli who then gave us a tour of the rare WWII history located at the now rural area of the former Ramitelli airfield and the WWII monuments now erected in the piazza of Campomarino.  

These monuments are dedicated to the various WWII Army Air Corps units stationed at Ramitelli airfield to include the famed Tuskegee Airmen. The photo above (left to right – my cousin Michael, Marco, and me) is the only remaining building at Ramitelli airfield, the operations center for the Tuskegee Airmen. There is no doubt in my mind, having the opportunity for Marco to allow us to visit this historic site was for us walking on hallowed ground. In my opinion, the heroic efforts of all those Allied forces who were part of this area of operations did their part in winning WWII.

Now, a slight twist in the journey here. My trip in Italy comes to an end and I fly back to Philadelphia where I was born and raised. It just so happens that Marco will be presenting his book (Red Tails Da Tuskegee a Ramitelli) on the Tuskegee Airmen - Ramitelli at the “History of Italian Immigration Museum” (HIIM) located in Philadelphia which is where my paesani friends of Filitalia International organization is headquartered and hosted the book presentation. So, on August-13, I attended the book presentation by Marco held at the HIIM. The event was well attended by the leadership of Filitalia International, the local Philadelphia Chapter president of the Tuskegee Airmen Inc., and the President of the New Orleans Chapter of the Tuskegee Airmen, Inc. 

This recent trip to Italy where I was able to connect once again with my Italian family ancestral roots and along the way discover some rare WWII history, made for a truly memorable experience.

About me: 

 I was born and raised in the Italian enclave of South Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (South Philly). I currently reside in Columbus, Ohio. As a proud third-generation Italian American, I enjoy informal writing as a hobbyist regarding the Italian American experience. I am the grandson of Italian immigrants who emigrated to America during the Great Arrival and settled in Philadelphia. On my paternal side my grandparents Francesco and Caterina (Tropiano) Leto emigrated (circa 1910) from Santa Caterina dello Ionio (Calabria). On my maternal side my grandparents Aniello and Elisa (Basile) Lucera emigrated (circa 1902/1910) from Comune di Biccari (Puglia).

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