The Frankford Gazette » History

Picturesque Frankford View

Gil — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 16:23:42 +0000

Does anybody recognize this view? I was up there last week and could not leave without taking this picture. There is a big event coming up on May 2nd at this very spot.

Hiddencity Philadelphia at the Globe

Gil — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 16:06:52 +0000

There is a good story on Hiddencity Philadelphia about the Globe Dye Works with an update of where they stand in the massive renovation and repurposing of the complex. Take a look at this link.

There will be some events this year at the Globe that will be open to the public. If you have the time, it is well worth a look at this hidden treasure in our midst. Both sides of my family worked in the textiles mills in Frankford and the Globe is a significant part of that history.

Imagining Frankford One Last Time

Gil — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 12:00:05 +0000

Cesar Viveros will be at the Historical Society on Sunday January 29th from 2 to 4PM and he would like to hear from you. What was it like growing up in Frankford. How long has your family been here. What are your hopes for the community. This is what will be the genesis of the murals that will take shape on Frankford Avenue. See the flyer below.

Growing Up in Frankford Part 6

Gil — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 12:00:49 +0000

Continuation of Lyle (Corky) Larkin remembers:

The Ice Man

The iceman was also a very important part of our life, for ice was the only refrigerant at this time. He too would come up to each house with his horse and wagon which contained huge blocks of ice, I‟m sure they were well over one hundred pounds each. He would take an ice pick and very skillfully carve out a piece just the right size for each house. He would then hoist it onto the large leather shoulder pad he wore for protection with a large pair of tongs, and make his delivery. During the summer, it was great to follow the iceman around, for he would hand out small chunks of ice to the kids and we would suck on them like they were popcycles.

Oleo Margarine

Who in the world ever thought this one up? It came in a pound bar wrapped in wax paper. It looked like a cake of lard with one exception; this package came complete with one small packet of a very orange liquid. When you opened the package of margarine you were also supposed to open this packet of liquid and mix it into the bar of margarine. This was one of my least favorite chores, I hated to get this stuff between my fingers but the only way to mix it was to squeeze it through your hands until it was all one color, yellow. The next task was to re-shape it into a reasonable looking oblong block, which would later make it to the kitchen or dining room table. YUK!

Diners

Diners were a big part of the Frankford social scene. From teenagers to adults, they could always meet at the diner. Most had an outside skin of stainless steel making them bright and shiny Inside a friendly waitress with a crisp starched uniform complete with apron greeted you. The first thing you heard from her was, “What can I get ya hon?” The tables on the window side of the diner were usually covered with white Formica, and had a chrome mini jukebox mounted within reach. You could get five plays for a quarter. B.L.Ts were a popular item to order, which got you a sandwich consisting of bacon, lettuce & tomato. In the center of the diner was a long counter with various colors of sparkling naugahide-covered stools. The last diner I can recall was located across from the Penn Fruit supermarket on Pratt St. and Frankford Ave. (Important Note) The diners with the best food, always had the most trucks and tractor trailers parked outside.

Grocery Stores

Most of the stores during these days were “Mom & Pop” stores, privately owned and operated. Unlike the Supermarkets of today, these stores were rather small in size. Upon entering one of these little gems, your nostrils were immediately awakened by the many different pleasant aromas! The wooden floors were always immaculately clean. There were no wide isles with huge stacks of merchandise. There were simply many shelves behind the counter against the walls; from floor to ceiling, stacked with can goods and boxes that were out of reach of the customer. The clerk would either have a ladder (on wheels) that slid from one end to the other or, he would use a device that was simply a long pole. That had a mechanical rubber tipped gripper on one end and a handle at the other that allowed him to reach and grab whatever item you wanted.

The Butcher always wore a white bib style apron and took great pride in his display case. Keeping the glass sparkling clean. All the different lunch meats were carefully arranged with little white tags on the end showing you the price per pound. There seemed to be no end to the supply of fresh parsley, which was used to separate the various pork, chops, fresh steaks, chicken etc. There was every kind of sausage imaginable hanging from a rack, which was suspended from the ceiling just above the meat counter. After making your selection, he expertly cut, weighed and wrapped it in white waxed paper and with his red or green grease pencil mark the price on the side of your package. Behind the butcher counter was a walkway of wooden 1x2s made up in sections about four feet long and three feet wide with cross boards holding them together. They were fashioned in such a way that they raised the floor by about three inches with a fresh supply of sawdust beneath them to catch any dropping from the fresh killed chickens which were kept in pens usually just outside the store. You can rest assured that the floor was swept and disinfected at the end of each workday.

During World War II, the grocery stores would accept all excess fat from their customers. This fat was rendered into soap and was used for many things in the war effort, lubricants, etc. In return for your efforts you would receive red ration stamps, which were good for meat products, in return. Friday seemed like it was the day to buy fish, for at that time the people who were of the Catholic faith were told by the Church that they were supposed to give up eating meat one day a week and Friday was the selected day. So it seemed the whole neighborhood decided that since they were sure the fish was super fresh on Friday that would be their fish day also. After you finished picking your selection you went to the front counter where the grocer was adding up your total purchases. He didn‟t have a scanner or a calculator, the grocer was adding up your purchases by hand with a pencil and did the math the hard way. He listed each item on the paper bag he was going to pack all your groceries in.

There was always a young boy working in these stores and he would be happy to carry all you groceries home for you using his “Red Flier” wagon to assist him for many times he would have to walk for blocks with a weeks worth of groceries in tow. He would be happy to get a whole quarter for his efforts. I imagine this was the first form of employment for many young lads.

Oh yes, I mustn‟t forget the “Pickle Barrel.” Almost every store had a barrel located within easy reach so the customer could make their own selection from the many Jewish Pickles (they call them Kosher now.) floating n the wonderfully spiced brine that gave off an aroma, which filled the store. There was always a pair of wooden tongs and some waxed paper bags nearby so you could package your treasure for the trip home. Some of the things I have a hard time finding today are Large boxes of “Blue Tip” safety matches, Powdered cod fish, Ladyfingers, Junket custard pudding & Macaroons.

To be continued…

The Mad Motorist of Frankford Stadium

Peter Dawson — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 12:00:52 +0000

In 1956, when I was 3 years of age, my parents moved their growing family from Germantown to a house on Wakeling Street, across the street from Frankford Stadium in the Northwood section of Frankford.

Because of that move, the Stadium always figured significantly in our lives. We used to love Frankford High School football game days in the Fall, because then we would get to hear the band parading down Wakeling Street back to the high school after victories. Then we would watch the track and field events at the Stadium in the Spring.

But, the Stadium was also a place where we got into trouble. In 1960, I was a meek kid at 7 years of age, and at that time the youngest in our crowd. One day, while grounds keepers worked at the far end of the Stadium, near the Dyre Street gates, the older kids decided that we should try to sneak around the inside the Stadium, to see if we could do so undetected. I was reluctant, but went along. There were several ways into the Stadium when it was locked. On that day we used the most dangerous – over the top of the front gates, with its pointed iron pikes.

We crept behind the walls at the front of the bleachers in the direction of the grounds keepers, and into the giant hedges behind the Dyre Street side gates. I felt very guilty about sneaking around behind adults backs like that. One of our little group whispered, “Here come the men! Duck down!” But I was frozen with fear. The grounds keepers saw us. The one in charge said, “CALL POLICE!” I burst out crying. When they heard that reaction they relented, opened the gates, and told us to never do that again. The other kids were glad that my crying had “tugged on their heartstrings” and moved the grounds keepers to let us go.

A few years later, as little boys sometimes do, I discovered fire, and I became “the kid who played with matches.” Mrs. Hughes, in the stone building on the northwest corner of Wakeling and Rutland, would see me hiding in the nook between the pine tree and bushes and the Stadium building on the corner, building little fires there, and warned me to stop or I might accidentally set the tree on fire. A few weeks later, one of my fires went out of control, and first the bushes, and then the tree, caught fire. I was horrified. I ran home and saw police and fire trucks arrive and put out the fire. I watched Mrs. Hughes talking to police, and I became sick with fear, and waited upstairs in our bedroom with a terrible bellyache for the knock at the door, which never came. Mrs. Hughes, bless her heart, lied to police, blaming the fire on “a white kid” she had “never seen before.” She said, “Peter, I lied for you. You have one more chance. Never do it again.” I promised, and, shocked at the consequences of my own bad behavior, I kept my promise.

When we were teenagers we would play a game of wall ball with the extremely irreverent name up “A**es Up,” referring to how the losing side had to bend over and let the other kids on the winning side take multiple shots at their butts with the pimple ball. With negative reinforcement like that, I only lost once!

As a teenager I began practicing tennis against the Rutland Street wall of the Stadium. The neighbors got used to seeing me out there, and would comment that I was improving.

In my late teens and early twenties jogging became a national fad, and I jogged around the stadium on the sidewalk eight circuits, or 2 miles, per day. Once, when I went to the doctor’s for a check-up, the doctor joked, “Pete, I think that your heart beats about once an hour. I can’t hear it. Do you jog?”

One night as I was jogging around the Stadium block, I was on my eighth go-round when I rounded the corner from the Rutland Street sidewalk to the Dyre Street sidewalk, toward Large Street.

Behind me I heard a motorist gunning his car’s engine and then – FLOOP-FLOOP! – the sound of his car’s tires jumping the curb behind me. I glanced back as I jogged, and saw with horror that the maniac behind the wheel was driving on the sidewalk, chasing me down the sidewalk between the Stadium wall and the utility poles. He gunned his engine again and his tires screamed as he accelerated toward me.

Though I was tired from nearly 2 miles of jogging, I suddenly learned how true it is that an adrenalin rush can turn ordinary people into supermen. Raw fear at being pursued by a mad man in a car supercharged my legs, and I think that I would have outrun a cheetah in those moments. I bolted down the sidewalk at a high speed, and stopped-at and hugged the next utility pole down the sidewalk, so that my pursuer would have to demolish his car to hit me. He pulled-off the sidewalk into the street, laughing uproariously at his little “prank” as he passed me, while my heart beat wildly.

The car pulled around the corner onto Large Street and then the roar of his car’s motor stopped, and I realized, as I ran around the corner, that he can’t have made it down Large Street out of sight in the few moments it took me to get to the corner, and that he must be one of the cars parked in the dark on Kenwyn Street. I stayed on the Edmunds Public School side of Large Street to walk home, because the sidewalk there was too narrow for a car, and there were more fences, trees and bushes for me to duck behind in case that screwball tried again.

Former Globe Dye Workers Sought for New Video

Gil — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:10:59 +0000

If hearing the name “Globe Dye Works” sends a shiver of recognition up your spine, Philadelphia Sculptors would love to hear from you. Philadelphia Sculptors will be producing a video portraying the history of Globe Dye Works and the role it played in the Frankford community. This will be shown in conjunction with ”Catagenesis”, a large exhibition of sculptural installations to be exhibited on Globe’s premises on Worth Street during September and October 2012. The focus of the video will be on the people whose lives were affected by the factory.

This will be an opportunity for former Globe workers, people who live(d) in the neighborhood and had a connection to Globe, or friends and relatives of Globe workers, to tell their stories and have their voices heard. Interviewers will visit the community and speak with all those interested in sharing their experiences, stories, mementos, and viewpoints on camera. No prior experience is necessary and all who are interested will be interviewed. Interviewing is set to begin immediately in order to complete the production before the show opens in September.

The video will be shown at Globe during the seven week run of the show and other venues will be sought after the show closes to make it available to a larger audience.

Anyone who is interested in being interviewed or otherwise involved in the project, or who has additional questions, should contact Leslie Kaufman at 215-413-9126 or by e-mail at lesliekaufman@verizon.net. For additional information about Philadelphia Sculptors and the upcoming exhibition, go to www.philasculptors.org.

Moviehouse Productions

Gil — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 16:14:35 +0000

Rick Spector

Rick Spector of Moviehouse Productions was the featured speaker at last weeks meeting at the Historical Society. I had not seen Rick before but his focus is on much more than the history of the theaters in the city. He took the crowd on a nostalgia tour through the city. He makes full use of his multimedia bag of tricks to bring the past to life. If you get the chance to see him in person, don’t miss it. Even the younger folks would be interested in seeing what the city was like only a few years ago.

Stephen Girard

Gil — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 16:00:46 +0000

I’m posting this link to the film about Stephen Girard because it so good. No direct connection to Frankford but it is a great story. It is from History Making Productions. Great quality and a great story. Sam Katz is on a roll. Keep them coming.

Teasing the Russians of Frankford

Peter Dawson — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:00:44 +0000

From about 1978 to 1981, I lived in a first floor apartment in a brick building on Penn Street near the Margaret and Orthodox Station of the Frankford El.

A late-20s couple with a skinny little blonde daughter, about 5 years of age, lived upstairs. About once a week, the father, who worked nights, would scream with insane anger at the wife beginning at about 10:30 p.m., and then I would hear him stomp down the steps, slam the door with seismic force, and get in his truck and go to work; and then I would hear the mother scream with insane anger at their little daughter – a very clear case of “pecking order abuse.” On one occasion after the father left, I heard a loud smack after the mother finished screaming at little blonde girl. The little girl showed up on her tricycle the next day with half of her face black-and-blue. A neighbor called the child protection unit in Philadelphia Department of Human Services before I could. The memories of that little girl haunt me to this day, and I always become extremely upset at child abuse and feel the urge to scream, “PARENTS, HUG THEM, DON’T HIT THEM!”

There was one other problem with that apartment: The demonically-possessed roach. It was a big one – big enough to put a saddle on and take for a ride around the block. There were no other roaches or other unpleasant critters in that apartment. Just that one roach. And it seemed deeply intelligent, and impossible to catch and kill. It was always peeking around corners at me, and then when I would move to kill it, it would be gone. I worried about whether it would make an appearance when my girlfriend was visiting. Once when I got up for work in the morning and pulled on my robe and stood in front of the bathroom mirror to shave, I felt an itch on my right shoulder, and scratched it through the robe, and guess who climbed up out of my robe onto my face. Oooooh, did I freak out! I swatted my face repeatedly, screaming. The little so-and-so fell to the floor, ran out of the bathroom and disappeared.

One day, after a hard day’s work at the Philadelphia DA’s Office, I came home, went into the kitchen and turned on the fire beneath my tea pot. As I turned to leave the kitchen, I heard an odd fluttering sound and looked back. There was something alive, there, in the flames next to the gas burner on the stove beneath the tea pot. It was the demonic roach, wings afire! I jubilantly thought, “Ah-HAH!” I raced over to the stove and turned up the fire full blast, and I incinerated the little beast, and I am certain that he was afterwards consigned by God to even hotter fires in Hell forever.

On days when I walked beneath the Frankford El to go shopping in the stores on Frankford Avenue, I would frequently overhear Russian immigrants speaking their native language as they strolled on the sidewalk near me. Though I couldn’t pick-up much of what they were saying, I understood a word here and there. A CIA recruiter who had visited the DA’s Office some months before had suggested that I learn Russian before I apply for a position in the CIA, and so in those days I was taking a post-graduate course in Russian at St. Joseph’s University, my alma mater. But as I overheard my Russian neighbors after my move to Penn Street, I was not yet sufficiently “up to speed” in the comprehension department to follow normal Russian conversation.

Once, when I worked very late, I was coming home in the wee hours of the morning on the Market Street Subway portion of the Frankford El. I had boarded the Frankford-bound subway at 15^th Street. The car was empty. I picked a seat and opened my Philadelphia Inquirer. At 13^th Street, a large group of ladies crowded onto the train. They were clearly the ladies who cleaned the offices in the office buildings in center city Philadelphia late at night. All of the ladies crowding on to my car were speaking Russian. It occurred to me that these ladies were from the same enclave of Russian-speaking immigrants as the people whom I had heard speaking Russian in my neighborhood near the Margaret-and-Orthodox El Station. One of them was young and very pretty. The others were middle-aged babushkas – Russian women, middle-aged or older, nicknamed for their traditional headgear, the babushka, or kerchief. The babushkas were doing all of the talking. Although I still couldn’t follow conversational Russian very well, I could tell that the talk was risqué, and about the pretty girl, who kept smiling guiltily, and blushing, blushing, blushing.

As the Russian ladies ignored me, it dawned on me that they were assuming, because I was reading an English language newspaper, that I could not understand a word they were saying. And, for the most part, that was true.

But I realized that the situation was nonetheless ripe for a good Russian language practical joke.

As the train pulled into the Margaret and Orthodox Station, I got up from my seat, and as I began to squeeze past the ladies to get to the sliding doors I said a single Russian term out loud…

“Izz-vin-EE-tyah!” – “Excuse me!”

All of the ladies looked up in astonishment. The young pretty lady blushed blood red and looked at me with an uncertain smile. The babushka who had talked longest and loudest covered her mouth with her hand. And I smiled broadly.

No related posts.

Grand Army of the Republic Museum and Library

Gil — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 12:00:49 +0000

Hugh Boyle

I visited the GAR Civil War Museum and Library on Sunday December 4th during their monthly public program. I didn’t have much time to spend and so I did not get my fill of history, music, pictures, exhibits and stories from Hugh Boyle and Tom O’Toole. I hope to do better next time.

There are lots of reasons to go to the GAR. If you have an interest in the Civil War as we enter the 150 anniversary years of the conflict, this is a place to see some historic artifacts for yourself. The GAR was the original Civil War veterans organization.

Google Old Baldy and General Meade and you will find a ton of hits. Then troop on down to the GAR Museum and see what they have. You will find Old Baldy himself.

Old Baldy

If you’ve been to Washington DC and toured and Ford’s Theater, you know about the house across the street (Peterson boarding house) where President Lincoln died. On display at the GAR Museum is a piece of the pillow case where Lincoln lay which still has his blood still on it. There is a great display of Lincoln material on hand.

Did you ever hear about Dr. Mary Edwards and her experience in the Civil War. You can see her tool kit right there on Griscom Street. You got the Congressional Medal of Honor for her service.

The Ruan House itself is a historic gem. It was built in 1796 and is on the National Register of Historic Sites. It is in amazing condition and a treat to see.

28th Pennsylvania RegimentalBrass Band in Concert

An unexpected highlight of my brief visit was the performance by the 28th Pennsylvania Regimental Brass Band. They were doing music of the Civil War era and it was interesting to hear songs that the troops would have heard back in that time. The venue at the museum is cozy and intimate with the musicians and audience in close proximity. It is more like having a concert in your own living room. That is the best way to enjoy this music and the acoustics were really great.

Put this place on your schedule. It should not be missed. Bring the kids. They have parking in back.