The Feast of St. Anthony

There were signs that the feast was nearing. The priests would start
the collections for the fireworks. The Bernadine Sisters would assign
each student to bring in one can of tomatoes. My uncle A. would start
fine tuning the one armed bandits at his home and set them up one by
one in the school hall. Mom would start baking. Aunt Tess would roll
meatballs, make gravy and clean for the weeklong open house. And there
were houseguests.

The ovens at Mattera's bakery ran overtime baking the small rolls that
would be blessed and given out at the procession, pizza shells, and
thousands of meatballs. Parents would carry large bread trays full of
meatballs from the kitchen in the school hall across the street to the
bakery. One week before the feast we all ingested the intoxicating
aroma of meatballs in the classrooms. Lights were strung. Then the
stands would appear, tables were set up for bingo in the schoolyard,
and the grandstand was erected in front of the rectory. The carnival
rides would arrive and occupy the entire block from 62nd to 63rd and
Grays Avenue. This was reduced from 63rd to 61st when a wooden dance
floor was also assembled on the street. This was the parish's major
fund raising event! This was a major celebration of faith and
family.

The Feast of St. Anthony is June 13th. The festival lasted from the
previous Sunday through Saturday. Parish members operated the home
constructed stands, spun the wheels, sold tickets and restocked prizes.
Black jack tables were set up in the bakery's driveway, and the
dime-toss in front. There was always a ferris wheel. The other rides
varied. Plenty of white dried beans were supplied for bingo in the
schoolyard; eighth grade students were the runners. A uniformed band
played Italian melodies, and people gathered to listen, sing or dance.
The school hall was full of smoke and talking; people walked in orderly
lines up and down the covered stairway. Ladies sold tickets by color
for the food that you wanted. Tomato pie was the big seller, made with
Mattera's dough and some parmasean cheese. They were rectangular pieces
since they were made in the bread trays. Dad always slurped raw clams
at the clam bar; he carried pizzas from the bakery. My uncle A. stood
in his apron minding the one armed bandits mounted on the stage. He
always slipped his nieces and nephews a handful of quarters, which we
would dutifully redeposit at the wheels of chance. We attended every
night; all of our parents were there. If we became tired we'd walk to
6121 where my grandmother would sit rocking on the open porch talking
to her gu'mas. Her handbag was a disciplinary weapon.

Early Saturday, the final day of the feast, the men of the Faustino
Post set off loud explosive charges, a total of 13. They rocked the
houses, woke me, and signaled the preparations for the procession. We'd
hurry with dressing and breakfast to walk over to my aunt's house,
already bustling with activity. By 8:00 AM the saints were gathered
surrounded by their supporting organizations. The priests were dressed
in sheer lace garments that they wore over their black robes. Children
were dressed as saints; the gu'mas and gum'bas were dressed in their
finest black. The neighborhood was awake. The procession was already on
the move from their starting point at the post, and witnesses would
report their progress through the streets. We prepared our dollars to
pin on the ribbons wrapped around the large statues. My aunt stirred
the large pot of meatballs, readying them for the blessed bread we'd
receive from St. Anthony. My uncle had already prepared jugs of
lemonade and ice tea for the walkers to drink. Family members from the
entire tri-state area descended on Grays Avenue greeting friends, aunts
and uncles, cousins, and second cousins removed.

By the early afternoon the lead marching band rounded the corner to
62nd and Grays. The saints rocked slowly as they moved forward and
stopped for the faithful, exchanging paper money for holy cards,
scapulars and medals. The procession with statues of "Our Lady of Mt.
Carmel, The Sacred Heart, The Blessed Virgin, St. Lucy, and St. Anthony
proceeded slowly with banners and flags for at least a block and a
half. We brought drinks to the thirsty walkers. My uncle A. was a
member of the Saint Anthony Society. He proudly donned his light blue
jacket while escorting St. Anthony. Another Italian band played at the
end of the procession. With our blessed bread in hand we proceeded to
the great gravy pot where my aunt squished meatballs inside for lunch.
The procession would continue on its route and end at our church with
mass. The band members returned to the beef and beer house on 63rd and
Paschall that was reserved for them. No one was permitted to leave
hungry, and they had to rest for their evening duties.

Everyone rested. When the carnival opened, St. Anthony stood atop the
church steps draped with a green blanket of bills. The band played, and
the crowd of people made it difficult to move. The end of the evening
was worth waiting for. The band descended from the grandstand and began
their march. People pored through the streets like lava flows to the
embankment overlooking the playing fields on Elmwood. Cars were double
parked on both sides of the street. Fireworks burst; the band played!
Everyone ooo'd and aaah'd. It was an enormous party.

Grays Avenue was my second home; it was full of relatives and
classmates. Our Lady of Loreto Church was built during the depression
with funds that the faithful couldn't afford. A prominent architect
contributed the blueprints to the art deco design. Parishioners
imported craftsmen to paint the frescos on the ceiling and walls.
Italian prisoners of war were brought there to worship.

Like many areas in Philadelphia, the neighborhood demographics have
changed. The church is now closed and, for now, is considered historic.
The interior was not preserved. The first examples of glass block
construction lay buried under ridiculous paneling. Only the main
ceiling fresco was spared from a fresh coat of latex. My memories live
on of the people and events that transpired there. Snap shots of
pageantry, processions, vigils, retreats, stations-of-the-cross,
funerals and weddings are cataloged in my albums and in my
construction, and stand unchanged like the mosaic of Our Lady below the
coning tower cross.