NAMASTE TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAY

5/11/2023

To my subscribers and friends:

First, I want to say thank you for taking interest in my thoughts and words, and for subscribing. It means the world to me.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted here, and for good reason. The last couple of years have been a tad tumultuous, with some literal upheaval, impactful change, the loss of many dear friends and family members who’ve sailed on to the next stop on the soul’s journey beyond this world, and then, just busy with life and work in between. 

But this is how life works, doesn’t it. It’s all in how we navigate the choppy seas of change that defines it. I’ve come out ok, having grown tremendously in many ways. To be brief, following my mom’s 90^th birthday, her health and well-being became compromised in the normal course of aging, and there were moments when she thought she would leave us as well. Mom was moved to an assisted living residence, and the task of closing our family home of 47 years came to the fore. For months, I weeded through a personal treasure trove of memories that extended to my formative years. My mom saved everything. I literally mean EVERTHING. Not like a packrat – she had everything remarkably organized. But man, I found things like: the original purchase receipt for my childhood refrigerator from 1954; the cowboy woolen blankets my brothers and I used as kids on our bunkbeds; birthday and Christmas cards from to and from my mom and dad; anniversary cards, and so on, and so on, and…photos. LOTS of photos. Perhaps in coming posts I’ll share some of the stories about one wee treasure or another, because each item indeed had a story. And I recalled most of them. 

There were moments, as I went through things, where I could only sit and weep with great love over one evoked memory that was previously forgotten. Of good times past, of family friends, neighbors and family that left us long ago, of times that will be no more. In the midst of this, I would periodically pause to compose my thoughts in notes to my brothers, and in some poetic compositions. I’ll leave you with this one that I think summarizes it best, because I think all of us have or will experience the same at one point or another. 

September, 2021

As I pack away my mother’s home

NAMASTE TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAY

~

Most of what I knew is gone.

The faces, names and folks of olde,

have lain to rest or moved along.

The places where I went are razed,

repurposed for another reason,

or redefined another way.

~

Ghosts of moments from childhood days,

of passing smiles and friendly ways,

flit throughout that sacred chamber

where I hold things dear, 

as if those moments 

are yet still near…

~

What I knew is gone for good,

and only few know what that’s been.

No one else to share the joy,

of a family friend who gave their love,

of a distant relative’s gesture fair,

a pat on the back or tussle of hair.

~

Faded scenes of a distant time, 

when life was new and youth was mine.

When the sun seemed brighter

and air seemed clean,

when people seemed kinder

on streets not yet mean.

~

In naivete I did embrace,

a view that all was is as is,

that naught would change

as older we’d grow,

as we went about our daily biz.

~

That camaraderie and times we knew

and the way things were

and things we’d do,

would remain in stasis,

a captured embodiment,

of status quo.

~

Yet the clock did tick

and the chariot came,

to take away our dearest and those we love,

checked off from a list of photos and names.

Once they sat, or stood, and spoke right there,

then just-like-that they are no more.

Their voices quelled by the end bell’s toll,

their bodies transformed to buried ash,

their spirits that danced on tongues of song,

have all passed on to the realm

where what we’ve known,

is now long gone.

~

Christmas moments

and birthdays too,

family outings on a beach afar

TV specials, a walk to a bar,

bread and lunchmeat trips down the street,

a gallon of milk or soda-pop treat.

~

Around the corner to a neighboring home,

or a block nearby, like the stone that is thrown.

A drive to the market, 

a ride to a game,

A bus to the city

or the shore via train.

~

And along the way

we’d meet someone new,

a face with a voice

and a name we not knew.

I’m sure they’ve passed

to that place in the sky,

never knowing how their kindness touched,

while so unconscious and on the fly.

~

But I’ve remembered their faces,

and remembered the names,

always recalling

the love which they gave.

Now that they’re gone,

my heart fills with tears,

my eyes – a pond, reflecting the years.

~

Those places and folks and things that I knew,

are really gone,

are really gone, 

so long, so long.

~

I feel grateful for all the love,

to have known these things

as part of my own.

Living on in memory, in that sacred place

where things are held dear,

where what seems now so distant and far,

remains in the heart, forever near.

~

DNA is gleaned from dust balls,

and riches from the rubbage.

Finding treasure in the trash,

measuring for value yet retained,

and exchange the rest for cash.

~

The days of youth are gone for good,

ne’er to pass this way again. 

From the generations that went before,

into our lives came those souls whom we knew,

sharing wisdom passed down from olde,

giving all their best to guide us through.

The black and white now fades to grey,

the Kodachrome to yellow.

The clock that once would be rewound,

has ceased to tock has ceased to tick,

at a forgotten hour

from long ago.

~

Farewell, my loved ones,

Goodbye, my friends,

and Namaste to the neighborhood way.

The ways of our elders

have given the ghost,

from an era and age that offered the most.

~

With a promise of fortune,

prosperity, and cheer,

all that was offered is no longer proffered.

What was available then,

with scant to be found in the now or the when,

wafts like steam to an unseen beyond,

no longer here,

no longer bound.

It’s really gone,

really gone,

so long, so long.

[Note: I wrote this on 10/31/2020, on the eve of All Hallows, so that readers might keep their eyes open for a similar visit.]

Halloween. The time to adorn a costume, deck our halls with spooky decor, and pass treats off to the children. The name itself is a contraction of “All Hallows’ Eve” and, in Western Christian tradition, serves to inaugurate the season of ‘Allhallowtide,’ a period dedicated to remembering the “hallowed” souls of those who’ve departed mortal existence.

We know that the tradition originated in ancient Celtic lore as the Pagan harvest festival of Samhain. From October 31st to November 1st the ancient Celts marked the end of their harvest season and the beginning of the darkest half of the year. It was one of the four principal festivals which designated the passing of one equinox and the beginning of the next. The Neolithic tombs of New Grange in Ireland and Stonehenge in England serve as evidence of the importance held in these traditions.

Yet, beyond being a harvest/equinox festival, for the Celts, the occasion held a greater spiritual significance. Wikipedia contributors explain:

“Samhain was a limnal or threshold festival, when the boundary between this world and the Other world thinned” when spirits “could easily come into our world… It was during Samhain when returning spirits “were appeased with offerings of food and drink, to ensure people and their livestock survived the winter. The souls of the dead kin were also thought to revisit their homes seeking hospitality, and place was set for them…”[1]

As time rolled on, these celebrations were coopted by early church fathers and culturally converted to an event on the liturgical calendar honoring the departed saints and martyrs of Christendom, and All Souls of loved ones. To this day, Christian and secularist customs are celebrated side by side, but perhaps nowhere quite like they are in Ireland. There, many yet embrace the auld Pagan perspective, yet concurrently attend mass to celebrate All Saints or All Souls Day.

As one of Irish/Catholic ancestry, I was raised with awareness of and participation in both perspectives. I recall one year as a child in Parochial school, my classmates and I were all required to dress as a Catholic Saint on one day, and on the next make or wear a more widely embraced pop culture costume. I was Saint Anthony one day, and horror film television host Dr. Shock the next. They were fun customs and for the past 55 years I haven’t thought much more of it beyond being a nice belief tradition. But then, in 2020, the year when all rules were cast to the wind, that very threshold between myth and reality also thinned, leaving me to understand that my ancient Celtic ancestors were truly on to something relatively tangible.

It was shortly past midnight as the wee morning hours of Halloween, 2020 crept in. I had just finished watching a movie on TCM, and with a few sips of red wine remaining to nurse before going to bed. So, I took out my phone to scroll first through news headlines, and then on to social media.

As I scrolled, a post on the Vintage Philadelphia Facebook page seized my curiosity. A member had posted a link to a 1926 Silent Film called The Show Off, remarking that it had been filmed in Philadelphia. I had never heard of the film, but survival of locally shot films are quite rare. Being the huge fan of Silent film that I am, I thought it would be fun to check out views of my home town and how it looked at that time.

This has always been an attractive component of older films, and especially of the silent era. Over the years, as I glimpsed their access into a time and world now long gone, I’d periodically think “This was the world my grandparents knew” or “I wonder if my grandparents saw this film,” etc. I have often contemplated the world my ancestors knew. We are so far removed from the ways that defined our culture back then that it’s kind of cool such glimpses into that time and world still exist at all.

As the opening credits for The Show Off rolled, I noted with interest that it was a Jesse Laske production. In my book, The Elephant on the Raft, I had researched and written about Laske and his procurement of the rights to create the first film productions of the writings of Mark Twain. This fueled a greater measure of curiosity and interest to view this film. Why Philadelphia? What motivated him to create a Philly-centric work and film it here?

That answer was found on the next credit screen that the film was based on a play by Philly playwright George Kelly, brother of Olympic champion John B Kelly Sr, and uncle to actress and Princess of Monaco, Grace Kelly and her brother, the equally great champion rower, John B Kelly Jr.

This added more steam to my interest, as I had written about the Kellys of Philadelphia in my book. It was George Kelly’s brother, John who owned a brick factory in my father’s childhood Irish neighborhood. Kelly was among many business owners of Irish descent who took care of the 19th Century influx of Irish-Catholic immigrants then arriving by the boatload into America. Otherwise, they were violently welcomed with scorn, hate, and derision by Nativists and the ruling Protestant ascendancy. Kelly, a Catholic, provided a politically influential harbor of safety within Philly’s Irish community, akin to a Celtic Oscar Schindler.

But this was all part and parcel to the continuation of the century old custom of the Irish taking care of their own. When I was in high school, I was employed by an Irish owned travel agency through which I was lucky enough to have known Kelly Jr. Each day after school job, I hand-delivered custom-printed airline tickets to Kelly and others in the age before home-printed tickets, airport kiosks, or downloading a scannable UPC Code.

After mulling over the fascinating back history behind the film, I pressed play to continue watching. Right from the onset, references to Philly landmarks are made, with a street shot of the Betsy Ross House revealing adjacent buildings which then still stood where the courtyard is now situated.

About 8 minutes into the film, there is a scene of the main characters meeting at the corner of 4th and Walnut, just across from Washington Square. And, in typically Hollywood fashion, the next scene moments later shows them selecting a park bench clear across town on the North side of Logan Circle, evidenced by Philadelphia’s Catholic Cathedral looming behind them.  The scene continues as “The Show Off” character gives a diamond ring to his sweetheart. As she fawns over it, she removes her glove to try on the ring. The fellow looks up and sees a Policeman, and gets nervous.

Why did he get nervous, I wondered? Then it occurred to me – in 1926, modesty rules still applied in that era when Puritanical based and Victorian influenced laws in some states required that a woman’s body be clothed from ankle to wrist. Simultaneously, the 1920’s was also a charged era of young women breaking the Victorian mold and embracing their sexuality openly, demonstrative in the rise of “Flapper” couture. Yet, in some places, such as fiercely Quaker ruled Philadelphia, those old rules yet prevailed. Films of the era reflected the changing mentality, with recognition of the concurrent passing of “old fashion,” a characteristic trait that defines the post WWI American character to this day. This scene with the Policeman, in a silent film, is how that part of this story was told.

Clearly, I thought, the policeman was an uncredited extra. Through observation of his “acting,” I could tell he wasn’t a trained actor, but someone with enough innate charisma and personality whom the director of the film must have come to know. He was probably a good-natured fellow with a sense of humor and practical mindset. He was likely the sort of cop that turned a blind eye to prohibition when he could, and likewise was flexible with the legal definition of ‘vice,’  though he was paid to monitor acts in public deemed illegal, such as a woman removing her glove as an act of public disrobing.

This cop must have been a huge asset to the film company. He probably tipped off the film’s cast and crew to the best and least risky speakeasys in Philly. He likely pulled strings for their use of public venues throughout the city.

The director needed a cop for a scene. He obviously had chosen someone whom he had gotten to know, and who had probably been regularly assigned that detail. Due to his age, the officer must have had some level of seniority on the force to gain such a juicy assignment.

The white belt and sash of his uniform revealed that he was either a traffic officer or a member of the Fairmount Park unit. The latter made sense. If the filming was done on location at Logan Circle, that would come under the jurisdiction of the Fairmount Park unit, who had surely been allocated to police the area while the film crew was set up there.

.

But then, something else caught my eye.

On the small monitor of my cell phone, I rewound the film to look at the police officer again. I rewound a second time and watched again. The mannerisms and posture, facial expressions and gestures looked almost identical to those of my father, as well as his siblings and host of relatives. This man has to be related to us, I thought.

I took some screen shots as I began to ponder the scenario above. My paternal grandfather had been a Fairmount Park officer. Is it possible I was looking at my own grandfather? There is only one photo of him that exists in our expanded family of his descendants. It depicts a standing man donning a policeman’s hat and the long, wool overcoat of a Winter police uniform, set against a wooded area, presumably in Fairmount Park. It’s quite grainy and small, rendering the facial features indefinable, save for a very slight indication of slightly drooping jowls – a Curley family trait. Our grandfather had died in 1944. Aside from this photo, most of us have ever known what he really looked like otherwise.

I went to bed as it was approaching 2:30 am at that point, saving the remainder of the 1.5 hour film to watch another time. When I got to work the next day, I texted the screen shots and a link to the film first to my older brothers. I shared my experience and asked what they thought?

While awaiting their reply, I sent the same photos, link, and query to my older cousin Annie, who serves as the unofficial but naturally ordained keeper of family history. She and her older sister, Bettyann, share a home together, and I thought they might have some insight. Generally I just asked “What do you think?” I knew Bettyann, the eldest cousin in our family, had known our grandfather and his siblings.

A text string between my brothers and inaugurated, with each sharing their thoughts. Then, my phone dinged with a reply from my cousin Annie. I opened the string to find her reply:

“Bette says “That’s Pop!””

I was dumbfounded. Annie and I texted briefly. I was amazed over this. Then she texted that Bettyann had additionally shared, how, when she was a child back in the day, our grandmother and older relatives always used to say “Pop was a movie star.” The source info behind this anecdote in family lore had been lost in time. And yet, here, on a lark, I had stumbled across the very film that lay at the source of it. This was the film!

This was incredulous! What were the odds? My brothers were bowled over in shock. Other cousins to whom I sent the same info were equally awed. I watched the film again and studied the screenshots. All the hallmarks were clearly there. Every trait had been passed on to his children: One slight inflection of a cheek muscle was clearly something inherent in my uncle Bud. Another slight squint, my Uncle Harry. A certain pursing of the lips – my Aunt Florence. The cocked smile – my Dad.

As my brothers and I continued to text, it occurred to me then that his unexpected reunion of our ancestor, patriarch and forbearer had occurred on Samhain, on All Hallows, the very day when it has been long believed that our ancestors do visit us. I had always viewed those things not as superstition, but as cool, heartwarming customs of the evolving, old-world culture of our Irish ancestors. Now, here, in my living room, the truth of that belief had just manifested.

This made it clear that, like indigenous peoples from around the globe, in ancient times they all had acquired the wisdom of their interconnectedness with nature, with the cosmos, with all creation. They knew something subsequent generations would forget, or gradually delegate to the category of Fairy Tale and Myth. And yet, here was clear proof that the ancient ones knew something of vital import to our species. This recognition of interconnectedness was the grounding principle for an entire people. It’s what guided the establishment of their laws and communities, of their cultures and civilizations.

All theory and postulating aside, I was witnessing the substantiation of this legend. As far as I was concerned, my own ancestor, my paternal grandfather, had just paid me a visit from heaven, on the very eve when legend claims it’s supposed to happen. And what a grand experience it was.

Slainte!

---

[1] Wikipedia contributors, “Samhain,”  Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Samhain&oldid=986317708 (accessed October 31, 2020).