Happy New Year – 2024- May your Golden Slippers always be full of happiness.
Harry
The images used are also part of my Philly Tales Photo Album, which contains over 1,385 old images from Philly. Visit my website at https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos to see a link to the album.
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What did I forget? What were your favorite things about the Thanksgiving season leading up to Christmas?
Philadelphia Street decorations. 1954
Philadelphia Street decorations. 1954
Christmas decorations at Gimbles 1970s.
A White Christmas 1966. 12.7 Inches fell on Christmas Eve and day.
]]>It was late October 1962. I was working for Siefert Plumbing (Olney) as an apprentice, which means I did grunt work. On this day, I was delivering bathtubs to a construction site and wasn’t looking forward to slogging them to the third floor of the building. I set the radio to my favorite station and listened to the Shirelles’ song Soldier Boy.
The song made me think of my future. In Kensington and every other working neighborhood, there was a very good chance a kid of eighteen like me would end up drafted by the time they were twenty. That meant two years of service, probably as a foot soldier in the Army. My brother, four years older than me, had recently joined the Navy, and I thought maybe I would do the same. I thought the Air Force would also be a good choice for me.
As I contemplated my future, breaking news interrupted the song. What was said created shivers down my spine. It seems the Russians had been placing nuclear missiles in the recently communist country of Cuba. I knew that Cuba was very close and that it was an act of war. I mean, during the entire 1950s, my school classes practiced how to survive a nuclear attack from the Russians. Now, it was a distinct possibility. U.S. military personnel from all branches increased by 331,384 in 1962. I don’t doubt that much of that was young people responding to the “call to arms.” On November 27, 1962, after taking the tests and being accepted by the Air Force, I pledged to protect our country, just as many others had. It was common to duck and cover as training in case we were bombed by the Russians. The threat of nuclear annihilation was real. My brother Bill Hallman. Harry Hallman standing in front of my Air Force school in 1963. Gold Star Mothers stand surrounded by flags after the war memorial parade in Philadlphia. War memorial plaque at Edison High 197. They had the highest number of students killed in Vietnam in the USA. |
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Northeast Airport was a location I passed probably thousands of times. Up the boulevard, I would travel to visit my family, who had moved to Parkwood. Once I saw the airport and smelled the cookies from the Nabisco building, I knew I was close. The same was true when I was a preteen when I visited my aunt, uncle, and cousins at the Northeast Village. The airport was so engrained in my memory that I used it as an essential location in my third and fourth novels.
In the late 1970s, I remember going to a restaurant at the Airport. Does anyone remember its name? Also, please share any Northeast Airport experiences you have.
Here are the photos I found.
Northeast and Northast Airport 1952-Enhanced-Colorized
Planes at Northeast Airport 50s-Enhanced-Colorized
Officials inspecting Northeast Airport 1945-Enhanced-Colorized
Jaycees 3rd annual air cruise crown queen 1955-Enhanced-Colorized
Young women wash planes for united fund Notheast Airport 1964-Enhanced-Colorized
Young women wash planes for united fund Notheast Airport 1964-Enhanced-Colorized
The pictures I have included some of the tough times and the good times. Tell us your enjoyable time stories.
McPherson Square Branch of the Free Library 1917
Two civic groups are requesting round-the-clock police patrols at McPherson Square due to its use as a drug hangout. 1974.
Run down condition of McPherson Sq library 1974. It got a new name Needle Park.
A flock of pidgeons in Harrowgate Square 1977
Photographs depict area residents who enjoy gathering in Harrowgate Square. 1977
Harrowgate Square 1937
Penn Treaty Park 1951. It is in Fishtown, but that area was once part of Kensington.
]]>Anyway, I was about 13 years old, and somehow, I got the ball. It was unusual because I was not the fastest runner. That showed when I was hit from behind by two of my friends. It was a hard hit. My back screamed with pain. My friend Bob had played on actual football teams and said he could fix my back. He grabbed me from behind and pulled me upward. Yikes, the pain increased.
For several weeks, I was in serious pain, yet the doctor never got me x-rays. Eventually, the pain decreased, but all my life, I have had discomfort in my lower back. A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with spinal stenosis caused by that injury.
That said, The Boys Club and the Lighthouse Field were an important part of growing up in Kensington.
Do you have any Boys Club stories? If so, share them with us.
If you want to view over 1,300 colorized images from the 1930s to the 1980s, visit my website at https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos
Lighthouse Boys Club. Lehigh Avenue, Philadelphia about 1950s.
Kids got to play sports, swim, play pool and do things that kept them out of trouble. Possibly the 1960s.
View of new field house for the Lighthouse Boys Club at Lighthouse Field. 1949
Group protests sale of Lighthouse Field 1970. Aside from providing baseball dimons, soccar fields, Lighthouse Field was the home of the Circus for years.
My favorite story about the YWCA happened the first year after I spent four years in the United States Air Force. That was 1966, and at that time, you had to be 21 to vote. This was the first year that I was eligible, and the YMCA was the polling place. As I walked around the corner, the old YWCA building came into view. It was a comforting sight, and memories of swimming and going to classes warmed up my mind.
It was a hubbub of political activity from both Republicans and Democrats. As I approached the door, a man came up to me and offered me $5 if I would vote for his candidate. Remember, I was just 21, and the last four years were spent serving our country, two of them in Vietnam. I was incensed and told him that I didn’t take bribes. I can’t remember who I voted for, but I know it was my vote, not his. A few years later, I thought about that day and wondered why I just didn’t take the money and voted for who I wanted anyway. 😊
The Old Kensington YMCA is now Handcock Manner, an affordable housing facility.
Do you have any YWCA or WMCA stories? If so, share them with us.
Next time: The Lighthouse Boys Club
Kensington YWCA 171 W Alleghany Ave. Phila.
The Y's pool. 1960s
1950s
1950s
1960s
If you want to view over 1,300 colorized images from the 1930s to the 1980s, visit my website at https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos
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Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll write about each and post photos to help you remember.
The Police Athletic League
My old neighborhood police station (25th district) was located on the corner of Westmorland and Front Streets, across from the A&P store. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, the building was rundown. Not long after, it was demolished, and a new police station was built. In those early days, the PAL operation was in the old building. PAL provided kids with a supervised variety of activities such as boxing, basketball, and other sports.
My favorite memory of that PAL was when they asked my dad to give a demonstration of pool playing. In 1950, Dad had won the Pool Championship of Philadelphia and was the co-owner of Circle Billiards at Lee and Allegheny. I remember the old PAL pool table being in bad shape. It was the kind of pool table a champion player would normally never use. Still, Dad did his best and wowed the kids. I must have been around seven or eight years old at the time, and I was very proud of my good old dad.
I didn’t do a lot of PAL activities, but the ones I did were supervised by police officers and others who cared about the neighborhood kids.
Do you have any PAL stories If so, share them with us.
Next time: The Kensington YWCA
If you want to view over 1,300 colorized images from the 1930s to the 1980s, visit my website at https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos
Playing hoops at PAL
Crafts at PAL
Rizzo visits PAL
Old police/firehouse 1954. PAL was in this building.
"Rocky", wearing PAL hat."
Presenting keys to new PAL facility.
Pingpong at the PAL
Then, there were all the new Fall shows on our three channels of Television. No more watching reruns in the summer. The World Series provided many hours of glee for my grandfather, and I was always happy when he was happy. When that was finished, he had Football.
In school, we collected colorful leaves to make art and drew pictures of Santa, Turkeys, and Pilgrims. Fall was also when the new cars came out. Each one had a different style, and we took pride in knowing which style was from which company. That is hard to do now that cars all look alike.
We all have our own special season, and mine has remained Fall for my 79 years on this earth. You may like Spring, Winter, or Summer better. If so, tell us in the comments and describe what makes your favorite season special.
You can see more photos (1260) on my https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos
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When you grew up in Philadelphia, and especially the Kensington section, which was considered a working person’s part of town, landing a job was a big deal. It was imperative. My friends and I all looked forward to meaningful work either in one of the many factories or, even better, the construction trade. Both required challenging work, but I think replacing roofs, digging ditches for pipes, and hauling bricks, cement, and bathtubs up five-story buildings, was a bit more strenuous.
My generation was lucky because our grandparents and great-grandparents fought the battle for better working conditions. Some were killed in the process. In those early days, kids worked in mines, factories, construction, and other hard jobs. There was no overtime, and it was normal to work 70-hour weeks and more for a meager salary, barely enough to feed a family. It didn’t matter if you were an adult or a kid.
If you want to read more about the Labor Day movement, I suggest you go to the PBS website and look under articles and read this one, Worker’s Rights Activists and the History of Labor Day.
What I think would be fun is to hear from you what your first full-time job was and how that affected your working future. I’ll start and tell you about the only three jobs I had working for someone else.
My first job was as an apprentice plumber. I was lucky my brother knew some people and got me hired by Seifert Plumbing. It was 1961, and I made $1.00 per hour. No overtime extra pay and I often worked 50 to 60 hours a week. It was a difficult job, full of arduous work, and as an apprentice can tell you, it was dirty work. My mom was proud that I was an apprentice plumber, and so was I.
In 1962 the Bay of Pigs emergency prompted me to quit and join the U.S. Air Force. I don’t include it in my job list as I felt that was a duty. I was lucky to be sent to school to learn photography, and that influenced my entire work history.
In 1966, after four years, two in Vietnam, I left the Air Force and got a job at Aero Services Corp in Olney. They were an aerial photography firm, and that is what I was taught in the USAF. A year later, I opted for a new job as a medical photographer working for the University of PA Vet School. In all these cases, the pay was abysmal, but the working conditions were particularly good.
By 1970, another photographer and I started a company. I still had to have a job, so I went to work with my business partner’s father selling plastic tubing. By 1971 I was full-time at our new company, and I was self-employed until, well, even now that I am semi-retired.
If it had not been for those brave labor fighters of the early part of the 20th Century, I doubt my job trajectory would have been what it was. In 1894 President Grover Cleveland made Labor Day a national holiday. It took many more years to get fair labor laws, but it was a start. Philadelphia has had a rich history of labor reform, and all those from Philly should be proud of our heritage.
I chose some photos from my Philly Tales photo Album of past working Philadelphians. Have a happy Labor Day on September 4th, 2023.
What’s your working history?
In 1890 a group of entrepreneurs started a new baseball league they called the Players League, and Bill Hallman was recruited, as was Connie Mack, to join. Bill, or as he was more known, Billy Hallman, tried to quit the Phillies to join the new league and team. The Phillies sued him. In those days, they had strict rules about taking positions with other teams unless sanctioned. He went to court, and the judge ruled in his favor saying the current baseball rules were akin to slavery. It was the first instance of a free agent.
The new league only lasted one year, and in 1891, he played for the Philadelphia Athletics in the American League. In 1892 he was back with the Phillies in the National League.
Billy Hallman was born near Pittsburgh but spent most of his life in Philadelphia and living in or near the Kensington section of the city. The addresses I could find were 1890- 2708 Fairhill Street, 1900- lived at 635 Venango Street, 1910- 613 Indiana Street, and 1920- 3048 Reese Street. He passed away in 1920. One report of time said it was because of an old baseball injury to his heart.
After 1903 he mainly did management and worked with teams as far away as Savannah and Augusta, Georgia. As I mentioned, Billy was also a performer, and I have seen news ads and articles from places all over the county and as far away as Colorado. Remember, the best mode of transportation back then was the train. I read that he took a steamship to Savannah. Both were very slow compared to today. This made me wonder how, I mean I know how, how did he have time to sire eight children, two of whom died at birth?
Happy Father’s Day, Billy Hallman.
They experienced the great Spanish flu pandemic of 1918 that killed 3% to 5% of the world’s population (50 to 100 million people), and 500,000 to 700,000 in the United States alone. Twenty-eight percent of the U.S. population was infected. We had our own pandemic that was bad; over one million people died in the U.S.—about 0.3% of the population. In 1917–19, most people did not have phones, radios, TVs, Internet, online food ordering, etc. It must have been excruciatingly difficult for them.
The flu epidemic came as WWI started for the United States. My grandparents bid their brothers farewell as they marched off to Europe to fight the Germans. Approximately 137,000 did not return, and worldwide, it is estimated that over 19 million people died in that war.
By 1929 when my mother was just 15 years old, the great depression started. By 1932, unemployment rates skyrocketed to over 23%, and by 1933, they were at 25%. This era spawned the expression, “Hey buddy, can you spare a dime,” and ex-Wall Street brokers were selling apples and pencils on street corners.
Just as the depression was ending, the world went to war again. WWII started in Europe in 1939, and by late 1941, the United States was once again in a world war. Our families watched as their sons and daughters went to fight in Africa, Asia, and Europe. Over 400,000 sons, daughters, sisters, and brothers never came home. Worldwide, over 70 to 85 million people perished in that war. Families woke up one morning learning that two atomic bombs had been dropped on Japan and the war was over.
This started 50 years of the Cold War and the threat of nuclear annihilation. In between, parents watched once again as their children went to war in Korea. Over 36,000 did not come home. Starting in 1955 and ramping up in the mid-1960s, the Vietnam War required grandparents and parents to watch again as their grandchildren and children went off to war. Over 58,000 did not come home. The total number of deaths in the Vietnam War was 2.4 to 3.5 million people. That war ended in 1975.
It’s a wonder that our parents and grandparents could raise their children, teach them right from wrong, and smile as they always did. It’s a testament to the human spirit and a lesson in perseverance, fortitude, and faith in one’s ability to transcend beyond their fears and life’s obstacles. It’s something we all need to remember.
These photos represent the various trials and tribulations that occurred between 1918 and 1975. Most of the people in the photos are Philadelphia born.
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Cramp, at that time, had two buildings with a large open area in-between where we lined up for school and had recess. The only thing I remember about first grade was standing in line on the last day of school before Halloween. Everyone was dressed up. Most of us had homemade outfits, and I had my traditional hobo garb on and black cork on my face to make me look like I had a beard stubble. As I stood in line, bored and waiting to get into a class where we would color pumpkins, draw ghosts and eat candy, I was bedazzled. In the line across from me was a vision of loveliness. A creature begat from the goddess of love herself. In all her glory, Lois stood dressed in a Black and red cowgirl outfit complete with frilly trim, a Stetson hat and a six-shooter on her hip. My heart skipped a beat. If only I could talk to her, tell her she was beautiful, and ask her to marry me, it would make my year of arithmetic, writing and reading worthwhile. It would have, but I was too afraid to talk to her. Instead, I sulked away the rest of 1A.
School back then was split into sessions, A and B. 2A was the first session, and 2B was after the new year. I did well in 2A, with my mother making the trip to William Cramp only a couple of times. 2B, however, was a disaster. I don’t remember much about it, but it ended in me getting left back and having to repeat 2B. This put me always one-half grade behind my friends. By third grade, I straightened up and got back to my normal C average with only one or two Ds. In those days, the grades were A, B, C, D, E, and F. A was the best and E and F were failures.
I believe it was fourth grade when you got to move from the building closer to Tioga and St. Hugh’s across the street to the building closer to Ontario Street. Something happened when I changed buildings. I went from a C and D student to mostly Cs and occasionally a B student. I’m sure the teachers thought I was a rather strange little red-haired freckled face weirdo. Several times I remember I was walking down the steps having a daydream of sorts and would stop midway. Teachers would ask me if I was okay, and of course, I was. I was just daydreaming. I did a bit of daydreaming in class, as well. That's when I wasn’t talking to my classmates, passing notes, or drawing on my workbook. My socializing got so bad that a teacher once told my mother I talked so much that I was bound to be a politician.
My increased grades got me a position on the safety patrol. Given what those grades were, I wondered what the other boy's grades were that didn’t make it to be a safety. Maybe just nobody wanted the job. For whatever reason, I was now a white belt safety and got out of class early and for meetings. I took the job seriously, and I have to say I was a very good safety. I remember that it was very important to have a clean white belt. If you didn’t, you got a demerit, and for too many of those, you were out. I was sure to scrub that belt almost every night. Maybe life in the military was for me. Nah!
The coveted ranks in the Cramp safety patrol were sergeant, lieutenant, and captain. The sergeant got a green badge, the Lieutenant a red badge and the captain an all-gray leather safety belt with a blue badge. By fifth grade, my grades had stabilized at Cs, and I became a sergeant on the safety patrol. Wow, a green badge and a chance to check everyone’s white belt to be sure they were clean. A sergeant also had to check each station to see if the safety patrolman assigned was actually there. If not, you took over for them.
In 6th grade, I made captain. The big cheese, the top of the heap, the gray leather belted head of the safety patrol. No more cleaning the white belt. I think I was a reasonable captain. You would have to ask my Lieutenant at the time Michael McCue (I connected with Mike on a Facebook group a while back, and it was fun to talk to him).
It’s funny what you remember from your childhood. I was now captain of the safety patrol, And I remember standing on the outside steps of the school daydreaming again. I was pondering what the statistics were for a captain of the safety patrol to die in office. You see, there were always rumors about kids getting cut in half playing on the railroad tracks or getting hit by cement trucks and having their heads squashed. Add that to the fact that my mom was a bit of a hypochondriac. The doctor once told her to stop reading medical books, of which she had a couple of large volumes. It paid off for her; she was 87 when she passed. It did, however, make me worry about getting sick and dying.
There are two other events I remember about the 6th grade. One was pretty cool, but the other was not. I’ll save that for last. The cool one was me helping one of the students become president of the school. I can’t remember who that was, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Lois, whom I had gotten over by the 3rd grade. I had to give speeches at assemblies, pass out pamphlets, and campaign for this person in any way I could. They won and became president of the school, whatever that entailed.
I never gave up socializing during class or daydreaming, even when I was on the safety patrol. I’m not sure what I did, but whatever it was, it got me suspended from the safety patrol for two weeks and put back in 3rd grade for the same two weeks as punishment. It was a bit embarrassing, but even though the desks were too small for me, I actually did learn a few things. It wasn’t all a loss because I learned about the nine planets. As if to spite me, the scientists much later said Pluto was not a planet anymore but rather a dwarf planet. They demoted Pluto! When that happened, I felt an affinity with the poor planet because I had been demoted once myself.
After my two weeks in 3rd-grade hell, I returned to being Captain and in the 6th grade. Towards the end of 6th grade, everyone started thinking about going to Stetson Jr. High School. Lots of rumors went around about how hard the work was, how bad the kids were, how tough (not in a scholarly way) the teachers were, and how difficult it was to change classes during the day and not get lost. After six years, we were to be a freshman again. Newbies, first-timers, novices, fledglings, neophytes, tenderfoots, and greenhorns. And all, just when we were to start attending school, that was the example for the movie The Blackboard Jungle. However, that’s another story, and it is a doozie.
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My class photo. I am 3rd from the left on the top row.
I found this photo Online. Four-year-old Joseph Harvey uses two sticks while pretending to play a violin with a student orchestra providing entertainment at a summer playground at the William Cramp School Howard and Ontario St cramp school. 1960. Colorized.
Cramp School under construction in 1909. Colorized.
I was always the weird one out. Pop and my older brother Bill were fishing fanatics, and Bill still is. He has fished in many locations around the world and landed fish Pop could not have dreamt of catching. I guess that's the point. The grandfather hands off his passion to a son or grandson and hopes they are able to be better at it than he was.
That wasn't me. Fishing, for me, was a chance to do something different, and I could care less if I caught any fish. In the spring, we would go to the Schuylkill River to catch catfish and carp. I was just happy to get on the 60 trolley and ride it west on Allegheny avenue to the end of the line. After a short walk, we were at the wonderful Schuylkill River. As I remember, it was always brown, and the kid's rumors said that any fish caught there and eaten would poison you. That didn't stop the city's fishermen and fisherwomen from all parts of the city from dropping their hooked worms into the muddy water. What I liked was the trappings of fishing.
There were long steps that led to the water, and that's where most people fished. It was pretty cool for a pre-teen. What thrilled me was that it differed from Howard and Wishart Streets, where my family lived. There is something about the flow of the river's water that gives you a sense of peacefulness. In reality, it was very far from being a country atmosphere, but to me, it was.
Of course, my favorite springtime activity was Easter. After all, six months before Easter was the last time I got a boatload of free candy. When I was growing up in the Kensington section of Philadelphia during the 1950s, Easter was a big deal. A huge deal. My family wasn't particularly religious back then, but I guess my mom thought it might be good for her kids to get a little church in our experience, so we went to Sunday School from time to time, especially at Easter. I don't remember much about Easter Day Sunday School, but I remember my childhood Easter festivities.
Easter started well in advance with a trip to Wanamaker's, Gimbels, or Lit Brothers in downtown Philadelphia. I can't remember if Strawbridge and Clothier was downtown, but it was a place mom would also go.
We would take the number 60 trolley east to Kensington Avenue and then the El to downtown Philly. I can hear those metal wheels clacking as I write this. The most exciting part was when the train would go down the ramp to become the subway. From that point on, things got dark, and the train lights came on. If you were lucky, you were in the first or last car and could see the tracks coming and going.
Most of the time, we got off at a station connected to one of the big department stores. I forget which, maybe Gimbles. Anyway, off to the boy's children's department we went. It was just my brother Bill and me. My sister Roberta being ten years older than me, did her own shopping and thus avoided being hampered by two unruly brothers.
First, my brother got his outfit which consisted of a suit, a new dress shirt, a belt if needed, a hat and a tie.
After that, we went to the husky section of the boy's department to outfit me. It was generally the same items as my brother. Once we were taken care of, my mom would peruse the woman's department. My brother and I were so bored at that point that we found solace by crawling under the racks of clothing and, more than one time, getting lost. On rare occasions, we ate lunch at the store.
Now shoes were a different journey. Mom would take us a block away to the Front Street shopping area and Pinky's shoe store. The only brand I remember was Buster Brown. Pinky's may have been called something else, but everybody called it Pinky's because the owner had some pink discoloration around his eyes. At least, that's what I remember.
On the eve of the big day, we boiled and colored eggs. We were generally left on our own to do the coloring, and my older brother Bill was better at it than me, so I got much lip from him. My grandfather, who was an expert at everything, often guided our endeavors.
We would rush down the stairs on Easter morning and see the beautiful baskets with the fake-colored grass. Each basket was filled with jellybeans, chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chickens, and the most amazing, super large chocolate-covered coconut Easter egg.
Easter 1974
After Sunday school, we came home, and the house had the smell of a fabulous ham baking. My mom and always placed cloves in the ham and basted it with ginger ale. However they made it, it was delicious. We always had ham, potato salad, corn, and green beans for Easter dinner. Ham was for every Easter dinner, even when I was older with my own family. It was always the same, and we loved it. Oh, the memories. I tried to keep the tradition up when I got married and had my kids. But things changed, and there was no shopping for dress-up clothing. We did the egg dying, and that lasted until my Granddaughter got older. But the one thing, the main benefit, other than the religious celebration, has gone by the wayside. We no longer get together for Easter. We might have brunch or something like that, but it isn't the same as when we were kids. Still, I have my memories of Easter long gone in Kensington, and I appreciate that immensely.
The people’s photos are of my family and friends back in the day. Most are from the 1940s to the 1970s near Front and Allegheny. I grew up on the 100 block of West Wishart St.
There are those who would say I am crazy. “Why,” they say, “would you take peasant food over high-quality cuisine?” I’ll tell you why. I grew up eating what I call “factory workers’ food,” and it was wonderful. Now I have to say my dad did not work in a factory when I was young. He owned a poolroom. But during WW2, he worked at the Budd plant, and later my mom worked at Gerald Electronics. My grandfather worked in the textile business most of his life. So, what we ate was determined by what we could afford and what our ancestors taught our grandparents and parents. I would bet you feel the same way.
The first aspect of eating “factory workers’ food” is that you probably ate supper at 5 PM or, at the latest, 5:30 PM. This was when the factory workers were getting home, and they were hungry. The second aspect was the type of food. This might be slightly different for families that were Irish, German, Italian, Polish, Jewish, Hispanic or African American and so on. In fact, the dishes from all of these households are often cross-pollinated. The younger you are, the more that happens.
I’ll tell you what foods we most often ate and which day of the week we were most likely to find them on my Grandmother and Mothers’ menu. It would be very cool to hear about your eating habits as a kid. So please post in the comments.
Breakfast:
I don’t remember eating much cereal, including oatmeal, as a kid. I was born in 1944. The predominant breakfast included bacon or pork roll, eggs, white bread toast or better yet, snowflake or Kaiser rolls from the local bakery. Occasionally we had scrapple, and my brother, Bill and I liked it almost burnt and crispy. When young, we drank milk that was delivered daily. You had to be sure to shake the bottle to mix in the cream that floated to the top. My grandmothers always also had Danish available.
Lunch:
Of course, this depended on where you were for lunch, school or home. It isn’t worth talking about school food, so I’ll tell you what we ate for lunch after playing in the street all morning. My all-time favorite lunch was Lebanon Baloney, American Cheese, Kosher Pickles (the kind in a barrel), Guldens Mustard, topped with Wise Potato Chips and German Rye Bread. Every time I talk about this, my brother Bill, who lives across the bridge in Jersey, goes out and buys the fixing for this sandwich.
Occasionally, we would have some other types of sandwiches like ham and cheese, boloney and cheese, grilled cheese and maybe Campbell's Soup. Soda was the lunch drink, and it varied. If it was after a holiday, my favorite was the leftover Ginger Ale from mixing highballs at a party.
Supper:
This depends on which day it was, but there were some givens. Sunday always included a roast, mostly roast beef, roasted potatoes, corn, green beans and maybe peas. No salad. There was often no bread at our dinners, maybe because we ate it all at breakfast and lunch. 😊 More likely, it was because my grandmother always had Butter Cake or Crumb Cake for dessert. Mostly they came from Webb’s Bakery on Front Street.
Friday was a given also because my dad grew up Catholic. We had Mac and Cheese. The good homemade kind. Also, canned Tuna with mayo, coffee from the A&P on Front Street, and dad-like pie. But at some point, he got onto a health kick and gave up smoking and drinking and started eating canned fruit salad. I am not sure canned fruit salad was all that healthy.
Thursday was spaghetti night, and it was great. No, it wasn’t the kind of great meal some of our Italian neighbors made, but it was wonderful. My mom had learned how to make the right sauce, and, of course, that made the difference. Beef meatballs with breadcrumbs were the best.
Mondays, Tuesdays, Saturdays, and Wednesdays were open for creativity. My favorite was meatloaf, but we also might have homemade pea soup, homemade veggie soup, meat cakes (also a favorite of mine), baked ham, scrabbled hamburger or fried or baked chicken. Occasionally, we had chicken pot pie or beef pie.
My grandfather liked to eat fish, especially if he caught it, and he often made Flounder. Sometimes he scrambled eggs and puts the flounder in them. Not my cup of tea. Learned from the hard times of his childhood, my grandfather also liked to lay down slices of white bread in a roasting pan. He put tomatoes on top and then played cheese and baked it. It was very good.
Holidays:
Christmas and Thanksgiving were always Turkey days. Of course, that included stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce (canned) and three different pies or cakes. It was the only time of the year that we had Turkey.
Easter was always baked ham with cloves and bathed in ginger ale, potato salad, a couple of veggies and, of course, cake or pie from Webb’s. New Year’s Day was also a baked ham day, but no potato salad, just masked potatoes. Of course, there was plenty of ginger ale from the night before. New Year’s Eve often meant hotdogs and roast beef sandwiches at midnight. My grandmother always had coffee cake and coffee at 12 on New Year’s Eve.
Snacks:
Soft pretzels, TastyKakes, penny candies, 10-cent ice cream cones, soda such as Hire’s Root beer, Pepsi, sometimes Coca-Cola, Frank’s beverages, Yahoo and Bireley’s Orange or Grape drinks were normal. Popcorn, Good and Plenty’s at the movie were highlights, and Hot Tamales, Hersey’s and other candies came with two features, a serial, newsreels, and sometimes a Yoyo demonstration or bike giveaway.
All these foods, and many I probably don’t remember, always came with a family gathering to celebrate a holiday or just to have a meal together. That is the real appeal of the Philly foods I experienced. It was enjoying them with family and friends.
What were your favorite foods? I can tell you that if you post them, the simple act of describing them will fill your brain with fond memories of days long gone.
Post also on The Kensington Neighborhood Alumni group on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/groups/KensingtonAlumnae
I have to say no, but I do have fond memories of when the white stuff covered the cracked pavements and potholed streets. It made the city look like a winter wonderland. It didn't matter if we had no grass or trees; you could just pretend that under the 5 inches to 2.5 feet of snow, there was a landscape as beautiful as that of rural Ireland.
When we were kids, we would pray for snow. A day off of school and a chance to sled down Howard Street made our little heads spin. A trip to McPherson Park, a few blocks away, was like traveling to Maine. And prolonged snowball fights made us feel like soldiers fighting in WW2.
Even when I was an adult (Barely, just 22), I had fun. One winter, it really came down. I mean at least 18 inches, maybe more. My brother had a VW and was able to drop me off at work at Aero Services, my first job out of the Air Force. It was about two miles from the house. Not long after I got there, they closed the shop and sent us home. Of course, I had no car. So along with another employee, we started walking the two miles in a driving snowstorm that was accumulating quickly.
So in order to cope with the cold and snow, we stopped at every Bar along the way and had a shot of something or other to keep us warm. At that time, in North Philly, it didn't much matter that my friend was only 18. After a few stops, we didn't give a damn about the snow.
People were helping to push cars that were stuck. Generally, when you got them free, the person would give you a ride. When we saw two attractive ladies stuck in the snow, we, of course, offered our services. They were working on getting the car loose, so we told them to get back in the car, and we started to push. It was no easy task. So we pushed and pushed. Then I saw that in the back seat, there were two guys. "What the hell." I yelled to them, "Get the F out here and help." Just at that time, the car caught traction, and the two guys with their a'hole boyfriends sped off. We got over it and stopped at the next bar.
When I was 17, I was arrested (retained they would say today) for having a snowball fight against two 10-year-old kids that started it. My friend and I were coming out of a store when two kids started throwing snowballs. We reciprocated, and it was all fun. It just happens that the Police station was across the street. The police had nothing to do because of the snow, so they thought it would be funny to arrest the four of us. My friend and I had been in there a couple of times, so we knew they were just screwing with us, but the two ten-year-olds were in tears. The cops threatened to put them in jail. After an hour or so, they got tired of us and let us go. We all had fun.
It was always magical to have it snow on Christmas Eve. One year, just after I returned from Vietnam, it was a blizzard for Christmas. We must have gotten 2 and 1/2 feet. Drifts were up to my waist. My nephew and niece lived around the corner from us on Lippincott Street. True to my mother's way of doing things, she had bought a load of toys. So Christmas Eve night, she and I grabbed what we could and slugged our way through the snow. It was really difficult. I ended up making a few trips from Wishart Street to Lippincott Street that night. I hope Santa was able to get all the good Philly boys and girls their gifts. I know he got them for my niece and nephew.
Do I want to shovel snow? No. Do I want to slide off the road? Hell no. Do I want to trudge through 2 feet of snow? No! But I do want to remember those times I did. Not because of the snow but because of the people I was with.
How about you?The music began immediately, and after a minute or so, my mind was wandering back to a time when I was between the ages of 14 to 18 years old. (1958-1962). These are tough ages for a guy and, I guess, a girl as well. For a guy, there is an awaking that tries to take over your life and makes you do things you never thought you would. Things like dancing the Twist (Hey Chubby Checker) and the Mashed Potatoes, hanging out on Snake Road watching the submarine races and giving up a night of drinking with your buddies to go to a chick flick with someone you were sweet on.
I’m not sure if girls back then truly understood the power they had over teenage boys. I’ll let you Kensington ladies talk about that. When once I would go hang out at my dad’s poolroom, play stickball with the gang, and look for an old guy to buy me booze, I now found myself also making out in the back of a car when heading home from Wildwood, helping to babysit and sneaking into a closet during a party. Oh my, my life was changing.
At every stage of my life, music played an important part. I didn’t know it then, but one day when I was in my late 70s music would bring back some sweet memories of the passage from a boy to a man. When I was a preteen, it was songs like Rock Around the clock, Tweddle Dee, Mr. Sandman, and Unchained Melody. In my Early Teens, it was Tom Dooley, Good Golly Miss Molly, Purple People Eater, Yakety Yak, Book of Love, Great Balls of Fire, The Stroll, Peggy Sue, and Splish Splash.
In my middle teens, it was Tossin’ and Turning, Michael, Crying, Take Good Care of My Baby, Hit the Road Jack, Bristol Stomp, and Blue Moon. By my late teens, I was in the U.S. Air Force, living in California, and the songs were Surfin USA, He’s So Fine, My Boyfriends back, Wipe Out, Surf City, It’s My Party, and Do the Bird. From 1964-1966 I was living in Vietnam courtesy of the USAF. The songs were Wooly Bully, Satisfaction, Downtown, King of the Road, I Got you Babe, Unchained Melody, Like a Rolling Stone, California Girls, California Dreaming, Last Train to Clarksville, Bang Bang, If I Were a Carpenter, and Nowhere Man.
So, so many songs, most of which I did not list. For every stage of my life, there is music that will bring back the best memories of that time. They truly are the melodies of love. The love of family, the people who touched your life and the love of life itself.
What are your favorite songs from your old days, and what do you associate them with?
The photos I included are from Philadelphia. I didn’t put names, so I’ll let you guess. If I missed your favorite, post a pic and some words in the comments.
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I grew up in the Kensington section of North Philadelphia. In those early days, it was a wonderful place to grow up and work. There were abundant factories, especially those that dealt with textiles. With the jobs these factories provided came special visitors, namely the southern roach, and some of them could fly. Every house experienced roaches, no matter how much you tried to eliminate them. They weren’t only in the houses; you could find them on the street as you sat on your steps in the hot summer or were hanging with your friends on a corner.
The most fearful roaches were the ones with wings. Yikes, nothing could initiate screams from both boys and girls more than a flying roach. More than once, one came into our house when a door opened. And what ensued was a frenzy of screaming and trying to catch it.
Maggots! I would guess that most kids now never see maggots (those little white screamy things) except in the movies. When I was a kid, we had to put our garage in special pails, and it was collected once a week. Maggots are fly larvae, and there was a wealth of flies, well, everywhere. If you opened that garbage pail a few days before collection, it could be full of maggots. Ugh! Imagine what the inside of the garbage truck looked like.
Speaking of garbage trucks, that was another “wonderful” experience. How often were you stuck in a car behind a collection truck full of the rotted remnants of thousands of meals? It was enough to stymie your appetite, at least until you saw a guy on the street selling soft pretzels.
I can’t say I remember seeing many rats in the house, but once when I was about ten years old, we had a visitor- Mr. Rat. I remember my grandfather grabbing a broom handle and hunting one that got into our basement. I went with him for the experience. He was a good hunter and caught the poor rat and sent him (or her) to heaven. As young teens, we would walk the abandoned railroad tracks or dumps carrying our bows and arrows, looking for rats or even an unsuspecting rabbit. We saw many but never shot any.
Pigeons were both cute and a pest. I liked pigeons, and I want to apologize to all the pigeons I tried to shoot with my peashooter. It was a phase, like wearing and coonskin hat, when I was a kid. Every kid had a peashooter and an ample supply of dried peas. When we weren’t shooting at our friends, we took am at pigeons. I recently read that peashooters were first used in the 1800s in merry old England. Every morning a man or woman would shoot peas at windows to wake those that subscribed.
Spiders, somehow, really create fear in many people’s minds. I don’t remember, as a kid, seeing that many spiders. Maybe the rats, pigeons and roaches ate them. As an adult, I have seen many, especially in Vietnam, where spiders, roaches and rats seem to take growth hormones.
Now I am kinder to our pesty friend, and we have a capture and release policy in our house. Oh, did I tell you I now live in Atlanta, where the Philly factories imported cotton and roaches from? So occasionally, when a roach invades our home, I am reminded of my childhood days growing up in Kensington.
Okay, so I toiled early in the morning to write this peach, and the talk about pigs and cows got me hungry. I think I’ll go make some eggs, Taylor’s Ham, bacon, toast with real butter and plenty of condensed milk in my coffee. Oh, wait. I forgot I’m old now. It’s avocado on toast, sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, and peppers. Coffee still, but with Almond milk creamer. Oh well, maybe I saved a pig’s life somewhere.
Typical garbage can used in Philly back in the 1950. It is for sale on ETSY for $195. Wait, what!
Vintage Philadelphia Postcard
Mural located on Front Street in the Kensington section of Philly.
My Grandfather died when my Dad was only 11 years old. This left the family destitute, and my dad quit school in the eighth grade and found a job to help his mother. He worked on an ice truck and in a factory making baseballs. Dad was born and lived most of his life in the Kensington section of the city of Philadelphia. He became a bookie sometime in the 1930s after he married my Mom, but gave it up at the beginning of WW ll.
He was a hard drinker in those days, and my Mother’s father would often go with him to bars and recover the money my Dad left on the counters. He stopped drinking and smoking in the late 1940s. I never saw him smoke a cigarette or drink alcohol. During the war, he was too old for military service, so he worked at Budds, a factory that made airplanes. I believe he was a metal shearer. At the time, he was strong enough to bend a half dollar with his finger and thumb.
I’m laying this groundwork to help you better understand what happened when my brother and I were finally old enough to hang out with our Dad. We didn’t see Dad much during the week because he worked at a poolroom until late at night and left for work before we got home from school. He oversaw ten tables and a back room where high rollers (at least as high as was possible in Kensington) played poker. He would come home for dinner by 5 o’clock and then leave to go back to the poolroom.
On Sundays, everything was different. You would think my Dad would have been more interested in sports because his father played professional baseball for the Phillies from 1883 to 1903, but he wasn’t. As far back as I can remember, until I was about 13, our father had a ritual. He would load my brother and me into his Hudson car, and the first thing we would do was drive to one of Philly’s many cultural attractions. We went to the Philadelphia Art Museum, the Franklin Institute, the Rodin Museum, the Japanese Pavilion, the Aquarium, and the Museum of Natural History. You name it, and we went there.
I especially liked, but was afraid of, the big heart at the Franklin Museum. You could actually walk through the heart to see lifelike details. I also loved the old train from the 1800s. The Museum of Natural History was cool as well, with its displays of sabertooth tigers and cavemen. The little aquarium we went to was just off East River Drive in the waterworks complex next to the Schuylkill River. They had a turtle that was 100 years or older who I never saw move. The Art Museum was great and was Dad’s backup if he couldn’t think of a better place. My brother and I eventually got tired of going to it after so many visits.
After becoming more cultured, we would drive to Horn & Hardart’s Automat downtown and put a nickel in the slot and pull a piece of pie out. Then we would go through the line and get a cup of coffee. Yeah, you heard right. Kids drank coffee back then, at least with my Dad. After our repast, we would walk around the corner to the Morrow’s Nut House, and my Dad would buy each of us a bag of candy. One of my favorite candies was small pieces of licorice coated with a sugary paste. Each piece was a different color; some looked like little sandwiches.
There was an arcade on Market Street, and dad would give us a bunch of nickels to play the pinball machines. Sometimes he would give us a lesson. He had a knack for getting the little metal ball in just the right place. The fact that he was a Champion pool player helped.
If I remember correctly, the Fox, Boyd, and Goldman theaters (among others I can’t remember) were on Market and Chestnut Streets. Dad always saw movies downtown because they were shown first in those theaters and later released to places such as the Wishart, Kent, Iris, and Midway theaters. The theater was the only place he would let us eat our candy, and we had to eat it while we waited for the movie to start, so we didn’t make noise.
After the movie, we would jump in our Hudson and drive north on Fifth Street, turn on Allegheny Ave., then Mascher Street, and lastly, Wishart Street, where we lived. My Mother and Grandmother always had our special Sunday meal of roast beef or pork, mashed or roasted potatoes, and vegetables ready by the time we got home. After dinner, Dad would go to the poolroom.
Dad was not formally educated, but he was a math whiz. He also read a lot, mostly science fiction, but also many other genres. He had a knack for knowing about health trends before they became popular. When he was older, he started eating oatmeal every day for breakfast, and we laughed at him when he told us why. Some doctors who came to the poolroom told him it was healthy for his heart. He also started drinking orange juice with apple cider vinegar. This was in the 1970s, and, of course, both are considered healthy foods today.
Dad was called “the Gentleman” by the folks who frequented the various poolrooms around Philly. Some of his old cronies told me he always treated people with respect. He even showed respect to the people he won money from while playing pool. He was a champion player and pool hustler. Dad was like an M&M candy, a bit hard on the outside but soft in the middle.
I said goodbye to my father when he was 77. He and my mother, sister, and brother-in-law visited us in Atlanta. I got to play pool with him one last time at a place I found in Sandy Springs, GA. That evening my mother woke us up at 2 AM and said something was wrong with my father. My brother-in-law Dave and I rushed to his room and found him lying on the floor. Dave gave chest compressions while I gave mouth-to-mouth.
The EMTs came and took him to a local hospital. Fifteen minutes after he entered the hospital, the doctor informed us that Harry Mark Hallman, Sr. had passed away. As heartbreaking as this news was for us, I knew my memories of those fabulous Philly Sundays we spent with him and those special Sunday dinners my Mother and Grandmother made will never pass away.
Originally posted on the Kensington Neighborhood Alumni and Old Images of Philadelphia on Facebook.
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101- I had the best family a boy could wish to have. A family that instilled a Kensington work ethic and a Philadelphia mindset has served me well.
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The clock strikes 2:49, and you can’t believe how slow time is going. You wonder if the SWIMO is open tomorrow. You anticipate getting a Water Ice from the old man that sells them on Kensington Avenue. The clock now says 2:51. Nine more minutes, there will be no more pencils, no more books, and no more teachers’ dirty looks.
The lyrics to the One Summer Night by the Danleers whiff through your brain, and you wonder if this is the year you fall in love. Will you meet someone on the Wildwood boardwalk or while swimming at the boulevard pools? The clock on the wall now says 2:57.
You wish you were old enough to drive. It will be soon, and then you could take your friends to Greenwood Dairy for some ice cream. That is if dad will lend you the car. The Clock says 2:59.
Finally, the bell rings, and school is out. As you and your classmates run for the door, you think; finally, I feel Alive In the Summertime.
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I think it’s time for some fun, so I put together a video to help you remember all the good times when you were kids. The photos are from my Philly Tales photo album, which includes over 1000 more photos of Philadelphia. Take a look at https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos.
You can share the video by visiting the Philly tales blog at this link https://mercyrow.com/blogs/philly-tales/summertime-fun and looking for the share button at the bottom.
If you have some summer tales you would like to share; please comment. What was your favorite summer activity?
Have a very happy and fun summer!!!!!!
If you like, you can read two previous articles I wrote about Memorial Day and Veterans Day: The Few Who Sacrificed for the Many and What Memorial Day Means to Me.
The photos are in the Philly Tales photo album at https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos.
Moms put up with a lot. After all, in those days, each mom’s full-time job was taking care of the kids and the house. This was not easy because the appliances we have today didn’t exist back then. By the way, moms still have the brunt of the household chores and kid care, except now they also have outside jobs.
In many households in Kensington, if not all of Philly, male children were not expected to do housework other than taking out the garbage and the ashes from the coal furnace. I don’t remember ever washing dishes, or make my own bed, and rarely did I have to cook anything. I didn’t know it then, but I was in for a rude awakening when I joined the U.S. Air Force.
Female children didn’t fare as well as boys. They were expected to learn and do everything their moms and grandmoms did. The school system supported this through having home economic classes for girls. Boys went to shop classes to learn woodworking, car repair, and mechanical drawing. The idea was to prepare boys to take on a job outside of the house while the girls learned how to handle inside the house. They did have typing classes that mostly girls attended. These classes were designed to be a backup if a girl had to get a job.
My sister Berta was ten years older than me, so she was helping out my mom when I was born. Berta probably did things that taxed mom’s patience, but by the time my brother and I were causing havoc in the house, she was the model of the perfect 1950s housewife. On the other hand, my brother Bill and I fought like alley cats. He would smack me on the back of the head every time he passed me. I would be sure to do things he hated, such as smack my lips, eat pretzels making a loud noise, chew gum, or breathe heavily. This gave my Mom many opportunities to say, "Will you two shut the hell up" and administer a slap on the cheek. These were mild irritations for my mother. Believe me, we did worse.
When I was a child, we had a party line on our phone, which meant we were not the only household to share the same number. Sometimes you would pick the phone up and hear the other family talking. My Mom was addicted to talking to her friends on the phone, so she was on it all the time. I'm sure the other family was livid about that. She often sat on a small hassock located near the phone. Once, she got up to stretch, and I pulled the hassock away as a joke. Give me a break; I was just six or seven. Anyway, when she sat back down, the hassock wasn't there. To say the least, she was not happy.
My brother Bill did me one better. Once again, my mother was sitting on a hassock and talking on the phone. She sent my brother to the candy store to buy some bubble gum. You know those small, hard, rectangular-shaped pink chewing gums that pull fillings out of your teeth? She gave him a nickel, and he ran over to the store. He bought five pieces. When he came back, he was in a hurry to get out and play. So, in typical Bill fashion, he yelled, "Here, Mom," and threw the bag to her from 20 feet away. My Mom turned, and the bag of rock-like gum hit her in the eye. Yes, she got a black eye from it.
Mom's addiction to bubble gum only lasted until she became enamored with maple taffy that she made herself. She boiled maple syrup and put it in a flat pan. She would break it up when it cooled and ready to eat. She did this for some years until her candy addiction centered on chocolate. My mother and her mother ate ice cream every night. I mean, every night. My mother also ate chocolate every day. I once bought her Godiva Chocolate thinking high-quality chocolate would be tastier. She ate it but said she preferred Hershey’s kisses. When I was an adult and visited Hershey, PA, I bought her a five-pound Hershey Kiss.
The funny thing is that my mother and my grandmother were not overweight, and my mother, remember she ate Hershey’s chocolate and Breyer’s ice cream every night, lived to be 87 years old. My mother had a toy poodle who also ate chocolate every night. That dog lived to be 20 years old. I am just saying that maybe chocolate is good for you.
By the time my brother and I were teens, my grandparents lived with us. My grandmother, Ethel Hird, was an expert housewife and never stopped cleaning, cooking, and washing clothes. This gave my mom more time, so she decided to find a job outside the house. I remember my father being upset about this. I assume there was a stigma attached to the male who allowed his wife to work an outside job back then. Mom took the job anyway and started working at Gerald’s Electronics. She spent her meager earnings on house repairs and presents for her grandchildren.
Most mothers are our constant companions until we are teens and even after that. When we were hungry after a day of pretending to be soldiers, playing stickball, playing Jacks, skipping rope, or causing some havoc in the neighborhood, we could be sure there would be a meal waiting. When we put a nail through our cheek, as I did, or hurt your back playing street football, as I did, or needed someone to come get you out of the police station, as I did, you could count on your mom. When the polio vaccine was available, mom made sure we got it.
Moms are not only protective, but they can also be very supportive. When I joined the Air Force at age 18, I’m sure Mom was upset, but she didn't let me know. I was off on an adventure, and she was losing her youngest child. When I told her I was going to Vietnam, then came home and told her that I volunteered for a second tour, I knew she was concerned, but she didn't show it. During this time, my brother had joined the Navy, so both of us were out of the house. I’m sure my mom had the same bad memories as she had during World War II of sending her two brothers off to war. She never made me feel bad about it.
When I told her in a letter I was marrying a Vietnamese girl and later sent her a letter addressed to Grandmom Hallman to announce we were having a baby, she was nothing but supportive. God, I sound like an asshole. She and the whole family accepted my choice of a wife, even though it was uncommon back then for a North Philly boy to marry an Asian.
My brother and I were also lucky to have my grandmother and grandfather living with us as we grew into men. Nanny, our name for my mom’s mom, was a saint. If mom was at work, Nanny was there to feed and take care of us. She patched me up more than once, administered medicine when I was ill, and put up with my antics. Similar to my mom, Nanny supported my wife, teaching her how to make American food, showing her what to buy in the A&P at Front and Westmorland, and helping her take care of our son. My wife also changed how my mom and Nanny cooked. They learned that adding a small amount of soy sauce to meat cakes, meatloaf, and even chicken made these foods tastier.
So, Happy Mother’s Day, mom and Nanny. I am so grateful that I was lucky enough to have both of you as protectors, healers, and life counselors. And Happy Mother’s Day to all moms. That includes the moms of furry kids.
To help celebrate Mother’s Day, I scoured my Philly Tales photo album and pulled some fantastic photos of Philly moms with their kids. Of course, I added some of my photos as well. There are plenty more at https://mercyrow.com/pages/philly-tales-photos.
From a post first posted on Kensington Neighborhood Alumni https://www.facebook.com/groups/KensingtonAlumnae