THANKSGIVING DAY, 1981

          I take the Greyhound bus along the road you traveled to see me just a year ago.

          It was a long trip for such a sick man, the grandchild in the back seat with computer football game ‘beeping’ all the way.  You said --- “I thought he’d get tired of it but he never did!”

          The thermostat on my oven had broken and burned the beautiful fresh turkey but you didn’t care.

          You had come to my house, as you would say later, knowing you would probably never come again.  You loved my house which made me so happy; I did too.  The day after Thanksgiving, I found you in my kitchen with all my cupboards open wide --- just checking, making sure your daughter would never starve.

          I think of your nervousness waiting for Jim and Casey to pick you up, your normal nervousness about the weather, would it snow on your way down? --- A long trip, 7-hours at best and you a nervous driver and worse passenger always.  And, you worried whether you brought the right kind of wine (you had spent a long time asking opinions in the wine shop but, still, you worried).  We are such worriers, both of us --- wanting so to please, wanting everybody to be happy, to make it all work.  Yeah, wanting to make it work.

          In the back of Jim’s station wagon, there were so many brown paper bags full of food that it looked like you thought they didn’t have food in Philadelphia, though you were not eating much by now.

          Pumpkins lie sunken and rotting in the fields and I wonder which farm houses you might have seen just a year ago today.  But, I pray that you didn’t see the deer hanging in back yards, you who loved animals so, deer our special family bond.

          The hills are golden beige at this time of year, a bit of snow dusts the leafless trees --- a barren but beautiful landscape.

          Today I wanted to be between where I once lived with you, my only father, and where I now make my home.  I wanted to be between all the turkey dinners and fun banter of jostling tables in both cities.  I wanted to ride the route you took to my home for that one last brave time and to celebrate who you were ---

          Your generosity of spirit, your inestimable kindness and consideration, your shyness with affection --- the kind of kiss you gave me the last so many years of your life --- putting your two fingers to your lips, then, putting your fingers to my cheek. 

           I give those fingertip kisses to my friends now and tell them why and where it came from.  And, I always add --- “My Dad didn’t go in for big displays of affection but you always knew he loved you; there was no doubt, no, no doubt.”

           Thank you, Ollie Kane.  Thank you so.

THE CHOIR DIRECTOR WORE PINK HIGH TOPS

Even on the bus that took forever, people were in a good mood.  The bus was detoured because of the Street Fair that most of us on the bus were trying to get to. It had been re-routed, then got caught in heavy traffic and, then, in a big rain storm.  The bus was jammed with people, whole families, lots of people without seats but no one seemed upset, maybe because we were missing the rain.

I was going to my favorite street fair of all, the Atlantic Antics, a more organic event than some with not a lot of glitzy commercial concessions.  It’s mostly a street fair of local restaurants and people who live near.  They simply come out of their homes with things from their attics and sell them on the street.  There’s lots of music, many good cooking smells and stalls and stalls of freshly baked cakes from the House of the Lord Church.

The rain had stopped, the bus had finally stopped swerving up different streets and let us out and the group surged towards the street fair.  I didn’t get very far this year but right away veered to my favorite block where there are several small cafes --- Caribbean, Middle Eastern (with the best golden lentil soup on earth!),  an eastern orthodox church with people in costume selling homemade stuffed cabbages and the French spot with the great French fries accompanied by a light peppery mustard sauce.  I hit that stand each year and this year was no different but I, somehow, found a seat behind the French concession.  Now, I could sit and watch the whole world go by.  The sun was inching out, people were smiling as if it had never rained, just a few drops still fell from the trees overhead.

To my left, musical instruments were being warmed up at the House of the Lord Church and slowly and quietly a choir came out from inside the Church and assembled on the steps.  And, when they began singing and supplicating God, I knew I was in the right place.  How could I have gotten so lucky? 

Oh, how those voices rang out..  People walking by tried to keep on walking but couldn’t --- they were drawn in, pulled in, stopped in their busy tracks and, there, in front of the church steps on the flat of the sidewalk very near me romped and moved and gestured and elicited more and more music, a young woman choir director in black sleeveless dress with high top pink sneakers on her feet and, boy, did she use those sneakers.  She moved and jumped and raised her arms and pulled out even more the joyous, ecstatic, rollicking, pleading music and it reverberated all over us --- over people alone, over couples, families with children, dogs on leashes, baby strollers.   

Last Sunday I didn’t run around the Antics Fair and check everything out (always fearing I might miss something) --- that’s what I usually do.  I had found a wonderful place to stay still.  It was tucked back in and comfortable, there was a tiny bit of white wine left in my plastic glass and a few fries packed up for ‘the road.’ 

Frenchmen plied their accents and charms at the table in front of me while next to me, to the side of the choir, a bent over woman in African head gear carefully made her way down the church steps carrying tall cakes to the waiting sales table.  It made me laugh that she had this beautiful indigo headdress on and wore navy blue crocs to accompany it!

I cried some as the ‘hallelujahs’ rang out.  This was my home; this is so where I belonged --- in a multi-cultural, multi-talented, multi-tasting world.  I had recently found out that I was being forced out of my apartment after almost 20 years and that was scary.  It’s not easy to find a clean, safe, affordable space and I would be leaving a garden, my own little church choir and shopkeepers who had become friends.  I had been priced out.

But, somehow last Sunday afternoon sitting next to the powerful choir, I knew that I’d find somewhere.  This was my city, this was our city. We all belonged here, not just the prosperous.

“Hallelujah, …”

THE SUMMER OF THE HEAT

Even at Jones beach, it was so hot.  I tried saying “Oh, I feel the breeze” but the breeze was hot too.  I hadn’t been there in several years, a spot I have always so loved and there weren’t many people there last Friday; the beach looked vacant, like a giant desert, the outdoor cafes empty of patrons.

I especially like the old wooden walkways between the beaches and the majestic old buildings but I seemed to be the only one determined to walk that day.  The boardwalks were vacant, the earth around parched.  A few people took shelter on benches that had awnings over them. 

I didn’t think I could make it along the huge expanse of beach to the water but I started out anyway.  I had never seen Jones Beach so vacant on a summer day.

Then, slowly, as I got over the sand towards the water, where the land dipped down and you could actually see white caps, there were people, lots of people and they were laughing and children were making wonderful castles in the sand and whole drawings of ‘Sponge Bob’ and ‘Pants Up’ (that was a new character to me) and they were so glad I studied their work and their parents waved proudly to me. 

And, people were playing in the big waves and the water wasn’t icy but very cool and very strong and for a bit, there was this wonderful respite --- from the city, from the rest of the beach that looked like a vast wasteland, from the wonderful old wooden walkways today abandoned.  And, for a bit, for those of us who made it to the edge of the sea, there was relief and joy and bouncing children and the surf was so strong it pulled the ‘croc’ off my foot but a little girl got it for me from an incoming wave and we were all smiling and I will never see the sea the same again after that day last Friday outside New York City --- never. 

It was our loving mother, our strong father, embracing us, comforting us, telling us we’d be okay; that it would wash us and cool us and make us laugh out loud and smile at each other.  It was ongoing and giving of itself and for the brief time I was there, I cannot get the beautiful picture of it out of my mind, nor would I ever want to.

MP Kane, Monday, August 6, 2012

CANAL STREET KITTY

A story that takes place at Easter time and Passover both --- the story of a very sick cat whose curiosity and love of life sees him through

Iris got sick just as it was becoming spring in the cats’ first year in Brooklyn, just as they were all getting excited about winter being over.  They were planning on having lots of fun this summer.  Imogene was going to put Iris on a leash and they would go sit outside on the stoop with their neighbors.  Star, his sister, would absolutely not allow a leash to be put on her.  Star and Iris and Imogene had finally stopped moving.  They had lived in the same place for seven months now.  It seemed the bad times were over.  They loved their house and they were “almost” settled.  They even “almost” had curtains, or, at least, Imogene had the curtains “planned.”  Of course, everybody knew Imogene’s plans could take a long time to become reality. 

The three couldn’t believe their life and good luck.  They, suddenly, out of nowhere Iris got sick and even he was worried.  And, Imogene was beside herself.  Plans for the curtains, plans for everything, went out the very window the curtains might have gone on.

At first, Imogene packed the boy cat up in a turquoise and yellow gaudy plastic carrier and took him to the doctor.  They went on the bus.  Iris did not like going to the doctor’s much but he had to admit, he truly loved being outside again.  He did not like being poked at and examined and having shots at the doctor’s and he especially hated when a Labrador retriever or some other overfriendly dog rushed up to his cage.  There were also these jumpy little kids always wanting to poke their fingers through the turquoise and yellow carrier.  They too wanted to touch the little cat.  Iris did not know which was worse --- a large slobbering dog or a giggly little girl with sticky fingers.

Being sick was scary for him though he loved the smells of outdoors, even from the cheap carrier (it was the cheapest one Imogene could find, and everybody knew Imogene was cheap, well, she didn’t have a lotta extra money).   She actually was very generous and would buy gifts for everyone when she did have money but the cats had not known Imogene during that all too brief period in her life.

The air was beautiful to the little cat.  Spring smells were just beginning, smells of brand new leaves and flowers ready to burst through the ground and even some Irises, the flower for whom Iris was named when everyone still thought he was a girl.  Why humans worried about things like boys’ and girls’ names, Iris thought very strange.  Humans were such funny characters.   Iris only knew that he loved his name and liked even more hearing it called.

And, outside, there were a lot more smells than budding trees and flowers.  There were smells of garbage cans and trash, smells of bugs and other animals.  Oh, Iris loved those smells.  One of the best times he remembered with Imogene was when she sat him under her chair while she ate a burrito in a Mexican Cantina near the doctor’s office.  Oh, what smells delighted his quickly moving nose in that place --- beans and guacamole and beef and chicken and cheese.  Iris loved cheese, especially Parmesan --- but, hey, hold the peppers!

But then he got sicker and sicker.  Imogene stayed home from work, which was not good.  She stayed with Iris in the front room where she could watch him.  Star, came in the room with them sometimes but it was pretty boring for her because Iris was not up to chasing her around or batting her, or rolling over on his stomach trying to start a game.  At first, when Iris and Imogene began going to the doctor’s, Star did not miss them much.  She liked being alone in the apartment.  She loved the quiet.  She slept peacefully knowing that no little cat would sneak up from behind her and bat her tail.  But, as Iris got more and more sick, Star got more and more scared.  For though she did not always like him, though he could drive her crazy, she could not really imagine her life without the funny boy cat. 

Imogene even cried.  In the four years, the cats had lived with her; they had only seen her cry a few times.  She always said, “I don’t cry anymore, I haven’t cried in years.   I used to cry a lot, I was famous for my crying but if I cried every time something bad happened in my life, I’d be crying all day long.” 

Iris was torn in his feelings about Imogene crying over him.  He was worried about her and touched that she cried so much because he knew it meant that she loved him a whole lot but he was upset because Imogene’s crying kept getting him ALL WET!  

So, a few times during the days when Imogene was crying so hard, Iris gave Imogene “that look.”  It is a look humans love.  It isn’t easily described --- “that look” --- but all pets and their human companions know it well.  It’s a soft look of great emotion from the animal’s eyes.  It’s often accompanied by sweet noises and, or, sighing. And, though it’s sincere, the look, it can also sometimes result in the pet getting a better grade of food, maybe even a taste of tuna fish in spring water!  Humans melted with “the look” but when Iris gave the look to Imogene when he was so sick, it did not work the way it usually did.  Instead of making her happy, instead of making her say “ohhh” and “ahhh” and, maybe heading to the store for some good food, it only made Imogene cry harder all over him.  Iris was getting wetter and colder by the minute.

Then, one day, on Good Friday, two days before Easter Sunday, a serious sad day in some religions, Imogene packed Iris up once again in that god-forsaken ugly carrier and took him into Manhattan to a new doctor.  But, this time, instead of walking one block to wait for the bus, they walked five blocks towards the subway station with Imogene saying all the way --- “A-Train Kitty, A-Train Kitty.”   And, repeating over and over --- “Not many cats get to ride the “A” Train --- you’re so lucky, Iris.”   Imogene was trying to “psyche him up” as the old saying goes, to build up his enthusiasm for the subway because they were not a family who “did” cabs.   

Iris loved the “A” train.  Well, first of all he loved the subway station and all those horrible smells.  He didn’t like the noise of the subway; it scared him so terribly that he hid under a pale violet towel that Imogene had put in his carrier to make it feel softer.  And, when he sat up after the grinding and grating noises had ended, Imogene laughed and said ---“Oh, Iris you look like a nun with that towel over your head!”   Though, if truth be told, Imogene had never seen a nun with furry pointy ears sticking out of her habit and she’d seen a lot of nuns in her life.

Iris adored the subway and the subway station for all the reasons humans didn’t like it.  His little cat nose couldn’t get close enough to the holes in his carrier.  It was cold and clammy.  Wow --- he sniffed and snorted; he was all eyes and movement.  One paw hung through a hole in the carrier.  He was already beginning to not look like a poor sick little cat anymore, and they hadn’t even gotten to the doctor. 

He loved the dank, dark, scary filth of it.  He loved the smell of the trash receptacles.  He even thought he smelled a rat (probably) and that made his little cat heart sing.

On the subway itself, there were more glorious smells --- sticky smells from fallen food and spilled soft drinks and all he could see of people were their shoes.  He and Star loved people’s shoes.  Anytime anyone visited them, they automatically ran towards the visitors’ shoes and sniffed all those fabulous street smells.  Oh --- where shoes took people --- it was a joy to think about.

The movement of the subway scared Iris at first, but eventually its worst twists and turns ended and Imogene told Iris that after the first rough part, the “A” train gave a fast smooth ride into Manhattan.  She loved this subway she told him.  Although she admitted to loving the “Q” train more.  Humans, as Iris always thought, had some very strange ideas.

When they came up the subway steps near the new doctor’s office, the two were at Canal Street.  They had fifteen minutes before their appointment so they walked a bit on that Good Friday afternoon and then Imogene balanced Iris’ carrier on top of a newspaper box at Canal and West Broadway and there he watched the world go by.

And, boy did the world go by!  Depending on your disposition and your sense of humor, a visit to Canal Street could either kill you or cure you.

You either loved it or hated it; it was probably not a place many felt ‘in-between’ about.  Imogene loved Canal Street and she and Iris often felt the same about things.   They liked “different, unusual things.”  So, while many people in the world were already in Church for Good Friday or preparing to go to Synagogue for Friday evening services, Iris and Imogene watched in wonder as people streamed by, teemed by, rush or slowly ambled by ---- people of all kinds and colors and languages.   Horns honked and hot dog and souvlaki stands sent up odors to delight Iris’ now wiggly nose.   People talked and moved and laughed and gestured.  It felt like they were in the middle of a riot, a nice riot, which, in some ways, they were.

You could buy anything here.   You could buy an eel or a hubcap.  You could buy a roll of film and a bottle of perfume and a banana --- in the same place.  It was raucous, it was a ruckus and Iris heard different human languages from the one Imogene spoke, languages that made him remember the old city parking lot in south Philadelphia where he and Star had lived before Imogene took in the two cats.

It was another spring for the two and this time they were not moving again.  This time they had an apartment and were getting “settled” and would have curtains --- well, someday.   The sun was trying real hard to come through the big puffy clouds and warm them as they stood on that magic corner on that Good Friday and Passover weekend.  The boy cat pushed his nose as hard as he could against carrier to get closer to the world --- his eyes now alive with the excitement and wonder of it all.

 And Imogene knew right then that Iris’ life force would pull him through this illness.  And, though the two were neither in a Church or Synagogue, they stood there side-by-side on that early spring afternoon and worshipped. 

Imogene smiled and nodded and started breathing easier.  Iris sniffed and moved his head from side to side to see better.  He put his paw out through the carrier again --- the better to touch life.

Iris and Imogene were full of awe that sacred Friday afternoon. 

And, worshipped in their own way on that corner.

They worshipped by loving the life --- as it whirled and swept around them.

MPKane, for Easter, Passover, 2012

KATIE’S BIRTHDAY

 

Katie Kane, a feline, turned six today, well I made up her birthday because we just knew her approximate age when she came --- 9 months. 

I put her birthday on March 19, St. Joseph’s Day as he was a gentle man, hard-working, humble, seemingly most kind and I always felt he got short shrift in the publicity department of the Catholic Church.

I can still see her the first night I took her in as a foster over the Christmas holiday.  She was so terrified when I took her out of her carrier, her beautiful face read ‘fear.’

Then, the next I saw her, she was on a really cold window sill, again looking terrified but so beautiful (I had not really seen her at the foster agency, there were rows and rows of cats).  She had tabby markings which I always love interlaced with orange, a white breast and golden eyes. Behind and below this gorgeous creature, were Christmas lights from the yards of my Brooklyn neighbors.  I will never forget her that first evening with the glow of tree lights behind her.  But, afterwards she would hide for 11 days.  We never did get a tree that year.

In late January, I wrote a letter that I would give the agency when I took her back.  I felt that she needed someone around more, I was working out of the house a lot then; she, maybe. needed a family, not just one person.  But, I never delivered either the letter or the cat.  Instead I went into Manhattan one late Sunday afternoon, paid a small fee and came home with a free bag IAMS cat food they awarded me upon her official adoption.

What a change over the years --- sometimes I wish she were less affectionate when I’m busy or want to sleep and she comes up beside me to get petted.  But, not really.  She purrs now, she didn’t for the longest time.  She lets you know what she wants; she’s playful and mischievous in her play.  She pushes various balls around the floor and has lost two red clown noses that she adored over and over again.  I loved my first clown nose and still have no idea how she got it off that shelf.

She is scrumptious, gorgeous, relaxed, sometimes a little too relaxed --- she lies on her back showing her whole snowy white stomach with her feet up in the air --- open and vulnerable.  Her paws have the palest of pink pads. 

Mostly, Katie loves her windows looking down over different parts of Brooklyn.  She patrols the street in front and gets upset with the sweepers and scampers off.  In the very early morning, she is always at a side window looking east towards Prospect Park.  She looks out over yards full of plants and flowers while birds chirp up a storm. She is silent and meditative early morning and hardly notices me when I walk by. 

She seems totally in touch with the new day, with nature, the sunrise and the glorious quiet and as she turns towards me, she hands it over to me --- THE SACRED GIFT OF ANOTHER MORNING.

MPKane as read at Bodega Wine Bar, Sunday, April 01, 2012 to a brilliant and responsive audience.

 

MPKane as read at Bodega Wine Bar, Sunday, April 01, 2012 to a brilliant and responsive audience.

FRIDAY NIGHT AFTER THE SHOW

It was the way I always wanted New York to be, the way I always envisioned my life here.

Walking down a street after a performance, catching up with a group of dancers and their friends ambling along and being warmly greeted by them and told how much they liked my work.

We continue walking side by side, a group of artists who have just performed different pieces in a group show.

Coming up on the other side of the dance group now are two women dancers from a more experimental group, carrying a huge plastic bag full of props.  The first dance group hoots and hollers and howls like a dog showing the women that they remember their set.  Everyone laughs.  People walking by look at us with interest, the way I always do when I see groups of people laughing and talking together and it looks like so much fun.  At those times I wonder what their bond is, their history, and, sometimes, envy it.

This night was the way I had always wanted New York to be but it hadn’t happened often --- walking along after a show, greeting each other, encouraging and congratulating each other, then deciding in smaller groups where to go --- down the subway steps and home or out to eat.   The two women from the dance group ask me to join them for margaritas but I say “no.”  I’ve worked all week at a day job, performed tonight and we have another gig tomorrow up in Harlem.  Later I’m real sorry that I didn’t go with them.  Those opportunities don’t come along all the time.

Still, it’s a warm late September evening on the lower east side of Manhattan, way down.  The air is soft and lilting and I’m relaxed after my earlier horrid pre-show nerves. 

 

It was one of those nights when New York was the way I always thought it could be, New York at its best --- people creating, the audience responding, a group of artists showing the many different versions of our art --- sharing our work, our walk, our city and the soft sweet night.

by Mary Pat Kane

re-written, March, 2012

Farmer’s Market, Friday afternoon, February 17, 2012

I fell in love with all the tulips, great colors, but chose only two.  Aren’t they exquisite?  And, when I look at them, I see the lovely face of the woman who sold them to me, helped me pick them out --- she as gentle and kindly as the tulips themselves.  There is often so much more to a picture.

MPKane, Monday, February 20, 1012

DOWN BY THE WATER --- the price you pay for loving

I did this photo one spring day, obviously in 2000 or 2001, as the Towers are yet there.  I love to go down to the water in DUMBO at all times of the year but in spring and summer it’s astounding. 

On January 21, 2006, I went down to the water to do a service for the second anniversary of my cat Star’s dying.  It was actually a surprisingly warm Saturday for that time of year.

I sought out a bench off to the side, alone --- in case I cried.  It would be sunset soon.  Star had died at 4:40 in the afternoon.  I remember the rosy-orange light bouncing off a window over on Court Street as we sat on the floor of our apartment.  Now, here by the water, I would honor the anniversary of her death.  I wasn’t sure how but I would be quiet and remember her.

But, just at that time, a loud joyous wedding party arrived with two photographers jumping around and snapping away.  The best man carried a bottle of champagne and everyone was laughing.  The bride was exquisitely beautiful --- petite with tiny fluttery hands; soft white lace circled the tops of them.  She had dark dark black hair and green eyes and perfect skin that actually glowed.  She was a more beautiful version of the young Elizabeth Taylor.  So, when a raucous laugh came out of her, it made me smile.  I thought it a nice combination of traits.  The wedding party spoke quickly in Russian; they were buoyant and garrulous.

I apologized silently to my cat Star for the interruption of her memorial service though I knew she would have liked the scene, she who so enjoyed humans and, well, all cats love movement and action.  She would have been all eyes.  I told her I was sorry for getting diverted by watching the wedding party.  But, right then, several families came streaming by where I sat, families with the cutest children and wonderful dogs.  A giant schnauzer let loose by a five year old thrust his head helplessly into my lap as I sat on the bench trying to conduct a memorial service!  I laughed out loud looking into his begging brown eyes. 

There was a lot going on.  I worried for the children by the water when the parents were engaged in conversation, so I watched over them.  Dogs kept getting tangled up with various kids.  It was like a wonderful little noisy circus there in late January by the water.

“Oh, Star, I’m so sorry.  We’ll have your ceremony tonight, at home, just us, I promise.”

The winds started to whip up, the temperature quickly descended.  I now started worrying about the wedding party catching cold as I got up to leave the water to walk back up through the streets of DUMBO and catch a bus home.

In the growing darkness, a man was walking two large dogs on the cobble-stoned streets. One dog, a chow was dragging far behind the other, slowly padding on wide furry feet.  She was a dark auburn color, deeper than the usual orange I see in these dogs, the color of my Aunt Gena’s hair.  The chow looked up at me with deep-set knowing eyes and I had the feeling of being in the presence of a wise being.

I asked the man walking the dogs if I could pet the chow and he said “Sure.”  I asked if she were old and he murmured, “”they both are.”  The dog’s fur felt like a great thick rug and was incredibly soft.

The DUMBO area has a lot of private places, little alleyways and crevices where you can be alone.  I hope that does not get ruined with the planned building changes, the “progress.” 

I knew that large dogs didn’t live as long as small dogs, so that the man walking the dogs would probably lose his two in the not far off future.

I had lost my cats, Star and Iris, within two years. 

I slipped into a quiet alleyway and sobbed for the man who would lose his dogs, for the loss of my two beautiful cats and for the price you pay for the privilege of loving.

MPKane, revised January 24, 2012

IF I WERE AN ICE DANCER ---- remembering the good

If I were an ice dancer, I would not remember the falls, nor recall the time I only did the double salchow instead of the triple --- no I would not remember those things

I would only remember how beautiful I looked in my skirts that flipped up and down around my perfectly carved legs or the beautiful color of the costume --- perhaps there would be sparkles on it

I would remember all the cheers of fans, their good wishes, the flowers thrown on the ice, the exhilarating pounding them- music of my piece

I would recall all the speed I had, the many twirls and how my partner held me up above his head and when I came back down we moved in perfect unison --- as if I had never left his side

Oh, if I were an ice dancer, even in a large competition, I’d remember the thrill and beauty of it, how my movements made people gasp in awe; I would remember the smoothness of the ice under me and the glorious swishing sound my skates made

For when it would be over, it could be like the other parts of my life --- and, the age-old question:

Why don't people remember the things I did well, why don't they talk to me about all the motions that clicked into place after years of practice?

Why can't they recall the fine joyous moments --- my skirts flying, my smile? --- how I made so many people happy, how I did almost all the exercises to perfection?

Why do they choose to talk about that one time I fell or the other competition when I did not land perfectly?

WHY DON'T PEOPLE REMEMBER THE GOOD?

STRINGS

I never liked New Year’s much or understood the desire for craziness at midnight but after coming to live in Philadelphia, I slowly got involved in the traditions of the Mummers and their amazing New Year’s parade.

I began watching way down on Broad Street when I lived deep in South Philly and graduated to Broad and Christian with my neighbors and their children when I moved to ‘northern South Philly’.  I swore I would never watch a parade uptown.

But, in time, I began going to the popular bars around 13^th and Pine Streets and I knew and enjoyed lot of people so one year I slowly gave in and watched from the corner of Broad and Pine.  It was tremendous fun.  Our friend Billy would yearly climb the light pole and just as annually be hauled away by the police.

I had a very old blue duffle coat that looked like a blanket that I saved just for that day.  I carried a large plumber’s bag that Rose Fantasia had sewn my initials into.  It was filled with extra socks, scarves and mittens to use and share with anybody who needed them.

My goal every year was to escape the street barriers and the police and dance in the middle of the street with a String Band Captain.  I was usually successful in this endeavor.

We ‘liberated’ men’s rooms at the local pizza parlor.  The men’s room lines were always so short compared to the women’s room ones.  My sweetest, shyest friend Mary Ann helped me the first year. I was terrified, especially when I heard Mary Ann outside the men’s room door that I was behind, staving off, sweetly, a man wanting to come in. 

After I moved to New York, I heard that the parade had fallen on hard times for a few years.  The last time I saw it, it was a straggly little group, marching along Market Street, not Broad, and it made me sad.

I hadn’t thought much about the Mummers in a long while but on the way down to Philadelphia for New Year’s Eve with friends, they came to mind.  The Parade was revived and back on Broad Street again.  I wondered if any of my friends from ‘before’ would still come out?  Would anyone I knew come by Dirty Frank’s Bar or would I just feel sorry that I had ventured to the area again?  I was scared; sometimes these ‘going-back’ things really don’t work.

I walked slowly past 13^th and Pine seeing only lots of young mummer clowns with bright green faces hanging out the door of the old bar.  How many times I’d had paint on my face from mummer kisses!

I carried on slowly towards Broad Street.  The pizza shop with the bathrooms was right across the street.  I wondered if our tradition had been carried on?  In front of me walked a tall man with a gray ponytail under a wonderful hat set at a rakish angle.  Joe?  --- Could it be Joe?  Yes.  The artist, Joe Tiberino welcomed me royally, as did the people with him including Gail and his beautiful daughter, Ellen.  And, the parade itself was delightful.  The audience, new and old, was as thrilled as I had always been.  Joe encouraged me to go back and enter the bar and push past the clowns.  He said I might see some old friends.  Sweet familiar faces welcomed me, some looking very much the same.  It was like a painting, a beautiful painting with different people popping in.

I didn’t stay long, just long enough to hug and remember; to collect some addresses and say that today I didn’t want to hear the long litany of who had died.  Over the years I had heard but not today.

Today was a New Year and a day for memories, a time to make plans for moving forward and a day for honoring a past time of great fun.  My whole few days back in Philadelphia had felt soft.  I walked the streets of my old neighborhood and sat on the stoop of my former building; I had good conversations.  It was a time of wisps, soft clouds, touches; vows to be in touch more, a time of gratefulness for the past and hope for the future.

Happy New Year everybody.  Mary Pat Kane