Extreme Quirkiness of a Philadelphia-Adjacent Upbringing

Even though I spent my childhood in South Jersey, I come from a long line of Philadelphians, as long as Russian Immigrant heredity can be. As great as this metropolitan city with a ton of history is, the city is known for its quirkiness. The city has a cracked bell as one of its biggest tourist sites.

Oh, Those Golden Slippers…

My mother grew up in South Philadelphia, and although she possessed no love of cheesesteaks, she did love the Mummers. We spent all of New Years’ Day watching drunk men dressed in feathers strutting around the Philadelphia streets to music that still gives me an automatic migraine.

Once I left home, they didn’t go away. Since my parents spent the winter in Florida, the only holiday present my mother wanted was to see the complete parade. With no Amazon, DVR, or streaming service, just a limited space VHS tape, I changed the tape every two hours to ensure she didn’t miss one moment of the string bands. I am not disparaging the effort, skill, and practice and the tremendous following that the Mummers have, but I still feel nausea starting to churn when I hear those strings strutting.

The final insult would occur years later when I lived in Center City, Philadelphia. Often the performers would wander away from the parade route, and an errant Mummer or two would end up outside my bedroom window. It is not the most pleasant way to wake up hungover on New Year’s Day to the symphony of indescribable feathered rowdiness.

Go Birds

When I was a kid, my father had season tickets for the Philadelphia Eagles. On rare occasions, if an uncle deemed it too cold, my father would take me. I didn’t feel the magic of freezing to death trying to drink hot chocolate out of a cumbersome thermos and watch the Eagles lose. Being surrounded by spilled beer and drunk, smoking men was an acquired taste that I wouldn’t appreciate until my first year in college, the same year the Eagles went to the Super Bowl and lost. They were consistently bad throughout my childhood, but because Philly fans love to boo, tickets were always hard to get.

Sunday was football day in my house. I can’t remember ever watching a game, but I was always grateful that when the tv went on, there was no chance my parents would take me on one of their Sunday drives. Nothing is worse than taking an only child on a drive through the country in the days before any time-killing distracting device.

In my first apartment, the TV was automatically turned on to football on Sunday while I pretended to clean or wash. At first, it was to combat homesickness, but it eventually became a habit. Ultimately I became a fan.

Working in the testosterone-heavy, sports-is-everything world of Bond Traders, having seats to any game earns a ton of street cred. My boss procured season tickets to the Eagles and planned to take clients. Lucky for me, the Veterans Stadium officials came up with the idea of selling tickets in a no-cursing, no-drinking section. My co-worker realized these seats were not going to work for him and his foul-mouth drunks of clients, so he passed them on to me. The joke was on him because, all around me, beer was flowing, and f-bombs were flying.
My husband only asked me out on a date because I had season tickets. We will never divorce because the tickets are still in my name.

Another highlight of an extremely quirky Philadelphia-adjacent upbringing is the soft pretzel. A world where it’s perfectly normal for people to stop their cars on busy roads to buy soft pretzels amidst gas fumes and homeless people. Where a visit to grandparents would not be complete without a pretzel purchase at a red light, usually right over a bridge into Philadelphia. My family would eat them as if they were a delicacy. Ironically called soft pretzels; they are hard as rocks and stale.

Gonna Fly Now

The other most boring thing to do on a Sunday, following an antiquing road trip or a Sunday drive, was visiting a museum. One Sunday’s outing had an unexpected turn. Arriving at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, countless children were on the famous steps. We arrived while they were filming Rocky 2. Alas, this wouldn’t be a cliched Philadelphia commentary without involving the City of Brotherly Love’s not-so-founding father, Sylvester Stallone. One of my celebrity claims to fame is that Sly personally yelled at me when I tried to run up the steps with a bunch of 10-year-olds. I was 16 and not short for my age, but I’m good at slouching, so I gave it a go. No such luck as out of the megaphone, I hear, “You in the green vest, get out!”

My one other Philadelphia brush with greatness was meeting Dr. J on his birthday. I often wonder if I am the only one who looks back on almost every memory from my single life and thinks, “I did what now? My birthday evening started with friends having a civilized drink at a swanky Rittenhouse Square outdoor cafe. It ended with a loud game of dice shaped like fornicating pigs while Dr. J watched cheered. I did get a picture.

The Philadelphia Phillies are getting ready to play in the World Series. Even a traditional all-American ritual doesn’t escape the quirkiness of Philadelphia. Only here does the city get ready for a joyous celebration by greasing the lamp posts to prevent injuries. True to form, not even Crisco appears to stop the revealers from climbing.

As much as I would like to cast aspersions on the ridiculousness, I can’t judge. If snow was in my section at one of those crazy Eagle games, I might have chucked a snowball or two at Santa.

I once spent a year in Philadelphia; I think it was on a Sunday.

W.C. Fields