Shine a light through the eyes of the ones left behind

Before heading to World TeamTennis in Wilmington, Delaware last Tuesday night, I decided to take my free day and spend it in the city of Philadelphia, where my mother is from and where I had spent so much of my youth. I have only been back there once since my grandparents died in 1989. Many of my memories had solidified, while others had become embellished through the years in my mind. In all, I was not sure what to expect.

From Albany, I drove through northern New Jersey and approached south Philadelphia from I-95. The skyline is different and taller, certainly; but much of the vague details, the set dressing of the city looked remarkably the same. And the first thing I tried to find was a bathroom, since the only place most Philadelphians can use the facilities is at home. My search was unsuccessful, so I parked at 12th and Washington for the first stop of the day - cheesesteak.

I can remember the biggest local debate among Philadelphians related to cheesesteak - specifically, Geno's or Pat's. Both are located roughly at the intersection of 9th Street and Passyunk Avenue, alongside the Capitolo Park. Years ago, the basic difference between the two restaurants was that one used real cheese on the steaks and one used Cheese Whiz. (I haven't been able to sort out which was which.) As a result of this and other subtle differences, my mother is for Pat's, and her elder sister, Aunt Lucille, is for Geno's.

I checked with both of them before I made my decision.



Aunt Lucille swayed me - she was the older sister, and lived in Philadelphia for more than fifty years.

Geno's and Pat's are both the kinds of restaurant with lots of locals as well as tourists. It helps to watch the habits of the locals so that you know how to order. While I was reading the menu board and listening to some construction workers order, I saw it:



For a rare moment in my life, I was stymied. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. But before I knew it, my turn was up, so I ordered and paid (cash only), went to the next window and ordered fries and a soda (cash only), and found a seat. How did I not know about this sign, this place?

I hadn't even had time to figure all this out before the next surprise. The Geno's cheesesteak - soft bread, steak, dice onions, provolone cheese - tasted like nothing. It did not taste bad. It just had no flavor at all. And I don't think this was one of those memories from my childhood that I had embellished. I remember the cheesesteaks being good, and I have lamented the lack of quality cheesesteaks in other parts of the country. (Excluding, of course, Texadelphia.) But this was a bad cheesesteak. Do you hear me, Joe Vento? A bad cheesesteak.

[Later, when I got back to the hotel, I looked up some information on the sign and the owner. Fox News set up Joe Vento and gave him a forum to "vent" about Barack Obama's comments on languages, and he didn't fail to demonstrate his ignorance.



If you had the stomach to watch the whole thing, you might agree with me that Joe Vento could stand to learn English, as well.

Any politically astute viewer who saw all of Obama's comments in context would know that Obama is not advocating for all American children to learn Spanish. But someone like Joe Vento who is ignorant - either by upbringing or by choice - wouldn't know the difference.

Vento: This guy [Obama], with this — he scares me. I'm telling all the people out there, please, please, vote these people out of office. And if they can't tell you that English will be the official language before the election, vote them all out, and do not be afraid of who you're going to get. It is not going to be worse than what we already have. We have got to speak. [Emphasis added]

Do not be afraid of who you are going to get? It can't get worse that Bush, right? Right?

Bonus: This photo was on the fence of the Little League field at Capitolo Park near Geno's and Pat's.]



After Geno's, I drove down to mom's old neighborhood - 12th and Daly Street, near Jackson Street. I parked by my grandparents' church, on whose fronts steps I vomited as a kid. (Ah, memories.) Grandmom and Grandpop's house is now peach, but the railing and the front stoop were the same. The butcher across the street is now a salon, but the Mauro grocery store is still there, so I went inside.

I don't know what I was expecting to find inside the grocery; maybe I just wanted to see if it still felt so small and familiar. And in most ways, it did. Carol was behind the front counter, and Joe was behind the back. But before I could say anything or notice much more, I saw the ATM machine, and it had money in the dispenser. No one else was in the store. And just then, Carol came around the counter and asked if she could help me. I told her that I had come in for another reason (to buy some Tastykakes), but that I noticed the cash. So she called to Joe to get her an envelope and to see if he could remember who had been in the store last. And then she wheeled around on me and said, "You're Dana's son, aren't you?" (Dana is my mom.) I was stunned and said, "How did you know that?" Carol had recognized me from an old picture Mom had sent to her.

I walked a block up the street to the bakery where we used to get rolls and Sunday pizza. But the bakery is closed on Mondays, so no bread and disappointing cheesesteak were all I ate in the city.

Before heading to my hotel in suburban Philadelphia, I had one more stop - to visit my grandparents cemetery on Baltimore Pike in Yeadon. Uncle Frank sent directions to me, but somehow I sensed how to get there, too. I hadn't been back to visit them since their funeral in December 1989. I drove right to the cemetery and found them from memory, without any trouble at all.



I sat with them for awhile, and then gave them a kiss and a pat for me and for Mom before heading to Glen Mills.