On a two-car-wide rowhouse block in South Philadelphia so small it doesn't even appear on a good street map -- 2000 S. Philip Street between McKean St. and Snyder Ave., right where Two Street magically transforms into Three Street -- I saw a grown man cry Saturday morning. His name is Johnny and he's got cancer. But that's not why he was wiping away tears from his red, white and blue greasepaint-stained cheeks as he stood with his family on the top steps of their house in the middle of the block. My guess is the tears came with the hugs. But then it could have been the trombones. Or maybe the tubas. Or maybe it was the hundreds of guys in dresses and umbrellas dancing in front of his house.
These are the moments most people never see during the Mummers Parade, not on TV, not in real life, unless they live on Johnny's block, or unless they are mummers. It's called a seranade and it's something that mummers do to pay tribute to one of their own. And on this too-warm-to-be-true 70-degree January morning under a slanting winter sun that made your eyes squint, the scene reminded me of a of a song I used to hear as a kid: "When you see blue skies and stars above and smiles on every street, no need to check the roadmap, Philadelphia's at your feet." The fact that maybe 90 percent of the several hundred strutting mummers had no idea who Johnny was or why they were dancing in front of his house, didn't interfere with this Frank Capra Philadelphia moment. It was, as they say, what it was. And it was beeyoudeeful.
I have been marching, on and off, with the James "Froggy" Carr New Years Bridgade, the comic club that brought wench-power back to Second Street, for more than 20 years. And during those two decades I have learned that on parade day there is no one in charge, least ways, not that you can tell. Unlike the stiff structure of the string bands and fancy brigades, organized wench brigades are as unorganized as they appear to be on the street. We arrive by the dozens in the morning outside the Frogs clubhouse at 2nd and Wilder Sts. and begin marching down Two Street gathering wenches along the way like a snowball rolling downhill. By the time we hit City Hall, this year, there were an estimated 800 of us, some arriving like Rosie Ruiz at the New York Marathon finish line, via subway or, god help us, limosine.
The meandering miles-long serenade strut through South Philly begins after an unseen someone gives the order and the band strikes up the Frogs' unofficial marching song -- a Baby Boomer anthem befitting a club founded 36-years ago by buddies now in their mid-to-late 50s -- the Mickey Mouse Club theme song. "Who's the leader of the band that's made for you and me? . . ." With the Frogs you can never tell. I think it has something to do with what the founding club members learned the value of during the Nixon Administration -- "plausible deniability". Who wants to claim to "lead" 800 wenches? Maybe that's why the official club chant is "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat Froggy Carr?"
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