Coming From The Bottom
--Viney Loretta Moore
Ostensibly, The Bottom was so called because it was wedged in the lower portion of West Philadelphia. The ascription, The Bottom could also have meant that most of the residents lived at the low end of society. Throughout The Bottom most streets were little and narrow embanked by rows of small, lowly houses. And to a lesser degree, there were larger thoroughfares, avenues, apartment buildings and impressive, stalwart homes within the area.
Over the many years The Bottom had existed, Germans, Irish, Italians, Jews, Dutch, Polish and other ethnic groups inhabited the lowly working class community. During the time I grew up in The Bottom, the l940’s and 50’s, Negroes were a majority with a sprinkling of its earlier residents around.
Throughout my childhood, The Bottom was a principality with longing, invention, inspiration and discovery, a place flowing with precious, valuable humanity. (The location was a marvelous, dim structure for distance and time with visions that reproduced myths, legends and sparkling glimpses of the brilliant light of wonder). The Bottom was a place of astounding glory, a place spreading out its arms of warmth and texture to me, a place of encouragement and hope.
No sophistication or betterment of life could ever drain my memory of The Bottom, for it was fertile ground for my imagination…a bejeweled, poetic excursion that authorized the writer I am today.
The Bottom’s inhabitants were largely poor. And nearly everyone in the community worked for a living. People were employed in factories, plants, as domestics and in other service-type jobs: city workers, garages and filling stations, restaurants, hotels as well as in other skilled and unskilled jobs across the City of Philadelphia. And despite the misery and struggles faced by all back then, a caring cooperative spirit incorporated The Bottom.
Many who lived in The Bottom were among that enormous flow of Negroes who were abandoning their southern homeland for big northern cities. My parents and many of my relatives were a part of that huge migration during the 1940’s and 50’s abandoning the south. They were romantics, adventurers, dark pilgrims, young, clothed in innocence and immaturity, leaving behind the burden of poverty and racial segregation and injustice, for a life in the North they thought was better and promised shelter. Northern-bound, the southerners traveled on trains, Trailways and Greyhound buses and automobiles, traversing rails, highways and roads. They were wrapped in hope and an idealistic dream, with the strength of their projections dented by doubt, and their visions ushered by burgeoning loneliness. (Traveling in the summer months meant days of relentless, burdensome heat with images of solemn countryside and seas of prolific fields burning in the blazing sun, while the nights swelled with the sweet aromas of honeysuckle and magnolia, and the pure magic of soundless, smooth darkness along with the long tracts of landscape looming with mystery and intimidation. Autumn and winter travel presented cobalt, somber skies, cold rain and vast vigils of stark, lonesome woods. And, there were the sights of lifeless pasture, and fields stretched by stubble and isolation-the empty fields bore gracious manors, or tiny, tarpaper houses shackled to silent, leaden landscapes).
The flow of southern arrivals enriched the northern cities for they brought a tender message-the melodious song of the south: the announcement of ‘newcomers’ was affectionately spread rapidly throughout the community as a runner passes a baton. Sadly, they seemed unable to break the bond with their roots, the south that nurtured them (They used, 'Down Home', and other familiar phrases like a badge of honor to reflect how deeply they felt).
Separated as it was, The Bottom somehow appeared to be entrenched in the aftermath of the progressive activity of the city of Philadelphia. There seemed to be a muted, gray, solemn atmosphere formed by fallout from city smokestacks hovering over The Bottom which might have been responsible for incredible shadowy, cloudy images. Certain boundaries of The Bottom appeared to be under a mythological spell and capable of inducing spirits or unsettling visions. (The darkened heavens erupted into dim, shadowy images of horrific Homeric and other ancient Greek allegories. However, more often the placid image of Aesop, of fable fame, with quill in hand and tablet would glide across the sky on an opulent, white soothing cloud. The phenomenal, transcendental occurrences of The Bottom were not always aloft or of epic proportion or associated with legend and mythology. Transformations on the tiny streets sometimes were the canals of Venice or Holland. Once, in commemoration with Good Friday, all of a sudden thunderous, dark, ominous clouds dominated the continuous rows of lowly dwellings, masking everything in the small lane in which I lived. And a fresco of the Crucifixion appeared. Upon the day of Christ’s Resurrection, the dark clouds were lifted away, and brilliant sunshine poured into the little narrow street).
Summer rendered The Bottom helpless with an atmosphere broiling with heat and dizzying waves and the pungent odor of melting asphalt. I straddled the idle, uneventful plain surface in the tiny row house while all around me magic encased every trickle of life. I was eight years old. In that magical universe, lifted from my tepid environment, my thoughts bulged with the many interesting places and images mystery fashioned: pleasant, cheerful, glowing, comforting episodes and passages, and picturesque pictorials.
In a spiritual vein, my recollection is that The Bottom was overpowered by a large circle of churches hosting the area. These churches represented many denominations: Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, African Methodist Episcopal, Roman Catholic, Baptist, Pentecostal and others. While some of the structures were Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque and other impressive grandiloquent architectural styles, others were small or far less illustrious. (The storefront churches were common sights throughout the neighborhoods of The Bottom. These small churches always appeared dead and dark, appearing as though an asterisk had burned out inside of them. However, during worship service, they became highly charged, bursting with sound, activity and even light). Some of the churches were incredibly spiritual, ecclesiastic and mystifying.
The splendid Lutheran, Presbyterian, Episcopal churches in The Bottom had begun with groups who’d previously inhabited the community. Members, who in most instances were White no longer resided in the area, nonetheless, they came in and out of the neighborhood almost stealthily, quietly as mice to attend tranquilizing Sunday morning services-there were nightly or periodic meetings at some of these churches.
A holy cloak covered Tyree A.M.E., the church my family attended. (Though modest in size, the stone and granite façade of Tyree A.M.E church seemed to leak with spiritual and mystical properties transferred from an ageless, biblical source. The small auditorium was dark with mysterious shadows claiming its pews, and the stain-glass windows were an archaic splendor with panes that seemed to reflect heaven and the rainbow. A powerful mural of the Ascension of Jesus assumed a life of its own above the pulpit. And a passageway concealed behind the church’s marvelous, stalwart, aging pipe organ and the choir loft concealed a spiritual path to the Garden of Gethsemane in the backyard).
And, there were other churches of a deeply mystical nature in The Bottom. I once peeked inside a church in my neighborhood with an astounding ecclesiastical connection: The interior was a recreation of ancient Greece that included the altar of Apollo. In another instance, the dramatic effect was equally arcane: to my disbelief a pyre rested on a darkened ledge at a Gothic church.
In the largely Negro Bottom neighborhood a small Jewish grocery store was cast in darkened shadows of past. The elderly, married couple who owned the store made an area in the back their residence as well. He was a short, thin, frail, bent over man. Rounding his small head was a scant amount of white wispy hair. His skin was swarthy and leathery, and he had tiny, dark-brown eyes. He was by nature a suspicious, anxious and irritable little man. His small detective eyes would narrow at the youth coming through his door; it seemed that the major role of the proprietor of the grocery store was to nab some child as a thief. In almost every way, the proprietor’s wife was totally opposite her husband of many years. She was average in height and stout, with coarser features that included a large, banana-shaped nose. Her mostly gray hair was frizzy, and she had soft-blue, kind eyes and smiled at everyone who entered the store.
An aging, brick and wood frame structure, the old couple’s grocery store was cozy, innocuous and aromatic with appealing groceries of all stock and flavors. (Pungent aromas flanked the small space that was crammed with pickle barrels, shelves of canned goods and staples, meats, fish, cheese and sundry items such as toothpaste, hosiery and magazines and even toys.) Something immensely sobering and edifying separated this particular grocery store from all the others in the community, and it stemmed from the two people who presided over it.
This and something further made this grocery store in the poor, principally African American community sobering and edifying.
The couple had escaped to the United States from Germany fleeing the Nazi occupation and Jewish persecution just before Hitler’s take-over of Europe and World War II erupted. They feared that Germany and all of Europe would eventually be a womb of decimation for Jews. And so in 1939 when he was twenty-two and she was twenty, and newly married, they left their village and families in northeastern Germany behind, for the safe arms of America. (Hitler’s ominous threat darkened the forests and the countryside and overshadowed Heidelberg, which was not far away from where the couple lived and served as official Gestapo headquarters-ordinarily the location was breathtakingly beautiful with its many palatial homes stacked against the banks of the voluptuous Rhine River).
The Jewish grocery reflected a marvelous Old World European flavor and the dark shadows of the Holocaust transferred from the village they’d left behind in Germany twelve years before.
The fascinating plumbing fixture store was situated on the corner at the top of the street where my family lived. It and a dull rummage sale business beside it faced a broad thoroughfare amid a gleaming brand new supermarket and some other newer businesses in the neighborhood. At a glance the plumbing fixture store had little or no meaning. Nevertheless, I was fascinated as I stared through the dust-laden window at bolts, washers, plungers, nails, screws and other sundry objects.
Snow had fallen overnight installing a blanket of white over The Bottom. I must have been around nine years old. The four of us, my two sisters and brother and I slumbered to the white-clad, soundless spirit whispering throughout the small row house where we lived.
“Wake up, children. It snowed last night, but we’re goin’ to Sunday School and church anyway.” My mother’s southern-tinged, lilting voice awoke me from a soft dream. The aroma of a southern breakfast funneled the quiet, homey atmosphere. “Your father can’t move the car, so we will have ta walk to church.”
In my excitement about the snow, I jumped down from the top bunk where I slept, and in break-neck speed was at the window marveling the snowfall. My brother, Roddy, and two sisters, Joan and Margaret also broke from their beds and quickly took places at the window. Below, what appeared to be a foot of snow, untouched and smooth as meringue, lathered our narrow street.
Following a breakfast of biscuits, cheese and eggs, bacon, grits, the family dressed and began walking the six blocks to church. The mammoth snowfall had closed all of the businesses and stores. A magical spell was cast over the still surroundings covered in blue-tinged snow. Some tracks had just been cleared and a trolley was chugging down Lancaster Avenue as my family trudged toward church.
My family and I were among the throngs of people returning home from the Fourth of July celebration held in Fairmount Park. The City Park where we’d spent the day picnicking with relatives, friends and crowds of people was not far, maybe a four-block walk from Mt. Vernon Street. The Fourth of July was the fulfillment of the summer weeks and days I had spent anticipating it. The day began early with the delicious aroma of fried chicken and the sound of my mother downstairs in the kitchen, preparing an enormous picnic lunch our family would carry to the park. At that very moment, all of my expectations for Independence Day were released.
A blazing, hot day framed thousands of excited celebrants for the Fourth of July celebration taking place on the Fairmount Park grounds. There’d been lots of fun and games and great-tasting foods, and much romping about on the luscious green grounds for which Fairmount Park is exemplary. Even the Fourth of July program that had been echoing throughout the day from a platform across the ocean of enthusiastic picnickers had been entertaining and interesting. On Independence Day the lush, pantheon grounds of Fairmount Park served the public at large in a patriotic sense and in a social context as well. (During all of the levity and celebration, a hallowed, patriotic spirit presided over the surroundings: a permanence and intransigence parlayed and transposed the serene park grounds that a hollow strain inhabited. There were emanations from the American Revolution and from other wars fought in the preservation of our country’s freedoms. George Washington’s Troops at Valley Forge-Revolutionary War; the War of l812; Gettysburg; Manaasas; Appomattox; the Civil War; the Mexican/American War; the Great War; World War I; Normandy; D-Day-World War II).
The affect of wars on our community was extensive. My family knew personally men who while fighting in World War II were injured or lost their lives. One very sad case involved a young man, who returned from the war with Japan, hopelessly shell-shocked. Another situation concerned a very notable action on the part of an employer at the factory where my mother worked. It seems that he was one of the three soldiers to place the American flag on the hilltop at Normandy, a brave act indeed. Nevertheless, he contracted a physical condition fighting in the jungles that left him with an incurable odor. A very young mother we knew was left with a toddler to rear alone when her young husband was blown to pieces by German forces. And, of course there were others, some even relatives who courageously contributed to the war efforts of our nation. I was among my family and others in the park’s natural setting. The lush, green floor was fertile ground, reconnecting the past and me. (As I listened, images and transformations of my ancestors hovered over the intimate conversations of my relatives, recreating the source of my background. The experience was comforting, encouraging, and inspiring, even elevating). A long day of excitement ended with the beauty and splendor of fireworks shattering the violet night sky.
Now, the plenteous, fulfilling experience was over and families and others were returning to where they dwelled in The Bottom. I was lost to longing and regret as I stood on the corner at the top of Mt Vernon Street. (A concentration of darkness and gloom saturated the lifeless rummage and plumbing fixture businesses and other businesses at that location. The darkened sky floated with stars and cloudy formations-some of it vestiges of exploded fireworks. A volume of sadness and disappointment saturated the darkness magnifying the solemn retraction that normally clung over The Bottom, the concentration overflowing into Mt. Vernon Street.) With a deep sense of regret and reluctance, I climbed down into the canyon of Mt. Vernon Street. Independence Day was over, my spirit and I would have to wait for next year’s spectacular explosion.
Back then The Bottom was a working class community known for its network of little, narrow streets and low-level, two-story, brick residences-the dwellings had served many groups over time, and were showing signs of erosion and age. Separated as it was from the rest of Philadelphia, in its isolation The Bottom appeared to be disenfranchised, a valley asleep in the aftermath of the city. (The atmosphere deposited over the region was a deprecating, gray composition, a dim solemn retraction that contained the pathetic streams belching from insatiable industrial and manufacturing sectors that flanked the poor, human work force of The Bottom).
In the lowly valley of The Bottom my mother chose an early spring morning to refurbish the lace curtain at the windows of our little house on the small street where I lived as a child with my family. I shall attempt to recall that succulent childhood experience for you.
A blue sky and sunlight ranged over The Bottom, but at that early time in the morning the air was touched by a cool wind. The atmosphere was remarkably placid as my mother and a neighbor washed the white lace curtains my mother had taken down from our windows throughout our house. They used the upstairs bathtub to wash the curtains by hand. Following that my mother and her chatty friend took the curtains outside to a large aluminum tub to be dipped in starch they’d boiled (a box of ‘Niagra’ mixed together with water in the container). Once that was done, they wrung the lace curtains and stretched them on a wooden frame. This, the two women did competently, delicately pulling from both sides of the fragile stand, stretching the curtain and attaching it to the frame pins, where it was left to dry. (I must mention here that throughout the lengthy, laborious job that cheery conversation propped up the two good friends).
That simple operation performed by two ordinary, everyday people was a deed embedded with many good qualities. The task was a wonderful example the spirit of cooperation, the goodness of life, strength of character, a sense of well being and many other qualities. That day as I watched my mother and neighbor wash and stretch curtains I witnessed another act of social value weave the broad human fabric that stretched across The Bottom.
As bakeries go, Vienna’s Bakery at a location along Haverford Avenue in The Bottom sparked my interest like no other when I was a small child.
Vienna’s Bakery was associated with a string of other small businesses located on a major thoroughfare in The Bottom. On the whole, some of the other bakeries in the community were more popular: one such bakery was a very large facility. However, this particular bakery held special attraction. As far as I was concerned, the cream puffs, eclairs and other rich baked goods it produced were unmatchable bakery delights. My interest in this particular bakery was not just physical, for there was another reason why I was so compelled. The ‘Vienna’ bakery was in possession of something astrophysical or metaphysical or both.
When darkness fell, the bakery whose kudos was its Austrian style of baking underwent an amazing transformation. It became an illustrious, magnificent structure along the avenue. An unexplainable incandescence, illumination caused the shadowy bakery to be pronounced, and glisten among the strand of sleeping businesses. The bakery appeared to be drawing unto itself enticing elements with a universal or astronomical connection and became a colossal jewel, gem; a blue-streaking asteroid, a trail transferred from the moon or eternity.
At night a deep dark galaxy over the Bottom transformed the backyards of my family’s small house and rows of other lowly houses, allowing hope and inspiration into the dejected surroundings. Beneath, a moon-faced orb, a sheath of white burst with waves of illumination in the darkened parceled yards-a blast of electrifying light stretching upon the frailty manufactured by the paneled backyards in the darkness on Mt. Vernon Street in The Bottom below my upstairs bedroom window.