Two Half-Lives in Philadelphia: 08/01/12

Introduction

While I was born in 1951, sometimes I feel like I was born in 1914. My father told me so many stories about growing up in Philadelphia, and occasionally even about his family, that I feel some sense of at least one person's life in those years before I was born. While my mother, of course, wanted a child, I'm not sure that my father did. I think there was a part of it all that scared him, so they waited quite a while to have me. I hope I was "a relief" to my father, and I think I worked hard to be a good son. Looking back, especially at those few older pictures I have of my father, I think the very best part of his life was the first half - back when things were simple, he had good friends, and the burdens of adulthood were not yet upon him. Looking back, I feel like the best part of my life was the first half, largely due to my parents. It was a time when life was simple, controllable, and when I was actually organized! I'm sure my father found many good things in his entire life, as do I, but I believe we had this in common - that there is nothing better than growing up in Philadelphia. So, do not find the title of my new blog in any way depressing, my friends, its just a perspective that I've found interesting to investigate.

I'll start by writing about my family. I realize we are nothing special, but as we've learned from millions of pages of memoirs written and published, there can be much to be learned from those who came before us.

As I get past some family stories, this blog may be of interest to anyone who grew up in the Delaware Valley/Philadelphia/Delaware County in the 1950's and 60's, or to anyone married/partnered to one (if you are, there is much you need to understand before the two of you can communicate!).

Please check out my book, Saturday Night at Sarah Joy's. All proceeds go to the Hurricane Sandy NJ Relief Fund. Information is available at: saturdaynightatsarahjoys.blogspot.com.

Thank you!

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Stuffing Cigarette Machines

In the Summer of 1971, I was a college student desperate for a summer job, and accepted a full time position with the Automatic Coin Vending Machine Company in Chester, PA, outside of Philadelphia. The position paid $2.10 and hour. My main job was to fill cigarette machines. The company also serviced a few cigar machines for very special clients. This was a time when smoking was much more common and "acceptable", and one could buy a pack for 40 cents, making them dispensable by a vending machine. Every day I would go out and fill machines, putting many cartons worth of packs into a single unit. I was never happy when I attracted attention. I maintained machines at a few senior citizens facilities (where, for some reason, a pack costs 50 cents). It always felt like I was in a horror movie when I filled these. I could hear the rattle and clanks and creaks of their crutches and walkers as they slowly approached me. Perhaps they were just curious to see a new person, or maybe they just wanted to watch. I didn't want to find out, so I'd work fast. Once they circled the wagons around me, who knows what would come next. I felt guilty knowing they were being charged more; I only hope they didn't understand.

As the new kid, I also was given the task of servicing a few cigarette machines in bars in some of the poorest areas of Chester. I'd make a point of getting to them between 8 and 9 AM. It was scary because I had to empty the cash out of the metal can that collected the coins as well as create a dozen stacks of cigarette packs a few feet high, inside the machine. I would come in the front door with a hand cart, carrying cartons of a variety of cigarettes. I'd use a special key to pop the front off, and quickly pour the cash noisily out of the can into a canvas bag. I could normally do this before they reached me. Yes, even at 8:30 in the morning, the bars were occupied, and most of the customers came to see me. As I would fill the machine, as fast as I could, hands would reach in, usually taking out two or four packs. I would gently be robbed. The first time, I protested, trying to convince them that I would have to pay for what they stole. They patted me on the back, assured me it would be ok, and returned to their bar stools. On later visits I understood that they weren't there to rob or hurt me, they were just poor and wanted some cigarettes. I was later told it was the cost of doing business there.

I don't know what cigarettes sell for now, but I'm sure that, if there were still vending machines around for them, you'd make your purchase using a credit card. The disappearance of cigarette machines probably was more due to the need to stop selling to minors then the problems of handling money, although the price has gone up faster than that of gasoline over these years.

Cigarette machines had small panels displaying which brand you were selecting. Some are displayed here - my own collection from 1971. New cigarettes were coming out like Virginia Slims (for women!), leaving unfiltered Camels for the rasty old men. I have a feeling New Leaf cigarettes were supposed to attract a younger crowd that was slow to exhale. How many of these brands you remember?

Occasionally there were bigger jobs like installing, collecting or replacing a machine, and I would go out in the truck with Charlie, who was perhaps 5 years older than I, and a bit of a city redneck. He had gotten to know a number of other "distributors", trucks that passed us every week. I don't know how he discovered this, but Charlie had a thing for hot Herr's potato chips. In the summer, the truck that distributed Herr's products to local stores got very hot in the Philadelphia sun, so whenever we passed the driver he knew, we'd have to pull over. He'd trade two packs of Marlboros for a hot bag of chips and dive into them before they could cool down to only 90 degrees. He was in heaven. It was a time when cigarettes had a different place in society than they do now, and I certainly had a unique view into the value of a pack.

© 2012 John Allison

note added Aug 19, 2012

I found an actual cigarette machine in a bar in Seaside Heights, NJ this weekend.
Today's price for a pack: $10

The Bell

If you visit the city of brotherly love today, you can get close to the Liberty Bell, housed in its own building, the Liberty Bell Center. You can also take a guided tour of the old Pennsylvania State House, now called Independence Hall. The experience is now a controlled one, with armed guards never far away. (Terrorists could take away our symbols of freedom at any time.)

My friends and I stood out in the pouring rain one night in 1976 and watched them move The Bell from Independence Hall to a glass pavilion. It was moved to its current home more than 20 years later.

But there was a time, in the 1960's when I was in high school, when we would often take a trolley from the 'burbs into town, to roam around. The tour always included a walk down to 5th Street to see Independence Hall and Congress Hall next door.

There were no guards. I remember going into the room where the Declaration of Independence was written and signed. I stood there, in the Assembly Room, looking at a set of tables, all with long green table cloths on them and a few chairs at each one! You could feel what that full room of people must have felt like - debating, arguing, caring. This is where the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were written! It wasn't just a story, it was a real place where people did a great and brave thing.

But the best part (well, second best, next to the gift shop) was walking in the front door and seeing the Liberty Bell. It was there. We touched it. We sat on the wooden base below it. We would knock on it with a bared knuckle. It was our symbol of liberty. We'd practically climb on it taking pictures of each other with it. We respected it, and wanted to know it. It was always there for us to touch - just part of a larger story, but one that was very real. We could not have appreciated the incredible freedom we had during those days when we ran through the halls of Independence Hall. (I only wished we'd been brave enough to go past the velvet rope, and up the stairs, to explore the second floor!)