Why We Love Philly Dads

Nothing about fatherhood is or ever has been easy — and so the better, more complicated answer incorporates all the things our fathers have given us, their children. Things like: Bear hugs. Money. Daddy issues, and other neuroses. Lectures. Our work ethic. Our first car. Butt-whuppings. A healthy fear of credit-card debt. And, of course, stories. Our dads, all of them — the ones who coached us; the ones who cheered us; the ones who sat, stoic, on the sidelines, smoking; the ones who left — gave us stories. Below, we tell a few of them, tracking, across eras and across this city, this not-easy, complicated, essential job. Fatherhood.


My Dad, Vacation King

By Ashley Primis

Ash-Dad2-940x540.-400x400 Most of the year there was Regular Dad. Regular Dad was kind of like Don Draper (minus the three-martini lunches and workday naps). He was a hardworking, good-looking, big-city, big-job media guy, with monogrammed cuffs on custom dress shirts. He lunched at the Rainbow Room. His job was high-stress, and we didn’t see a lot of him: He left our bucolic New Jersey home each morning before the sun had fully cracked the horizon and came home late each evening — all to beat the rush-hour traffic. His long commute, which was filled with off-ramps and toll roads, bridges and tunnels, was something he did every day for nearly 30 years without complaint. Regular Dad was pretty great as far as I was concerned: Decades later, I still remember jumping off the couch each night when I saw the headlights of his car pan across our family-room window as he turned into the driveway. I would race the dog to see who could get to the garage door first. Read more >>


My Dad Sold Fords

By Lisa DePaulo

Dads-DePaulo-940x540-400x400 A memory: my junior year at Penn. I go home for Christmas. I bring the first story I wrote for the professor who, upon reading it, told me I would and should be a writer. (We can curse her later.) My mother is in the kitchen. My dad is in his favorite spot, The Recliner. Oh, this was such a nifty recliner! They got it at the fanciest furniture store in Scranton. It was from The Recliner that my dad did his favorite things: watch Johnny Carson; hold forth with all the relatives, friends, and friends of his kids who always seemed to be in the house; and fall asleep, snoring loudly, even if (especially if) the house was full of company. But on this night, it’s just the three of us. I hand a copy of my first “story” to each parent. My mother, Josephine, is mortified, horrified. I have made fun of our parish priest. She expresses her displeasure without uttering a word, by banging pots and pans. I look at my father, in The Recliner. He’s flipping through the pages and laughing. As robustly as he can without Josie hearing him. Then he looks at me. And grins. And puts a finger to his mouth, as if to say, “This is between us.” Then he utters the words that every daughter needs to hear from her father: “This is great.” Read more >>


My Dad and the Father Who Wasn’t

By Malcolm Burnley

F-Dads_01-940x540-MALCOLM-400x400 You brace yourself for a phone call; you don’t brace yourself for an email. But one day last year, this message from my father, with no subject line, was waiting in my inbox: “I got an e-mail last night informing me that Paul Burnley had died,” it began. “No details about when or how.” An email about an email about the death of my grandfather: Abstract and abrupt, it might as well have been a telegraph, all 135 words of it. I’d gone through the deaths of all my other grandparents, each one marked by a memory of my dad gently unspooling the facts, either in front of me or over the phone. His crackly voice on the other end of the line, trying to comfort me with a She died peacefully to soften the blow. But now, after the death of his father, he seemed unreachable. Read more >>


My Dad and the Talk

By Robert Huber

Dads-Huber-940x540-400x400 One summer night a long time ago, when I was 11, my father drove me down into Philly to see a baseball game. Dad had zero interest in baseball. I loved it. So it was up to me, riding shotgun down Roosevelt Boulevard from Morrisville, to conjure: the grass more perfect than any grass anywhere. The Reds! Skinny Frank Robinson, part of the first wave of great black players allowed into the majors, who stood almost on top of home plate, as if daring the pitcher to hit him. But my anticipation was wordless, as we gazed at the families chatting on their stoops along the Boulevard. My father, a virtually silent man, didn’t know Frank Robinson from Martin Luther King, and I knew he didn’t care to. Then suddenly Dad, until that moment simply chain-smoking his Salems, said, “I wonder if you’re having nocturnal emissions.” Huh? He looked normal — silent again — taking another drag from his cigarette. Read more >>


What My Dad Taught Me

Edited by Christine Speer Lejeune

F-Dads_06-400x400 Advice from famous Philly dads. Read more >>

What My Dad Taught Me

Photo provided by the subject

Photo provided by the subject

Jesse Rendell, 36, attorney, on Ed Rendell, former governor:
“Growing up, I would watch my father stop and listen to everyone. Homeless people, important people, half-crazy people—he would stop and try to help them all, sometimes even problematically. That’s him at his best. It’s always been about the value behind trying to do things for other people—not just because it comes back around, but because it means something to them. What rubbed off on me is how important it is to try to make everyone feel like they’re important.”

after the jump »

The Rowhome Is Us

Grad Hospital |Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Grad Hospital | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Back in 1954, my neighbor John paid $8,000 for a 1,200-square-foot rowhome, one of 30 identical homes on the block, all built in the 1930s by the same developer. Over the next six decades, he’d share walls with a progression of neighbors that included a trio of police detectives, a beefy Democratic state senator by the name of Lynch, and an avid bird-watcher named Don, who lived next to John for roughly 30 years.

When my husband and I bought Don’s house in 2014, John quickly became a sort of adviser to us, a rowhome Yoda who warned us about the tendency of our houses’ gutters to freeze and knew exactly what to do on that horrific day when our sewage pipe backed up. At 85, he could often be found outside, sweeping both sets of front steps. “It keeps my blood pumpin’,” he would say when we’d try to take over. We’d get home from work on trash day to find he had already brought our cans back up from the sidewalk.

This wonderful, neighborly setup is, as countless Philadelphians can attest, one of the many perks of living in a block of rowhouses: You are never alone in your adventures in homeowning, either figuratively or literally. John, who once carted a field organ around Korea to provide musical accompaniment during Sunday services for his fellow soldiers, now practiced at home on a couple of jury-rigged keyboards; within weeks of moving in, I’d grown accustomed to hearing the muffled strains of hymns through the wall. Sometimes, doing dishes or folding laundry, I’d hum along to the ones I knew.

West Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

West Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Manayunk | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Manayunk | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

South Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

South Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

OF COURSE, not everyone gets to share a wall with a neighbor like John. You do hear of the occasional rowhome misadventure (floods, fires, pestilence) or some nightmare involving the meshing of lives and properties. One friend of a friend, Patty, bought a house connected to a home whose owner had passed away without a will, resulting in a years-long legal kerfuffle over the empty house. Only the house wasn’t entirely empty: A family of raccoons would come and go freely through the attic, brazenly eating Patty’s porch tomatoes along the way, undaunted by her efforts to chase them with a hose.

My point here is this: Whether you love your neighbors, hate them or chase them around with a garden hose, when your houses are connected, so are your experiences, your lives — at least on some level. And Philadelphia has more people living in connected houses than any other big city in the country — some 60 percent of us. Even by big-city standards, that’s a lot of life-meshing. We have more rowhomes than they have in Baltimore, D.C. or Boston. Definitely more than New York.

Ah, imposing, hierarchical New York, where the buildings (and the price tags) climb up, up, up into the stratosphere! In Quaker-rooted Philly, we’re more grounded. Blessed with more space and fewer bodies, we’ve always built out more than up, cramming crazy numbers of those connected houses onto tiny parcels of earth — houses and earth that are more affordable to your average buyer by, oh, about a million percent. (Which is why a little over half of us own our own homes, compared to New York’s 32 percent.)

Anyway. There are strict and loose definitions as to what, exactly, constitutes a rowhome, but I think the average Philadelphian would agree with architect Rachel Simmons Schade, who wrote the city’s official rowhouse manual a few years back and defined a rowhome broadly as “a one- to four-story house occupying a narrow street frontage and attached to adjacent houses on both sides.” That encompasses most of what you see in Philadelphia — the teeny trinities and the immense mansions, the porch-fronts, the townhouses, the straight-throughs, the workingman’s row, the G-Ho special. In the 325 years since someone built the first rowhomes on Front Street in Old City, the model has clearly deviated quite a lot. But Philly’s devotion to the rowhome hasn’t.

And why should it? It works — at least, most of the time, over time, it has. Even now, in the midst of a frenetic Center City building boom that has condos shooting up like gleaming glass Lego towers, boasting things like yoga lounges and saltwater pools — even now, they’re still building rowhomes. Because rowhomes are in our DNA. Sure, some of the newer models have vocal detractors, but the rowhouse still endures, because it has for so long created, reflected and reified how we live, who we are as a people. As a city. You know — down-to-earth, scrappy, stoop-sitting, real-talking, pennywise, not-New-York, up-really-close-and-personal Philadelphia. City of Brotherly Love, And Also Party Walls.

Fitler Square | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Fitler Square | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Northeast Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Northeast Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

West Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

West Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

WE WERE, for a time, also the City of Homes.

That’s what they called us at the turn of the 19th century, when a model of Philadelphia’s ubiquitous two-story, $2,500 “Workingman’s House” was put on display at the Columbian Exposition in Chicago. (Picture your average smallish South Philly rowhome; that’s what we’re talking about.) Exhibition attendees (there were some 25 million of them) marveled at this appealing alternative to the depressing tenements that populated other cities, delighted by the home’s relative comfort, the efficiency, the accessibility.

Journalist Talcott Williams wrote effusively about the house:

There is nothing more wonderful in all that marvelous Exposition than this proof that the laws, the habits, and the businesses of a city of one million people can be so arranged that even the day-laborer earning only $8 or $10 a week can own the roof over his head and call no man landlord. The result of all this is that Philadelphia is not a city of palaces for the few, but a city of homes for the many.

Sure, the house wasn’t really so “magnificent,” Williams allowed, but it was nevertheless “a triumph of right living in a great city, as the world never saw before.”

I don’t know whether the Philadelphians of 1893 thought of themselves as triumphant, necessarily, but there was no denying even then that the rowhome was a natural fit here. No matter that poor William Penn had designed a spacious, sprawling “greene country towne.” All that gridded sprawl turned out to be so easily subdivided that Penn’s idyllic vision never stood a chance. Especially once it became clear that rowhomes were so cheap(ish) to build, owing to the way Philadelphia landowners leased plots to people who wanted to build, and also because replicating one design in one spot with one set of workers was so cost-effective. (This is still true.)

And because they were cheap(ish) to build, rowhouses were also cheap(ish) to buy, at least if they were modest in scale, like the trinities were, with just three rooms stacked up on each other like blocks. (There were plenty that weren’t modest, too — big Federal or Georgian four-stories like you see in Society Hill, built for people who didn’t need cheapish.) Furthermore, the city’s level, rectangular plot of land allowed it to keep expanding outward as the population exploded — tripled! — in the early 1800s. By the end of that century, St. Joe’s University historian Randall Miller says, things like steel and elevators and new plumbing had made building upward possible. “But by then, Philly had grown so much through a flatter development, and that was our character,” he says. “A city of rowhomes.” Our fate — and possibly, by extension, the house you live in right now — had basically been settled.

Meantime, all the homeowners living in all those rowhomes had been working to turn us into a people who are, shall we say, invested.

“There was the sociological idea that home-owning people were committed to the neighborhood, more stable,” Miller tells me. (This, too, is still true.) Rowhomes themselves helped create communities, he adds, because those stable people had their homes, churches and businesses right there in the neighborhood. And also, he says, because of the porch culture. “The porch culture — dictated by design — meant that you were aware that you were living with other people, even depending on other people. The intimacy reinforced the sense of community.”

The porch culture! Has there been anything so influential in this town as our stoops, our porches, our patios? No, there has not. We leave our private houses, and we spill out into this alternately adored and cursed shared space, and that’s where it all happens. (It being the unofficial neighborhood watch and our kids playing with each other and the fights over un-minded dog doo and the impromptu shared beer and the discussions about who’s going to cut down that dead tree, because we know it’s not going to be the city, harrumph.)

Fairmount | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Fairmount | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Old City | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Old City | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Manayunk | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Manayunk | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Even in the 1700s, this is how it was: Small houses pushed people outside, creating what historian Sam Bass Warner in his book The Private City called “the unity of everyday life,” which in turn created a tight community of businessmen, artisans and regular folks, who together were able to “run the town and manage a share of the war against England.”

In Warner’s recounting, our neighborly interactions basically helped shape the entire republic. But his story also sounds a lot like the one a colleague of mine tells about life on Naudain Street in the 1980s, like so many modern Philly stories. “We’d climb up on a milk crate and call over the fence to drink wine with the neighbors,” she says. “One was Kitty, a 65-year-old who drank too much. And there were Val and Leo from Iowa. Under no other circumstances would we all have been friends. But we were.”

TO THE EXTENT that there is grumbling about some of the new rowhome construction (“new” being from, say, 1995 onward), much of it revolves around porch culture.

Don’t get me wrong: People have other issues, too. The new rowhomes are too big, or too ugly. They’re too modular, too cheap, too pricey, too suburban, too other in a place where other isn’t usually a compliment. In January, Inga Saffron wrote in the Inquirer about concerned citizens in Roxborough — not unlike concerned citizens in many other neighborhoods — looking to address the problem of “alien McTownhouses decked out with vinyl siding and gabled roofs.” Instead of the typical gardens and porches, she wrote, these places have “front-loaded garages and concrete parking pads.”

You can see how putting a garage or parking space or small parking lot where once a stoop or sidewalk might have existed could be perceived as a loss. What organic neighborly interaction ever happened in a garage? If you buy into the romantic and civic importance of shared space, as I do, it’s easy to work yourself into a lather over what a little stoop (or lack thereof) means to us all in the long run: Think of the republic, for God’s sake!

But then again, part of the charm of the rowhome has always been its ability to evolve with the needs of the people who are living in it. (I imagine there was plenty of consternation from the Old Guard when, in the 1920s and ’30s, developers built all those deeply unattractive back alleyways for garages, to accommodate the newly popular automobile.) The lack of porches or stoops on some of the new homes might be a shame, but I bet the closets inside are fabulous.

And anyway, regardless of the specifics of the individual architecture­ — no matter how traditional or trendy, how stunning or schlocky — living in a rowhouse isn’t only about the individual. It’s about the whole. And where the two meet. It is, as my wise neighbor Cece commented, “about feeling like you’re a part of something.”

Kensington | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Kensington | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

West Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

West Philly | Photography by Cory J. Popp.

Before I lived on my current block, I’ll admit, I found the sameness of the houses, well, a tad unmagnificent, to borrow from old Talcott Williams. Only after I moved in did I notice how wonderfully personalized each house really is: There’s the one with the stunning mosaic-tiled front porch. The one with the cheery yellow front door. The one with the AstroTurf. We are different, and we are the same, separate and connected. You know. Like the republic.

And speaking of being connected: Our friend John is no longer our neighbor, having moved recently to a retirement home where he shares more than a wall — he shares a room, divided with a curtain. No matter, he says. He’s delighted with his lot.

We visit him sometimes, bringing whatever neighborhood news we have. Many of our other neighbors do, too. And when any of us run into each other on the street, we agree that it’s good to see John well and happy in his new place. And it is. But inside my house, in the quiet of the afternoon, I do sometimes miss the hymns coming from the other side of the wall.

Published as “The Rowhome Is Us” in the April 2016 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Let Us Now Praise Philly Dive Bars

DiveBars_01-940x540-Opener

Photography by Gene Smirnov

It seems like every weekend there’s a new craft-beer bar opening in the spot where some smoky old watering hole used to be, or a freshly buffed-up pub transforming a neglected neighborhood corner. The trend is emblematic of a larger — and largely positive — transformation in which gritty, faded, forgotten Old Philly is being reincarnated into bright and sprightly New Philly. Fair enough. But change — even good change — has always made Philadelphians dig our heels in and cling just a little harder to the unchanging. Who can blame us? Last year brought the probable end of Little Pete’s and the inauspicious opening of a Cheesecake Factory. Sometimes Old Philly should win. Which is why it’s time now to pay tribute to some of the stalwarts. The holdouts that have evaded the reign of the $20 bar burger. Those scrappy, dark taprooms where no barkeep has ever worn a bowtie, where nobody asks for extra bitters, where you can show up at 12 noon or 12 midnight and enjoy the High Life (or a Citywide Special). We spotlight the bars we passionately hope never get remade into coolly polished pubs. Because change is good, and so is craft beer, but nothing replaces the timeless draw of the dive.

Read more »

Let Us Now Praise Philly Dive Bars

It seems like every weekend there’s a new craft-beer bar opening in the spot where some smoky old watering hole used to be, or a freshly buffed-up pub transforming a neglected neighborhood corner. The trend is emblematic of a larger — and largely positive — transformation in which gritty, faded, forgotten Old Philly is being reincarnated into bright and sprightly New Philly. Fair enough. But change — even good change — has always made Philadelphians dig our heels in and cling just a little harder to the unchanging. Who can blame us? Last year brought the probable end of Little Pete’s and the inauspicious opening of a Cheesecake Factory. Sometimes Old Philly should win. Which is why it’s time now to pay tribute to some of the stalwarts. The holdouts that have evaded the reign of the $20 bar burger. Those scrappy, dark taprooms where no barkeep has ever worn a bowtie, where nobody asks for extra bitters, where you can show up at 12 noon or 12 midnight and enjoy the High Life (or a Citywide Special). We spotlight the bars we passionately hope never get remade into coolly polished pubs. Because change is good, and so is craft beer, but nothing replaces the timeless draw of the dive.

Photography by Gene Smirnov


Tattooed Mom

DiveBars_01-940x540-Opener

530 South Street
Established 1997


McGlinchey’s

Untitled-1MCGLINCHEY-940x540

259 South 15th Street
Established 1937


Donna’s Bar

Untitled-1-DONNAS

2732 East Allegheny Avenue
Established 1981


Fiume

DiveBars_02-540-Fiume

229 South 45th Street
Established 2001


Bob and Barbara’s

Untitled-1-940x540-BobandBarb3

Untitled-1-940x540-BobandBarbaras

Untitled-1-940x540-BobandBarbaras1

1509 South Street
Established 1968


Atlantis: The Lost Bar

DiveBars_14-940x540-Atlantis

2442 Frankford Avenue
Established 2004


Doobies

Untitled-1-940x540-Doobies

2201 Lombard Street
Established 1976


Ray’s Happy Birthday Bar

DiveBars_17-940x540-Rays1

DiveBars_20-940x540-Rays2

DiveBars_07-940x540-Rays3

Untitled-1-940x540-Rays4

1200 East Passyunk Avenue
Established 1938


Dirty Frank’s

DiveBars_22-DirtyFranks

347 South 13th Street
Established 1933

Published as “Let Us Now Praise Philly Dive Bars” in the February 2016 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Finally, a Rocking Chair You’ll Actually Want to Own

Rocking Chairs

Stevie and Isadora rockers, $1,650 each. | Photos by Steve Mitchell, Abstract Studios.

A few years back, when I was shopping for rocking chairs for my son’s nursery, it seemed to me that the vast majority of rockers and gliders were either simply ugly — hard and wooden and forbidding-looking — or just a bit ubiquitous, in a pastel, overstuffed, Pottery Barn sort of way. I always suspected that there was something really special out there, some beautiful, special chair around which I would build a room, a chair I would keep forever, but I never really found it. Until now, that is, with the discovery of Philly-based Rocker Refined, which makes the most gorgeous rockers (and wingbacks, and ottomans, and cribs) that I’ve ever seen.  Read more »

Philly Companies With the Best Employee Perks

A few of the on-campus amenities at AmerisourceBergen.

A few of the on-campus amenities at AmerisourceBergen. (Photos by Christopher Leaman.)

1. Money, Money, Money

A lot of companies are finding ways to compensate employees outside the usual salary, IRA and 401k routes. To wit: The Fishtown-based Web design and development firm YIKES Inc. offers free SEPTA TransPasses; PwC has a student-loan reimbursement program ($100 a month, every month, for six years); and Manayunk’s Intuitive Company, a digital design, research and development firm, promises extra cash in the form of profit sharing as well as performance and employee referral bonuses. Read more »

I Tried It: My Search for Philly’s Best (And Sweatiest) Dance Class

Beginner's Hip Hop at Koresh Dance Company | Photograph by Gene Smirnov

Beginner’s Hip Hop at Koresh Dance Company | Photograph by Gene Smirnov

My legs are shaking, sweat is rolling into my eyes, and for about three minutes in the middle of it all, I have to focus what little energy I have left on not barfing. True, I’m just doing some aerobic dancing in Lithe Method’s Rock Steady class, but it’s intense aerobic dancing. Aerobic dancing on Four Loko. With complex choreography. I wonder: Is this how Kevin Bacon felt working on Footloose? Probably not — Kevin Bacon wasn’t attached to the ceiling with stretchy bands for added resistance. He also wasn’t taking breaks to drop down for a hard-core arms/abs/legs series. No, this is definitely harder than anything anyone has done ever — so when I finally figure out the moves and push through the whole routine (without barfing), it’s a major high. I’m killing it. Forget Kevin: I am basically a Laker Girl.  Read more »

The Tale of Audrey Claire Taichman

Audrey Taichman at Twenty Manning Grill. Photograph by Chris Crisman; hair and makeup by Megan Ambroch.

Audrey Taichman at Twenty Manning Grill. Photograph by Chris Crisman; hair and makeup by Megan Ambroch.

THE THING ABOUT trying to tell an Audrey Taichman story is that it’s very hard to know where to start. Or, more precisely, which Audrey Taichman story to start with, because good Audrey stories are legion.

Once, Audrey’s dad took her to an orientation at a culinary school in Philadelphia at which the school’s director got up and asked the crowd: “How many of you here want to open up your own restaurant?” Audrey and a few others raised their hands. “Well, that’s not going to happen,” he said, in what was probably meant to be some real talk aimed at a room full of naive kids. Audrey looked at her dad, who grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s get out of here.” And then Audrey went and opened a restaurant. Read more »

OPINION: Is Progressivism in Philly (Still) Dead?

Teddy-RooseveltSo if you haven’t seen it yet, the April issue of Philly Mag features a great profile of Jim Kenney. The piece, written by Liz Spikol, highlights the inherent tension in a mayoral candidate with rowhome roots and an array of union endorsements who has also simultaneously become “the darling of Philadelphia’s progressive movement.”

Kenney as Progressive is a fair characterization, if you’re using the checklist that stands in as progressivism in Philadelphia these days: Pro-bike. (Check.) Pro-LGBT equality. (Check.) Feminist. (Check.) Pro-pot decriminalization. (Check.)

It’s no wonder the young liberal “beer-garden crowd” is taken with the man: These are more than just liberal ideals—they’re modern, crucial steps in the right direction for Philly. No doubt. But are they really new? Are they progressive, in the classic sense of the term? Maybe they are, if you judge by the calcified standards of the Philadelphia political realm. Read more »

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