He Wanted to Rest in Peace – Not Pieces

There is a story that in 1813 Dr. Philip Syng Physick – called the Father of American Surgery – got a knock on the door. A large, crude fellow stood there and asked Physick: “Do you want Doctor Rush?”

“What are you talking about?,” asked a perplexed Physick.
“Doctor (Benjamin) Rush has died".

”Yes,” said the stranger.”For $20 I can get his body for you.”

Maybe it was this incident (or maybe the story is a myth) that made Physick totally paranoid that his body might be dug up and sold to surgeons for dissection.

More likely it was watching stolen bodies being cut up as a medical student in England and then doing the same himself as a great surgeon that sparked the paranoia.

Physick’s will reveals the obsession. A section of his will, dealing with his own burial, is reproduced and displayed at the Physick House on 4th street near Pine.

It says he wants his body wrapped in flannel and left in a warm room for six days. In other words, until his cadaver starts to stink. Then, he wants his body placed in a lead casket that would be soldered shut, and then placed in a wood coffin.

Finally, he wanted a guard on his grave for a full month.

Physick died in 1836. It’s unlikely all his conditions were met. He was buried at Christ Church Burial Grounds, 5th and Arch. We assume no one has ever tried to steal his body.

Signs of Earlier Times Can Make You Smile

Tavern Sign near 2nd and Spruce St

For several reasons – that we won’t go into – taverns were the most numerous businesses in colonial America.

It helped to have a clever name for your tavern with a memorable or amusing sign hanging outside.

Many tavern signs were simply copies of tavern signs in England, Ireland or Wales.

Here are a few memorable taverns from our area.

THE FOUR ALLS: 
The tavern was a 6th and Catharine. The sign portrayed four figures with a caption under each.
King “I rule all.”
General “I fight for all.”
Minister “I pray for all”
Peasant “I pay for all”

A MAN FULL OF TROUBLE: 
This sign (not the original) can still be viewed on the tavern near Second and Spruce streets. The sign shows an older man with a younger wife. She has a shopping basket with a cat sitting on it.
The poor guy has a monkey and a parrot.
The idea apparently comes from a Biblical verse: “Man’s days are short and full of trouble.”

 SILENT WOMAN: 
The sign, near Chester, showed a woman having her head cut off.

NOT SURE the name of this old tavern at 13th and Walnut. However, the poetic sign is almost an exact copy of one in England.

I, William McDermot, live here
I sell good porter, ale and beer
I’ve made my sign a little wider
To let you know I make good cider.

Show Biz Stars Marry in Philly In Hopes of Privacy

Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner

It was November 1951 and the excitement of Hollywood celebrities in town was palpable. 

Frank Sinatra and the gorgeous actress Ava Gardner were here to get married.

Romance between this glamorous pair had been the stuff of gossip columns for quite some time - despite the fact that Frank was still married to Nancy Barbato, the mother of his three kids.

Now, Sinatra had obtained a Nevada divorce. Ava had already been married and divorced from Mickey Rooney and band leader Artie Shaw.

The pair arrived at City Hall on November 2, to get a marriage license. They avoided the press with the help of two city detectives. Five days later, the couple was back in Philly for the wedding.

Why would such famous stars choose Philly for their wedding ceremony?

Apparently, they wanted a quiet ceremony with just a few close friends and family. They wanted no press or publicity.

Sinatra had two close friends here who could provide privacy in their homes. Emanuel “Manie” Sacks, a recording executive with Columbia, RCA and NBC was a father figure to many singers and musicians, especially Sinatra.

Then there was another close friend. Isaac “Ike” Levy, was the owner of WCAU radio and television stations and was part-owner of Columbia records. Also Levy lived in a large, impressive East Falls mansion, which is now part of Philadelphia University. (Oh excuse us; it’s now Jefferson University.) Photographers and reporters staked-out the Levy mansion when correct rumors said the pair would tie the knot here on November 7.

Now the fun began. All kinds of tricks were employed to confuse the press.

Notably, a chauffeur-driven limousine roared out of the Levy driveway with a man and woman seated in the back wearing sunglasses. Another limo followed the first. It was all a decoy.

Other limousines left the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, carrying food and staff for the wedding. About half-way to the affair, cars and cargo were switched. Frank and Ava made it to the secret wedding location undetected.

It wasn’t the Levy or the Sack’s homes. The night before, Sacks called his brother, Lester, to ask him to host the wedding at his rather modest house at 506 W. Springer Street in West Mount Airy.

Somehow, word leaked. A dozen members of the press arrived at the house where curious neighbors had also gathered.

Before the ceremony Frank stepped outside and asked, “How did you creeps know I was here?” Then the crooner got into a heated argument when he said a hired photographer would shoot the wedding photos, not the press photographers.

Some say about 75 guests, including Frank’s parents, crammed into the house. The house blinds were drawn. A local judge presided.

In the end, a man and woman – their heads down, trying to cover their faces - rushed from the house into a waiting limo while guests came out to throw rice and shout good wishes.

This time the ruse did work. 

Later the two stars were driven to a airport in Montgomery County and flew off in a private plane for their honeymoon in Florida.

Both stars had fiery, temperamental personalities. They separated after two years and later got a Mexican divorce in 1957.

We don’t know how often Sinatra visited Philadelphia after the wedding. We know he was here in 1958 for Manie Sacks’ funeral. Many Sinatra biographers claim Sacks saved the singer from committing suicide during a low point in his life.

Hall and Oates: ‘A Shotgun Marriage’

The Early Days of Daryl Hall and John Oates

As that famous philosopher Meek Mill once said: “I think everyone in Philadelphia has been shot at.”


Rock giants Hall & Oates would certainly agree with the wisdom of Mr. Mill.
It was gunfire that brought the pair together in 1967.

John Oates and Daryl Hall had never met when they competed in separate groups in a Battle of the Bands contest in the ballroom of the old Adelphia Hotel at 12th and Chestnut.

Suddenly, gunfire broke out in the ballroom between rival gang members.

The two strangers rushed into a service elevator. On the way down there was some talk of music. The two rockers learned they were both Temple University students. The friendship deepened on campus.

According to their Wikipedia page the two eventually shared an off-campus apartment and decided to be known as “Hall & Oates” when they saw the names on their mail box.

Again, Wikipedia says sales of their albums “make them the best selling music duo in history.”

When Drug Stores Were Cheaper and Sold Cocaine-Wine Elixir

Having heart problems? Do you have 17 cents? Good! We can take care of that ailing ticker with Munyon’s Heart Cure.
 
In fact, the Monyon pharmaceutical firm provides separate cures for more than a dozen illnesses. Most cost 17 cents each.

There’s Monyon’s Kidney Cure, Measles Cure, Worm Cure and Pleurisy Cure. However, Monyon’s Gonorrhea Cure cost a whopping 70 cents.

The medications and costs for several thousand items can be found in a 59- page catalogue of one of Philadelphia largest Drug Stores. It’s the 1901 catalogue of the C.G.A. Loder’s Drug Store at 15th and Chestnut streets.

It seems that Loder’s was the CVS or Walgreens of its day. It carried everything in medications, filled doctor’s prescriptions and it made many products under its own label.

It’s a fun read and educational. You’ll go running to the dictionary to find words such as Lithia (mineral water), Cascara Sagrada (dried bark for constipation) Pastilles (a sweet throat lozenge), and Phthisis (wasting away from tuberculosis).

Loder’s did sell a few non-medical items: stationery, perfumes, dental floss, insecticide and bird food. Hire’s Root Beer was on sale but it was sold for medicinal purposes.

Loder’s sold a vast number of tonics. It’s not spelled out, but many tonics were loaded with alcohol – an acceptable way of boozing, especially for housewives.

The most popular tonic “for female complaints” was Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, which cost a whopping 71 cents. But 20.6 percent of each bottle was pure alcohol.

The entire back cover of the catalogue advertises Loder’s Serilized Malt Extract. It was good for more than a dozen problems: coughs, colds, nursing mothers, indigestion, sleeplessness etc. The ad said it “retained all the properties of malt and hops in a highly concentrated state.” Sounds like beer.

We wish you could still buy “Skookun Root Hair Grower.”

Loder’s Wine of Cocoa at 50 cents a pint could get you arrested today. The 1901 description says “cocoa is “probably the most valuable medical discovery of the age.”

In other words, this great “discovery” is cocaine. It was sold in a mixture of “good, sound, imported wine.”

Camden: More Dangerous Than ‘The Wild Frontier?’

Davey Crockett after losing $168

File this under the category “things that don’t change.”

It’s an irrefutable fact that Camden, N.J., suffers from a high crime rate.

But who would guess that in the year 1834 crime would also be a problem in Camden?

This fact is illustrated in the journal of frontiersman Davy Crockett – the same guy who died in Texas at the Battle of the Alamo and was prone to wear a coonskin cap.

Davy was already quite a famous character and was a U.S. Senator from Tennessee at the time of his visit to Camden. He apparently was visiting several East Coast cities.

Here are Crockett’s notes on his Camden visit:
“Having promised Mr. Hoy of Camden to call and see him on my return, and having fixed the time, I went over, accompanied by several gentlemen, to the Jersey shore where there were a great deal of people waiting for me. . . . We proceeded to Mr. Hoy’s and then I took a walk through Camden.”

During his visit, Davy gave the Camden folks a demonstration of his marksmanship with a rifle.

“Sometime after this, we were asked to dinner. And heard someone say he had lost his pocket-book [wallet]. And in a few minutes, a second cry was raised, that another man had lost his pocket-book,"

“I then felt for mine, but I felt in vain – it was gone, with one-hundred and sixty-eight dollars in it.”

Yes, a Camden pickpocket had enjoyed a very lucrative day.

It was also in New Jersey that Crockett took his first railroad ride. He marveled at the speed – an amazing 25 miles-an-hour.

Not the Proper Moment to Barf

Dilworth and Mellon's Party Moment

Remember Mayor Richardson Dilworth? 

Certainly you recall him as a handsome, distinguished, upper-crust gentleman – so competent that many feel he was the best Philadelphia mayor of the 20th century.

Born rich, he was raised mostly in Manhattan, attended private boarding school and spent summers with his family in Southampton on Long Island among other wealthy families, including the Mellons of Pittsburgh.

Dilworth says he started drinking during those Southampton summers. He later recalled getting into “a good deal of trouble” because of his boozing.

We don’t know the year, but Dilworth was invited to the “coming out” party for debutante Ailsa Mellon. Her father, Andrew Mellon, was super-rich and very powerful. He would later become U.S. Secretary of the Treasury.

Dilworth remembered dancing with Ailsa while he was “terribly drunk. And I lost my lunch all over Miss Mellon and her dress.”

Dilworth’s parent learned about their son’s barfing episode and were furious - but not half as angry as Andrew Mellon.

The next day Dilworth’s mother insisted he go to the Mellon house and apologize .
“She didn’t trust me, so she marched me around to the Mellon household. Old man Mellon was the coldest man I ever saw. I don’t believe he had ever been drunk,” Dilworth said in an interview.

“So, I was ushered in by Mother and had to apologize to the old man and it was like talking to a stone statue. And he just sat there absolutely frozen and he said, ‘Well, I’ll overlook it because of your mother.’”

From time-to-time, Dilworth’s drinking problem re-emerged. Ailsa Mellon inherited great wealth, married a U.S. Senator and was an important philanthropist and patron of the arts.

Before TV There Was Rooftop Viewing in Philly

The Best Seat On The House?

Philadelphians – Americans generally – are entrepreneurial and can be amazingly creative when it comes to making an extra buck.

So, imagine the owners of North Philly rowhouses who charged admission to enter their bathrooms and then climb a ladder to the roof to watch baseball.

The rooftop bleacher on 20th and Somerset streets across from Shibe Park (later renamed Connie Mack Stadium) provided a birds-eye view of the baseball diamond, thanks to a right field wall only 12-feet high. One could watch a Philadelphia Athletes game either from second floor windows or rooftops.

Soon after the stadium opened in 1909, home owners had invested in bleachers and were charging admission to sit on their roofs.

When the As were playing for a league championship or for World Series games, every ballpark seat was sold, so fans paid high prices for rooftop viewing.

Remember, there was no television.

Even some cops on the street sold tickets to the rooftop bleachers and were paid a commission. Kids sold bags of peanuts on the roofs. Women often sold hot dogs.

Movie news reel companies – Pathe, Universal and Fox Movietone – paid to place cameras and crews on the rooftops.

For a World Series game. an estimated 3,000 cheering fans were sitting across the street on the rooftops or peering out of second-story windows.

Was it legal? Well, there were visits from fire officials, License and Inspections inspectors, amusement tax collectors, but the rooftop seating was never shut down.

Finally, in 1934, the Shibe family and Connie Mack put an end to the neighbors' lucrative practice by simply building the right field fence high enough to block rooftop viewing.

Furious homeowners called it “the Spite Fence.” It was made of tin, and players called it “the Great Tin Monster.” Balls striking the fence took odd bounces.

The neighbors went to court claiming the Spite Fence blocked the sun and lowered the value of their houses. The Shibes hired a young lawyer, Richardson Dilworth. He won the case and was later elected district attorney and mayor.

So, in the land of free enterprise, homeowners can charge people to sit on their roofs and stadium owners can build high fences.

Taking a Bride Rambo-Style

The Cannonball House near Fort Mifflin

There is the Hollywood Rambo and the real historic Rambo of ye olde Philadelphia.

The Rambo family was among those early Swedish pioneers who settled in the virgin forests and swamps along the Delaware River decades before William Penn arrived.

The Cock (or Koch) family were also early Swedish settlers.

The Rambo noted in history was the young horny John Rambo. This Rambo was charged in the colonial court in Chester, Pa., with criminal intercourse.

In 1684, Rambo was accused of climbing onto the roof of Peter Cock’s farmhouse at midnight and “by pulling off a plank of the house on the loft near (the bed) chamber, he jumped down to the floor.”

Rambo was now in the bedroom of his sweetheart, Bridget (also called Britta). He then got into bed with Bridget and her two sisters, ages 16 and 19.

“Saying he was resolved to be the husband of Bridget – even as his brother before him had taken another sister – and must there lie. Whereupon, there being a crowded place, the two sisters, with strange submission, withdrew and lay upon the floor all night in a cold December.”

The court ordered Rambo to marry Bridget “before she be delivered and then maintain the child”. Both had to pay a 10-pound fine.

Some accounts say the couple married while other accounts say Rambo was fined again for non-compliance.

Historians say Peter Cock’s farmhouse was later known as “the Cannonball House". It was close ro Fort Mifflin and during the battle at Fort Mifflin in 1777, a cannonball went through one wall and exited another wall.

The house had great longevity and was moved about half-a-mile in the 1970s to the grounds outside Fort Mifflin. It was considered the oldest structure in Philadelphia.

There it sat on wood supports in total disrepair - an old relic of revolution and romance. In 1995 the old Cannonball House was demolished by the city claiming it was beyond saving.

When South Philly Was For the Birds

Moyamensing: It’s a Indian word that has generally been translated as “pigeon poop.”

Why on earth would the noble Lenni Lenape Indians call a large swath of today‘s South Philly “pigeon poop”?

We think the answer is obvious to anyone who has read about the extinct passenger pigeon - once considered North America’s most numerous bird.

Early settlers write how huge flocks of these good tasting birds would block out the sun for two or three days as they flew overhead. They always traveled in enormous flocks. And they always rested at night on tree branches.

When the birds took off again, the trees and ground were covered in bird feces – sometimes inches thick. Thus, the Indians called the area moyamensing, meaning pigeon poop.

How did a bird that once numbered in the billions become extinct by the early 20th century? Look it up on Google – fascinating reading.

Have a Seat. The Doctor Will Be With You Soon.

He was a signer of the Declaration of Independence and “the Father of American Psychiatry.”

​Dr. Benjamin Rush was a great man whose ideas were way ahead of his time. He believed in racial equality and female education. He pointed out the terrible effects of smoking and railed against hard liquor more than 200 years ago.

​But his book on mental illness was a mishmash of good ideas and – viewed from today – pure nonsense.

​Rush wanted to help his catatonic patients and their opposite - highly excited mental patients.

​He felt bleeding and a heavy dose of laxatives helped both types of madness, but he had a unique invention that looked very much like a modern electric chair.

​The patients was strapped in tightly. A hood device covered the head and the agitated, raving patient just sat there motionless until he calmed down.

This was Rush’s “tranquilizing chair.”

There was a similar chair to treat “torpid madness” or catatonic-types. This chair was called the “gyrator.” Again, the patient was strapped in but the chair could spin – round-and-round.

​Rush felt the spinning chair would get blood up to the brain of the torpid patient, making the person more alert and active.

​Neither chair used by Rush at Pennsylvania Hospital survives. But a good sketch of the device does survive.