It is by far one of the most colorful traditions this city has to offer. Weather permitting, of course, thousands of people greet the first day of the new year at the annual Mummer’s Parade. Despite not having a club based in the Northwestern part of the city, there are plenty of people of Our Town who participate in all the ‘Mummery’.
“Keep an eye out for me, I’ll be wearing a purple hat,” said Carl Pfefferle.
Pfefferle, of Andorra, is a member of a Comic brigade. Pfefferle went on to name other Roxborough/Manayunk Mummers but I withhold their names to protect the guilty. According to Philadelphia’s Office of City Representative, Mummery dates back to ancient Roman laborers who ushered in the festival of Saturnalia by marching in masks while exchanging gifts and satirizing the issues of the day. Locally, during the 1600s, Swedish settlers to Philadelphia dressed up, chanted and fired weapons in the air to honor Christmas (Author’s note: how little things have changed.). The Swedes would also entertain their amused neighbors in exchange for desserts of beverages.
This tradition eventually moved to New Year’s Day and evolved into a series of neighborhood parades. As immigrants moved to the area from Ireland and Italy, each group added their own cultural flavor to the local customs. In 1901, the tradition began in earnest with the first recognized and judged Mummers Parade organized by the City of Philadelphia on Broad St. Established with just a few hundred revelers, today more than 10,000 participate in the parade.
The famous term ‘Mummer’ is German and means ‘to costume or masquerade’ and boy, do they ever. Mardi Gras notwithstanding, it is probably the only event on the calendar in Philadelphia when a man wearing a dress, feathers and/or sequins is never questioned about his masculinity. It was also the one event on the calendar I looked forward too as much as Christmas.
When I was a child, my grandfather served as Municipal Court Administrator and would snag us a prime viewing spot from a judge’s office in City Hall. After the departure of that judge, we went on to view the parade for the City’s Law Library annex. But the real reason I looked forward to it was not the parade entirely; I got to hang out with all of my younger cousins.
When I became a teenager, this tradition of going downtown was replaced with staying at home and visiting friends.
In fact, I would go a whole decade without seeing the parade live. And only once in my memory (which admittedly isn’t what it once was) has the parade ever postponed. (That parade in 2007 led to an interesting incident of meeting Fox Sports commentators Troy Aikman and Joe Buck on Sansom St. But that’s another story entirely.)It wasn’t until I started working at The Review did I hear about the party at “Two Street”. Even then it took the invitation of my cousins to get me to go. Naturally, it was collectively our first time at this, for lack of a better term, after party. The comics, the string bands and fancies, after being judged, march south on Second Street and revelers continue long into the night.
“I remember we used to let them do what they want and we’d hose down the beer and blood down the street afterward,” said a police friend of mine.
To be sure, there was lots of beer, bile and mud, to which my unlucky shoes can sadly attest. There was plenty of police around in case things got out of hand. It was certainly a less-family oriented event than what occurs on Broad St. but it maintained a gentle bonhomie that I sometimes rarely see. (I survived the 2001 Mardi Gras Riot of South St. which had all the charm and grace of a rabid, claustrophobic wolverine.) On the whole, most people were genuinely pleasant and respectful to one another. Revelers wished each other “Happy New Year” and high fived or shook hands. At one point, an admirer of my mustache offered me a beer. Through a short conversation, I learned he was the son of Sam Katz. It is a small world after all.
My mustache was a popular feature, especially among the ladies. But one reveler did not have such luck.
“All these male mummers keep wanting to touch my mustache,” he said. Poor fellow but he was not the only person who felt the need to confess to me. (Apparently, I look like someone people like to talk to.) During the Fancy Brigades slow march down Second St. it was a regular dance party. A costumed Mummer and a lady were closely dancing in the street.
As the song ended the Mummer looked at me and said, “And I am doing all this on a torn ACL, I am really going to regret this tomorrow.”
Having done a lot of walking that day myself, I knew his pain well.
But that’s a challenge for another day.
Happy New Year.
