The Grave’s a Fine and Private Place, But None There Do I Think Embrace

Quite. You know the saying, “Be careful what you wish for? You may get it.” Yeah, funny that. A few years ago, I wrote a piece, not my usual cynical crap, about a little girl from South Philadelphia, Concetta Delia, who was run over by a trolley at the age of eight (?) in 1914 and perished. She was my maternal grandmother’s sister–I call her grand Aunt–but I leave the exact degree of affinity to someone like James Maule, my DPS classmate who is expert in these matters. I was, quite honestly, very touched by the story, which I had only recently learned. And like all stories dealing with common people in the past, there’s a lot you don’t don’t know. And may never find out.

So a million questions run through my mind? Did anyone sleep for days after? Was there any kind of wake (did that even figure in death rituals in Italy then)? When was the funeral mass? There must have been one, no? How on Earth did they pay for it? How did they get the little girl to Holy Cross Cemetery in Yeadon? As the crow flies, it must be 6 or 7 miles, but you’d have to get across the Schuylkill River–in 1914, how or where where? There were ferries, true enough, and at least one bridge, but that was to West Philadelphia. Was there a procession, which even then was a tradition among Italians in America? Who bought the grave? Was there some kind of mutual aid among Immigrants there?

The title, Morta Sotto Il Carro, is a stock Italian phrase for a cause of death, meaning, more or less, “got run over” which was listed in the parish records. You think, well, it must have happened a lot. Yeah, I guess. But the questions were real, you know? My maternal great grandparents lived at what was sort of the bottom tier of habitable South Philly, so I knew they could not have had much. And Holy Cross Cemetery, where Concetta was buried, was a long way from the city, In 1914, there would have been some settlement, but Yeadon and Springfield (the surrounding towns) were largely, as far as I knew, post World War II developments. Why go so far? Weren’t there Catholic cemeteries in the city? Some parishes had them, you know, small graveyards. Like Saint Dennis, in “Humphreysville” (after the Humphrey House, still standing on Haverford Road (now Havertown), but that was out in the wilds too, so the parish had land.

Until Saturday August 15, 2026, I had no answers. But I did have this relentless urge–the Hound of Heaven, my style–to get out to Holy Cross and see the grave for myself. Since my paternal grandmother and grandfather were buried there, I wanted to go anyway. You know, the atavistic impulse of a pre-Vatican Catholic to “bury the dead” from the Spiritual Works of Mercy (Old Style Catholic, which, for better or worse, I am, at least in conscience). Now that part of Delaware County has been going through some changes in the past few years, so there was some resistance to my making the short trip (there had been a gang shoot-out in situ), but I figure, hey, I am a city kid at heart. And it’s my city too, dammit. So off I went. Besides, I am a trained historian, in part, so I know how to do this stuff. It does not pay off in any other way that I can see other than personal edification.

I guess, with one brief exception, I had not been out to Holy Cross in about sixty years. I remember going out there one Palm Sunday with my Dad to buy one of those incredibly woven palms in the shape of a Cross that florists used to mount on frames for use at grave sites; now, with the florists, long gone too. I also figure, alas, the Salvucci family doesn’t go in for graveside picnics these days, if it ever did. The Delia are mostly in Sts Peter and Paul in Broomall, known colloquially as Two Guys. I figures the odds of this poor abandoned child ever being visited were slim to none, so I’d, ah, kill two birds with one stone (sorry). I’d check out my paternal grandparents’ grave, which I doubt anyone had visited in a lifetime, and then go look for Concetta.

I knew this might not be easy because although Concetta’s death certificate said Holy Cross, I could never find her in the online registry. “Paperwork.” I figured. 1914 was a long time ago. Uh, uh. I found something else, much more revealing. And I must admit I left the Holy Cross a bit shaken.

On, Concetta is there, all right.

But in an unmarked common gravesite, a sort of Catholic Potters’ field. Ostensibly maintained by the Little Sisters of the Poor. For the indigent.

For the indigent.

You dig? My family. 1914. Too poverty-stricken to afford a burial. When I say I have this odd sort of prelapsarian chip on my shoulder about the status of Italian immigrants in America, you will understand why I left with it reinforced. I forgive, yeah. But I don’t forget. Something a lot of my academic colleagues could never quite get through their heads. But even this shook me up. And, alas, I have virtually no faith in my fellow man–excuse me–human.

The gentleman administering the cemetery, with whom I sort of instantly bonded, a guy from Jersey named Ron Johnson, basically had to lead me to site because he knew I would never find it myself. Find it? Hell, I had no idea it existed. And my first reaction, once I was alone, was shock, and then anger. I do anger well, you may have noticed. See, an academic once made the mistake of accusing me of white privilege. He meant no harm, God knows, but he became part of the reason why I think the Berkeleys and Columbias of this world are hopeless. You’d think they’d know better. They don’t. And I can’t convince myself it is an accident.

Well, let’s get back to the Main Event. I stood there, largely speechless. This is a part of the cemetery which is much older, and the gravesites date mostly to the 1920s, 30s, 40s’ and 50s. So there isn’t much, ah, traffic. I was completely alone in a sea of tombstones and a couple of fancier vaults–one of which even had an altar and a predieu insider (from when there were priests to say Mass while they weren’t getting into something worse). So I thought I could talk to Concetta out loud. There was no one around to see that I was clearly disturbed, so I could make my peace with the kid. Poor thing. Two years later, another Concetta Delia was born, whom I knew as my Aunt Connie in the 1950s and 1960s. It was apparently pretty common to recycle a name of a dead child in the Italian community, or so I have been told. But about the younger Concetta sotto il carro I knew nothing. No one ever spoke of her. So this time I spoke to her directly. Which I will do from now on in. And it’s none of your business.

You think I’m being melodramatic or sentimental or some stuff, huh? Go ahead. Vaff–as we say. I got a little more insight into the life of my ancestors. And, like I say, I forgive.

But I don’t forget. Ever.