My dad, Big Pat, is sitting on the floor in a suit at the bottom right. His mom, my grandmom Mary Emma is that red headed bombshell sitting in the center front, next to her father, Fritz, the patriarch of my family. Fritz Hornberger. Right above her is the Polish guy she fell in love with when he bought her an ice cream cone for her 16th birthday, Louis “Luke” Kozlowski, my grandpop. He worked in the “Gummy,” the Alden Rubber Company at Salmon and Tioga Streets, until he retired. Next to him are my dad’s siblings-Aunt Chrissy in the cat-eye glasses, and my Aunt Mary Lou with her husband-my Uncle Stan with their newborn baby Jolene. Top row center is my Uncle Babe, a year younger than my dad. His real name is Fred, but nobody ever called him Uncle Fred. I don’t even know if he knows his name is Fred, he’s been answering to Babe for so long.

My Aunt Becky is holding one of her five boys on her lap. She had Tommy, Timmy, Eddie, Michael and Robert. She’d walk everywhere in Port Richmond. She’d shop at the Pantry Pride up at Venango and Aramingo and walk down Venango Street toward the river with her shopping cart. “Hey Kid!” she’d screech when she passed Hecker’s where we’d all be hanging on the corner of Mercer Street. She had so many damned nieces and nephews; she called everybody “Hey Kid!” Her son Eddie worked in my mom and dad’s ice cream shop in the 70’s and was my favorite babysitter because to get me to go to sleep he would blow on my head. To this day, I still have to sleep with a fan blowing on my face.

There’s my Uncle Tucker and Aunt Tootsie, one of the best looking couples together I have ever seen. They had four girls, Patty Ann, Diane, Linda and Sandy. Uncle Tucker had a red motorcycle he would drive and he had a voice like a country and western singer. Every family get together he would sing. Sinatra. Bing. Hank Williams. I was well into adulthood when I finally found out that their real names were Thomas and Jean. But they’ll always be Tucker and Tootsie on Thompson Street. Their front door and my parents’ front door are right across from one another.

Up top to the left are Uncle Richie and Aunt Eileen. They moved to Jersey and had this house on Indian Trail in Pemberton. It had a lake with a tree swing, horse shoe pits, a basketball hoop and they’d throw picnics in the summer. One summer we had a free throw contest and Uncle Richie put money on me that I could make the most free throws from a line drawn in the dirt. I’ll never forget- I made 23 free throws in a row.

Then there’s my Uncle Matt and Aunt Marlene who walk everywhere in Richmond, especially in the summertime. Walk up to Campbell Square or over to Aunt Tootsie’s house and sit on the porch. My Uncle Mike is standing above my dad-he’s in a suit too. Ever hear him sing? There’s my Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Ginnie. People always told me my Aunt Ginnie was beautiful and looked like Elizabeth Taylor and always wore amazing dresses and shoes. They lived on Venango Street across from the house I was born in and had three girls just like my mom and dad. They had Donna, Jamie and Virginia. And they had a real slot machine in their house!

Oh, there’s more Hornbergers in this old photo and I’m sure when I’m walking down Venango Street one of them will yell to me and shake their fist that I missed him or her in this story. But wait, I can’t forget my Grandmom’s other sister, Aunt Chris who drove an Army Jeep in her heyday and never ever missed a Dingus Day by knocking on your door and squirting you with water. Yep, these are the Hornbergers. My family. My family. This picture was probably taken at the Columbia Club on Almond Street-a hall where my parents had their wedding reception, my sisters Dawn and Gina and I had our Christening and First Holy Communion there and, remember the baby Jolene in my Aunt Mary Lou’s arms? Her wedding shower was there too.

And when people asked me where I’m from, I tell them Venango, not Port Richmond. I’m from Venango. I’m from St. George. The Church at Edgemont and Venango. All the Hornbergers went there and then sent their kids there. St. George’s: where Father Marty baptized us, married us and buried us. Grandmom Mary Emma owned a shoe store on Richmond Street and gave the nuns at St. George their winter boots.

It’s funny, it must be a Philly thing, when someone asks you, “where ya from?” You usually say your church and school. “St. George’s in Richmond”.  It’s your identity. It’s where you’re from. Go ahead, go look for a photo like this tucked away in some old picture album in your house. Go find the photo, it will tell your story. It will tell you where you are from. And you’ll be sitting in front of the computer crying like I am.

The Hornbergers helped build St. George. My niece and nephew are now the sixth generation going to St. George. Yet today on February 1, 2012, the future of St. George does not rest on the Hornbergers’ past. The Hornbergers are just one in a thousand of families that answer, “St. George’s” when asked where they are from. Nope, the future of St. George lies with the Blue Ribbon Commission that will start announcing today whether or not St. George will close its school doors and merge with Our Lady of Port Richmond. Part of some grand plan from the Archdiocese of Philadelphia.

It feels like identity theft, doesn’t it? Cause where am I from now? Will it matter that the reason I sunk 23 free throws in a row that day over in Pemberton, NJ on Indian Trail at my Uncle Richie’s house was because Renie Pomykacz taught me how to play basketball as the St George Girls’ team coach? Will it matter that when my dad was maybe only six or seven, my Grandmom Mary Emma went to pick him up from St. George School one day and he wasn’t there; she panicked thinking he was abducted-only to find him two blocks away at his Aunt Tootsie and Uncle Tucker’s house? Will it matter that once Johnnie Hornberger “borrowed” the golden chalice from St. George Church after Mass one day when he was the Altar Boy? Will it matter that I used to sit up in the choir loft, looking down on all the blue haired tinted grandmoms of my schoolfriends in the church pews thanking God that my Grandmom Mary Emma had a chock full of red hair that made her look like Maureen O’Hara? Will any of that matter if St. George School is forced to close?

Remember my Uncle Babe? Look at the picture again. Top row center with the hair combed over and the big ears. He’s the guy who built the strip malls on Aramingo Avenue. Remember Aramingo Village Flea Market? That was Babe. Imperial Plaza, Wilson Beef, Babe’s Steakhouse and who can forget Babe’s Bar at Mercer and Venango across from Hecker’s? He’s from St. George. My dad and Babe played football for the Venango Bears. Once a Bear, always a Bear.

Well, today up in church at St. George’s, we bury his son, Fred. My cousin Freddy. The sole reason I don’t have long hair today because that son of a gun grabbed my long brown hair one day in 1982 as I rode past him on a big wheel while we were playing on Pacific Street and he yanked me off it by my mane. I could be Crystal Gale today with hair down past my dupa if it wasn’t for Fred. My cousin Freddy. At 38 years old, he’s laying upstairs of St. George’s where he went to school and played basketball for Coach Gusy “Hecker” Bauman, his dad’s best friend. And since it’s kind of pointless now, it was Freddy who took the Baby Jesus out of the Manger Display back in Christmas of 1986. He was in 8th grade at St. George’s and it was one of his best pranks. For days leading up to December 24th, everybody was distraught over the missing baby statue. Yep, it was Freddy. Don’t worry, he put the baby back.

And I know even though Freddy pulled my hair back in 1982, he’s going to Heaven. His mom Karen and dog Heidi the Dalmatian are waiting for him and when St. Peter greets him and says, “Hey Fred, where you from?” No matter what the Blue Ribbon Commission rules today, Freddy Kozlowski will always be from St. George’s.