The Rag Man

When you think of people who do their business on wheels, you probably picture a Ford Econoline or Chevy Van, maybe a Ford, Chevy, or Dodge pickup truck. You see them all over the streets of South Philly owned by plumbers, electricians, painters, maybe an occasional FBI surveillance team. The vans have evolved into higher walk-in types where you can fully stand instead of crouch. Great for someone who has a lot of work to do.

If you were born after the late 1960s, you probably don't remember when some guys did their business using a horse-drawn wagon or a push cart. But through at least the earliest of the 70s, they were out there.

This week's post remembers the Rag Man, also known as "Gitter-rags". Many of you who grew up in the era that I did spent your summers in the city rather than down the shore and you remember him. Looking at many Philadelphia-themed Facebook groups and individual posts, it seems that there were rag men all around the city. I can only write about my experiences with one, the man who worked our neighborhood.

Just about every week, there was a middle-aged black man who used to collect used rags and other junk from South Philadelphia residents a day before trash day. He'd ride up and down the blocks sitting at the front of his cart, pulled by a horse that looked to be well-cared for. You knew he was coming when yo heard his loud voice bellowing "gitta-raaaaaagggsss...gitta-raaaaaagggsss" to get the attention of the housewives on the block. There were more stay-at-home moms and less women in the working world at this time. And get their attention he did. Sure enough, when the Rag Man made his familiar call, some of the ladies would come out of their rowhomes, handing him things that were no longer wanted, but were probably a treasure to him. I don't know if he was self-employed or for some shop owner. Remembering from visiting my grandparents who lived around the corner, he would take what he collected to an old garage next to the Royal Villa Cafe (since replaced by a convenience store) at 17th & Jackson Street and unload there. Why would anyone collect rags you wonder? Rags can be recycled, just like many other things. They even can be used in the manufacture of paper. The dollar bill in your wallet is mostly rag content, although I don't think that in this case it came from the Rag Man's weekly pick-up.

The Rag Man was not to be messed with. Riding a horse-drawn cart, what tool of the trade did he employ besides a strong back and legs? You guessed it, a whip. Common sense says you don't give a guy with a whip a hard time. Yet most kids don't have much common sense. They haven't lived enough to accumulate it. Knuckleheads that we were growing up, we would often parrot the same "Gitter-raaaaaagggsss" refrain that he did. He never said a word to us when we did. But one day, the Rag Man blew a fuse. Either he couldn't take it anymore, someone said something stupid to him, or he just had a bad day. He bolted off the cart and came after my brother, or friend Chris, and I with that lash. The Mad Barber may not have been too quick running after us with the razor, but the Rag Man at had some speed. He cornered his tormenters at the front step across from our home and stood over us. And what did he do? He scared the daylights out of us. But besides admonishing us for taunting him every week, he walked away. Not a hair harmed, and not a word was ever again spoken in foolishness to that guy. 


There are no ragmen today. The closest thing that we have is the city's recycling program. But they don't have horses and wagons or carry whips with them. Nothing to remember. The only thing that changes is the make and model of the trucks they drive, and over time, the paint scheme. Oh yeah, and they wake me up when the weather's nice and we sleep with the window open. Do you all have to start at 6:30 a.m. each week?

AND YOU MAY REMEMBER...

     ...That you didn't get away with anything as a kid when it came to being disrespectful an older person. Either that person dealt with you, or your dad did. The wise decision was left to the father. I remember my dad said to a person who said he would kick my brother's rear if he messed with him again..."That's my son. He does you wrong, you bring him to me, and I'll kick his butt. You don't touch him, but I promise you; I will. If you do touch him, I'll kick your's and his." Point noted, for that man and us. Maybe more dads need to line up their shoe bottoms with their sons' bottoms today, or at least apply the paddle or belt (my dad's favorite). Not in an abusing way, but a correcting one. Some dads need to understand the difference. The more you see the disrespect of kids towards adults today, you wonder if their dads are administering any discipline to those punks.

My dad may have looked like he was too light to fight and too thin to win , but he wouldn't take any anything from anyone. Growing up in a family of ten kids and poor, he knew how to stand his ground.

     ...The folks who regulary cheated you. From the butcher to the produce guys with their fingers on the scale, to the kid in your class who tricked you out of a dollar or some change. Some people don't know how to be honest. .Someone once told me that you could bring bundles of newspaper to the same garage that the rag man worked out of to earn some pocket change. They paid so much a pound. Some kids would shove a lead window sash weight from the old wood-framed windows to take home extra cash. It worked, but not for long. After a short time, they started to check for them. How the first guys were able to do that is a mystery. The weights had to be heavier than any stack of papers. It should have been an easy catch.

     ...Finding a hand bell in your basement window if you lived on Chadwick St., 2600 block. Another of our vendors who propelled his cart with flesh & bone - his own - got angry with a guy we sometimes hung around with, Tommy B., over the quality of his pretzels. That pretzel man realized that hand bells made good missiles. What he didn't figure into it was the guidance system - him! He missed. Tommy ran away laughing, and a neighbor would return home from work finding his window smashed, the bell on the basement floor. I guess he had to shout for customers ubtil he bought a new bell, Either that, or went back later in the evening and paid for the window in exchange for the bell. Maybe he should have taken lessons on how to call the neighbors out from the Rag Man.