"My God," I thought as I did the math while walking into St. Anthony's Church to pay respects to Tony Massara, "Massara's has been part of my life for 65 years!"
Tony, who died on Jan. 6, and his wife, Gilda, operated Massara's for at least 40 of those years, but it was Tony's father, Jimmy, and mother, Margaret, who were in charge when our family moved to Butler Street, just three doors away, and I became a regular along with every other kid in the neighborhood.
Those were the days of penny candy, Squirrel Nut Zippers and Mary Janes and the like, and Twin Pop popsicles. Whenever any of us discovered a box of root beer ones -- a rare find -- in the freezer, the word spread throughout the neighborhood and they'd be gone in no time. We typically broke those popsicles in half to share with a friend.
We ate them on Massara's front porch where we sometimes sipped a cold Pepsi if we had the money.
Massara's front porch was a hangout for kids of all ages, the sidewalk out front filled with bicycles. All was fine as long as we were consuming a popsicle or dixie or maybe a Tastykake or bag of chips that we had purchased inside, but if all we were doing was killing time, Mrs. Massara, Jimmy's mom and Tony's grandmother, would soon appear to shoo us away. We always departed without a fuss.
Jimmy and Margaret Massara were kindly, welcoming people and those qualities were passed down to Tony and Gilda. My mom babysat my children when they were pre-school aged, and trips to Massara's were a daily treat. Greta would pick out a can of Campbell's Chicken 'n' Stars soup for Grammy to heat up for lunch, and Gilda always had a bag of candy to hand her at the register. The same went for Michael, only he passed on the soup.
Tony and Gilda became known throughout Wyoming Valley for their meats and specialty items like porketta, cured meats, sausages and prosciutto. Their wine and garlic sausage was legendary and Tony once told me the prosciutto hams would hang in his cellar for 10 months before they were ready to sell. If someone came in at nine months, they weren't getting prosciutto. It was not yet up to Tony's standards.
But it was more than just the products sold at Massara's. It was the old-fashioned, warm atmosphere only to be found in a family-run neighborhood store.
Upon hearing of Tony Massara's death, my friend Charlie Dominick texted me, "RIP Tony Massara. Best sausage in the valley. Walking into that store dropped my blood pressure 20 points."
Tony and Gilda retired a few years ago, handing off the butcher end of the business to Johnny Morgan. There's no more penny candy, but there' still the warmth. Along with the wine and garlic sausage.