Fifty Years at the Feast of St. Ann

By Tony Andriola

The 115th Feast of St. Ann in Hoboken, NJ came to a close this past Sunday, and with it came a moment of reflection for me—marking 50 years of vending at the feast, and a lifetime of memories.

Of course, my connection to the feast goes back even further than those 50 years. St. Ann’s was my family’s parish, and I remember walking in the procession with my relatives and friends. Rain or shine, we were there—shoulder to shoulder with neighbors, winding our way through the streets of Hoboken. We knew nearly everyone who lived in each apartment building along the route, and would pause for a moment while the band played a favorite tune, and women would lean out of the windows and toss down money in devotion to St. Ann.

Image: Tony Andriola - bottom right holding the banner on the steps of St. Ann's Chruch, Hoboken, NJ.

When we reached Adams Street between 5th and 6th, we always stopped at the San Giacomo Club. Every St. Ann’s Day, they handed out hundreds of little roast beef sandwiches and sodas to those in the procession. It was a perfect resting point, and as we ate our sandwiches, the men would lay fireworks down right in the middle of the street! The sound was deafening, scary, and exciting all at the same time.  Sitting on the stoops in the smoky chaos was a thrill. That ended in the 90s, but I can still smell the burning of the fireworks.

In the mid-70s, we decided to set up a seafood stand at the feast. It was a wooden stand with collapsible tables, hand-painted cardboard signs, and big coolers packed with ice from the ice truck to chill our seafood and watermelon. Shucking clams and frying calamari in the July heat was no easy task, so in the late 70s, I made the move to sausage sandwiches. Still tough work, but a little more manageable.

Over time, we added more stands—torrone, ceci and andrite, pasta, and pastries. But today, we’re focused on the sausage stand where Roddy, who has been working St. Ann’s alongside me for almost 40 years, is now behind the grill. We’ve had help over the years from a rotating cast of high schoolers, friends' kids, and friends-of-friends’ kids.

I especially love when old Hoboken neighbors or fellow paisanos from Monte San Giacomo stop by to say hello. Hoboken was home to many families from San Giacomo—Romano (ours), Rizzo, Caporino, Spina, Totaro. We’re likely all related somehow! While most have moved away, many still return to 7th and Jefferson each July 26th, joining the procession and lining up for zeppole. (This year, that line was the longest I’ve ever seen.) It’s heartwarming to meet the grandchildren of childhood friends and relatives.

The feast has evolved over the years. What was once a three-day celebration ending on St. Ann’s Day grew to seven days and is now a five-day festival with music each night and a 50/50 raffle on the last day. The procession, too, has changed. I remember the women of the St. Ann’s Society proudly carrying the statue on their shoulders, with others holding a canopy behind them. These days, the statue rides on a cart, and the canopy is no longer used, but the devotion to St. Ann has not changed.

One tradition I miss dearly is the nightly fuochi d'artificio, or as my family called them, batteria, the fireworks launched behind the church. Sadly, city ordinances ended that custom. Still, we keep the spirit alive with the Italian marching band on the 26th, playing all the old songs. When my daughter, Anne Marie, was in the stand, I would have them stop and play “Happy Birthday” as they passed by our stand. I’m not sure she enjoyed the spotlight!

The feast has always erected arches of lights, but this year the St. Ann’s Committee erected lighting like the lights that they have in San Giacomo – more intricate and brighter, and more beautiful in my opinion.

For 50 years, the St. Ann’s Committee has allowed me to participate in a festival close to my heart, and I thank them. I also could not have done this without all the people who have sliced onions, made sandwiches, peeled shrimp, cut watermelon, plated pasta, handed out pastries, and worked in exhausting heat.

A special thank you to Mario Ferrara, Roseann Versaci, and Father Martin for presenting me with a beautiful plaque recognizing my 50 years. I was truly touched and will treasure it always.

In Italy, we say per cent’anni—for one hundred years. Today, I’m content to say per cinquant’anni e più—for fifty years and more.

Grazie mille,
Tony