The Things They Carried

The skies were kind as the Feast of Saint Rocco came to a close on Sunday. Although the weight of rain hung heavy in the air, the sun shone brightly as members of the Society of Saint Rocco approached lower Main Street making their way toward the final leg of their march around West Fort Lee.  

Led by the Society band and a cordon of motorcycle police, the older Society members positioned themselves around the statue while the younger members hoisted the statue of Saint Rocco upon their backs and carried him through the heat on their way to the chapel that sits just on the edge of lower Main Street. 

As the parade reached Firehouse No. 1, the statue of Saint Rocco was lowered to the ground so that those who were carrying him could take a final rest in preparation for the running of Saint Rocco. 

Yes, Pamplona has the annual running of the bulls; Fort Lee has the annual running of Saint Rocco. 

Like the feast itself, it’s all about tradition. Tradition is what keeps people coming back home to Fort Lee year after year. 

Tradition like the firemen sitting in the bay of the engine room at Firehouse No. 1 leaning against the front of the truck, watching the parade as they have done for nearly a century. 

Tradition like the people sitting in the same spot where generations of families have sat in what was once the parking lot of a gas station. 

Tradition that had people lined the perimeter of restaurant as they have done for many, many years waiting for the statue to pass by. 

Tradition is the one thing you can depend on in a world of constant change. 

As the society members rested, lower Main Street began to fill with crowds of people; people for whom this area of town had once been home. People for whom this area of town becomes home again for one week every August. 

The time of year when the once familiar dialect of lower Main Street returns to its rightful place if only for an afternoon--English with more than a hint of Napolitano. 

The children danced on the sidewalks while people mingled and laughed and in doing so re-conjured an old neighborhood. 

From behind the tree-line of the Palisades stood the top of the George Washington Bridge watching over the town that gave it its home as it has for so many years.   

Finally, with the sound of a cannon and a few firecrackers, the men once again hoisted the statue of Saint Rocco on their backs and ran as fast as they could in tandem to the chapel. 

Their light blue shirts stained with sweat; their faces pulsing as they concentrated on not tripping, falling or dropping the statue. 

From that first step they started to gain momentum. Quickly they ran. Faster, faster, faster, until they came to the end of Lower Main Street, and at full tilt turned and ran the statue to the Saint Rocco Chapel where they sat it down on the chapel steps. 

As the Society band played the National Anthem, the crowd fell silent, hand over heart, silently mouthing the words. Then, as tradition has it, the cannons were fired for the last time signaling the end of the parade and the start of the last night of the feast.

These young men who carried the statue of Saint Rocco carried more than just the weight of a statue upon their backs; they carried the weight of tradition. The tradition of their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers. A tradition that they will pass on to their sons, who will in turn pass it on to their sons.

Because although people die, and neighborhoods vanish, traditions like the Feast of Saint of Rocco never will. For as long as there are sons willing to bear the weight of a saint, so will they continue to bear the weight of tradition and carry on the work of so many fathers that came before them.

Editor's Note: Additional photos of the final day of the Feast of St. Rocco by John Ford.