Samuel James Bilotta

A teenager named Adelina Dramis, was barely 14 when she sailed from Napoli, Italy with her uncle to be joined with her father in Philadelphia in 1905. Later that year she married Tommaso Francesco Bilotta who had arrived from Calabria, Italy two years earlier and was 10 years older. Over the next 26 years they were “fruitful” and brought forth 13 children.

The six boys were only slightly outnumbered by girls, with Sam being the fourth-born and the first son. Home was at 228 Manton Street, just east of Moyamensing Avenue, and their playground was nearby at Jefferson Square. With a family of that size, Sam learned that things get done faster through teamwork, and as the oldest boy he saw that good leadership brings better results. These ideas would serve him well in his career.

He and his brother Frank, who was two years younger, left school to join the working world as teenagers but their occupations weren’t listed in the 1930 census. Perhaps they were learning about plumbing from their father. Two older sisters in their 20s were in a factory making cigars, while their mother would give birth for the last time in 1931. They relocated to 911 Dickinson Street after that.

Sam married his wife for life in 1938. Her name was Liboria Loguidice but everyone called her Betty. They were living at 1234 South 6th Street when he registered for the draft in 1940, describing himself as five feet, two and a half inches tall and weighing 168 pounds, but he listed no employer. 

Although Sam’s employment at Mount Moriah didn’t begin until after the war, he knew of the place because his father worked there for a time. Thomas was previously in building construction, but on his draft card dated April 27, 1942, he listed his new employer as “Mr. Jones at Mount Moriah Cemetery.” Whether he was a gravedigger or groundskeeper, it wouldn’t have been light work for a man in his 60s. Heart failure ended his life in 1946.

Sam’s family grew to three when Arlene was born in 1943, followed by Marie in 1946 and Thomas in 1949. “Uncle Sam” needed Sam to join the Army on October 2, 1943. He was assigned to Company C of the 64th Armored Infantry Battalion but never went overseas.

In 1950 the state compensated him for his service, sending this “punch card” check that utilized the latest data processing technology, and it was accepted as a valid bank check. He received $10 a month for 15 months of domestic service.  A note on his draft card says he received a surgeon’s certificate of discharge on January 7, 1945.

A lack of documentation makes it difficult to determine everyone who worked at the cemetery and served on the board of directors during the 20th century. George Connell was probably the last board member who was from the family that founded and controlled the business. He assumed the title of secretary/treasurer in 1928 when his father died and kept it until his death in 1955. The check shown above was endorsed on the back by George, proving he was still somewhat active even though he remained in assisted living after he had a stroke in 1943. 

In the 1930s, the daily operations of the cemetery were handled by James Jones who had the title of superintendent. He was succeeded at his death in 1941 by his son, Horatio Connell Jones, who had been office manager before that. But Horatio’s home was in Delaware where he, like his father, invested in land. 

He wasn’t a full-time superintendent, which is probably why he hired Sam. That was Sam’s title in the 1950 census, while Horatio listed his as “cemetery superintendent and farmer.” Sam kept that job and kept things running on a daily basis until he died in 1959. 

The address of James and Mary Ellen Jones was always at 6200 Kingsessing Avenue in the apartment above the office, and she remained there after he died. She likely played an active role on the business end but died two weeks after the 1950 census was taken. 

The story of the Bilottas, however, reveals some of the history of the iconic gatehouse, since they lived there for close to 30 years. This photo from the early 1900s shows that additions were made to both sides of the original structure. Who may have lived there before the Bilottas is unknown.

Sam and Betty’s address was 6299 Kingsessing but there was one more address on that 1950 census page. Thomas McGowan, the gravedigger, lived on the other side of the gatehouse at 6299½ Kingsessing.  

At one time other male laborers, shown here, may have also lived on the left side of those ivy-covered arches. A garage for the backhoe and mowers was adjacent to their quarters. 

Arlene shared what it was like growing up in an unusual place, saying it didn’t feel that unusual at all. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a bedroom, living room, dining room and kitchen below, a basement, plus a patio that Sam added. The girls are seen here in their Easter dresses.

One more family photo is shown below.  It was taken from behind the gatehouse, aound 1954 during a visit from some of Sam’s siblings and their families. On the left are the coping walls surrounding the Father Time statue.

There are several clues about certain members of the Jones family who served on the board during those years. Exactly when they joined is unknown but it appears they each served until their death. James Jones must have been one, succeeded by his wife, Mary Ellen. Horatio Jones definitely was until his death in 1966. His wife Henrietta helped run things until 1989, and their son, Horatio Jr. was the only member of the board after that until he died in 2004. Learn more about the final years of the cemetery through his life story, found here.

The only known board member who was not in the immediate family was Sam. He may have been invited shortly before 1950 or to replace Mary Ellen Jones. When he died of cancer in 1959, Betty was asked to fill his board seat, but from that point forward the cemetery would never have the benefit of a full-time on-site manager. The Bilottas lived at the gatehouse until the children were grown, and Betty decided to move in 1972 to live with Marie’s family. 

Their former home remained empty and fell into disrepair. That led to water damage through the roof and the eventual destruction of everything underneath. A night watchman and his family lived in the apartment above the office from 1958 until he died in 1980.

But the neighborhood changed, security was impossible because the cemetery wasn’t totally walled or fenced in, and people stopped caring for their family plots as they did in years past. The business slowed considerably, began losing money, and the perpetual care fund was drained until the cemetery was closed for good in 2011.

Betty’s life is memorialized on this stone where she and Sam rest beside his parents and five of his siblings.  Two other siblings had headstones placed here in advance, but the cemetery closed before they died so they were buried elsewhere.