Index

INDEX (Latest is first. Scroll down to first essay.)

I have loved the written word ever since I can remember. I have been a member of writing groups since the early 1990s. Why do I write? To give myself a voice when I didn’t always have one; to express my creativity; to explore myself, my feelings and ideas; sometimes to stay sane; because I love words; because I love my fellow writers. I hope you enjoy some of the writings I’ve written over the years.

Hiding Out in the Library–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2024/03/25/hiding-out-in-the-library/

Amen–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2023/11/16/amen/

I Remember Boys–LINK: https://wordpress.com/post/lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/417

Ancestors–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2022/09/20/mcpolin-ancestors

Disconnect–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2022/08/31/disconnect/

An Unfamiliar Life–LINK:  https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2022/03/01/an-unfamiliar-life/

The Story of a Marriage–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2022/01/14/the-story-of-a-marriage/

Note to Self–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2021/07/03/note-to-self/

My Childhood–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2021/06/20/my-childhood/

Opening the Door to Adventure: Or How I Stopped Wearing Housedresses and Realized I Could Be Married and Still Have Fun–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2021/04/17/opening-the-door-to-adventure-or-how-i-stopped-wearing-housedresses-and-realized-i-could-be-married-and-still-have-fun/

Barbizon Girl–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2021/04/10/barbizon-girl/

Spring Break 1959–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2021/03/01/spring-break-1959/

Scenes from the Mall–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2021/02/17/scenes-from-the-mall/

I Was Born Innocent–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2020/11/07/i-was-born-innocent/

Boone’s Farm (poem)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2020/07/01/boones-farm/

Village on the Green–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2020/04/24/village-on-the-green/

Five Minutes of a Life–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2019/03/02/five-minutes-of-a-life/

A Letter to Vietnam Vets on Veteran’s Day–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/11/11/a-letter-to-vietnam-veterans-on-veterans-day/

Long Island Daisy–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/10/20/long-island-daisy/

Seasons–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/09/25/seasons/

Now & Then (poem and essay on changing times)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/09/10/now-and-then/

a quote

Suburbia in the ’60s–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/07/29/suburbia-in-the-60s/

a quote

The 75 Club–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/07/02/the-75-club/

Lust–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/06/20/lust/

a quote

Taking Care of Business–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/04/18/taking-care-of-business/

Two Brothers–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/04/14/two-brothers/

Rise and Shine–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/04/01/rise-and-shine/

The Blizzard of ’47–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/03/25/the-blizzard/

Dream Deferred–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/01/10/dream-deferred/

Pondering–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2018/01/06/ordinary-life/

The Address Book–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/12/30/the-address-book/

a quote

Necklaces (poem)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/12/01/necklaces/

The Sugar Bowl (a grandmother remembered)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/11/19/the-sugar-bowl/

a quote

Daydreaming and the Sears Catalog–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/10/30/daydreaming-and-the-sears-catalog/

Ancestors (from Ireland in the 1800s)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/10/25/ancestors/

a quote

In It Together (early days of marriage)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/10/17/in-it-together/

Days of Summer (in the 50s)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/days-of-summer/

Spinning–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/09/19/spinning/

a quote

138 Alexander Avenue (our first apartment)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/08/17/138-alexander-avenue/

I Am a Verb–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/08/16/i-am-a-verb/

Walking in the Rain–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/08/11/walking-in-the-rain/

Hair Speaks (poem)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/08/10/hair-speaks/

Getting to Heaven–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/08/10/getting-to-heaven/

Passage (fifth grade at Catholic school)–LINK: https://lynndigiacomowrites.wordpress.com/2017/08/08/first-blog-post-passage/

Hiding Out in the Library

The Yonkers Public Library in Getty Square—I look up. The stairs are high and there are lots of them. I hold my mother’s hand tight. I can feel my banana curls bounce as I climb the high steps to the door of the library. My mother opens it, and I look up at the high, high ceiling in the big round room. My mouth opens in surprise when I look inside and see all the books. My mother lets go of my hand and I wander over to shelves and shelves of books. I look up and up and up. More books than I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

At home there is a phone table next to a chair in the living room with two shelves and three or four books on each shelf.

Who is going to read all these books? How long would it take me to read all these books?

 “Mommy, Mommy, look.”

“Ssh! Ssh!” the lady at the desk says. Like in a church, you had to be quiet.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this was my first visit to a Carnegie library. *

At school, there was a small library at the back on the second floor. I remember being scared of the librarians there. They seemed formidable and ever present— watching and lurking like library police. We would be allowed in, a few at a time, and told to make our choices quickly. No lingering. We would go to the desk with one or two books. The librarian would take the card out of the pocket at the back of the book and mark it with the date it was due

Then in summer, the bookmobile would come, and summer’s lark would infect the book world with a sense of excitement and fun. Something to look forward to on those endless days of summer.

The first library that I went to by myself with my friends and where I had my very own library card was a small storefront in Woodlawn. There, my friends and I surreptitiously looked in reference books for answers to questions we didn’t know how to ask— about “childbirth,” “pregnancy,” “the curse,” “breasts,” and “penises.” One of the librarians would sneak up behind us and ask what we were doing or if we needed help. We giggled, out of fear and embarrassment.

I was often told that I should be in the children’s section, not the adult’s when my inquisitive eye led me there. I loved the feel of the books, their pages, the excitement I felt when I discovered one that led me into a world I had never explored and when I met a character I adored.

After I got married and had my own children, I had the pleasure of taking my sons to the library, hoping that they would love reading as much as I did.

Later, when they were grown and we had moved to Nyack, I discovered another Carnegie library. Have you ever thought about your dream job? I hadn’t, but I found one quite by accident.

I became active in The Friends of the Nyacks, a group interested in the architecture and the history of our unique community on the banks of the Hudson River. I gave walking tours, served as their secretary and president, and did their newsletter. I especially loved doing the newsletter. It reminded me of the days back in college when I worked on the school newspaper, Outlook.

When the Program Director of the Nyack Library quit, someone suggested I would make a good replacement because of my work with The Friends organization. I was asked if I would be interested. One of the duties of the Program Director was to do the monthly library newsletter.

Would I be interested? Of course, I would. I had never imagined such a position. To do a monthly newsletter and work in a library. A Carnegie library!

The reality of the job was even better than what I thought it would be—ten times better. The Director of the library gave me a free hand to do what I wanted to do, as long as I came up with a certain number of programs a month and got the newsletter done. I could work as many or as little hours a week as long as I got that done. The best part of the job was my office. My very own office, with a huge desk. It was on a mezzanine, overlooking the main floor of the library, and the side that faced the library floor was all glass. The view I had was dark wood paneling, couches and chairs for reading, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive stone fireplace.

I was in heaven.

And, because I did programs in the evening and had to close up when everyone left, I had a key to the library! Sometimes, if I didn’t get the newsletter done, I would continue to work on it after closing. I did that on a computer by the check-out desk on the main floor. The library was hushed and dark (only the closing lights were on). I could almost imagine the characters of the books on the shelves coming out and dancing around while I worked.

The library became my own magic kingdom then, as it and books had always been for me. Because I always had a keen curiosity, I never ran out of program ideas. And Nyack was an artistic and diverse community with a rich source of artists, writers, film makers, and actors. You name it, we had it.

Carson McCullers had lived in Nyack and we had committed to doing a program honoring her. Because of that I had the pleasure of visiting McCullers’ home (where she wrote Ballad of a Sad Café and Member of the Wedding) and of meeting Dr. Mary Mercer, her psychotherapist and later close friend for many years. I visited Dr. Mercer’s home high on a hill where she enjoyed a sweeping view of the Hudson River.

I planned the program, with local actors reading portions of McCullers’ writings. One of the actors who gave a reading was Ellen Burstyn, who lived in Upper Nyack.

When Karen Finley came to my office and said she wanted to do a program at the library, she explained in a soft-spoken voice that she was a performance artist and activist for women’s rights. She had lost her National Endowment for the Arts grant based on a decency clause. She calmly stated that the government didn’t have a right to decide what was decent and what wasn’t. I agreed to let her do a program because I didn’t believe in censorship.

I didn’t realize how controversial and well-known she was. We usually had maybe an average of ten to twenty people come to a program. That night the line went up two flights of stairs and out the door. We had to estimate the number so it didn’t exceed the fire code and had to turn some away. Some on the library board objected to it, but because of community support and praise, they only gave the Library Director advice to keep the programs less controversial.

We participated in a few programs developed by the County Library System; some we got grants for. One of those programs, Great Decisions, was popular. We would have discussions about foreign policy challenges facing Americans. My favorite, though, was our yearly Book Discussion Series. Each Series revolved around a specific topic, the county loaned us books that reflected the topic, and we hired scholars to lead the discussion.

There were other programs (about fifty a year) on a vast variety of topics: many authors, herbal remedies and acupuncture, demystifying dreams, opera, a batik workshop (presented by a local batik artist), flower arranging, getting organized, financial planning, Irish women poets, an Appalachian Trail slide show, a peace program by the Fellowship of Reconciliation, drawing, art lectures, among others.

For me, it was fun, educational, stimulating, and challenging. And I got to work in a magical place.

I often kidded Ernie, that if I ever ran away, he would know exactly where to look for me.

*Carnegie libraries were built with money provided by Scottish- American businessman Andrew Carnegie. There were 1,689 built in the United States between 1883 and 1929. Most of these libraries had impressive architecture. One of Carnegie’s requirements was that the libraries have open shelving where patrons could browse and choose their own books, unlike the current system at the time where a patron had to request a particular book and someone would go and get the requested item. Another requirement was that they have large, high windows to provide lighting.

Amen

I remember my First Holy Communion, my hands clasped in prayer, my head bowed. The white veil. Simple, but trimmed with lace, draped across my shoulders. I remember feeling holy…special…chosen. We had to confess our sins. Tell the priest all the bad things we had done, so we were pure enough to receive “the body of Christ.” My world was simple then. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Black and white.

I think of that day, that feeling, when I go to yoga and stand in prayer pose, hands pressed together over my heart center, feeling strong…wise…powerful. I am older by seventy plus years, therefore I am stronger, wiser, more powerful than that six-year-old. But it is more than that. My hands are closer to my chest and are pointed slightly inward, as if the strength is within me, not that I am asking someone else for it. My head instead of being bowed in supplication, subservience, is held high, steady, strong and proud. My feet are planted firmly on the ground.

As a child, I was taught that pride was a sin, one of the seven deadly sins. The dictionary defines pride as “an exaggerated opinion of oneself” or “self-esteem, self-respect.”

I was not a proud girl; I am a proud woman. I am proud that this aged body can still stand tall and do yoga twice a week. Life’s complexities have taught me that things are rarely all right or all wrong; people aren’t all good or all evil. I am proud that I have gained this insight through my experiences. I am proud and respect myself; I don’t believe this is a sin, but a strength. I don’t confess to a priest; I look within and search my soul. My connection is personal, spiritual.

Breathe in…Breathe out. Inhale slowly and deeply. Head bowed, I pay respect to others—teachers, fellow yogis. It fills my spirit with gratitude, love, completeness. I feel at one with the universe. My soul honors your soul.

And so it is. Amen.

NAMASTE

I Remember Boys

I remember boys—boys pressing me up against the side of my house, some just wanting a sweet kiss, others trying to grope. I remember the feel of asphalt shingles on my back. The mixed-up feelings of wanting to and not wanting to. I remember the fear too, sometimes a little, other times a lot. The fear of losing control, of doing something I didn’t want to do. I trembled from the groping and the wanting and the not wanting and from the confusion of it all.

Why was it that I was always on the inside, up against the house, so they could press their bodies up against mine?

In the wake of the “Me Too” Movement and Women’s Lib, are girls on the outside? Are they the ones that press up against…or not? What would it feel like to have that kind of power?

by Lynn DiGiacomo

McPolin Ancestors

My McPolin great-grandparents, Bernard and Anna, came to the U.S. shortly after they were married in 1872. Bernard was born in County Down in 1851. Anna was born in Kilkenny c 1850. They came to Pennsylvania where Bernard worked in the coal mines in West Mahanoy. Their son Edward James (my grandfather) was born there in 1873, and their son Richard in 1876. In 1880, he is recorded as still living there. He was injured in the mines after which he moved his family to New York. In 1891, he owned a stationery store where his wife Anna worked as a clerk. Anna passed away in 1902, in Bronx, New York, at the age of 52. Bernard died six months later. They had been married 30 years. They are buried in Old St. Raymond’s Cemetery. I have written–around these basic facts and some research I did on mining in Pennsylvania at that time–a tale of how it might have been .

BERNARD

He had been shaped by mountains, by the wildness of the coast, the waves breaking sharply without care to what or where they broke, washing ancient rock out to sea along with anything or anyone else in its path. Relentless. These waves molded a wild breed, a breed weathered by storms, unsuited to the close quarters of mines–the black tunnels and coal and breathless air.

            He sucked air to breathe. He walked pitching forward in a breathless motion, gulping in short pockets of air. He was a squat solid man, red haired, shocking to see in the colorless landscape of the Pennsylvania mines, and blue eyed like the Irish sky he had left behind, eyes not yet hollowed by the mines in which he worked.

            In the crossing he had not known he was leaving sky behind—could not have imagined. Yet here in Pennsylvania, the piles of slag from the mines blocked the sun and brought night on early, so that he entered the mines in the dark and emerged from them in darkness as well.

On the boat from Ireland there had been those who looked back at the mountains and the coastline, wistful, and there had been those who looked out to sea in search of a new horizon. He had been one of those. He had looked at the vastness of the ocean and built dreams upon it.

                                                                                    –Lynn DiGiacomo

Disconnect

Fields of flowers you fail to notice.

Sunsets seen through a lens of glass.

Books unopened.

Music that does not reach your soul.

Silence and reflection

are absent, unknown.

You walk past doors

you don’t realize are open.

You sit there

phone to your ear,

as though listening to a seashell

for primal secrets.

By Lynn DiGiacomo

An Unfamiliar Life

Katrina affected many. What follows is an example of just one of those who were displaced. It is not based on an actual person, but could be anyone.

He had lived in New Orleans all his life. Living on beans and rice, hand to mouth. He is a survivor. A crusty old musician skilled at making do. Now he’s challenged, not by man or woman, but by the weather—Katrina by name.

            She uprooted him, moved him to a strange place, no jazz places here in this small Midwest town, nothing familiar. FEMA gave him an apartment—six months rent free—a palace, a place he could never have dreamed of living because he never knew such places existed.

             And free? He had never taken anything in his life free, never beholden to anyone. But they told him he was entitled, would be crazy not to.

            They gave him new clothes. He looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t know who he is, sees a stranger there peering back at him. He walks the streets at night listening for the sounds of a trumpet, a saxophone, or a blues harp. But no sound comes. On Sunday he goes to church, but has no sense of community there, misses his rousing preacher and gospel choir.

            His old cronies are either dead, back home in New Orleans or relocated elsewhere. He feels unmoored. Rudderless. Like a sailboat in the middle of the ocean, without the music, his community, his church, he feels like there is no wind to fill his sails.

            This new affluence, for that’s what it is compared to his old life, is a nightmare. And people keep giving him things, adding to the strangeness with their generosity.

            Never a drinking man, he finds some solace in booze to wipe out his increasing discomfort, now that he has the means to do so.

            Each morning he wakes up to the same unfamiliar life and doesn’t know how to get back to his old one.

By Lynn DiGiacomo

The Story of a Marriage

How does one tell the story of a marriage? How do I sum up the days and nights, the ups and downs, of sixty years together? How do I convey the love, the passion, the depths, the complexities? How do I do that without cliches?    

Not easily.   

Do I say he breathes in, I breathe out? Do I say he understands me, knows me, and still loves me? Do I say that being together is one of my greatest pleasures, but that being apart enriches both of us? Do I say that our life together is more than I ever dreamed it would be? Do I say that we have inside jokes based on a lifetime together that nobody would get but us, that there are memories I can’t share with anyone else if something ever happened to him? Do I say that we have traveled so many places, shared so many of those memories, that it seems hard to believe that it’s only been one lifetime? Do I say that we look at our family–our two sons, our daughter-in-laws, our seven grandchildren–and swell with pride and joy in the lives they are creating? Do I say that his touch still thrills me? Do I say that in his arms, I am home?  

Or do I say that it has been a life-long love affair? 

Note to Self

Each year, at the end of summer, I say to myself: I didn’t go to the beach enough, didn’t see enough sunsets, didn’t walk the Ponquogue Bridge often enough, didn’t go to Tiki Joe’s at Meschutt Beach and listen to music enough, didn’t have coffee and donuts at Ponquogue Pavilion enough, didn’t sit outside and sip coffee and read a book enough. Each year I say next year I will . . . I will . . . I will. . . . And yet the summer slips through my fingers like a handful of sand. I want to slow it all down and savor it. I want to be in the moment . . . to grasp my regrets before they become regrets.

“Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.” –Steve Miller, “Fly Like an Eagle”

Perhaps I should write a note to myself–an admonition–and put it in my June tickler file. DO NOT SQUANDER THE SUMMER. Do not sit in the house on a sunny day. Do not wake up slowly–throw on your clothes, grab a beach chair, and go. Just go. Walk the beach, gather shells, get lost in the ebb and flow of the waves, listen to the music, watch the sunset. Just do it. Just say yes. LIVE!

by Lynn DiGiacomo

My Childhood

When my bicycle was better transportation than any car.

When a bologna sandwich was a great lunch,

so great I had it every day of grammar school.

When going down the ‘big woods’

was high adventure.

Or going to ‘the Rezey’ or down Coutant hill sleigh riding

was better than Vail or Aspen.

My secrets and worries were great,

but my ability to “whistle a happy tune” was greater.

I was spy, sleuth, magic dragon,

king of the kingdom or damsel in distress,

When I opened a book and climbed inside.

Or when I went to the Kent Theater

and danced with Fred Astaire.

My life then was an open book

waiting to be written.

by Lynn DiGiacomo

Opening the Door to Adventure: Or How I Stopped Wearing Housedresses and Realized I Could Be Married and Still Have Fun

I am startled by a loud banging on the glass door at the back of the house. I look up and see a stranger gesturing for me to open the door. Puzzled, I open it. 

            She brushes past me, uninvited. The room fills with her energy.

            “I live next door. I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”

            “I…ah…don’t have any.” I don’t drink coffee, I think, but don’t say.

            “Whada ya have?”

            “Would you like some tea,” I say, but think, this woman is crazy. I don’t even know her name.

            “Okay.”

            She follows me into the kitchen, continuing to talk. “I’m Jeanne. We live over there,” she says as she points across the backyard. “We saw ya and …Was that your husband. Heee’s cute. I thought it would be good if we got to know each other. Don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I say, putting the water on for tea. I wonder, though, if I really want to be friends with this person. But what other friends do I have, stuck here all day without a car? I hadn’t talked to a soul, aside from the kids, all day.

We had moved in last fall to this new development of “patio homes” just north of New York City—a half hour and a world away from our parents. It was our first home.

She sits down as I hand her a cup of tea. She chatters on. I feel myself getting caught up in her liveliness, which was infectious..

“What’s your name. How many kids do you have? You look awful young. How old are you? How long have you been here?”

I didn’t know which question to answer first. I had never met anyone quite like her. It’s 10 a.m. and she’s fully made up, including mascara and eye shadow. And her hair–carrot red–is obviously dyed. Teased and sprayed, she looks like she just stepped out of the beauty parlor. Here I am sitting on the couch reading in my housedress, and she’s in tight pants and a fuzzy pink sweater.

“I’m Lynn. I have two kids. Two boys. We’ve been here since October. I’m twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three! My god, you’re a baby. Twenty-three. You’re just what I need–a young friend. I bet you know all the new dances. You could teach me.”

            I am young. But I don’t feel young. I begin to wonder what I must look like—in my housedress, hair uncombed, no make-up. We had married at 19; I’m now 23. But dancing? God, I haven’t thought about dancing in five years! I didn’t think married people did that. Where would we dance, I wonder. I spend my days cleaning, cooking, taking care of the children, and when I get a chance I read a book.

            “I’m from the Bronx.” Well, that explains her accent. “Moved in last week. Don’t know anyone.” Her hands move in rhythm with her words.

            “We haven’t had a chance to meet many people either,” I say. “What with the winter. Glad to see the warmer weather, finally.” What I don’t say is that the donut man comes around regularly, and sometimes I go out and get some donuts just to have someone to talk to. His loud horn has been music to my ears over the long winter months. I’d put on fifteen pounds in the six months we’d lived here. I put my hand absentmindedly on my belly. 

            “I have a little girl,” she says, “she’s taking a nap.”

            “You left her alone?” I ask, incredulous. What if she wakes up, I think.

            My little one is taking a nap upstairs. My little boy is quietly playing with blocks nearby, despite all the commotion.

“Sure. Sure,” she says. She looks around. “I like your furniture. You don’t have much of it though.” 

“Well, we’re saving up for more.” What I don’t say is that I saw the movers at her house last week and liked hers too. I don’t say anything though; I feel a little funny that I was being nosey watching to see who was moving in and what kind of furniture they had.

“Oh, just buy it on time.”

Perhaps seeing my puzzled look, she continues, “You’ve never done that? I can’t believe it. You can pay for it in 90 days—same as cash.”

She blathers on for another ten minutes or so, telling me about her husband, her sister, her mother. She speaks so rapidly that it’s hard to keep up with what she’s saying. I almost feel out of breath just listening to her.

She overwhelms, but I am drawn in.

“Well,” she says, getting up, “we’re having a party Saturday night. Some of our friends from the Bronx are coming up. Why don’t you come over. If you’re worried about

leaving the kids alone, we can take the phone off the hook and you can listen for them.”

                                                            *

That was my first encounter more than 50 plus years ago with my crazy red-headed friend Jeanne. She was a people magnet, and we became part of her circle of friends. We had parties, went out, and, yes, danced.

Jeanne passed away last year. We lived across from each other for twelve years. We had lost touch over the years, but I often thought about her and that time in my life. Though sometimes she could be overwhelming, Jeanne made life just a little more interesting and fun. She made me see my world just a little differently. I started to look at myself as more than just a housewife.

            I remember one time when we went out shopping for the afternoon. At a gathering that evening, she was telling the group about her day. I was there all day with her, and I listened with astonishment. She didn’t lie, just embellished. Life was bigger for Jeanne, and those of us around her got caught up in her web.

            My life then and today was changed and enhanced by her friendship. In fact, at one of those parties at her house, we met our dear friends, Terry and John, whom we still keep in touch with today.

by Lynn DiGiacomo