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