Barbizon Girl

High heels clicking on the pavement, I walk out of Grand Central Station, up two blocks toward the 42^nd Street Library, turn the corner at 5^th Avenue. Dozens of people jostle for space as I cross the street. Gray buildings tunnel my vision. Street hawkers shout, “Get your fresh hot bagel.” The cacophony of sounds that is New York City–the car horns, the hot dog vendor, the guy selling bus tours, the buses heading crosstown–quicken my pulse, even though I have been making this trek from Yonkers to the city for the past three months—a mile walk from my house to the bus at the Yonkers/Bronx city line, then another bus by the Woodlawn Cemetery that took me to the NYC subway and eventually to the city.

            In my high heels, nylons, white pleated skirt swishing around my knees, my brown hair in a flip, I pretend to be older than my seventeen years—more sophisticated. I hold my round white suitcase with pride—the suitcase that in 1961 in NYC says to the world, “I am a model,” or in my case hope to be one.        

            I remember the day my friend Donna told me she was going to go to The Barbizon School of Modeling. “You’re so attractive and thin, you should come with me,” she said. I had never thought of doing anything like that. I knew people thought I was pretty, and I saw the way boys looked at me, but I never really felt pretty. But I kept thinking of what Donna said, and my mother said it would be good for me to go.

            Donna and I made the first trip together. When we got off the train at Grand Central, we were confused and disoriented–but excited. We finally found where the school was, in a super ordinary building right off of 5^th Avenue. A small entryway and an equally small elevator took us up to the second floor, where a bevy of chattering girls waited. A beautiful, long-legged receptionist took our names, and we sat down and waited for the big interview.

            At the orientation, the instructor explained that there are three kinds of models: full-time showroom models, seasonal models, and fashion models. The first made the least money, but had the most longevity. The latter made a lot of money, but generally had the shortest career.

Last week I graduated, and I am officially a Barbizon Girl. I am here, today, for my first “lead”—actually two—and I hope to get a summer job as a model before starting my freshman year at City College of New York in the fall.

            I think about the last three months: the interview, walking across the room, past those former models observing my every movement, taking my measurements: 34-24-37. Okay, I’d have to work on that hip measurement. One inch less should do it.

            One week they taught me about make-up. I sat in front of one of the big make-up mirrors with the round-bulbed lights, and seasoned models taught me the tricks of the trade. Almay. Non-allergic. All the girls sat, with their make-up cases and capes as the instructor demonstrated how to apply foundation, powder, lipstick, eye make-up. “Take care of your skin,” the instructor said, “It’s one of the tools of your trade.

            Another week I learned to glide across the room as a runway model. “It’s not about you,” they told us, “it is about the clothes. You are not there to swish and sway and call attention to yourself, but to be a mannequin.” I tried to picture in my mind walking—pegged skirt, high heels—across the room, pivoting just so, as critical eyes judge my every move

Then we learned diction. Correct pronunciation. Speak slowly, carefully. Practice, practice, practice. I got little booklets each week to reinforce the lessons. Each lesson a different color: pink, blue, green. Laminated orange Barbizon cards, emblazoned with their logo in black, were marked with the lesson learned, my weight, and measurements.

            Now, as I wait for the elevator, I get a secret thrill knowing that those around me know I’m a Barbizon Girl. I go upstairs with some of the other girls and collect two leads for this week. One of the leads is across from Bryant Park, just a few blocks away. Great. Down the elevator, toward Bryant Park.

            I find the building, go upstairs and wait for the interview. While I wait, I scan the black-and-white sketched ads that appear in the fashion section of the New York Times—Franklin Simon, Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue. I’m called in, and there’s a young guy, dressed in black, drawing at a sketchpad. He tells me to get up on a dais in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.  

            “Just get up on the platform. Move around. Pretend you’re in an evening gown, dancing around and showing off, until I see something I want to sketch.”

            I walk over to the platform and step up. From there I can see the traffic on 42^nd Street and people in Bryant Park. I get so caught up in the view that I forget he wants me to move around.

“Okay. You can move now,” snaps me out of my reverie.

I start to move around, but feel clumsy. Awkward. I don’t know what he wants me to do, feel stupid pretending I have a gown on, but I turn this way and that, my arms up, down and around. Oh, god, I think, how am I supposed to do this? I try to imagine what those ads in the paper look like. But can’t. Who knew this is how it is done. Nothing in modeling school has prepared me for this. On the contrary, this feels like it’s more about me than the clothes.

            “That’ll do,” he says abruptly. “We’ll call, if we need you.”

I know they won’t call.

            I look at the other lead. Rosgren’s, 38^th Street. Waist cinched, head held high, I walk to 6^th Avenue, then head south.  On the way, I pass a construction site and hear some wolf whistles and catcalls. “Hey, babe, what ya doin’ later?” “Va va voom.” A blush of pleasure rises to my cheeks, while I pretend to ignore them. I can’t help but smile, just a little bit.

            I feel relieved to have that awful interview over. Hopefully the next one will be better.

            Once I turn onto 38^h Street, it is bedlam. Men pull and push racks of clothes. Some are running, some walking leisurely, one whistling. There are shouts, curses and friendly helloes. Lots of noise and congestion. The Garment District.

            One guy is pulling two racks—one with each hand–with bolts of fabric in different colors and textures. If there isn’t enough room for them to get through on the sidewalk, they wheel the racks into the street. One guy is hauling a naked mannequin across the street.

            Three tall women walk abreast toward me—models I’m sure, in their slim black dresses, high heels and tell-tale round cases. Guys ogle them up and down.

            I check the address again—230 West 38^th Street. Ooops, I was so busy looking at all the activity, I passed right by it. I double back, go in, take the elevator to Rosgren’s on the second floor. I go to the receptionist and tell her I’m here for the modeling job. No wall of windows. No real waiting room. I stand and wait.

            The manager comes out. He explains that the job is for a showroom model. They make coats. Buyers from various stores come in, look at coats to purchase for their stores. I would be expected to model the coats for them, and on occasion go into the back room where the head tailor would custom fit the coats to my figure.

            He asks me to try on one of the coats and walk around the showroom. Now this is more like it. This is what they taught me to do at Barbizon. This is my kind of job. I glide across the room, make a few turns, show the features of the coat—the buttons, the collar, the pockets.

            “Okay,” he says, “give your information to Joyce. You can start on Monday.”

            I had my first modeling job. Yippee!

As it turned out, it was my last modeling job as well. For one summer, I got a peek into the world of modeling. In truth, the best part of the job was the walk from the subway station to work each morning–in my high heels and the signature, round white suitcase.

The rest of it was pretty dull. The fittings by the older ethnic tailor who would smooth the cloth across my chest and I would pretend not to notice because I didn’t know how to handle it. The modeling in the showroom for the bored middle-aged buyers from out of town. The boredom between showings. The day-to-day world of the showroom model is less than glamorous.

It was, though, the beginning of my life-long love of New York City. I thrived on its energy and excitement. I walked through the Garment District every day and breathed in the bustle and hustle. I loved the appreciative glances—and, yes, the wolf whistles. I savored this during that summer of 1961, before the feminist movement told us that this was demeaning.

That summer, however, I basked in the much-needed attention.

Spring Break 1959

Where the Boys Are was released in the winter of 1960. It made the term “Spring Break” popular and synonymous with Fort Lauderdale.

All that was unknown to me in the spring of 1959. My best friend, Beth, was heading to Lauderdale, where she and her family visited her aunts each year. She and I plotted for weeks to convince our parents to let me go—to no avail. Even though we had bought matching pink-and-white-stripe Bermuda shorts so we could look like sisters, no amount of begging, cajoling or sulking did any good.

They left shortly before Easter. I was heartbroken as only a fifteen-year-old can be, but resigned. Unbeknownst to me, Beth wasn’t. Resignation wasn’t her style. She dug her heels in and remained miserable until her parents relented.

The day before Easter she called, “Can you come? My mom and dad said it’s okay.”

I got off the phone and begged, “Please, please. I’ll pay the airfare back from my allowance. I’ll keep my room clean. I’ll do anything. Please. Please.” Finally, my mother gave in, called the airline and got me a seat on one of the new jet airplanes. It would take only two hours, instead of the four hours it took on a regular plane.

I had never been on an airliner, and here I was going all by myself. I wore my Easter outfit–a coral color “walking suit” that was all the rage that year, with its 3/4 jacket and straight skirt. Underneath it I wore stockings and garter belt. White gloves were folded on my lap. I felt so grown-up, like I was almost a different person…or about to be.

The stewardess, in her smart-looking navy-blue uniform, asked me if I wanted to hang the jacket up. I said no. It had been a crisp spring day when we left Idlewild Airport, and I couldn’t conceive that it was actually going to be warm when we arrived in Florida two hours later.

I sat, butterflies in my stomach, waiting for this miracle to happen.

I stepped down the stairs, into the glaring sunlight and across the tarmac. I couldn’t believe the heat, especially after the thirty-degree temps this morning in New York. I looked around at the other passengers as we headed for the terminal and saw they had shed some of their heavier clothing and were now in shorts and sleeveless blouses. I felt silly and overdressed in my heavy jacket.

As I neared the terminal, I saw Beth at the window waving to me. She, too, was in shorts, and a white summer blouse with a Peter pan collar. When I got inside, we hugged and jumped up and down with excitement.

We were staying with Beth’s Aunt Rose, who had a house on a canal in Pompano Beach with something called a Florida Room. Later we all went to dinner at The Bahia Mar, which was right on the water. Sunshine, blue water and palm trees.

The next day Beth’s Mom dropped us off near the beach in Fort Lauderdale, saying, “Now you girls be careful.”

When the car was out of sight, we ran up to “the strip,” where all the boys were. Two girls: one with short blond curls, full lips and sexy figure; the other with long, thick dark hair, clear blue eyes and a shy smile. Both had one foot in innocence and the other itchy for experience.

I looked down the street, past the family area, and saw a sea of teenagers on the beach—sitting, standing, dancing, sunbathing, walking. Hundreds and hundreds of kids. I had never seen so many in one place before. Cars cruised up and down the strip.

Mobs of kids roamed in and out of shops, restaurants and bars. They spilled onto the sidewalk, beer cans in hand. Competing music was all around, from the bars and from transistor radios. “ ‘Cause you got personality,” floated out of one bar. “Walk with personality.” We mouthed the words. “Talk with personality. Smile, with personality.”

Our eyes met. Beth, mischievous and infectious, looked at me and smiled. What a week we were going to have, her eyes said.

The corners were full of kids shouting and whistling at the occupants of the cars passing by; the boys cruising slowly by tried to entice girls to go for a ride with them. Convertibles were everywhere, boys hanging out of them, sitting up on the back seat. A few tourists drove by gaping at the goings-on.

A group of boys pulled over and rode alongside. We pretended disinterest. “Where do you go to school?” one asked. “Where you from?”

After they pulled away, we regrouped. What were we going to say? We couldn’t say we went to high school! “Let’s say we go to Hunter College,” Beth suggested.

The next time we were ready.

“Want a ride?”

I was surprised when Beth quickly said, “Sure.” But, then again, I was never quite prepared for anything Beth did. I was, however, a willing partner.

And so, the week started. I liked the attention and followed Beth’s lead, but most of the week I was on edge. She was much braver than I.

We rode up and down the strip with a couple of fellas. A lot of guys were actually sleeping on the beach; we weren’t interested in them. We did go on a date with two boys–one who went to a military school in Virginia, the other who went to Manhattan College. Both of them were from New York and had gone to Mt. St. Michael, our “brother” high school, so they seemed pretty safe.

When they took us back to Aunt Rose’s and were saying good night at the front door, Aunt Rose swung the door open, almost knocking Beth over as she was about to kiss her date. We both giggled and went in.

On our last adventure, there were only two boys in the car and instead of just driving us up and down the strip like the other boys, they took us to a lonely beachfront.

“Hey, where are we going?” Beth asked. She was in the front with the guy who was driving.

“Too crowded back there. Let’s go someplace more romantic.”

Oh, god, I thought–and more secluded I bet. They probably wanted to “make out.”

It was more secluded—off a dead-end road, empty up and down the beach and not another car in sight. But it wasn’t long before they decided to bring us back to the beach area, perhaps realizing that we were way too young and too inexperienced. Or they figured out that we weren’t interested and decided to move on to greener pastures.

I was sure glad to be back in a crowd. Later that night, Beth and I were lying in bed in our baby doll pajamas. I whispered, “God, Beth, those last two guys. We could have been abducted or killed. That was scary—out on that deserted beach. No one even knew where we were.” But my words were lost on Beth. I looked over and she was sound asleep. If I knew her, she probably was dead asleep the minute her head hit the pillow.

If 1969 would become known at The Summer of Love, 1959 was the summer of Where the Boys Are, forever immortalized in the movie.

By Lynn DiGiacomo

Scenes from the Mall

Yesterday my daughter-in-law told me they had demolished most of the old Nanuet Mall in Rockland County, New York, to transform it into The Shops at Nanuet, advertised as a “vibrant open-air town center,” a new kind of shopping experience with green space and plantings amid the stores.

            My thoughts immediately kaleidoscoped back to Yonkers and the Cross County Shopping Center. I smiled and thought the old is new again. It, too, was an open-air shopping district that opened in 1954 when I was eleven years old.

            My girlfriends and I had read in the Herald Statesman that it was “the world’s largest and greatest shopping center.” It was only three miles from our neighborhood. My friends and I couldn’t wait to go. For the next twelve years, my life and memories revolved around the Cross County Center.

                                                                  *   *   *  

During most of my teen years I spent many a weekend at the mall. The Cross County Center replaced the local main street—McLean Avenue—as the neighborhood shopping area. Unlike McLean Avenue, where stores were built and opened at various times during the past century and where you parked on the street and usually went to one or two stores nearby, this strangely modern world was a planned shopping district, where you would park your car in the parking lot and walk from store to store at your leisure.

            It was a precursor to the enclosed malls of today, one of the first of its kind in the United States. This open-air version had a wide, elongated town square between two rows of stores on either side. The plaza was filled with shrubs and plantings, benches, and crisscrossing pathways. The first enclosed mall opened two years later in Minnesota.

                                                                  *   *   *  

I don’t remember the first time I went to the mall, but I remember with remarkable clarity the day I thought I would be arrested for shoplifting.

            The day started like any other. I hopped the bus with friends Jane and Joyce. I was fifteen; Jane was fourteen; Joyce, though the youngest at thirteen, was perhaps the boldest. She had shocked me one day when she undressed in front of me in her bedroom. This was scandalous to a Catholic girl like myself, who was adept at getting in and out of my clothes without showing an inch more skin than I had to. I was agog at the sight of her young, underdeveloped body and its budding little nipples.

            Jane’s parents were divorced, quite unusual back then. She lived in a tiny apartment with her mother on the top floor of a house down the block. She told many tales of how she manipulated her parents to get exactly what she wanted. 

            The three of us went to John Wanamaker’s Department Store, whose wide entryway was flanked by two lions that towered over our heads, giving it a feeling of elegance and hinted at things we couldn’t afford. I momentarily lost track of Jane and Joyce as I gazed at the sparkling jewelry in the display cases. My heart raced when I caught sight of them; they were slipping things into their purses, quickly and deftly. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get out of there, but before I could move, they were next to me. 

            “Go on. Take something. It’s fun. Don’t you want anything?”

            Of course I did, but I just shrugged.

            They continued their petty thievery. I finally broke down and grabbed a seventy-nine-cent Elvis Presley scarf. While they were skilled and swift, I was inept. Instead of slipping the scarf inconspicuously into an awaiting purse, I grabbed it then didn’t know what to do with it. I opened my purse awkwardly and put it inside.

            I got the three of us caught. The store detective came up behind me and led the three of us up the escalator to the offices on the second floor, bringing our mini crime spree to an end.

            I sat across the table from the store detective. I didn’t know where to look or what to say. Big fat tears slid down my cheeks as they called my mother. Jane and Joyce sat there scowling, sometimes at me. It seemed like hours before my mother arrived, as we sat in silence, trying to avoid the hostile looks from those in the office.

            Finally, my mother strode in and without preamble she glared at me and asked, “Why?”

            Because I was the oldest, the detective told my mother I was the ringleader and should have known better. I did know better. I certainly wasn’t the ringleader, though, but I remained quiet.

“Her father’s out of work,” my mother offered as way of explaining. Both of us knew that his being out of work wasn’t the reason. There was no hardship with my mother working, just some belt-tightening. My mother was an imposing woman—big-boned and tall—and after some discussion they agreed not to press charges but banned the three of us from the Wanamaker’s for a year.

My mother and I drove home in silence.

            I took the banishment seriously and didn’t go near the store for the entire year. Not so my fearless former friends. I heard from others that they totally ignored their expulsion. I have a feeling they continued to shoplift, but it was the first and last time I ever did.

                                                                     *   *   *

After my year of banishment, I discovered that Wanamaker’s had glassed-in booths on the second floor where you could take 45rpm records you were thinking of purchasing and listen to them. It became a gathering place for me and my friends. We sung the words:

            “Drea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream.”

            “I found my thrill, on Blueberry Hill.”

            “Chantilly lace and a pretty face and a ponytail hanging down.”

We shook our ponytails and wiggled and giggled to the next lines of the song. I guess the store realized that we teens were doing more listening than buying because the booths weren’t there for long.

In F.W. Woolworth’s luncheonette, I sat at the counter, lined with red vinyl-covered stainless steel stools, and ordered an egg salad sandwich. I felt like a grown-up—even though I was tempted to twirl around on the stool.

            I wish I didn’t remember the Thom McAn’s shoe store where I asked to try on a size nine shoe, and the cute young clerk chuckled and said, “Why don’t you just go to Herman’s Sporting Goods and get canoes?” I felt my face flush, but before I could think of a response, he had scurried off to get my size nine.

            At Blackton’s Lingerie Shoppe, I would ogle the fancy lingerie in the window. One day when I snuck inside and touched the delicate items, scenes of Rhonda Fleming in her lacy bras and Marilyn Monroe in her silky slip in Some Like It Hot and Sophia Loren in The Millionairess flitted through my mind. I thought of the day I would be able to spend a whole dollar for a pair of lacy underpants, instead of the panties with the days of the week written on them that I wore.

            The very first grown-up dress I bought with my own money—earned by babysitting three little ones for twenty-five cents an hour—I purchased at Franklin Simon’s. It was kelly-green with a royal-blue scarf at the neck.  I was attracted by the unusual combination of green and blue, which made it both elegant and daring. It cost $9.99; I had never bought anything that expensive before. I can still remember the softness of the jersey wool skirt.

                                                                      *   *   *  

In 1962, I got married to my high school sweetheart, Ernie, and for a time we lived with my in-laws. When we got our first apartment at 138 Alexander Avenue, we bought some of our furniture at the Cross County Center. There was a small specialty shop featuring the latest designs. Our apartment had a main room that served as a dining area and living room, as well as our son’s bedroom, so it didn’t have room for a couch. We purchased two Danish modern chairs—one bright orange, the other a blue and green flowered pattern. We also bought a room divider with shelves and a sleek black lion to sit on one of them.

            My mother-in-law worked in Wanamaker’s at the time, so we got a small dining set and a tall orange table lamp at a discount to complete the setting. We felt very modern and a bit avant garde, since this was the latest style.

                                                                     *   *   *  

A few years later, after I had our second child, I walked the three miles to the mall with my two sons, one walking and one in a stroller. I recall the walk home; I was tired but renewed by my old stomping ground. My older son, though, was just plain tired and had to hitch a ride with his baby brother.

            Around the holidays the mall became the backdrop for holiday photos as well as excursions for our young family. The Easter Bunny was there in the spring, along with the season’s budding trees and flowers, and Ernie and I and the two kids posed in our “Easter outfits.” At Christmastime, the center aisle was aglow with myriad lights—at least fifty feet of green and blue and red and white spread out before us, beckoning. The kids were mesmerized by this sparkling wonderland.

            “Mommy, Mommy, look it’s Santa,” they would shout when they saw him walking around in his red suit.

                                                                      *   *   *  

In 1966, we moved across the Hudson River to the no man’s land of Rockland County—and three long years without a shopping mall. Suburbia in the 60s: no walkable downtown, no second car, little discretionary money and nowhere to go with kids in tow, especially in winter. Then the Nanuet Mall opened in 1969. My anticipation mounted as they announced the Grand Opening ceremonies. We had finally gotten a second car so on that morning I drove with my two sons, then seven and three and a half, who were uninterested in the shopping, but caught up in my excitement.

            We got there early and waited with the crowds outside of the new Bamberger’s Department Store. The prospect of being one of the first customers to shop in the new store and of my sons getting their little handprints in the concrete sidewalk next to the entryway was enticing. It was such a momentous occasion in my sadly barren suburban existence that I actually remember what I was wearing that day: a purple jersey mini dress rimmed with red. Perhaps it is cemented in my memory by a comment I overheard that a little girl made to her mother.

            “Mommy, that lady is wearing purple and red. Those colors don’t go together!”

            I looked at her and smiled and secretly took pride in my love of and ability to put together unusual color schemes.

                                                             *   *   *  

As I sat with my daughter-in-law, I thought also of those tiny handprints in the concrete by the entryway and wondered if they were still there after the mall was demolished. After all, Bamberger’s, now Macy’s, was still there. I mentioned it to my daughter-in-law, and she said that she and her mother had been at the opening of the Nanuet Mall too. I laughed and said maybe she and my son had been eyeing each other back then.

            After my son and daughter-in-law left, I thought of that little outspoken girl who had commented on my dress and thought how funny it would be if it had been my outspoken daughter-in-law.

By Lynn DiGiacomo

I Was Born Innocent

I was born innocent,

plummeting into arms not ready.

The wall of granite

I was unable to climb.

Leaves fluttered with life

All around me.

I climbed trees for height and wisdom.

I walked through leaves with abandon.

I jumped puddles and walked through them,

Testing, reaching, learning

Half-formed and young,

I sought, in the pages of books

And words of songs,

Comfort and direction.

There were so many paths to follow,

So much to pick up from the pages.

Words, lessons, cautions.

Mine for the taking.

I kneel before the altar

Of words

Written for me:

I am worthy.

I am strong.

I am loved.

–by Lynn DiGiacomo

Boone’s Farm

Can you imagine we actually drank that stuff?

Thought we were cool.

In our ’69 van

with its tie-dye curtains,

peace sign on the back window.

Wheels that gave us freedom,

took us cross-country,

through the endless plains of mid-America,

to the foot of the Rockies–

and beyond.

 

Boone’s Farm wine accompanied us,

along with John Denver

singing “Rocky Mountain High”

around the campfire.

We were high–

high on life,

high on dreams and innocence.

High on the energy of hope.

In the ’60s.

 

Many years and miles later,

cleaning out the van to sell,

we found a bottle

tucked under the seat.

Forgotten,

like that lost summer

of our youth.

 

We looked at each other

and smiled.

 

by Lynn DiGiacomo

Village on the Green

We chose the lot in Village on the Green because it sat across from the park, right in the middle of the row of flat-roofed attached houses in Haverstraw, New York.

“Wings are like dreams. Before each flight, a bird takes a small jump, a leap of faith, believing that its wings will work. That jump can only be made with rock solid feet.”        –J.R. Rim

The year was 1966. Ernie and I were young marrieds with two sons—Ernie, 4, and Randy, a few months old. One weekend we drove about forty minutes north of where we grew up and now lived to look at houses.

It was love for me the minute I walked into the model and saw all the windows—back and front. And the newness of it all. Bright, shiny, open, airy–$18,990 the brochure said. Three bedrooms, 1 ½ baths. Patio homes encircling a four-acre park. The green-and-white brochures showed neighbors gathered around a BBQ—a promise of friendliness, children playing, family, happiness.

After we made the purchase, I was excited each weekend when we drove up the Thruway, across the Tappan Zee Bridge and a half hour north to Haverstraw to see the builder’s progress: foundation, bricks, floor, walls rising up before us.

I have a picture of our four-year-old in his chesterfield coat and little fedora hat, walking through the partially finished house, two-by-four framing separating the rooms, holding a rolled-up paper in his hands as if he were the architect inspecting his creation.

Each time I walked through the rooms, I decorated them in my mind’s eye.

Our first real home together, and we were only twenty-three. The future was all before us—flawless, ideal. We would be free to live the way we wanted, without the encumbrance of Ernie’s parents’ interference and the stigma of my parents’ alcoholism. Free.

We had only seen a lot number on the map. It wasn’t until later that we found out that the house number was 138—the same exact one as where we lived now. Surely a good sign. We had been happy in our cozy little one-bedroom apartment on Alexander Avenue in Yonkers.

* * * * * * * * * *

We lived in Village on the Green for thirteen years. Memories flash before me of those years. I see a young couple moving in, with a ten-month-old baby and a four-year-old. I see the husband working twelve-hour days, six and seven days a week, in order to furnish their first home. I see a wife poring over decorating magazines, and so appreciative of her husband’s hard work that she has home-cooked meals ready when he gets home and makes sure he gets his sleep without the kids waking him.

I see the wife in this one-car family struggling with the reality of living far away from family and friends, but eventually meeting neighbors and going to neighborhood parties, but always enjoying their time together the most. I see yearly Halloween gatherings in the park with homemade costumes and the kids in the neighborhood wondering who would win best costume that year. I see their oldest boarding the bus for kindergarten, and the mother waiting at the school bus stop for his return, day after day, year after year. I see the young mother having play dates with her friend up the block and her two boys.

I see many Christmases in that house: the boys waking their parents, who then went downstairs and lit the tree while the kids waited at the top of the stairs. I see the looks of surprise and delight on the boys’ faces as they come down and see the tree lit up and their toys beneath it.

I see the fresh-faced twenty-seven-year-old freshman heading off to community college when her youngest boards that school bus. I see this same mother discovering a sense of herself—finding that she does well in school, is stimulated by it, joins the editorial staff of the school newspaper and writes columns for it. It’s the 60s and she finds she is passionate about the issues of the era, writes articles about them. In all her endeavors, she is encouraged by her husband.

I see him do well too at his job with GM—promotion after promotion. He travels to Detroit on a special project and she is so proud of him. They have their problems too, like any other young couple making their way, but they manage to iron them out. I see one memory that always will bring a smile to her face and always remind her of his love: she is upstairs and hears a lot of noise downstairs. He calls her down and she can’t believe what she sees. There, sitting in her own kitchen, is the oak chest that she had seen and loved in a store in Nyack.

I see them buy a gold Ford van that he fixes up for camping: a table and bench seats that fold down to a bed, a cabinet on the doors that folds down for preparing and cooking meals. With its 60s era tie-dye curtains, shag rug and peace sign, they travel with the kids any chance they get, including a month-long cross-country trip when the boys are thirteen and ten.

She is outgrowing the neighborhood, ready for change, longs to live in a charming old house in Nyack, an artsy community just south of them along the Hudson River. He is leery, doesn’t like change. I see them argue, look for houses; he finds something wrong with each of them. She goes to work, partly to prove they can afford the move. She wants something more; he is content. They finally find a house, with charm and character, in Nyack, twenty minutes away—an easier commute for him and it has a two-plus car garage that he loves. Their time in Village on the Green is coming to an end.

* * * * * * * * * *

Looking back at our time in Village on the Green, it seems like another lifetime, another couple. The move to Nyack was a positive one for our family. Young Ernie was a senior in high school, and because I didn’t want him to miss graduating with all his friends, I drove him the twenty minutes each day to school and back. The school in Nyack was a much better environment for our youngest, Randy, who was just finishing his freshman year. It was a smaller school and he thrived in it. Because we had made one change, it made it easier for us to make others—all positive. The years we spent in Village on the Green were good ones, and gave us a firm foundation for our future.

We had gathered memories, spread our wings, and moved on.

by Lynn DiGiacomo

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/

Five Minutes of a Life

If I had five minutes to live over again—without changing anything—what would they be? Can they be five minutes of moments? It is in the moments that we find meaning in life, not the minutes, nor the hours.

          I think of that moment of agitation and awe, that irretrievable second of intensity before penetration, when I was poised for a breathless instant in time between virginity and consummation, innocence and awareness. I think of the time in the doctor’s office on Kimball Avenue, moments after I found out I carried a new life, when I whispered in Ernie’s ear, through tears of joy and trepidation, “Hello, Daddy.” Suddenly my world view shifted. I was no longer the person who had walked into that office. This shift brought other moments of joy: Ernie’s chubby baby hands grasping both my cheeks and steadying my gaze to make sure he had my attention when he planted a kiss on my lips; the three-way kiss we would share—Ernie, little Ernie and I—as we celebrated our newly formed family; the moment of joyous laughter as Randy ran from one end of the playpen to the other, as if its confined parameters were incapable of containing his exuberance.

          Then there’s that moment of pure joy when we found out—Christmas 1993—that we would be grandparents, sitting in the kitchen in Upper Nyack trying to decipher the meaning of the Christmas card from Randy and Kim that read: Love, Randy, Kim and ? I thought I would never stop crying from happiness. Then the middle-of-the-night phone call almost eight months later, rubbing sleep from my eyes, trying to comprehend that after having two sons, I now was blessed with a little girl grandchild.

          Moments, strung together over the years like pearls—five minutes of them, 300 seconds. Like stars in the night sky that sparkle—brilliant and clear in memory—they change the landscape of a life from ordinary to meaningful. The memory of a boy who loved me, of friendships, of love’s quiet tenderness and passionate encounters, of Rocky Mountain highs and Tuscan villages, of California coastlines and Irish hillsides, of Cape Cod campsites and family gatherings. Five minutes of a life, flashing across memory like a slide show.

Lynn DiGiacomo

A Letter to Vietnam Veterans on Veterans Day

My father died on Veterans Day. He had served in World War II in the Pacific, so it seemed somewhat appropriate. He had gone into that war a young man, though older than most, a husband, a father. I had been born a few months before his deployment; he didn’t return till I was three years old.

The war broke something inside of him. He died when he was 59, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, the brokenness not mended.

I opposed the Vietnam War. I went to rallies, wrote articles, argued passionately. Many of the returning Vietnam vets felt betrayed, did not receive a hero’s welcome, felt the anti-war protesters were against them, were the enemy.

I can only speak for myself, but I do know that there were many among us who felt as I did. I saw what war does. I knew that the wounds of war are not always visible. I watched the news each night and cried for those returning, and those who didn’t. I cried for their families, those who lost men in their prime and those who thought they were lucky to get their sons and brothers and fathers back. I wondered how many of those returning were broken inside.

To those soldiers who still feel slighted, betrayed: I am sorry. To those who were spit at and heckled upon return: you didn’t deserve that. Know that those who did that were the minority of protesters. Others of us felt we should hate the war, but love the soldier. We failed to make that clear.

We didn’t understand till later that we only caused you more pain, and because of that some never got over it. The country as a whole let you down. Many—politicians, businessmen, and others—just wanted to forget the war. How could you?

We failed you miserably. Let me salute you now and thank you for your service.

Lynn DiGiacomo

Long Island Daisy

Margie had a way of making poverty look romantic.

She embraced it.

Caught on the cusp of a new era—or more likely in the vanguard of the 60s—she walked down the aisle in her graduation gown, hiding a six-month baby bump. She made it through the all-girl Catholic high school just in time. The nuns bowed their heads knowingly, fervently praying for her immortal soul, some convinced it was already lost. Some of the younger ones tried to keep secret smiles from their lips; one ventured a surreptitious look to see what daring looked like.

After graduation, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Rockefeller Wilson moved into a summer bungalow on the south shore of Long Island. She was Marjorie now. The origin of the Rockefeller she left to our fertile imaginations.

A few of us from high school took a ride out to visit that summer before starting college. We sat on the floor, feet crossed, trying to take it all in: she actually slept with Joe. In a bed. Together. And cooked. Meals. We tried to grasp it, but the bulge of her belly seemed no more real to us than the fact that we weren’t all going back to high school in September or that many of us would be off to college in the fall and others to work or that some of our paths would never cross again or that before our twentieth reunion two of the very prettiest girls—you know, the ones we all envied back then—would be dead.

The bungalow was tiny, with a weed-infested yard, neglected as many summer-only cottages in the area were. I imagined her painting it pink, or perhaps purple, and a riotously colorful wildflower garden magically blooming in spring. Enchantment seemed to follow in her wake. Think of Snow White and the wave of butterflies and birds effortlessly gliding behind her.

They couldn’t afford much of a car, but wanting to appear more exotic than poor, they bought a 1940s Buick, complete with running board. They added a pet skunk–deskunked, of course. That September, as we were busy getting our books for college classes, we heard that a baby girl had been born, completing their little family. They named her Alexandra.

That winter of ‘61-’62, if you were watching (and many were), you would have seen Joe in a fedora emerge from the huge black car. Marjorie—red hair flowing, pearl white skin, wrapped in a raccoon coat she’d found in a thrift store—would have been holding one end of a leash with the skunk on the other, reaching for the baby in the back seat, almost as an afterthought.

Marjorie strutted down Main Street as if she owned it. Her appearance and haughtiness created a space between herself and everyone else in the little town. Those who were aware of the space wanted to gain entry, just to bask in the glow of this Long Island Daisy, found here in the 60s not the 20s and on the south shore not the north, which made all the difference of course.

By Lynn DiGiacomo

* This was inspired by a girl I went to high school with, but is more a work of fiction than fact. It is meant to be an homage to someone who gave life her own particular mark.