Community Update

Danny walked me to my car today.  The wind was strong, and the car was parked at the end of the hill, and well, the boys in the neighborhood always made certain the girls got home safely.

Danny and I were part of a large group of young people who shared about two magical years in "The neighborhood," as some called Hell's Kitchen.

The young warriors had returned from the War to the homes most of them had left before turning 18.  Most of our neighbors were lucky.  There was only one Gold Star Mother in our Parish, and a Mass was said for the fallen hero every Sunday after the dreaded telegram had arrived.

Those who were blessed to return were anxious to reclaim the lost years of youth that was theirs before they had faced the unforeseen horrors of battle.  We were the young girls just barely into adulthood, still finishing our education and ready for hero worship.  It was a perfect pairing.

And it worked.  The 24 months or so the group shared were filled with laughter, music and dancing.  Then reality took its course.  The young men went forward on the path that was their original destiny.  Some to complete education; others to follow the family footsteps into civil service or construction trades.  The young girls completed their high school years; a few went further academically; others found employment in insurance companies or the telephone company.  Many married early.  The majority of our group married young men or women they had not yet met.

Still the memory endures even in our twilight years of moonlight nights walking home through Central Park after a Big Band concert.  Despite happy marriages and lives we had barely dreamed about, the nostalgic memories evoked by certain songs and vocalists were never quite forgotten.

For no apparent reason, very few of us remained in contact.  We remembered each other affectionately, but never sent Christmas greetings or pictures of our family.  Then someone organized a reunion.  It was held in the Auditorium of the Church that we not only respected but held in the highest affection.

It was a poignant occasion.  Our once joyous carefree group had grown significantly smaller, and obviously, we had all aged.  However, the reminiscences of youth, laughter and blithe moments remained intact and so did the loving recollections of those no longer with us.

And so, a small splinter group began to break bread every six weeks or so.  And thus we have for well over ten years now.  Danny tells his friends he is meeting "The girls from the Avenue," Grace tells her contacts she is lunching with "Friends from the neighborhood," Chris laughingly speaks of "Friends I grew up with," and I erroneously say, "I am meeting my "Friends from 58th Street."  Not quite accurate, since I was the only one living on that block.  Fran, the Femme Fatale of yesterday, still astounds us with her beauty.  Betty and Mike indulge us with smiles as we tell tales of yesterday.

Someone I mentioned the luncheon to the other day remarked, "How sad they called that neighborhood 'Hell's Kitchen.'"  I don't think any of us worried about that.  I believe the only way we remember those years is rather a time and place where love of God and family, neighbor and country was paramount.  A section of NY that embraced all the values of any small town in the USA, and will endure in the memory of anyone who once lived there.  It was where we shared the fleeting joys of youth.

Danny walked me to my car today. We have never been more than kindred souls, and our love and lives are shared with other incredible partners, but in the spirit of the neighborhood chivalry, he took my hand, kissed me on the cheek as I opened the car door, and we both said, "Didn't we have fun then?"

And we each knew exactly what we were remembering; the sounds of the city, the fragrance of the grass in Central Park on a spring evening, but mostly those who walked along the city streets with us.

And just possibly, what it was like to be young!