January 15, 2010
Newsday, published June 9, 2008.
By Joyce Pellino Crane
The shouting matches started shortly after my family moved into the Dutch Colonial house across from the town’s public high school.
Mrs. Gibson, a widowed socialite with a butler, a poodle, and a two-toned Cadillac, had never expected to see a family of Italians next door.
But there she was in her twilight years battling the reality of a changing society. The tony New York suburb, known for its debutantes and coming out parties (this was an era when coming out wasn’t followed by “of the closet”) was being infiltrated by the nouveau riche with last names ending in vowels. Mrs. Gibson wasn’t ready for it.
They arrived with screechy station wagons, smudge-faced kids, and religious statues on the front lawn.
She upbraided. My mother retorted. The words got nasty.
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