We lost a dear friend and fine lady this week. Two years ago, she wrote an article for my blog. I am republishing it in her honor. Thank you again, Carolyn.
In 1953, my Dad purchased a neighborhood pizza place named Helen’s (coincidentally the same name as my Mom’s) a few blocks from the Cranston Armory. When we opened, a crew on supper break from the nearby A & P Store rushed in and sat at the counter. “What’s good?” they asked.
As an untrained waitress I was in shock, frozen at the grill with the thought of having to make a grilled cheese sandwich. But I managed, learning by trial and error, finally adept at putting together a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato and mayo.
One day, in walked Bobby with a few of the neighborhood guys. Slim, with a model’s build, hair in a wave, he looked great in his jeans. I was smitten. I knew he was dating a doctor’s daughter, but he told me… me… that he lost interest in her because she did not like the scar on his face and wanted him to wear make up to cover it for the prom. “Hmmm,” I thought, “Why did he tell me that?” My interest piqued even more.
And, this “girl” wanted him to wear a cummerbund with his white sport coat. He resisted. Just not his style. Too preppy.