A Flawless Foundation

By Lorraine T. Gilman

It is the summer of 1961, and Irene is spending summer in Mt. Vernon, New York with her grandmother. Irene is restless and dreams of earning money to buy new clothes; culottes. Papagallo shoes, and pill box hats like Mrs. Kennedys are all the rage. She just knows she will be successful selling make up door to door. Little does she know, there is more behind the closed doors in Grandmas neighborhood than the serene housewives depicted on the pages of her Rose Petal Princess sales manual. Behind every door is a story, and Irene is about to learn more about life than she bargained for, but its an experience she wouldnt sell for anything.

In this, her second book, author Lorraine Gilman weaves a story of unexpected hope, friendship and redemption in the quiet neighborhood of her youth. Filled with iconic and engaging characters, A Flawless Foundation captures the reader from start and doesnt let go until the immensely satisfying last bite.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490804651

Lorraine T. Gilman

Lorraine Gilman lives in Atlanta with her husband of more than thirty years, Murray, and their two hyperactive Jack Russell terriers, Pippa and Tebow. She is also the proud mother of three grown children—Adam, Michael, and Margot. After years of being a frustrated artist, she put down her paintbrush and began to type. A Flawless Foundation is her second book.

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Copyright © 2013 Lorraine T. Gilman.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-0464-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0463-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0465-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013914226

WestBow Press rev. date: 08/21/2013

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Julia’s Recipes

In Loving Memory of My Sister Michele

My beloved sister Michele passed away while I was editing this book set in the neighborhood of our childhood. Michele was an unbelievable model of grace and dignity in the face of terrible obstacles. She was always positive and hopeful, even as she steadfastly endured the premature death of her husband and many terrible bouts with cancer over the years. She had the heart of a warrior, courageous and full of faith. I was in awe of her ability to keep moving forward, never bitter over her circumstances.

We all know this passage from the thirteenth chapter of

1 Corinthians. It is often read at weddings:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Those words describe a love that is almost impossible for we humans to model. I thought I would never see that kind of love on this side of heaven until I saw it in my sister and her children. Michele lived every word of this scripture with her life. She lived the gospel and many saw the light of God from her example.

As she was dying, I saw her children Alison and Paul reflect that same enduring love back to her. For three months, they rarely left her side. They cheerfully anticipated her every need. They talked, laughed, and cried with Michele. They bore the agonizing stress of the situation with the same grace and character that Michele modeled for them while they were children. They truly have become the rich fruit of a wonderful mother who lived for Christ.

We will all miss her terribly but I only have to look at Alison and Paul to remember her quick smile and loving heart until I see her again.

PREFACE

I grew up in two very different places that influenced my life enormously. I was born in Mount Vernon, New York, and I lived there until I was eleven years old. In 1964, my family moved to Scarsdale. Geographically, the city of Mount Vernon and the village of Scarsdale are less than ten miles from each other on a map. In every other way, they are worlds apart.

Mount Vernon was a growing, bustling city of immigrants and minorities. Large, aging Victorian homes, past their years of grandeur, were refashioned into multi-family dwellings. My family occupied the first floor of one of those architectural treasures. Our house stood on a once beautiful tree lined street built for Model Ts. The boulevards of the city now bustled with the traffic of urban sprawl.

The children of Mount Vernon, in the fifties, roamed freely on scooters and bikes traveling to the penny candy store and Duff’s Five and Dime on Gramatan Avenue. Everyone knew my family, and I only needed to walk up to Hartley Park if I wanted to find my grandfather. He could be found on a park bench watching a bocce ball game.

Our lives revolved around the parish church on the corner. Our friends were as close as running upstairs to the apartment on the second floor of our home or crawling through the boxwood hedge into the neighbor’s yard.

I was plucked from this seemingly idyllic life one day with little warning.

Nothing could have prepared me for the stark contrast of life in Scarsdale. There wasn’t a lot of discussion about moving or even the sale of our house.

I remember the day our parents piled us all in the station wagon. We followed the large moving van in our pale blue Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser. Nine miles and fifteen minutes later we were transported to a different world. The houses of our new environment were all large single-family homes. Scarsdale was a village of pristine neighborhoods and perfectly manicured rolling lawns. Rows of mansions lined the elegant lanes long before the McMansions of the eighties were even conceived.

There were no pickup baseball games in the neighborhood yards, only play dates arranged by mothers who shuttled children through their organized social lives. There was no penny candy store or neighborhood butcher. We now shopped in a village composed of small English Tudor-styled buildings housing unique and exclusive shops.

Life no longer centered on the church, but the country club. After a few years we stopped going to church altogether. I understand why my parents moved to Scarsdale. To them, it seemed the suburban ideal. The village was the finest area of the county and unobtainable to their immigrant parents. The superior public schools were nationally ranked.

Mount Vernon was no longer a small intimate community. Urban sprawl was rapidly changing the sleepy city I knew. The peaceful neighborhood of my childhood became a major municipality just north of Manhattan. All the problems of rapid growth, such as overcrowded schools, were becoming systemic.

I never recovered from our move. I never embraced Scarsdale. Even though I spent the better part of my life there, my heart always remained on Rich Avenue.

There was a goat lady in our neighborhood and there was a captain. The captain was mute and took walks every day in his pea jacket and captain’s hat. He was beloved by the children in the neighborhood. He lived in the nursing home across the street from our house.

There were boys who hung out at the Triangle on Glen Avenue. I never knew them, just of them. To me, they were larger than life and threatening. They were thirteen or fourteen years old and rode bicycles, but they may as well have been adults. I remember my grandmother calling them hoods, short for hoodlums. I don’t remember them doing anything besides hanging out on the Triangle and swapping baseball cards or lighting punks. However, in my imagination they loomed large, fixtures to be avoided at all cost.

I never knew the goat lady. The boys on the Triangle talked about her but I have no idea where her house was or if she owned one goat or a dozen. Phyllis is entirely fictional, so are Desiree, Doris, Peggy, and Nick.

Grandma is an amalgam of my two grandmothers, Julia and Maria. Both women possessed a very quiet faith. I am not sure if they ever knew Christ in the way I know him or if they were born again. But I know they loved Jesus and they both prayed every day. They regularly attended church together. The conversations between my grandmother and I never happened. I will never know if we shared the same knowledge of Christ or indwelling of the Holy Spirit. My grandmother Julia really did give absurd answers to questions she didn’t want to answer. As frustrating as this was as a child, I look back on this character trait fondly. Her answers, all used in the book, still make me smile.

My sisters and I used to make up stories about the captain. He was as mysterious as he was gentle and kind. I am glad he finally got to be the hero we always imagined him to be.

I loved spending my time on the streets of Mount Vernon again while writing this book.

CHAPTER 1

September 21, 1961

Mount Vernon, New York

I rene bounced down the wooden steps of the old, gray Victorian and sprang onto the front lawn. The raging wind whipped at her shirtwaist dress, and the driving rain pelted her face like small needles piercing her skin. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to feel the full force of the storm. She twirled and pirouetted on the lawn of her grandmother’s house. The torrential rains soaked Irene as the teenager danced in the menacing deluge. Her dress clung to her body, and her shoes slid on the wet grass. Irene clenched the lamppost at the end of the front walk and squeezed her eyes tightly to protect them from flying debris. She lifted her face to the sky and surrendered to the thunder and the howling wind.

Irene, a voice called over the sound of the hurricane. Irene! What in the world are you doing out there? Irene opened her eyes. Her grandmother grimaced and shook her fist from the front porch. Julia wore one of her many homemade housedresses. She clutched a towel in one hand and cupped the other hand over her mouth to form a megaphone. She leaned forward to shout again. Irene, you will catch your death of a cold out there. Come inside this instant.

Irene glanced over at her