More than a half century ago, my grandparents purchased an 8 acre parcel of land located in Orange County, NY, in the small, rural town of Goshen, NY. The price tag on this lot was a then-whopping, now-astonishing, $1,700. My grandfather's intention was to divide this property into four separate building lots, one each for his remaining three sons (the oldest son was shot down over Holland during WWII) and one for my grandparents, who were the first to build there in 1950. Italian immigrants, who met and married in this country, they raised their four boys in Yonkers, NY from 1922 until they moved to Goshen. During this time period, my grandmother operated a small country store from their home on Montague Street, and my grandfather was a stone mason. The first language of all four boys was Italian, and my father is fluent in the language to this day. Only one brother opted to build on his parcel, and for some years now his son, a first cousin, occupies that home with his wife.

My grandparents' Goshen home was humble, to say the least. The house is still there, and remains its original 700 square feet, having been sold when my grandfather passed away at 92 years old. My grandmother pre-deceased him on Christmas Eve in 1968, and my grandfather lived alone in his modest abode the rest of his life. Over the span of that thirty years spent there in the sleepy, seemingly-desolate place called Goshen, ten grandchildren came into their lives, and I was the second one, the first granddaughter. My cousin Stephen was not only the first grandchild, but also the first grandson, and he was brought up there. Many of my childhood summers were spent in that house, with my beloved grandmother and rather gruff grandfather and, my childhood idol, my cousin Stephen.

Goshen is hardly now what it was then, in the mid 1950's and through the 1960's. Someone's home now sits on what was my grandparents' pride and joy, their immense garden, where Stephen & I had to haul buckets of water down to the tomato plants and other garden vegetables every night after dinner. As if multiple trips to and from the water to the garden weren't grueling enough, we had to pump the water ourselves, by hand, from the well, which was quite a trek from the garden. Surely my cousin would agree that, as seen through the eyes of a child, our once-detested chores can now be looked back upon and appreciated as "great memories". We were also the lucky kids who ate cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans and more every day, as much as we wanted. Our very favorite summer day activity, however, was making the trip to Lloyd's in Middletown, NY. Still very Italian in their lifestyle, my grandparents shopped for the day's groceries every morning as soon as breakfast was done.

At Lloyd's, Stephen and I would make a beeline for the freshly-brewed coffee where, it seemed, nobody cared if two youngsters helped themselves to very sugary, equally cream-laden, caffeine! While our grandparents did their thing, we would make our own rounds, gathering what we wanted (which always included Hi-C and a big bag of Hershey's Kisses) and dumping it into the cart. Like all grandparents, they were exceptionally indulgent, and who were we to argue with that? Well, now there stands a sign to "mark the spot"; however, Lloyd's is gone, but not forgotten. The same for the great garden, as well as the apple, pear & plum orchard my grandparents had (a few of the old trees are still there). Stephen went on to college, and then into the Army as a helicopter pilot during the Vietnam War. In the Italian tradition, my family and I continued to visit my grandfather almost every week for Sunday dinner until he passed on.

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