Autumn Pleasures and Bobbysox Treasures Tales from a Rockaway Fall Evening 1944
By Jean Caligiuri McKenna
As a young girl, the fall season always carried a charm of its own, especially the Rockaway autumns of the 1940s and ‘50s. After a bustling season of endless summer sun, Good Humor bells, and lifeguard whistles, there was always a welcoming return to normal as September’s days eased into October. With everyone back to work and school, the familiar tinkle of shop doorbells, schoolyard whistles, and after school candy store chatter rekindled the comforting rhythmic sounds of daily life. Waning warm afternoons and cool evenings serenely filled the days as they would grow shorter and shorter, slowly redressing the seaside town in a rustic hue.
It was a wonderful time of year to not only delight in the changing foliage but for also embracing little things like chilly morning walks to school with pals, buzzing about the new school year, and precious Saturday afternoons off. Binding the autumn harvest were the assured rituals of Sunday family dinner gatherings, the anticipation of Halloween fun and Thanksgiving blessings. Not found on any calendar but as invigorating as the crisp air were the unexpected treasures of autumn, which could show up anytime in the most unexpected places. This was especially true for one quaint fall evening in 1944 during a visit to Mama’s best friend.
Mrs. Sarrube lived a block away from us on Beach 83rd Street near the boardwalk, where occasionally, Mama would visit her. The summer tenants we rented our first and second floors to had gone and all the furniture was moved back in place, giving Mama a temporary reprieve from household chores with the season change. So, when she asked me to join her after supper one autumn dusk, I went with her. It was a fading October daylight as we walked along Rockaway Beach Boulevard to go around the block. The streetlamps were faintly flickering in the encroaching twilight as we passed by the darkened storefronts of Samuel’s Pharmacy, Harold’s Jewelry, & Neer’s Stationary store, all just closed after a routine busy weekday. Immersed in the yellow and orange fall ambience of Beach 83rd Street’s tree lined street, we strolled past the wooden front porch homes toward the boardwalk end of the block, the familiar blue stars in their windows signifying family members away serving in the war.
When we arrived at Mrs. Sarrube’s house, the two women, though they were very good friends, greeted each other as “Mrs.,” and not by their first names. I thought that was normal, until I got a bit older. Questioning why they did not use first names, Mama said it was a “respect” thing … the “Italian” way- thus, I accepted her answer and never questioned it again. As the two friends amiably settled in the kitchen to engage in conversation, I began looking to bide the time with some diversion to amuse my 10-year-old mind’s fancy. I overheard Mrs. Sarrube explain to my mother the reason for her daughter’s absence that evening, saying “Teresina is in the city seeing the big singer.” “Tessie,” as we knew her, was Mrs. Sarrube’s 17-year-old daughter. On this day, she and her friends had gone to New York City’s Paramount Theater where Frank Sinatra was appearing in concert to sing. To say he was a big name at the time would be a huge understatement. He had made his inception into the music world in the early 1940s by crooning love songs for Big-Bands. His hit records, recent movie appearances and newfound popularity were creating an unheard-of mass hysteria amongst teenagers, especially the legion of jitterbugging bobbysox clad girls, who would faithfully flock to his appearances en masse. Newsreels and newspaper clippings captured hyperventilating mobs of these girls showering the crooner with fanatical adoration, essentially crowning him as the first teen idol. So, while Tessie and hundreds of her fellow “bobbysoxers” were in Times Square being enraptured by “The Voice,” I (quietly) unnoticeably wandered off into her “vacated” bedroom where I had full charge to become immersed in my own rapture!
Departing the stark kitchen and entering Tessie’s room was like stumbling upon a hidden treasure trove. I was somewhat mesmerized by the room’s neatness and décor, so feminine, with colorful bedspread and curtains, modern white furniture, and multiple fan magazine photos of Sinatra adorning the entire wall. Most of all, I was fascinated by the vanity dresser displaying a variety of colorful cosmetics, perfumes, facial powders, lipsticks, and jar of Pond’s facial cream. The only time I had ever seen these lavish bottles and name brands were behind the drugstore counter. To me, they were like unattainable (and costly) jewels reserved for belles and starlets. Now, here they all were right in front of me, to feel and touch, with no barriers between me and their “magic.” I couldn’t resist!
Before long, I was in 7th heaven, sampling the entire booty. Everything smelled so heavenly, but the most savory of the aromas was the classic Pond’s Cream, whose magazine ads always featured a pretty debutante over the caption “She’s Lovely! She uses Pond’s!” Dipping my fingers (carefully) into the jar, (the cream felt so fluffy and soft), I dabbed and pat it on my face and then discreetly took some out of the jar and placed it in a tissue to take home. For the first time, I felt like the belle of the ball, and so avante-garde, just like Tessie. Luckily, Mrs. Sarrube and Mama never looked in on me, allowing me an hour’s nirvana within a grown-up wonderland all my own!
By the time we left Mrs. Sarrube’s house, there was a marked quiet blended in with the night chill. Hoping that my “secret” frolic would remain secret, I shuffled alongside my mother without words, marveling at my unexpected date with serendipity. Welcomed by the cool gentle rustle of Rockaway Beach Boulevard’s evening leaves, I gratefully relished the simple gifts of the season’s treasures, silently dividing thanks between Mama, Tessie and Frank Sinatra. In the lifetime of lovely autumns since then, it’s safe to say that my adolescence and love for fall began that very evening in the fragrant heaven of a Bobby-Soxer’s bedroom!
