We lived in a dream world, a bustling little town nestled into the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains that climb north from central New York into Canada. We grew up there in Rome, population 53,000, probably half of whom were Italian Americans. It was a Golden Age that began its ascent shortly after the atomic bomb brought World War II to an end.
During th
e l950's the construction of Griffiss Air Force Base, which began during the pre-war years, was ramped up for the challenge of the Cold War. In ten years Griffiss swelled into a giant Strategic Air Command center responsible for keeping huge Globemaster aircraft circling the earth 24 hours a day,on the prowl for a sneak attack by the Russians.
The air base became the area's largest employer and the creator of thousands of affluent new consumers.
On the east side of town the faded two-story houses of the old Italian neighborhood blossomed anew with fresh paint, aluminum and 
wood siding and varied styles of wrought iron fences. Grape arbors turned into summertime kitchens and gathering places for families. Shiny new cars, symbols of wealth,were parked in the narrow driveways between homes.
Life was good. The business district welcomed new and refurbished stores, restaurants, bistros, pizza shops and bakeries. The old-timers 
liked things as they were and so the ethnic fruit and vegetable stands kept their rustic look as did the traditional markets. Most were family businesses and old or new, they prospered.
As the engine of the economy, Griffiss Air Base powered the city into the nationwide post war boom that grew a middle class of previously unknown size and wealth. Oddly, a sign of imminent world peace signaled the city's heydays were coming to a close.The Berlin Wall fell.The Cold War ended. Then Griffiss Air Force Base was shuttered up, portions of it sold off and Rome drifted back into the past.
Below is a letter from my good friend John DellaContrada. John grew up in the old Italian neighborhood and reveled in it's ethnicity. After high school he went off to Ithaca College where he graduated with a degree in elementary 
school education. His love of family and the city drew him back to Rome where he taught fifth grade, became an elementary school principal and then, after nearly four decades, took a well-earned retirement. John and his wife Rita raised their family of six children in Rome. The letter contains John's impressions of the city and his old neighborhood upon returning home after a winter's sojourn in south Florida.
Tony,
As you can surmise we are back in Rome. When you are absent for a long period you see the eyesores you didn't notice while here. The most disappointing to me is East Rome. The once proud hub of Italian culture and pride is
now a haven for low rent transients. Gone are the vegetables in every yard. Gone are the flowers that fronted each house. Gone are the sounds of a loving culture--bocce balls clanging against each other, and excited, passionate Italians arguing every point. Gone are the immigrant women bragging about their children's accomplishments while hanging the sh
eets on the line that ran from the house to the pear tree. Gone are the smells of the Italian
neighborhood: Italian sausages and peppers cooking, the smell of homemade wine fermenting in the celler, the sweet, tangy smell of the tomato sauce cooking all day, the smell of the homemade bread baking, and finally, the smell of contentment because if you had loving family, you had it all.
The sights that I miss most are wonderful people in the Italian neighborhood. Those wonderful nuns dressed in those mysterious black and white habits. We boys used to speculate what their hair was like under those regal cowls. The theory we most favored was that under those holy crowns was glorious long hair wound in circles, as the nuns never cut their hair. Of this we were sure because no
one ever saw a nun get their hair cut. And no one ever saw a nun in a beauty shop (as they were called back then). So we guessed that when the nuns were at the convent at night they let their hair down and it would drag silently along the floor as they walked. This is why we were sure their floors were shinier than those of any house we'd ever been in.
I miss seeing all those Italian fathers dressed every day in a wool shirt, tie and fedora. They were proud! I miss seeing all those widows wearing their black mourning dress for exactly one year after their husband's death. I miss seeing Italian men sitting under their grape arbors smoking a pipe after dinner. I miss hearing their daughters giggling together about their latest beaus. Love was exciting then and not public.
I remember active, alive streets and neighborhoods. We loved to watch the shiny cars that few proud owners drove as if they were chariots of the Gods. We would challenge each other to identify the make and models of the cars. It was not too difficult because 
there were only about six different makes. And the cry of the peddlers selling fruits and vegetables, the umbrella man asking everyone to bring their umbrellas to him to fix right there on the spot. The clip-clop of the horse and carriage going by as the ragman called out asking to buy your rags. The bang of the steel cans on th
e sidewalks as the "ash men" emptied the ashes from our coal and wood furnaces. The kids hanging on the back of the iceman's truck stealing little pieces of ice chips. Everybody was on the streets talking and laughing. The streets were alive with a happy people who knew each neighbor. Even the insurance man came each week to collect nickels and dimes to pay for those small policies. We also had an egg lady who delivered eggs and homemade butter each week.
And of course, many kids outside playing games in the streets and empty lots. In the summer we played from morning to night and during those dreaded school days from after school
to dark and beyond. On each street you could hear mothers calling to their children to come home. (When was the last time you heard a mother calling a child to come home to dinner?) Nobody was at home on computers and video games! Our parents didn't buy us games; we played games passed down from generation to generation. We played baseball on dirt lots with thin leather gloves.
My mother bought that leather glove from the Trading Post on North James Street. She paid $1.00 for it. Considering that both my brothers and I used that glove for about twenty years, it was a good
investment. My brothers, the twins, were 10 years older than I and they put that glove to good use before they handed it over to me. I remember my mother saying to me, "You want a new baseball glove? I just bought you one." Sports equipment was not a priority in the budget of a family of 10.
Because the leather was so thin, I put my handkerchief in it for padding. In those days boys carried the same one in their pockets for at leaast 13 weeks. I think that is why we had such 
immune systems. We carried an entire laboratory of bacteria in our pants pockets. The only way that handkerchief saw the machine was if you left it in your pocket and your mother washed your pants.
I remember the Catholic Church was such a big part of Italian family lives. This, of course, led to the politics of confession. A young boy had to handle that Saturday afternoon at St. John's very carefully. Although no one could hear your confession, everyone could SEE how that confession went. If you were in the confessional a long time they all speculated what a depraved boy you were. So you had to rush through your confession in no more than 30 seconds. Those judgmental
eyes could also
watch you at the altar rail saying your penance and if you were there a long time it meant you were a sinner. Now depending on who you went to confession with determined how long you stayed there. For example, 
if you went with your older sister you said a couple of quick Hail Mary's and walked piously back to the pew to wait for her and told God, "I owe you 3 Our Father's, an Act of Contrition and 1 mystery of the rosary." The fastest penance was if your girlfriend's mother was there. In that case your knee barely hit the altar rail and you were out of there. Now if you went with your buddies you had to spend considerable time at the altar rail, lest they think you were a wimp or were telling lies about the girls in your life.
The most important memory of growing up Italian was that we knew all our neighbors and we cared about them. We watched over each other. We celebrated the good times and cried at their misfortunes. And no matter how little your family had you shared it with them when they needed help. Of course, with the legendary Italian pride, you would never say you needed help. They just knew it because they knew you.
John DellaContrada
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