Dear Editor:
An era is ending, at times seemingly faster than others. Those Hobokenites that knew such bygone times as the 1930’s and the Depression, the Second World War, the eras of Frank Sinatra and On the Waterfront, tenements and factories, a teeming population of over 55,000 squeezed in a mile-square boundary and a huge school system are passing. Of course, many moved away years ago, opting for the suburbs, homey shares with benevolent children or the embrace of retirement homes. But a few stayed, remaining for the decade upon decade, seeing changes, watching Washington Street become less and less familiar, coping with a new, far different population. Invites for morning coffee in someone else’s kitchen or a card game in another’s parlor, as they once dubbed the living room, increasingly grew all but non-existent. To the old guard, mathematically old themselves, it was now the organized activities in the common rooms of those senior citizen facilities with names like Fox Hill, Colombian Gardens and Marian Towers.
One of the grandest of that old guard passed away recently. Gloriously, she was 96. I knew her and then saw her a few times in more recent years. She was still statuesque, even in her tenth decade, her hair meticulously kept, her house dress impeccably pressed, the ever-present pearls and earrings in place. In her era, you dressed from early in the morning and always as if company was expected. They would say things like, “You never know who might ring the doorbell or is a salesman or delivery man might come along.” And what about that unexpected encounter with an old neighbor, a former friend, that distant cousin. You had to look your best. God forbid someone should say, “Guess who I saw today, but she doesn’t look that good anymore!” Like the soldier in battle, one had to be ready, especially for those piercing, ever-critical eyes of another. Image was indeed the name of the game.
Philomena Gagliastro, Aunt Philomena as she was often called, was a grand lady, a lady of Hoboken, a lady of a ten-thousand yesterdays ago. Like last bark peeling away on an old, familiar tree, the inevitable decay and then the abrupt disappearance, Aunt Phil will be missed. She represented another era, a different time, a happier and certainly less complicated age. A grace, a charm, a certain style and verve go with people like her. Together, we had tea and cookies on my last visit to her spotless little apartment down on the lower end of Bloomfield Street. Her sister-in-law lived across the hall with the whole encounter being organized by her son, Demarest’s Mr. Cassesa. It was really a simple occasion, but somehow a hook in one’s mind, a clear memory, an exclamation mark in those long paragraphs called life.
Mr. Cassesa became a world-class educator, for both students and fellow teachers, in part because of his Aunt Philomena. “From kindergarten on, I joined her every afternoon at Number 9 School [now Connors] as she cleaned for the classrooms,” he recalled. “I became infatuated with the ‘world of school’, those big, empty classrooms and those long, seemingly endless corridors.” There is a captivating spell about an empty school, once filled with life, learning and sound, but then quiet, peaceful, almost sealed-off in that dim twilight after dismissal.
“I had my own chores. I would empty the baskets, close the windows and, as I grew older, sweep the entire classrooms,” recalled Cassesa. “It would get very dark very quickly, especially in deep winter. But I was my aunt’s security, her helper, her companion. She started on that job back in 1945 and did it for some 30 years, until the mid 1970’s. All the Hoboken schools had ‘cleaning ladies’ back then. My aunt wore a smock with flat, comfortable shoes, but always wore pearls. She used one of those big, broad dust mops that was coated with cleaning oil. That oil had a distinctive smell, something like root beer. I also helped her clean those rows of secured oak desks, the ones with the iron sides. I had to put a dust rag in each and every twist and turn of that metal and it had to be wiped & polished. School decor was quite different back then. I still have a brass doorknob from Number 9 School. My aunt and I would be home by 4:30, which was already dark on those cold, mid-winter days. She immediately took out this huge frying pan and began to cook dinner for my uncle. It was part of the daily ritual.”
Pilomena, who was transferred to Leinkauf School (at 7th & Jefferson Streets) in later years and worked there as a teacher’s aid, lived for much of her life on 4th and Monroe Streets, then a world of fire escapes and clotheslines, grassy backyards and summer nights on the front stoop. Today, it is all quite different, dominated by the expensive housing that is synonymous with Hoboken. “Aunt Philomena’s world was different, a world almost gone completely,” concluded Mr. Cassesa.
Godspeed to a grand & gracious lady… we will miss you & those legions of Hoboken ladies just like you.
Bill Miller
Demarest Middle School