I am a proud Appalachian and always will be, even though I have lived longer in New York City than any other place. As an Appalachian, I had a good radio, and as the local radio stations signed off for the night, soon the airwaves cleared and made it possible to pick up pop stations including WABC out of New York City. I went to sleep listening to bands I might not have heard in Big Stone Gap on WLSD or Norton Virginia WNVA, and that music filled my heart with a yearning to be in the city that never sleeps. Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh only solidified that desire. I read it for the first time when I was 11 years old- my pal Annie Noel recommended it because she knew I had thing about New York City. I re-read it so many times, I lost count.
My grandfather Michael A. Trigiani was a garment manufacturer in business with his wife, my grandmother, Viola. They operated the Yolanda Manufacturing Company out of Martins Creek, Pennsylvania. They had a work force of women (and a few men who did the cutting and machines) who made fine silk blouses. They began their mill in 1943 and closed it in 1967. My father went into the same business eventually but moved south where there was a new work force ready to train, who wanted the jobs. Shipments were a big deal- there was a truck company called Overnite that went between New York City and Big Stone Gap to return with the shipments of completed garments. Another time, I promise to get into the factory life, but for now, understand that a navy blue truck with white stars was part of the waft and weave of my childhood and the success or failure of my father’s business.
I own a hat that my father bought me in New York City at Macy’s. It was green velvet, shaped like a triangle, with small velvet leaves sewn on the trim. It tied under my 5-year-old chin with a long green ribbon. I liked it mostly because it came from New York City, as a fashion statement, it made me look like a dancing acorn. The first time we came into the city, my father drove us into mid-town. I remember every detail, the flickering lights in the Lincoln tunnel on the tile bricks, the scent of the exhaust, and the bright sun when we exited the tunnel into the city. A seed was planted back then, by the family business and literature, and it has grown to fruition. I still love this city, I understand it, and if I’m being honest, I need it.
