Sheila Gargano
Lessons learned from a neighborhood role model.
So I received a text yesterday morning that Sheila Gargano had died.
My heart dropped.
If you’re a regular reader of this website, the name Sheila Gargano means nothing to you. But had you grown up on Emerald Lane in Mahopac, N.Y. back in the 1980s, as I did, Mrs. Gargano wasn’t merely a presence. She was a staple.
A staple of warmth.
A staple of compassion.
A staple of stability.
A staple of safety.
The Gargano home was two up the street from mine, and in between our houses lived the Millers. Dennis Gargano, Gary Miller and I were all the same age, and—for a good span of time—we did pretty much everything together. We sprinted through the woods, we rode our bikes into town, we played Kill the Carrier and tackle football and night tag. We’d eat lunch at the Garganos, dinner at the Millers, snacks at the Pearlmans. We’d find snakes in the ditch, climb the Millers’ tree house, hide in the towering green bushes lining Dennis’ property. There were plenty of sleepovers and slews of birthday parties and driveway basketball games and afternoon movies.
And, back in the day, what organically occurred was the neighboring parents became your parents, and your parents became the neighboring parents, and my mom and dad knew—without question—Sheila and Vin Gargano and Steve and Dottie Miller would look out for us as they would their own offspring. Why, I remember a moment (a mortifyingly embarrassing moment) when—at age 10 or 11—I wrote a note that included the phrase, “Eat shit!” to Donna, the Garganos’ daughter, and left it in her room. Mrs. Gargano found it and demanded I return to my house. When I told my mother what transpired, she insisted I immediately call Mrs. Gargano and apologize. I did (tearfully)—and I was back in their living room the next day.
The point is, we were a community that naturally looked out for one another, and protected one another, and cared for one another, and loved one another.
And the crazy thing—the craziest of crazy things: Politics were never discussed.
When I say “never,” I mean literally n-e-v-e-r. There is a 0 percent chance my mother knew who Dottie Miller voted for. There is a 0 percent chance Sheila Gargano knew who my dad voted for. It wasn’t debated, it wasn’t used as a wedge, it certainly didn’t cause ruptures or divisions. It was a private decision, respected and acknowledged but insignificant when measured against neighborhood kinship.
As I sit here tonight, mourning the departure of a lovely woman whose voice I can hear clearly in my head, I will (gratefully) never know what Sheila Gargano thought of Donald Trump, or Joe Biden, or Barack Obama, or George W. Bush.
Instead, I am left with the knowledge that the world has lost a genuinely good person, and I have lost a role model who helped nurture me.
I am left with heartbreak.
What a lovely memory for, obviously, a lovely individual. I grew up in a similar neighborhood, and your recollections mirror mine. We were so very fortunate to have experienced those simpler times.
Jeff, so sorry to hear about the loss. The warmth of her presence comes through. As a society, many have lost that community spirit. Our nextdoor neighbors had a swimming pool and no kids. We had a key as did the neighbor across the street who had kids. We were welcome to use the pool whenever they were not home or if invited when they were home. Only rule--had to have one adult present (4 total kids). Moms went to movies together on occasion. We all had summer outings together. How did that all change?