Mountain view, 1978 We had this great party spot on the cliff that overlooks Totowa. The town is nestled in a valley and from up there we could see Paterson’s Garrett Mountain. We had a campsite on the rocky cliff and would party around a bonfire into the early hours of the morning. The Totowa police frequently raided our site. Someone eventually buried an ice chest in the ground to hide our beer. That way, when the cops came they couldn’t pour our bottles into the dirt, which they loved to do in their fruitless attempts to teach us a lesson. My education went more like this: In grammar school I learned grammar; in high school I learned to get high.

Mark Matano

1955 – 2003

Monty at the elk; Laurel Grove Cemetery, 1979 When you drive up the road in Laurel Grove Cemetery, past the mausoleum, through a clearing in the trees, you end up at the majestic elk. It was dedicated in 1890 and sits on one of the graveyard’s highest points, overlooking Route 80. About 25 members of the Benevolent Paternal Order of Elks are buried around the base of the monument. Special permission from the lodge gets you a plot there. My friends and I would cut school and spend many an afternoon by the elk.  We would sun ourselves and sit at the top of the retaining wall, high above the traffic speeding by on the interstate. Truckers would blow their horns. We’d wave and dream about rides to San Francisco. At night, you could park there with your boyfriend or meet up with other people in their cars and sit under the moonlight. The roar of the highway competed with car stereos against the still of the graveyard’s night. If the spirit moved you, you could climb up and ride the elk. It was considered a rite of passage among the locals.

Mike raking leaves, 1977 Totowa neighborhoods didn’t have many trees. I think working-class people are afraid of them. Trees make too much mess in the fall and cause cracks in the sidewalks. Someone might slip and break their neck. The biggest threat of the blue-collar existence was directly related to trees because someone might sue and take your house away. My father had a chainsaw, and our neighbor across the street helped him cut down both trees in front of our house. Then, just for the hell of it, since he was also sick of dealing with leaf maintenance, the neighbor asked my dad to cut down the two trees in front of his house as well. The widowed old lady who lived next door to us came outside during all the commotion. She wanted them to cut down her tree, too. One guy even offered to pour a new cement sidewalk for her on the following weekend. All day long I heard this incessant buzzing of the chain saw and smelled burnt wood. I shuddered each time the branches violently crashed onto the pavement. By the end of that Sunday afternoon, five trees had been slaughtered on my street. My father and the neighbor were so proud, standing there among the barren wasteland they had created, shirtless and sweaty, with saw dust sticking to their bodies. Everything looked naked and unusually bright.

Cozy’s beach; Cozy’s Sweet Shop, Totowa Road, 1979 (self-portrait with Deech, Joe and John) Cozy’s Sweet Shop on Totowa Road was the center of our universe. Larry and Nora Belbol owned the store, and their son Joe helped run it. When you walked in, Larry was at the front register, buried behind shelves of cigarettes and candy. He had a rolling belly and wore huge black pants pulled high above his waist. He looked like a smiling Buddha. Nora positioned herself behind the lunch counter. She was talkative, eccentric and absent-minded. She had a great sense of humor.  Nora also flirted with the boys, took belly dancing lessons and volunteered in a nursing home when she wasn’t at work. She was the town’s matriarch.  She watched out for you and taught you right from wrong. Cozy’s was a magnet for generations of kids. Even in the summer, when they didn’t have to pass Cozy’s to get to school, the little store was a favored destination. The worst part of a Totowa summer was when Larry and Nora closed down for four weeks. They were world travelers who went to a different place every year. I loved looking at Nora’s pictures and hearing her tales of the road. The summer of ’79 was especially lonely for me because my best friend Marcy was spending a month in Las Vegas. She kept sending me postcards, so right before Larry and Nora were closing for their vacation, I decided to set up a beach scene on the sidewalk in front of the store. I wrote, “Greetings from Cozy’s Beach. Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here!” I made a copy for Joe Belbol, the guy holding the beach ball, and he hung it behind the counter, where it stayed for more than ten years.

Hanging out; The Music Factory, Totowa Road, 1979 I had three boyfriends from Totowa, and they were all named John. In fact, there were about five other guys in our crowd named John, too. The man carrying the plastic bag full of laundry was the last of my “Johns.”  He was five years older than me and the coolest guy I knew. I had admired him from afar, and when I got older we dated. Tony Santini owned a store called Mr. Tapes, then moved up the street next to Cozy’s and renamed it The Music Factory. He died at 38 from a heart attack, leaving a wife and five kids.

John with a stick; Laurel Grove Cemetery, 1978 John was pretending to do martial arts. He would strike a pose, freeze in place, make another move and freeze again. We’ve been close friends for more than 30 years. I’ve seen him handle himself in every situation you can imagine, all over the world. He had already hitchhiked across the country five times, was a literature major at Montclair State and a taxi driver in New York City when this photo was taken.

Pinball at Cozy’s; Cozy’s Sweet Shop, Totowa Road, 1983 Willie had recently broken two of his father’s ribs during a fight after his dad found drugs in the house.  Paul was unemployed. Muldoon drove a delivery truck for Wonder Bread. Joe had his own contracting business. Somehow, on a daily basis, everyone managed to fit a game of pinball into their busy schedules.

Nora Belbol 

1916 – 1990

Cozy’s retirement party; American Legion Hall, Union Boulevard, 1983 When Larry and Nora retired, their sons, Larry Jr. and Joe, rented the Legion Hall in Totowa and threw them a surprise party. Tickets were sold weeks in advance, and dozens of us who had grown up in Cozy’s were there. Big John got the first dance with Nora.

Schmedly at Pappy’s; Pappy’s Diner, Union Boulevard, 1983 When you order a “weiner all the way” at Pappy’s, you get a hot dog with mustard, raw onions and Pappy’s famous chili sauce. I’ve seen many a Totowa man eat one in one bite. Schmedley washes one down with a cigarette.

John and Dora Tsigounis; Pappy’s Diner, Union Boulevard, 1981 Pappy’s Diner was rolled off the railroad tracks in the 1940s. Inside the chrome-plated diner, they boiled hot dogs in oil, smothered them in a secret chili sauce and called them Texas Wieners. John worked for Pappy, then purchased the business in 1961.  He and his wife have been running the place ever since.

Mom’s house, 1984 My mother was married to a biker from the C.C. Riders Motorcycle Club, Paterson chapter. She had been living with him since 1975. When I visited her home with my friends, her husband would take out his weapons for us to play with. Here is mom putting a flower on John’s ear as he aims. Joannie, from Seattle, looks on.

Sal Giardino

1935-1994

Dad’s house, 1982 After the divorce, my father Sal continued the tradition of cooking a large midday meal on Sundays. First we would have an antipasto, then macaroni, then a meat course. Grandma lived with us. Dad’s girlfriend visited on weekends. Sal died at 58 from asbestos cancer in 1994, four months after he was diagnosed. Three months later, my sister Kim was gone, too.

Mike in braces, with a cigarette, 1976 I started photographing my brother and sister in 1975 when I was 17 years old. My brother Mike was 15 and Kim was 10. I took my first photography class as a junior in high school. In those days, photography was part of the Shop Department, thrown in there with woodworking and auto mechanics. I ended up getting a D in the class for cutting too many times, but this did not deter my love for the craft.

Kim Giardino

1966-1994

Kim giving the peace sign, 1976 We were latch-key kids. Kim was my little sister, and when our mom moved out, I became a sort of mini-mom. Kim always had a special affection for the peace sign and wished she had been born in time to be a hippie. If she was born too late, she also died too early. She was killed in a motorcycle accident at age 28. Her fiancé was driving and survived. It happened a few weeks before she was going to move in with him. She had already packed up most of her belongings for the move. It was a strange feeling upon her death, to see her boxes piled high in the basement. I designed her tombstone with a peace sign covering a map of the eastern hemisphere. Her epitaph reads, “Peace and Love.”

Howla Haggar–Sweeney

1958 - 2004

Howla, 1976 I knew Howla since the sixth grade. She was the first of all my girlfriends to smoke cigarettes, get drunk, lose her virginity, take drugs. The first to have a baby, get married, get divorced and the first to die. Howla was murdered at age 46.

Nicole and Raffi, 1981 Howla and her daughter Nicole were part of my family and spent almost every holiday with us. I was babysitting for Nicole, and we stopped by my friend Raffi’s house. He is an Armenian-Turkish immigrant who moved to Totowa when he was a kid. She had never met him before.

Danny Smith

1955-1979

Danny in Washington Park field, 1979 Danny was a strong swimmer, but I guess the quarry got the better of him that day. They had to dredge the bottom to find his body. If I hadn’t been chaperoning my sister’s field trip, I would’ve been there. I saw Marcy that night, and she was still holding his T-shirt and cigarettes. “He asked me to watch these for him,” she said, crying. Marcy put the shirt up to her face, “It still smells like him.” Pictures of Danny were still in my camera. I had shot two rolls at the baseball field behind Washington Park School two days before he died. I was nervous and scared when I developed them later that week. I had to load the film into the developing tank in complete darkness. I thought Danny was going to send me a sign. When the red light was on and the first image began to appear in the developing tray, I was afraid he wouldn’t show up in the photograph. I imagined a ghostly white image where his body was supposed to be.

Next generation, 1976 These were the little brothers of my friends, the next generation. We nicknamed them The Hoods. Partly it was because they traveled in packs like little hoodlums, but also because everyone often wore the hoods of their sweatshirts on their heads. We would greet each other in passing on the street by yelling, “Hoods,” and they would respond, “Hoods.”

 Patrick Nortorangelo

1959-1982

Patrick’s graffiti, 1984 Pat was in a car with his girlfriend, arguing. She was driving on Route 80, heading toward Totowa. It was the middle of the night, and they were coming from a club. Pat had gotten into a fight with some guys at the bar. He wanted her to drive him home so he could get his gun and go back for revenge. She wouldn’t turn off at the Totowa exit and refused to stop the car. In a defiant rage, he opened the door and jumped out of the car at 60 m.p.h. An oncoming vehicle killed him. The same year, before Patrick died, he had climbed up to the Route 46 overpass on Riverview Drive, which we called Reefer Road, with a can of black paint. He wrote on the concrete, “P.N. will never cry,” “Live & Let Die” and “Let it Be.” He always quoted the Beatles. Someone returns every year to repaint the fading graffiti in his memory.

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