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Author and Writer Diane Villano
Welcome to my homepage. I hope you enjoy perusing my works as a freelance writer, reporter and author. The works offered below may be reproduced in part or in their entirety only with permission.
From the time I was a child, I knew someday I would be a writer. Standing out on the limb of a large oak tree, I declared to the world that I would write about the adventures in the woods I shared with friends. I haven’t written about all those adventures yet, or climbed any trees lately, but I've been out on other figurative limbs. These are the adventures I’ve begun to write about. I hope you enjoy them.
For Site Suggestions and Writing Referrals e-mail me: Di2villano@aol.com
"Latest front page
article picked up by the Associated Press!"
Follow the link to find the original front
page story in the archives of the
Bucks County Courier Times. To read more of my work, just enter Villano in
the search box on that page. http://www.phillyburbs.com/couriertimes/news/news%5Farchive/293756.htm
Woman lives on in photographs and memories
A cherished 19th-century notebook in the local historical archives was the only clue to the life of Ethel E. Force. The late Pops Styer helped fill in the blanks.
By DIANE VILLANO
Courier Times
The assignment was simple enough.
Visit the Historic Langhorne Association on West Maple Avenue, find a photograph from 1899 and build a story around it as part of the Courier Times' millennium project.
Bucks County is rich in history. There are artifacts that date back hundreds of years. There are photographs that date to the earliest cameras. There are mementos of the long-gone mineral springs on Bath Street in Bristol Borough.
Yet, I could find no treasure in Langhorne's photographic archives from 100 years ago.
But there in a box sat a stack of notebooks. One was an Owl composition book dated 1899 and signed by Ethel E. Force. It contained songs, poems and excerpts from books and plays including a scene from "Little Women."
Other notebooks in the same hand held spelling lists, mathematical equations and even sketches of flowers and horses. An envelope contained sheets of songs, poems, a pantomime for "Nearer My God to Thee" and a Larkin Soap Co. advertisement publicizing a French provincial desk.
So, I set off in search of Ethel - and my story.
First, I surfed the Internet for three or four hours, to no avail. Next, I sought help in the archives at the Spruance Library of the Bucks County Historical Society in Doylestown. I checked microfilm of birth and death records, marriage licenses and mortgage records.
Ethel E. Force wasn't even listed in the 1900 census.
Beginning to doubt that Ethel really existed, I returned to the Historic Langhorne Association for another look at the notebooks.
On this visit, I met association historian Ruth Irwin. Irwin had heard of Ethel and told me that she had lived at the "messy old farm" on a corner of Woodbourne Road across from Styer Orchards.
Later that day, Elsie Knight, chairwoman of the association's archives, directed me to Historic Fallsington Inc. She said her records showed that Fallsington had photographs of Ethel's family and an 1886 marriage license that belonged to Ethel's parents, Zepheniah Force and Martha Jane Tubb.
At Historic Fallsington, I finally found Ethel.
There was a picture of Ethel as an infant in a long, cut-lace gown. There was Ethel as a girl of about four with a kitten who sat on her lap long enough to be photographed. There was also a much-faded photograph of Ethel and her mother in the front yard of the family's farmhouse.
And there was Ethel as a smiling young woman with a light in her eyes. On the back of that photo was the notation that she had married Peter Leichliter.
Linda Brinker, executive director of Historic Fallsington, told me that Ethel was born July 6, 1888, and that she was buried in the Quaker graveyard at the Middletown Meeting.
With that information, I traced Social Security records under Ethel's married name and found that she died in October 1974.
The pieces were finally coming together.
Eleven-year-old Ethel Erwin Force penned the Christmas songs and hymns in her 1899 notebook. She most likely attended the Maple Point School, a one-room schoolhouse across the road from her home.
Hoping he could shed some light on Ethel's adult life as an adult, I paid a visit to T. Walter "Pops" Styer, who until his death last week, lived in the family farmhouse in the orchard that his father started in 1910.
Yes, Styer remembered Ethel Force.
She was a "real nice lady and a good neighbor," he recalled. "Ethel was the first one to have a car around here. She was very accommodating that way (about driving people places). ... Always willing to help her neighbors whenever she could."
He remembered watching Peter Leichliter, a young barber from Trenton, walk past his farmhouse on the way from the train to Ethel's house.
"They finally got married. I don't think he barbered much after that," said Styer, noting that Ethel and Peter Leichliter never had children.
One October morning in 1974, Peter Leichliter called Styer and asked him to come over to the couple's house.
Leichliter said he found Ethel on the sofa, all dressed up as if she were going somewhere. He told Styer he was afraid she was dead, but he wasn't sure.
Pops went over to his neighbor's house and confirmed the bad news. Ethel was dead.
"It really was a sorry thing for all of us. She was a good neighbor of mine. It bothered me so much, I couldn't hardly stand it," said Styer.
"It was as if Ethel knew it was her time to go," Styer continued. "I can still see her lying there - pretty little lady."
In hopes of discovering more information about Ethel, I started calling all the Leichliters and Forces I could find in the telephone directory.
I finally reached E. Stace Leichliter, a free-lance photographer who identified himself as the great-nephew of Ethel and Peter.
He told me that the couple made generous donations of stock to Chandler Hall, a nursing home and hospice in Newtown Borough. The stock apparently came from the sale of the Force family farm years earlier. Today, a plaque dedicated to Ethel and Peter hangs in the hospice.
Leichliter, who has had his photographs in the Courier Times, also revealed that Middletown officials had once expressed interest in preserving Ethel and Peter's farmhouse as an historical building.
After Peter Leichliter's death, Styer made an $85,000 bid on the 12-acre farm but a real estate developer outbid him. The developer had wanted to use the corner property for commercial purposes but never got the proper zoning change.
And so, three weeks after my search for Ethel began, it ended.
Not at the "messy old farm" that Ethel grew up in across from Styer Orchards, but at the Leichliter house - which is now up for sale.
Tuesday, July 6, 1999
By Diane Villano Courier Times (7/6/1999)Personal Essays:
Now That I’m As Old As My Bra Size – published in Write Stuff online newsletter for the Amazing Instant Novelist Site on AOL, 11/98.
Maple Ann – edited version appeared in Woman’s World Magazine, 8/11/98.
I’ve Never Been to Atlantic City – published in the Bucks County Courier Times, 6/21/98.
See Me, Touch Me, Read Me – published in the Bucks County Courier Times, 12/11/98.
David Cassidy, My Clogs and Me – not published on site.
Singles Meet Volunteering - published in the Bucks County Courier Times, 5/21/99.
Short Stories
The Christmas Bus – takes a brother and sister on a magical trip to Bethlehem where they discover the true meaning of Christmas.
Redemption – Mary Mancini tries to hold on after the sins of her son cause the death of her husband in South Philly.
Obscene Terrorist – Detective Anna Ripko goes up against a psychopath in a small Bucks County town. Currently being re-written as a novel.
A few essays... for your enjoyment! Now That I’m As Old As My Bra Size
By Diane Villano
You may wonder what makes a 36-year-old, stay-at-home Mom feel she has enough wisdom to share. Well, I’ve reached a special place in my life. I am now as old as my bra size.
Now depending on weight gain and loss you may never come to this point, reach it only once, or visit it several times in your life. When this happens, a certain epiphany occurs. You realize that you know a thing or two about yourself and the world. I’d like to share a little of this special wisdom with you today.
I know I am smart, strong, determined and a general klutz. I know I will never be skinny or have little feet. I also know that I look ridiculous in hats.
Alas, now that I’m as old as my bra size, my breasts are not what they used to be. After nursing two babies, they are not the firm, pert breasts of my youth. They are more like deflated water balloons. I’ve seen women at the swim club with breasts that are perfect fakes, although, knowing that mine are real and there’s aren’t doesn’t make me want to stand any closer to them.
Speaking of breasts and pools, I had an epiphany in the bathtub not long ago. Did you know breasts float?
I’ve always known I was a little weird, but now that I’m as old as my bra size, I know everyone is weird. Get comfortable with your weirdness and teach your children to do the same.
If you mop your floor, spills will come.
If you’re a diabetic, don’t walk barefoot on the beach.
If your husband turns 35 and stops wearing undershirts because he says he doesn’t sweat anymore, take that as a sign of a mid-life crisis.
Never lose your child-like sense of adventure. Two years ago, I thought I knew how I would spend the rest of my life. Now, I look at it as an adventure. An open book and I can write it any way I want it.
Be thankful for all you have, all you’ve lost and all you’ve experienced. It has made you the person you are today.
If you’re having a bad face day, wear pearls. They will cast a soft glow onto your cheeks.
Drink lots of water. It’s good for everything.
When washing your hair, use cold water for the final rinse.
If you find any article of shoes or clothing that fits well and makes you feel good, buy one of as many colors as you can afford. Buy two of black. Remember, black fades with washing.
Some people will tell you the most important piece of a summer wardrobe is the perfect bathing suit. I beg to differ. There is no such thing. Therefore, the most important article to own is the perfect cover-up. One that is a little sassy, possibly even sexy, but we must avoid fru-fru at all costs. Unless we’re attending a Main Line pool party where we’ll need a fru-fru hat to match.
Plant marigolds with your tomatoes to keep the nematodes away.
Everyone should have a garden at some time in his or her life, even if it’s only a window box. Feel your fingers in the dirt and the life in your hands. Look at the tender roots that will support the plant for life.
Another epiphany. I guess our own roots support us, as well. If we have good roots, we have a better chance at survival. We may still be attacked by fungus or eaten by insects, but if we have good roots, we can keep coming back.
I hope you may have benefited somehow from these little things that I’ve learned, now that I’m as old as my bra size. Let me leave you with one final tip. Buy good foundation garments.
I’ve Never Been to Atlantic City
By Diane Villano
I’ve never been to Atlantic City. After watching Penn State in a bowl game at a friend’s apartment, I called home to tell my father that we were all going to Atlantic City. I’ll never forget his words, "Diane, you’re twenty-one, you’re white and you’re free. Do what you want." I still haven’t figured out exactly what he meant but they produced the desired effect. Instead of going to Atlantic City, I went home, walked up to him as he sat in his chair and gave him a big raspberry before stomping up the stairs to bed.
Ten years of Father’s days have come and gone since he died of cancer at fifty-four. Ten grandchildren born that he’s never held. Ten years of memories missed, but, oh, so many remembered.
Thoughts of stories told as we kids would sit wide-eyed and opened mouthed, like the one he told of a hunting trip where a black bear startled him making him drop his rifle into the icy creek. Never taking his eyes off of the animal, he retrieved the gun as the bear growled and lunged toward him. Although, he knew he was out of bullets, he pulled back the trigger with a prayer. An ice bullet went sailing through the air and hit it right between the eyes. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized he had made that up. I believed in him.
My Grandfather told me how as a young protégé my father strolled across the stage at The Academy of Music to play the violin in an opera. He turned down a chance to study under a great violinist because he wanted to play baseball. His love for music, though, never left him.
He played in bands as a young man, down the shore and local clubs and continued to supplement his income by playing on the weekends to support his growing family. He would bring me home the last quarter of his club sandwich, his late night snack before he came home from playing at The Shack in Philadelphia. It was always a little soggy, but I loved it because he saved it for me and because of the fancy toothpick, of course.
I remember sitting in the driveway with my girlfriends as the band would practice in our basement. I’ll never forget the first time I heard the song Never My Love on the radio. I was shocked. I had heard my Dad sing it so many times, I thought it was one he had written. The same thing happened when I heard Cotton Fields. I can still picture him playing the guitar and singing while we kids jumped on the beds. It was so funny the way he sang it with an exaggerated southern accent that I thought he was making it up as he went along.
At my wedding reception, he surprised me with a song he had written for me. A year later, he gave me a tape where he played every instrument and sang both lead and background vocals. I promised him that I would listen to it every year on my anniversary. Even a divorce couldn’t tarnish the wonderful gift he gave me. I listened to him sing my name in a song last week and felt his presence with his words.
So many gifts, so many memories. Thoughts of Brut wafting down the stairs after his shower; the way he’d walk in the door from work, dropping his keys and portfolio on the dining room table. Thoughts of Saturday nights when he’d clip our nails after our baths while we watched Lawrence Welk or Sea Hunt and the way my fingertips would feel funny in my white cotton gloves the next morning in church.
I always had a special relationship with my Dad, not a mushy Daddy’s little girl thing but in connections I find more of every day. He always loved to tease my dog, pretending to throw the ball and actually drop it behind his back. I caught my son, Ben (named for my father’s father), do this and although my Dad’s eyes were a crystal blue and Ben’s a chocolate brown, I swear I saw my father’s glint in his eye.
Maybe this year for Father’s Day I’ll go to Atlantic City. I’ll walk to the water’s edge and blow a big raspberry at the ocean. Then I’ll go have a club sandwich and try my luck.
Maple Ann
By Diane Villano
My Dad is whistling as he pulls a maple tree and me in a little red wagon. At three or four, I’m still small enough to fit cross-legged beside the burlaped sapling. I’m wearing my favorite black sweats with my name on the front and my red mary-janes. (Even back then I had a thing for red shoes.)
Dad planted the maple outside our family’s rowhouse in Northeast Philly. On hot summer days we’d sit on our bottom step enjoying the shade and our popsicles – usually GH 5’s (five cent popsicles) from the Good Humor truck. That tree served as a base for kickball and Freedom; supplied leaves for science projects and arts and crafts; and provided entertainment on windy spring days when I’d look out the picture window and watch the seedpods we called helicopters fly.
It was eventually called The Maple Ann, named for my mother. Mom would always give the tree’s babies to my aunts and cousins whenever they would move into a new house. That original Maple Ann stands no longer but many of her children still live. The last baby grows next to the fence in my backyard.
One day, I’ll give my children a seedling descended from that tree of my earliest memory. Long live my Maple Ann.
David Cassidy, My Clogs and Me
By Diane Villano
(Not available on this site yet. Rights available.)
Singles Meet Volunteering
By
Diane Villano
New Year’s Eve 1997, I went to a sold out 7:00 p.m. showing of As Good As It Gets. I walked up toward the front of the theater where I saw two empty seats and asked a woman in the second row if there was an extra seat. "Just one," she replied.
"I’m just one," I said and took the seat at the far end of the aisle. A few minutes later a man, arms loaded with popcorn and sodas, sat next to me and asked if I got separated. I laughed and said, "No, divorced."
That was my life as a single mom – the highlight of my social calendar being a trip to the movies by myself, to see something other than the latest Disney flick. Sure, I had a couple of dates but movies by myself were still the highlights of my social life.
Then, last October I saw an article in the paper about the Single Volunteers of Bucks County.
SVBC, founded by Charlene Briegel of Bensalem, Marge Meehan of Holland and Ted Morrison of Southampton, is the first chapter in Pennsylvania of Single Volunteers of America. The group’s focus is being a base where singles can perform volunteer work and meet other singles.
In the article, the reporter talked about the group working with organizations like Habitat for Humanity – something I always wanted to do.
So, I took a deep breath and went to my first meeting at the Churchville Nature Center.
Ever since my divorce, I’ve felt like a teenager all over again, with a 9:30 p.m. curfew to boot due to babysitting. Joining a singles group only intensified the feeling. I felt like the klutzy new kid in school.
That first night, I signed up to work at a Habitat for Humanity house and to go on a haunted tour of Eastern State Penitentiary. I talked with the woman who sat next to me and felt better that at least now I would have someone to talk to, a friendly face to look for at the next meeting. I don’t think Carrie has been to a meeting since.
I never really thought of myself as being shy but at a social the group held at the Holiday Inn in Bensalem, all I wanted to do was hide under a table. If it were a business meeting, I could schmooze with the best of them. But now I felt like that geeky thirteen-year-old with glasses when I decided to trim my bangs the night before class pictures were taken.
Once I started to volunteer, though, I got to know people.
As different as we all are, with many different stories, there was recognition among us of a common experience. Whether we were there to get out of the house, socialize or find "Mr. or Ms. Right", we were all there to volunteer, using skills we already had and learn new ones as we go.
Besides Habitat for Humanity, the group works with Special Olympics and Aid to Friends. We meet once a month at St. Andrew’s Church in Newtown where we’ve filled up to 400 meal trays in assembly-line fashion.
Single Volunteers, which now has over 300 members, also was able to get the Books for Shelter program off the ground. The goal is to give brand new books to children in women’s and homeless shelters, to help those there escape some of the craziness in their lives and open them up to worlds and opportunities they wouldn’t have otherwise known.
Besides coordinating volunteer efforts, the group offers plenty of social events. We’ve had parties and picnics, scenic hikes, our monthly bowling night and even a ski trip to Vermont that I lived to tell about.
As the SVBC moves to its summer meeting place at Tyler Park’s Canoe Rental Pavilion every Tuesday at 6:30 p.m., there is a full roster of activities on both the volunteer and social fronts.
There are the staples of the volunteer calendar including Inter Faith Housing projects, Five Mile Woods cleanups in Lower Makefield, and work at both Churchville Nature Center in Northampton and the Honey Hollow Nature Center in Solebury. The SVBC recently helped out with the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life at Neshaminy High School and the Wood Services Visitation Day in Langhorne. Also on the calendar is the Tour De Cure American Diabetes Event, and festival at Bolton Mansion this summer.
Hikes, whitewater rafting and camping trips are scheduled including one at Jim Thorpe, which will be my first camping trip since I was a Girl Scout in fourth grade. Plans are also in the works for the SVBC’s first anniversary picnic.
I spent New Year’s Eve1997 with strangers in a crowded movie theater. This past year, I brought it in at home with a handful of friends from the Single Volunteers of Bucks County. And they didn’t even give me a hard time about falling asleep at my own party.
For more information about the SVBC, call (215) 968-1983 or visit the website at http://members.aol.com/chbriegel/svbc.html.
You may email me at: Di2villano@aol.com
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My thanks to John Warren, author of Storm Keeper, for his generous help with this homepage.
Copyright © 1999 by Diane Villano
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