He was the last of six children born to a sea captain who sailed a coastal schooner that hauled freight from St. Johns to the many fishing communities that dotted the coastline of Newfoundland, an independent nation with a total population of less than 100,000 people, hidden out of sight and almost out of mind in the ice fields of the North Atlantic. After his father’s death in 1919, at the age of 16 he left home and immigrated to the United States.
Like so many from Newfoundland the boy was a hard worker, sure-footed and not afraid of heights. Employment as a steel worker alongside the many Native Americans who were recruited specifically for that trade would be assured. Throughout the Roaring Twenties he worked on both the construction of skyscrapers as well as the tunnels that would connect New York City to its neighbor New Jersey. Like so many whose skills were the product of hard work and a willingness to risk their lives carrying steel into the sky or building man-made caverns below the Hudson river, he found himself broke and unemployed as the world fell into a deep depression. Eventually, to feed his family he took a position as a caretaker on a dairy farm. There would be no pay–only a house, a plot for a garden, the milk and meat from cows as well as other farm animals plus a lot of hard work . . . but it was enough.
The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor December 7, 1941, and steel workers once again were in demand. There was a bridge to be built in Winsted, CT. Too young for WWI and too old for what would become WWII, he left his family and drove his broken-down 1931 Chevy to Winsted and began to work for wages on the bridge.
The summer before I would enter the first grade began with a train ride to Brewster, NY, where my mother and I boarded a touring car that had been converted into a bus, and with our luggage tied to external roof racks we began the 5-hour road trip to Torrington, a town in Connecticut not far from Winsted. My father met us in the old beat up 1931 Chevy that was the family car. It was the summer of 1942; the world was at war and I began a remarkable and exciting adventure. The bridge scheduled for completion in October turned out to be our only chance for a vacation. So we spent this first summer of the war in a world of our own making, much like Connecticut Yankees living a Mark Twain adventure.
The war had brought an end to the depression and jobs now were plentiful but rationing made it clear to all that the war was the new priority requiring constant and continued sacrifice. Before our arrival in Connecticut my father had made arrangements with Mr. Anderson who owned a farm near where the bridge was being built, for us to camp in a field at the edge of the woods on his farm. With his blessing we pitched a tent and made the necessary camping arrangements that would allow us to spend most of the summer roughing it close up and personal with Mother Nature. We bathed and washed our clothes in a river less than a mile from where the bridge was being built, we cooked on a 2-burner gas camping stove, and rain or shine our home was a 6 foot by 6 foot tent where oil lamps were used at night for light.
Mr. Anderson was both a landlord of sorts and a friend; he would stop by often to see if we needed anything. His son was a teenager about sixteen years old and he had a pony that he had outgrown. Mr. Anderson would saddle it up and lead me around on it once in a while after which we would go to his house and have homemade apple strudel. I think he and I both had a good time but I’m not sure about the pony. During one of these outings I was shocked to learn that both his wife and his mother who lived with him were from Germany! On this occasion (after I had downed a second piece of strudel) I ran as fast as I could across the road and back to our tent where I reported my important findings to my mother and father. I was told not to worry so I didn’t.
Friday nights after dinner we were invited to the Andersons where we listened to news from the warfront on the radio. Who could forget the evening news and the voice of the famous newscaster Gabriel Heater as he exclaimed, “AHH but there’s good news tonight” before he would go on to describe the week’s carnage from abroad. I listened with great interest and curiosity to the adults discussing the war effort in the Pacific while avoiding mention of the war in Europe. I learned from my father long after we had left Winsted that Mr. Anderson and his wife both had blood relatives who were members of the German army and while they both wanted the outcome of the war to be favorable to the Allies, of course they worried about the fate of their family members still in Germany.
Each day I walked a path that followed the river to a point where I could see the men working on the new bridge. Working at the base of the bridge were Italian masons building forms for pouring concrete. While they communicated to each other in their native language they were always kind to me, sometimes sharing their lunch with me as they struggled to speak English well enough for me to understand. Many times I watched as my father worked in the steel structure at the top of the bridge; when I tired I would climb up the bank from the river to a road and follow it back to our tent.
As time passed I became more adventurous until one day on the road that led from the bridge to the tent my adventurous spirit combined with unceasing curiosity led me to climb a stairway that weaved its way up the side of a hill to a wonderful little cottage hidden in a mountain of foliage. There was a landing that led into this mysterious vine-shrouded cottage. On one side of the landing just outside the cottage in a stone pit was a fire of red hot coals with two flat irons nestled in it and a pile of clothes off to one side that needed ironing badly. The landing was covered with a combination of trellis and lattice work that supported grapevines with leaves so thick that it formed a roof-like covering over the landing that led to a double door entrance. I strained to peer into the menacing dark emanating from the cottage. The doors were left open wide, acting as an irresistible invitation for me to investigate. I was both frightened and intrigued by the circumstances I found myself in. With great caution yet overwhelmed with curiosity I slowly edged my way toward the doors for a peek. My eyes must have looked like saucers as they attempted to adjust to the dark surroundings; I was sure someone or something was near but what?–and where?–I could not see or hear anything or anyone. The air was full of silence and I was afraid to speak or call out. Suddenly a very strange raspy voice broke the silence with, “You’re a bad, bad egg!” I thought my heart would pop out of my skin. I jumped back and looked around but there was nothing. With my heart still pounding fiercely the strange hidden voice broke the silence again–“You’re a bad, bad egg!” Frightened and filled with a sense of urgency I started to turn around on the landing, prepared to run full speed down the stairs to the road and safety. In a flash as I was turning a woman with a long, full multi-colored dress and a very colorful headband laughing loudly appeared in the doorway of the house. I was mesmerized, afraid and eerily frozen in my tracks. In an accent that was unfamiliar she ordered me to sit down in a stuffed wicker chair, one of several located on the landing.
Sitting across from me she pointed to a perch where the lattice hooked into the side of the house and there looking more stuffed than alive was a bird with colors that seemed to accent those worn by the woman. “He’s talking to you,” she stated slowly and quietly with dark flashing eyes and a devilish smile on her face. “Birds can’t talk,” I replied as my legs nervously banged against the wicker chair. Her dark eyes piercing yet strangely friendly were riveting. I found her accent, though unfamiliar, not threatening but charming. Pointing once again to the bird, in a voice that was both calm strong and thick with an accent she told me to watch–as if on some secret command the bird said, “You’re a bad, bad egg!” In a moment that was magical I instantly became friends with both the parrot and the woman.
On subsequent visits I learned that she was from Romania and she said she was a gypsy. For the next six weeks I visited her every day and was spellbound by her actions and her stories. She could weave such wonderful tales filled with fantasy that thrilled me through and through. To earn money she washed and ironed the clothes of others with hot irons retrieved from the fire of coals that she kept burning in the pit next to the landing. All the while as she ironed I sat under the trellis covered in grape leaves that led into her home while she fed me cookies, milk and stories that filled my imagination and made me think the impossible was possible. At least once a day in my presence the parrot would boldly state, “You’re a bad, bad egg!” and with great joy, yet never positive of the truthfulness of my statement, I would in a whining voice that reflected both my age and lack of maturity protest to both the woman and the bird that I was in fact—not a bad, bad egg.
As the summer came to a close my father’s car mechanically got worse. A rod bearing was shot and the car had a terminal knock in the engine. No parts could be found because of the war effort so the car was not able to be repaired. On the last Saturday we spent in the tent I went with my father to a junkyard near the railroad tracks and the car became part of the war effort.
On our last full day in Winsted my mother and I went to say goodbye to my gypsy friend and when we arrived, the gypsy had the parrot in a cage and intended for me to take it home. I was so happy!! My mother, without consulting me, told my gypsy friend that I could not have the parrot–and I was crushed. I knew instinctively as only a 5-year-old could that I was leaving a very special woman; she and her parrot both were colorful, comical characters full of warmth and love who enchanted the little cottage they called home and I knew their memory and the effect they had on me was something I would remember for the rest of my days. My gypsy friend gave me a hug as she wiped tears from my eyes, then as I took my mother’s hand to leave I heard the bird exclaim for the very last time, “You’re a bad, bad egg!” Without turning around and still holding my mother’s hand I waved goodbye over my shoulder to the bird and the gypsy, thinking for the first time that perhaps the bird spoke the truth. With tears streaming down my face my mother and I disappeared down the stairs. I never saw or heard from the gypsy with the bird again.
Things had changed since our arrival in Winsted: gas was now rationed and hard to get so the bus no longer operated between Torrington, CT, and Brewster, NY. We had to go home all the way by rail changing trains several times.
The war was always the main topic of conversation and, while the first grade was still in my future, during that summer in Winsted I had come to understand the mood and the intent of those around me. I knew that the Germans, Italians and the Japanese were bad guys and that Americans were good guys. Japanese identification for a 5-year-old using 1942 standards was simple: the entire race had thick glasses, squinty eyes, bucked teeth and were known to sneak around in jungle green uniforms with a dagger or gun in their hand. I was sure I would have no problem identifying them but still I knew enough to be afraid. News from the warfront grew more gruesome as the war continued and I came to fear the Germans and the Italians also, but never as much as I feared the Japanese.
We boarded a train for home. I sat between the window and my father so I could look outside. As the train labored to move, the clicking of the wheels on the track signaled the train was slowly picking up speed. I could see the junkyard that was the new and temporary home of my father’s 1931 4-door Chevy–in fact I could see the car itself!! Excited, I pointed it out to my father and asked him, “What will the junkman do with our car?” His answer shocked and astounded me causing concern that would remain with me until the war ended in 1945. With a sense of satisfaction in his voice and a smile on his face my father who had immigrated to this country and was fiercely patriotic said, “They’re gonna drop the car on Tokyo!” I was stunned into silence. I remembered we had left a mess of papers in the car and I was sure our name, address and other identification had to be on some of those papers. There was no doubt in my mind that when my father’s 1931 4-door Chevy came hurtling out of the sky landing in downtown Tokyo there would be a lot of mad Japs– and if they found our address . . . well you can just imagine how upset I was.
Back at home every night we gathered around our floor model Zenith radio and listened to the news with the lights out. The only light in the room was the dim yellowish light that lit the radio dial. We listened as Edward R. Murrow, perched on a rooftop in London, gave his listeners a first hand account of the air war over London. And when he was done, from the Pacific would come accounts of hand-to-hand life and death struggles in the steaming jungles of some god- forsaken island in the middle of nowhere.
I took the nightly blackouts required in our rural upstate New York town of less then 350 people seriously, so while the news of the war–good or bad, encouraging or disappointing–spilled out of our dimly lit radio, without being noticed I would check to make sure all our windows were tightly covered. At school we were well informed as to the importance of not having the lights on in the house because the enemy might use that light to navigate by. It had been several months since we left the bridge at Winsted so I was sure that by now my father’s car had found its way to downtown Tokyo and that the Japs surely were planning retribution. It made sense to me that they would sneak up on us at night, so keeping the windows covered preventing any light no matter how dim emanating out of our radio from being seen by enemy aircraft was necessary . . . yes, making sure our windows were covered was one of my contributions to the war effort. I am happy to report that our town of 350 people, who some would say was also located in the middle of nowhere, never suffered one single nighttime attack by enemy aircraft during World War II.
As time passed I began to put into perspective the lessons learned as the bridge in Winsted was being built. I never thought of my father as an immigrant because he was so fiercely patriotic and loyal to his adopted country. True he was native to another land but he was born with the spirit of America in his heart. Like the German farmer, the Italian masons and the Romanian seamstress, my father was hard working, willing to accept the bad times along with the good, never to complain or blame anyone else for the hardships he suffered. He, like so many others, appreciated the fact that freedom was only promised never guaranteed and, as it is now it was then . . . a work in progress.
It was some time after the war ended that I would learn that the most decorated American unit in World War II was comprised of Japanese-Americans fighting on European soil in defense of not just a nation but an ideal.
Because of a bridge in Winsted, Connecticut, a place in the middle of nowhere, a 5-year-old, also from the middle of nowhere, witnessed first-hand democracy at the grass roots level. Intellectuals full of clichés no matter how well intentioned could never have impressed in such a short time on a 5-year-old boy the true sense of America–a nation of immigrants being a beacon seen across the world. I would one day realize that World War II was not a struggle between nations so much as it was a struggle between good and evil, and it was for this reason that Americans of all nationalities rallied to the cause.
There are many military and ex-military residents living in Bay Point who have combat service and, like me, there are a few whose military service occurred in the middle and late 1950s when the nation was at peace. One thing as Americans we should all have in common is pride in a nation–however imperfect it may be–that is built on the premise that there are basic inalienable rights that cannot be denied and recognize that over the centuries men have fought and died to preserve those rights. Because the fight did not occur on our watch is something we can be thankful for and it is all the more reason we should be grateful and appreciate the sacrifice of others.
Veterans Day is a time to reflect on our past and the people from all countries who have made a contribution to this great nation. The defense of democracy is a noble and righteous thing as the battle between good and evil seems to require sacrifice from every generation. So it is that we should honor our veterans on a special day dedicated for that purpose. Because of their service and sacrifice, our nation’s veterans have kept the beacon of democracy shining, making the freedom of millions across the world possible and for this we should all be proud.
Winston Churchill said it best when he lamented that, “It has been said democracy is the worst form of government except for all others that have been tried.” ■