The Catholic Worker

When I was sixteen attending Bishop McDonnell High school in Brooklyn, New York, my religion teacher, Sister Miriam Loretta, asked me and a few other of the girls to go with her to Manhattan to visit the Catholic Worker. Having been a rather sheltered young woman growing up in a quiet suburb, little did I know that it would be the first step in some life - changing experiences introduced to me by this nun.

The Catholic Worker was located in a tenement on Mott Street in a very poor and bustling neighborhood. The office was very busy as their monthly newspaper, which they distributed free of charge, was going to press that day. Their mission was to serve the poor and bring about societal changes that would promote social justice.

We toured an old bakery, that they had purchased through donations, where they would bake whole grain bread for the breadline. We were soon to see the breadline when we returned to the main store front. A long line had appeared as it was approaching lunch time. I was shocked at the appearance of these down and out men - sans teeth and decent clothing, looking hopeless. What struck me the most was the silence of the men in line. They didn't chat with each other at all - dead silence. I knew then it had to be despair that brought them to this place for a gift of soup and bread.

I grew up a lot that day and came to admire Dorothy Day, the founder, throughout my life.

Veronica M. Berrill
Southbury, CT 2011

Chicago World's Fair

In 1932, when I was six years old, my family planned a trip to the Chicago World’s Fair from our home in Brooklyn, New York. The itinerary included a stop in Louisville, Kentucky, to leave two Dominican nuns, our parish school teachers, at their Motherhouse. One of my father’s big problems was the amount of luggage he had to tie on the back of our car. There was a rack and some rope, and that was it – bungee cords were far in the future. I recall a few mishaps on prior trips to the Catskills when suitcases bounced on the road behind us. So the decision was made to call Uncle Frankie who was a longshoreman. He arrived with just the right rope and instructed my accountant father how to do an expert job of securing the luggage.

So we were off – Mom and Dad in the front seat, my sister, Anne, and the two nuns in the backseat. I, the youngest, sat on a child-size wooden chair which faced sideways at their feet. There seemed to be plenty of space [probably because the car had no trunk], and I have no recollection of being uncomfortable – only very excited! Guess six year olds are hardy.

I have only one vivid memory from that trip. The exhibit at the Fair that I remember so clearly was the “Midget Village”. It was a construction of a tiny town with houses and tiny people living in them. Viewers could see them through the windows. I was mesmerized – here were very small versions of older people going about their daily lives! One gentleman was sitting in an easy chair by the window reading the paper and smoking a pipe. I stood there a long time staring at him. I was “awakened” when someone touched the little man, and he snarled angrily at the intruder. I then realized that I was alone as my family had moved on, not realizing I wasn’t tailing behind. I wailed loudly and was soon found – with a warning to stay close.

Veronica Berrill,
©2011
Southbury, CT

To learn more about the Chicago World’s Fair, you can visit the following links:

http://www.cityclicker.net/chicfair/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adkIYRKJO5c&feature=related

A Pre-War Memory Chip

When I was fifteen, I recall being asked to go to the Brooklyn Technical School 1941 prom. It was my first invitation to such an event and, of course, caused me much apprehension and excitement. I remember dressing in my new red polka dot organza formal gown in a state of anticipation and anxiety. It turned out to be a magical evening. It was held on the Astor Hotel Roof Room, and we danced to the Tommy Dorsey orchestra accompanied by the Pied Pipers and Frank Sinatra. [The Astor Hotel, long since demolished, was in Times Square. We were also served dinner which was included in the bid – and, as I learned later – cost $5! Little did I know that in five years – after a long painful war, my date and I would marry!

Veronica M. Berrill,
©2012
Southbury, CT

THE FARRAGUT WOODS

My husband and I grew up just around the corner from each other in Flatbush in Brooklyn, New York. Although I was acquainted with his brother Larry who was my age, I didn’t meet Jack until we were teenagers. Jack lived in a home right next to the Farragut Woods, a large stretch of land at least ten long blocks long and three blocks wide. The woods were “Dark and deep” and lured the children from the surrounding communities to explore. I was warned not to play there, but occasionally I ventured in with my little friends. Jack told me later about the “wars” he and his friends waged for hours on end using rocks and metal garbage can covers as shields. Egg-sized head lumps had to be explained away at home as crabtree apples falling on their heads or some other such fiction.

In the early thirties, Jack heard agitation and anxiety in his parents’ conversations about a large housing development that was being planned for the woods adjacent to their home. It was going to be constructed by the Trump Homes Co. [which was Donald Trump’s father’s company. The Donald didn’t make it from scratch!] The news spread throughout the neighborhood and angry residents tried to stop it, to no avail. Indeed, their worst fears were realized in a few years as the huge project was started. Jack and Larry decided that since Trump was an interloper on their space, that they would help themselves to some bricks to build a fort. One night they loaded up their red wagon with bricks, returned home and safely stored them in the backyard. Early the next morning the Italian overseer rang their bell and had a broken English conversation with their father. They were ordered to load the wagon, return the bricks and come straight back home to face the consequences. As they walked back with the bricks, they saw that with all the cement around the building site, their shoes and wagon tires had left a clear trail right to their house!

Veronica Berrill
©2012
Southbury, CT

Back to the Line of Scrimmage

When I was a new teacher in 1974, some young male colleagues came up with the idea of having a faculty football pool which was designed to pick the winning teams each week. Now these guys were rabid fans and knew the teams, the players and their injuries, the coaches, the odds, etc. Nevertheless, everybody knows that there’s a lot of pressure to pony up for the office pool or be considered a poor sport – even if you know squat about football. Well, I soon realized that these gamesters figured out that the majority of women on the faculty knew little about the game and were pigeons waiting to be plucked. We all kicked in our three dollars and guessed at the outcome of the games. WELL, lo and behold, a Special Ed female teacher won the first round!! On Monday morning, I was surprised to see what poor sports the guys were. They groused, grumped, and complained loudly to each other that she was just lucky and didn’t have a clue about the picks [probably true]. But she won and walked off with the money. Interestingly enough, the guys won their share throughout the season, but not any more than anyone else. Guess there’s a lot more luck in prognosticating than we realize!

Veronica Berrill
Southbury, CT 2012

One Generation’s Heartthrob

During the very early thirties, I recall my mom taking me to the Paramount Theater in downtown Brooklyn, so she could see Rudy Vallee – heartthrob crooner of the day! My most vivid memory was that the theater was bathed in a lurid blue light which scared me a little. The place was filled with women of every age. Low murmurs of excitement preceded the entrance of the glamorous star. As he appeared on the stage the murmuring and twittering grew louder and the ladies clapped wildly. He sang “My Time Is Your Time” and the ladies sighed. While I was awed at the scene, Rudy Vallee’s charm was lost on me!

Compare that to the scene at the Paramount Theater in Manhattan circa 1942 as I waited patiently on a long line to buy a ticket to see Frank Sinatra – heartthrob crooner of the day! The theater was filled with teenage girls who talked excitedly and loudly to each other in anticipation of “Frankie’s” appearance. As he walked on the stage there was a thunderous uproar when the bobby soxers squealed, screamed, and swooned. It took ten minutes to achieve enough quiet for the star to sing, “All or Nothing at ALL”. Frank Sinatra’s charm was not lost on me!

So, who can explain another generations’ heartthrob? Baby-faced Justin Bieber? Go figure.

Veronica Berrill
Southbury, CT 2012