A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
July 9, 2006 at 10:06 The oldest of eight in a large Irish Catholic family, my dad was born in Brooklyn and pushed into poverty at the age of 14 when his father died of pernicious anemia at the height of the Great Depression. Soon he and his brothers were working paper routes and odd jobs after school and during the summer to support the family. His mother, her youngest child a toddler when her husband died, did house cleaning, home nursing, whatever she could find and manage along with her family responsibilities.
Still the family often went hungry. As an adult my dad would not let grape jelly into our house because it reminded him of the days when all they had to eat was bread and jelly. In his group senior class photo, my father is skinny and hollow-cheeked and the only one in the class not wearing a cap and gown. He couldn’t afford them.
While my dad had dreams of going to college and becoming a doctor, he eventually gave up taking classes at Fordham University and worked fulltime at Grumman’s before joining the Navy and serving in World War II. His plans for higher education and a professional career weren’t realized, but he never lost his work ethic or his love of learning.
He built our family home himself (with some help from his brothers) and all his life he planted huge gardens and raised organic vegetables for us to eat. He liked to cook. He never took a vacation, and I can’t remember him ever taking a day off. He was stubborn single-minded and loyal, especially to his family. Like many Irishmen, he was a great story teller and loved the printed word.
My dad was an electrician who came home every night from work and settled into a chair after dinner to read the newspaper, the latest issue of National Geographic, and a library book. He never watched TV. He could care less about sports. He had a sharp mind, an incredible memory, and could quote passages and facts from books he’d read once. He read only non-fiction—books on science, agronomy, nutrition, and medicine were his favorites. He’d sometimes veer into quirky and unorthodox subjects, and he was interested in alternative medicine long before it entered the American lexicon.
I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot lately because I’ve been reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. Teebs on her home page at Soul Gardening declared it one of the best books she’d read in the last 10 years, influencing my decision to check it out of the library. Prior to her endorsement, I was familiar with the title, knew it was a coming-of-age-story, but on some level I’d believed it was geared toward sentimental adolescent girls.
I was surprised when I discovered it had been written in 1943. A bestseller in its time and a modern classic, the novel is based on the author Betty Smith’s own life and is set in the early 1900s. It follows the story of a poor Irish Catholic girl growing up in a tenement in Brooklyn with a hardworking, practical mother, two younger siblings, and a charming, alcoholic father who dies young.
It’s a literary story, not romantic in the least. Smith brings the gritty world of the struggling immigrant underclass to life, explores the small joys and daily perils of their hardscrabble existence, and introduces us to Francie, the story’s heroine, a smart and resourceful girl who will use her love of books, her incredible reading skills, and her drive to support her mother and siblings and achieve her own dreams.
The title refers to a type of tree that grew in the tenements. Unplanted and uncared for, hale and hardy like weeds, they thrived in the unlikely places, emerging from cracks in the concrete and littered vacant lots to grow tall and form umbrellas of greenery and shade. Cut down, they’d spring to life again, new shoots pushing toward the sky from the sorry stumps.
That was Francie. That was Dad. I aspire to be as tough and resilient.
© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
July 9, 2006
Reader Comments (5)
My mom had a chest freezer too. We ate a lot of "antique" food,which hardened my resolution to never have an extra refrigerator or freezer and not to restock my fridge's freezer until it is nearly empty.
But then again, I never went hungry as a kid, so how can I understand that stockpiling mentality?
My parents are of the same "waste not" generation. There is a lot we can learn. I think they threw the fun out with the bathwater though.
My husband grew up poor and he to this day will not eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. What's funny is because my mom cooked every meal, its like a huge treat to me!! All depends on how you grew up I guess.