My Life

By Joe Gregorio

Joe Gregorio was born in 1929, on the cusp of the Great Depression. His father abandoned their small family before Joe was born, and his mother passed away due to tuberculosis not long after his birth. Gregorio and his brother then became charges of the State of New York and spent their childhood and adolescence in a series of foster homes, which brought Gregorio life-changing experiences, to say the least. In his autobiography, My Life, Joe Gregorio presents his times of overwhelming difficulty as well as his victories, his darkest despair as well as the guiding lights who led him into a plentiful life.

Gregorios path took him from orphanages to service in the Korean Warresulting in severe panic attacks. After his time in the military, he continued to lead a life that valued hard work as well as deep connections to family and friends. Tortuous as it seemed at times, his path was aided by a number of people who shared with him mutual appreciation, love, and spirit.

Our present days of strained economic times bear great similarity to the early 1930s, and Gregorios story of hope and faith can, in turn, be a guiding light for all of us as we move into the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462037940

Joe Gregorio

Orphaned in 1935 at age seven, Joe Gregorio spent his youth as a ward of the State of New York. He was a builder throughout his adulthood, and he served in the Korean War with the US Marine Corps. Gregorio has six children and lives in Florida.

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Copyright © 2012 by Joe Gregorio.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-3793-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3776-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3794-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011911595

iUniverse rev. date: 05/10/2012

In 1957, my employer purchased a tract of land in Mt. Kisco, New York, that included a barn and small cottage. My employer, Joe Valentine, asked me if I would like to live in the cottage, ostensibly to watch over and protect his interest, and I agreed to do it.

My wife and two little children then moved in. Shortly thereafter, I met Mr. Berwick, and later his wife and two children, who lived next door on a rather large estate. The children were quite young: a girl, who was the eldest, and a boy, who was eleven or twelve at that time. The grounds of the estate were well manicured, with a long driveway from the road to the mansion. At some point, not long after taking up residence as a neighbor, Mrs. Berwick asked me if I would be interested in doing some work on the grounds of the estate when I was not busy elsewhere. I said yes, of course I would, and developed a cordial relationship with the Berwick family.

In the meantime, I helped Joe Valentine to completely refurbish the barn with a new roof, siding, a large fireplace, and many other changes—both structural and superficial. While performing tasks for the Berwick family, the boy enjoyed visiting with me on occasion and asked many questions about the work I was doing. Frankly, I have to say that I looked forward to his visits. He was very bright beyond his years. I was happy to have him come over to the barn and the cottage when work was being performed there as well. One day, while I was taking a break from the work that I was doing in the barn, my young friend came over to the window where I was standing and asked what I thought was a peculiar question at the time. He asked, Mr. Gregorio, what kind of religion do you practice? My answer was that though I have an appreciation for people and their religious beliefs, I personally do not practice any particular religion. My reasoning is based on my experience as a young child with regard to religious issues. I judge individual people on their behavior toward other people, regardless of their religious affiliation, I said.

My young friend looked up at me and said, Mr. Gregorio, my parents are Hebrew.

My immediate response was this. Your mom and dad are wonderful people, and I like them both very much. Besides that, they introduced me to you, and I’m so proud to have you as a good friend.

He looked up at me again and said, Thank you, Joe. He seemed happy with that exchange, and from then on I was his friend Joe. No more formalities.

I became friendly with Tony, a mason who was doing some work for the Berwick family. I told him that one day I would like to build a nice outdoor fireplace for cookouts when the weather permitted. Well, about two weeks later, Tony came over to the cottage and said, Okay, Joe, where do you want the fireplace? Of course I was elated but somewhat baffled. He said, Don’t worry, Joe; it’s a gift. I think he, Adrian, and Mrs. Berwick conspired to do something really nice for me. Though neither of them would fess up, I thanked them all anyway. When Joe and Ann arrived that weekend, they were delighted to see the new addition of a beautiful new brick fireplace. So naturally Joe wanted to test it out right away, and Ann obliged by deciding she would go to the store to buy some groceries for the occasion. Let me tell you, we had a wonderful meal, and a great time was had by all that day.

Mrs. Berwick was very kind and thoughtful by asking me in for lunch at times when I was performing various tasks for her. On those occasions, she would sit and discuss issues of the day, including my life’s experiences, in which she seemed genuinely interested. She was a very bright person from whom I learned so much, and I am so thankful to her.

On one occasion she asked if someday I would be interested in having someone write a story about my life. I said yes, I thought that it would be interesting and a fun thing to do and thanked her for that suggestion. Mrs. Berwick said, Okay then, I will tell Adrian about our discussions and perhaps he would be interested in speaking to you about it. Adrian was a foreign editor for Reader’s Digest. I continued to perform work for the Berwicks on occasion and enjoyed their cordiality, but the subject of my story was never broached again. I just assumed that Adrian was imbued with the idea that my story would not be of popular interest. However, I never forgot Mrs. Berwick’s suggestion; that was the embryo. Now, after such a long gestation period, it is time for the blossoming of my life’s experience.

I was born at Northern Westchester Hospital in Mt. Kisco, New York, on January 18, 1929, the second child of Frances Corso Gregorio. My brother, Frank, was born in Brooklyn, New York, on December 10, 1926. My father, Anthony Gregorio, whom I never met, was born in Selir do Porto, Portugal. He became a citizen of this country on March 26, 1934. My mother’s sister, Aunt Helen, told me many years later that my father left my mother two months before my birth. Consequently, neither my father nor any of his siblings have ever been a part of my life. Through my cousin, Marie La Joie, my Aunt Helen’s daughter, I was able to secure photo memorabilia. I attained archival information from the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Albany, New York, pertaining to my mother and father and to some extent the Corso family. Other relevant information was derived from the files at Saint Joseph’s Home in Peekskill, New York. Thank you, Sister Francis Marie.

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My father became a plumbing contractor and performed work for the City of Mt. Kisco. His contracts consisted of underground services or infrastructure in general. He also performed contractual work for the boroughs of the Bronx and Brooklyn, New York. Eventually, as records indicate, my father moved to Lake Grove, on Long Island, and met, then married, Ida Anderson. Of course, I know nothing about that relationship or whether children were conceived of that union. What I do know through official recorded sources is that my father died of a massive head injury as a result of falling down a flight of stairs. Records reveal that he had a history of falling down flights of stairs. It appears to have been a mystical circumstance. The true cause of his demise remains inexplicable. The date of his passing was December 22, 1973, at the age of seventy-two. The police report was deemed an accidental incident.

Soon after my birth, my mother left Mt. Kisco with my brother and me to live at my Grandfather Corso’s house in Brooklyn. Grandfather was born in Ficarazzi, Sicily, just a few miles from Palermo, where my grandmother was born. Her maiden name was Benedetto Santoro. Together they raised ten children: Mary, Nancy, Helen, Josephine, Frances, Willy, Pete, John, Steve, and Frank, who was the youngest of the family and who, at ninety years of age, just recently passed on to that heavenly body somewhere in our universe.

I recall on several occasions visiting my Uncle Willy where he lived on Mott Street in New York City. Mother would be greeted downstairs, and the man who received us would call via an intercom device to tell Grandfather or Uncle Willy, Frances is here. Only then were my mother, Frank, and I allowed to proceed upstairs. We were greeted lovingly. On occasion, Grandfather and/or Uncle Willy (they were not always present together) would receive guests who would kiss my grandfather’s hand and would give my Uncle Willy a cheek-to-cheek embrace. They would then sit at a table and talk for a brief period, and then embrace and leave. At my tender age, I had no preconceived notion about these incidents. It was only a few decades later that my cousin told me that Uncle Willy would visit his mother and father in Mt. Kisco (Uncle John and Aunt Helen) when things got too hot for him in New York City. I am told that