There Will Always Be Tomorrow

By Vern Thornton

If one could go back to the time of the Big Band era and walk into a ballroom where the orchestra was playing a dreamy ballad, such as Well Be Together Again, and listen closely to the lyrics..No tears, no fears, there always will be a tomorrowWell be together again, then you could see how, and most importantly why, the title of this book came about. This book could also be an unforgetable love story of a romance that had everything going against it, but one lasting over 60 years. It could also be an adventure epic of world wide travel to include a trip on the now defunct Concorde. It could also be a glimpse into the lives of people living in a small Connecticut town. It could be all of these things and much more, and in truth, it is.

If you go back to the Roaring Twenties you can follow the life of this man who hails from Jewett City, Connecticut, a small textile manufacturing community. Follow him as he gives up a secure government job to become a newspaper reporter, bureau chief and then editor with dramatic and often humorous events of those times.

A telephone call from a state senator leads him off in another direction, this time in law enforcement with careers both in Connecticut and Florida prison systems where he eventually gets his own command with the Broward Sheriffs Office.

His final journey takes him to the Florida Attorney Generals office where he becomes founder of a nationally acclaimed program.

Throughout this book you will meet and get to know some of the most fascinating people found anywhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453539088

Vern Thornton

V. M. Fernandez always loved fantasies and a world where people had magic or any kind of superpowers. The Merrick Chronicles is the first among other ideas that he had as he was growing up, then at the age of nineteen, he published his first book with the help of family and friends. Although he was born in the little island of Cuba and came to the United States at the age of eleven, he now resides in Miami, Florida, living in a family house with his mother, stepfather, and the little dog named Macho, named after the Spanish word “men.” There he keeps on expanding the everlasting world of “Pangaea” and the exciting adventures of the Nephilim Merrick.

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Copyright © 2010 by Vern Thornton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: In the Beginning

Chapter Two: The Jewett City Post Office

Chapter Three: The Fourth Estate Beckons

Chapter Four: Days of the Pacifists and More

Chapter Five: The Heart of a Newspaper

Chapter Six: Start of a New Career

Chapter Seven: Florida, Land of Fun and Sun

Chapter Eight: My Own Command

Chapter Nine: The Telephone Call None Wishes to Hear

Chapter Ten: The Start of a New Life

Chapter Eleven: The Mountains are Calling

Chapter Twelve: Here, There and Everywhere

Chapter Thirteen: A Taste of Life on the High Seas

Chapter Fourteen: Ireland, Land of Enchantment

Chapter Fifteen: Blue Ribbon Experience

Chapter Sixteen: By Plane, By Train, By Car and By Bus

Chapter Seventeen: Aging with Ease

Chapter Eighteen: The Death of My Beloved

Chapter Nineteen: Blind Dates Can Be Wonderful

Chapter Twenty: And So We Wed

Chapter Twenty One: A Ride on the MTA

Chapter Twenty Two: A Big, Lonely House

Chapter Twenty Three: No Need for Further Evidence

Chapter Twenty Four: Facing the 60th Alone

Chapter Twenty Five: What Goes Around, Comes Around

Epilogue

My gratitude to Dorie Loomer who painted the

portrait appearing on this book’s cover.

In special tribute to my true love,

Evelyn Mary Thornton who died on July 19, 2009.

May she forever Rest in Peace

Dedicated to John Seanachi Coleman and to the seanachai everywhere.

Seanachi—The Irish-Gaelic word for storyteller. In ancient times the seanachi use to travel from village to village telling stories of old legends and events. Since the ancient Celts didn’t have their own writing system, the seanachi played an important role in preserving Ireland’s ancient heritage and passing it on to the next generations. The seanachai are still respected people today.

Prologue

The shrill ringing of the telephone on the stand beside my bed quickly put an end to the deep, restful sleep I was having. I glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was shortly after midnight.

I picked up the phone; it was the watch commander at the Broward Sheriff’s dispatch center.

Chief, you better get down here. Seventeen inmates have just escaped from the Fort Lauderdale Annex, was the urgent message.

Has a search been organized? I asked.

"Captain (David) Yurchuck, who is O.D., has called in the Strategic Enforcement Team and is directing the search operations and the helicopter is up", I was told.

"Good. Have Major Schenelli (my second in command) meet me at the jail. I’m on my way."

With the blue emergency lights flashing and my police radio alternating between the SET channel and dispatch, I made it to the jail in record time. On the drive down, I suddenly exclaimed out loud to no one in particular, My God, it’s Monday.

The escape could not have happen at a worse time. Primary elections were to be held on the next day to determine, among other elected posts, who would be candidates for Broward County Sheriff in the November elections.

(Robert A. Butterworth was seeking reelection as sheriff, a post he had held since his 1978 appointment by Governor Rueben Askew.)

I called the sheriff and reported that everything was under control here and that there had been no injuries to deputies or inmates. I then mentioned that I had realized the escape could not have happened at a more inappropriate time and suggested that he not come into the office in the morning.

Let me take the heat on this, I said.

The portrait on the cover of this book seems to relate to memories over the 80 plus years of my life . . .

Frank Sinatra sang I DID IT MY WAY

Well, SO DID I.

We have to start somewhere so let’s begin . . . .

Author’s Note: All 17 inmates who had escaped that evening were eventually captured. A new secured facility was built in Pompano replacing the Fort Lauderdale city jail and Sheriff Robert A. Butterworth won reelection and remained as Sheriff until his appointment as head of the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles in 1982. He later went on to become Florida’s Attorney General

Chapter One

In the Beginning

Jewett City with its one mile by one mile radius is, I suppose, not a city in any sense. It’s a borough. Not anything like the borough of Manhattan, or the Bronx, nor Brooklyn. Jewett City in its heyday had a population of less than five thousand hearty souls.

It’s not a town, it’s not a city. It’s mighty small but oh so pretty, went a popular ditty of the times. And with its elm tree-lined Main Street leading to Fanning Park, it was just that. At least it was until the 1938 hurricane destroyed many of the elms, followed a short while later by the Dutch elm disease that resulted in the removal of most of the remaining trees.

It was a closely knit community where people most likely were known and responded to their nicknames as by the name given them on their birth certificate: Pepsi Cola Pete, Ash Can, Andy Gump, Ash Wednesday,Waxy, Hunky Jones, Smellzy, Hawk, Barney Google, Yippy and so forth and so on.

Anyway, this is where it all began. It wasn’t supposed to be here. It was suppose to happen in Providence where I was to be born but my mother was visiting with her family and since I had nothing to say in the matter, Jewett City is where it happened. I suppose I could say that I wanted to be with my mother at that time.

Of course the time wasn’t right. I wasn’t expected to arrive for another couple of weeks at least, or even longer. I don’t know. I can’t remember. But it happened and I came into the world one July morning at about 3 o’clock . . . all two pounds and 4 ounces of me.

They tell me that they wrapped me in a cotton-lined shoe box and placed me in the oven used as an emergency incubator. It must have been a surprise to my father when he asked, What’s for dinner?

It’s quite obvious that I held on and managed to survive.

If nicknames were the norm, then it wouldn’t have come as a surprise if they referred to me as Tsk Tsk.

It happen every time my mother took her shriveled leathery skinned infant out in his carriage and as passers by paused to look at the new born they would force a smile and under their breath a not so silent tsk-tsk could be heard.

But, I got stronger, fatter, and eventually the family was able to return to Providence.

We weren’t in Providence too long. I don’t know whether it was the start of the Great Depression, my mother’s insistence that she moves back home, or a combination of both but we did land back in Jewett City. Perhaps my episode with the baby walker had something to do with it. We lived on the top story of a three-decker and somehow, so they tell me, I managed to get out in the hallway and propelled myself down the three flights of stairs, out of the door and onto the street. This probably was one of the wildest rides ever, sans a roller coaster.

But anyway, my mother was back with her family. We were again in Jewett City and that’s where we stayed.

The depression years were tough years. My father, a pharmaceutical representative . . . I think it was Upjohn Pharmaceuticals . . . was now working as a laborer on a WPA project. Economization was the norm in our house. A good example of this came when one of the Thornton kids needed a tonsillectomy. Well, if one needed tonsils removed, would it not stand to reason that the others soon will? So, one morning the kitchen table was moved into the living room. Huge pots of water were set on the stove to boil and the three of us were made ready (with promises of ice cream later) to go under the knife. Three for one! It sure beats today’s market gimmick of the two for one sale. The doctor and nurse arrived; instruments were placed in the boiling water; and the can of either and gauze were made ready. I, being the oldest, got onto the kitchen table, the gauze placed over my mouth and I heard the doctor say he would give me a penny for each number I could count. I think I got up to nine. Well, my sisters and I made it. Which one of us really needed to have tonsils removed remains a mystery to this day. But, that’s how it was done. On the kitchen table!

My earliest recollections of what it was like to be a member of society, to be part of growing up, of learning, falling in love for the first time came in kindergarten where Peggy Ballou was starting her first year teaching. My cousin Bob Stafford and I fell madly in love with her as, I suppose, do all kindergarten students with their first teacher. Our hearts were broken when she later married and moved to Lexington, Ky. Her parents were well to do and they lived in one of the biggest houses on Sylvandale Rd., set back high on a hill, well away from the road with a winding driveway leading to the front portico. At the edge of their property a gazebo could be found overlooking the Quinnebaug River. Since this country was in the earliest stages of the Depression it was not uncommon that kindergarteners were often treated to a picnic held in that gazebo, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Ballou.

I can’t really remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, but it’s remarkable how vivid Peggy Ballou’s kindergarten class stands out in my mind. Teddy Tarka, Bobby Strakna, Frank Tripp, names I haven’t thought about in over seventy or more years are now as alive as when we were broadcasting over our own Riverside Grammar School kindergarten radio studio. The microphone, with wires going into the control panel, may have been a painted tin can perched on a pole with attached wires leading into corrugated cardboard boxes festooned with dials, switches and buttons and where sat the radio engineer busily turning dials as the announcer and radio personalities went on the air with a carefully scripted and rehearsed show. It gave all of Miss.Ballou’s students the opportunity to really explore our capabilities, individually and collectively, and at such an early age. (I really wish I could remember the stations call letters. They were attached to the microphone and control panel. Perhaps . . . PBS . . . Peggy Ballou’s Studio? It could have been).

Then there was a time where, in our imagination, we were transported to Holland. It all started one morning where, upon entering class, each one of us found on our desk, yards of cloth, little safety scissors, a paper pattern we were to use to aid us cutting out the front and back of a slip over jacket and pants for the boys and skirts for the girls, and yes, needle and thread to sew these together. All material was paid for through the generosity of the Ballous.

From cardboard, we fashioned wooden shoes to be attached to our own shoes. The project turned out remarkably well. So much so, we portrayed, as a class project, the story of the boy who put his finger in the hole in the dike, thus saving the country.

How about the Crusades?

Each boy fashioned his own sword and shield from cardboard, and from burlap bags we designed our own armor, each with its identifying cross.

Ingenuity? Dedication?

Today, I would suspect that Peggy Ballou would be called before some organization, perhaps even the school board, for allowing the use of a religious symbol such as the cross in her classroom activities . . .

(In later years my cousin Bob and I have kept in touch. I always look forward to his Christmas greeting. Each year’s is well thought out. Take last year’s card. Bob and his wife are standing between a knight’s armor. The message said simply: Happy Holiday, Mindy,Bob and the ‘Silent Knight’.. This year’s card almost had me stumped. Bob and Mindy, wearing fuzzy reindeer antlers, are pictured in what appears to be an ad-layout bearing the LAWRY’S logo. Beneath their picture you see a message stating Tis the Season and a picture of three jars of McCormick spices. Of course, the spices are seasoning and thus . . . Tis the Season . . . Nice going guys.)

Different School; Different Life

As it happens, kindergarten led to grade school and a separation from many classmates at Riverside Grammar School to finding new ones at St. Mary’s.School.

There was Sr. Patrick, who to sixth graders looked like a towering giant who would inevitably cry real tears when she heard someone singing Danny Boy but unhesitant with a roundhouse cuff in the back of the head for miscreants and there were many. Mother St. Francis, diminutive in size, could put the fear of God in anyone, big or small with just one glance. Then there was Sr. Felix, no matter how much she urged or cajoled, tried in vain to fashion a boys’ choir out of a group of fourth graders who couldn’t sing a note yet alone to be able to master the Gregorian chant.

(Could one dare imagine that here, in the year of our Lord, 2010, the now vacant St. Mary’s School is being considered to be transformed into an elderly apartment complex. As one modern day blogger said, I dread to think that I will spend my last years in the same building spent as a youth and as I approach the entrance will the ever-threatening fear of having your knuckles rapped with a ruler as you entered the door, return?)

But, enough of the present. Let’s get back to those days of yesteryear. As I said, childhood years flew swiftly into those facing us as teenagers, bringing with them new urges, sexual and otherwise, along with new experiences and challenges. Europe would once again be at war. The entire world would soon follow. Great changes would be coming, both in my life and in the world itself.

*     *     *

Everyone in Jewett City knew everyone else. Families socialized together; kids played together, shared dreams with each other. There were many great families living here with a great many of stories to tell. Here are a few.

The McKenna Family

The McKenna hospitality was challenged one day. On most any day of the year it was common to have a dinner guest at the table. Bob, Squirt, Bucky, Joe or one of the daughters had a friend or friends over for one of Mrs. McKenna’s mouth watering meals. On this particular evening, an unfamiliar guest sat at the table. Dinner went smoothly. The conversation, through strained, proceeded quietly. Thank you very much Mrs. McKenna, the guest said as he arose from the table to make his exit from the house.

That was a most delicious dinner, he said as he went out the kitchen door.

Who was he? each McKenna sitting around the table asked the others?

I don’t know. I thought he was a friend of yours they said to one another.

It was reported that a bet had been made that anyone could walk into the McKenna’s, sit down at the table and enjoy a great meal.

Bob McKenna, Sr. was custodian at Griswold High School and had been since it’s opening during the latter WPA years. Bob Harlow, a Vermonter, during the early 1940s had become principal replacing Ernest Lake, the school’s original leader and superintendent of schools. One day the two were looking at the wooded area located in back of the school when Harlow, a slightly built man and in his broad Vermont accent, remarked that a man could make himself a few dollars cutting a cord of wood there. Without a hesitation, Bob McKenna who had a partially crippled arm, said, Yes, but a man like me could double that amount in half the time.

Warren Bucky McKenna the youngest son of the McKenna clan had a ritual that he used in church if he happened to be attending the Polish mass. When the priest use to recite the Hail Mary in Polish, Bucky would reverently bow his head and join in the response as follows:

"So toy est gring gory,

"Piff Poff Poof

"Watch out for the big wheel,

"Eight hands around,

"Everybody have a good time,

Na targana gemmi

His murmured nonsense ended with the same sounding word and at the precise time as others in the congregation ended the prayer. Many of the Polish speaking parishioners were amazed as to how an Irish boy could be so versed in the language and so piously too.

Bob McKenna, Jr. was a Pearl Harbor veteran, losing an arm on December 7, 1941, while stationed at Hickham Field in Honolulu. When he returned, after his Army discharge, to Jewett City, in 1945, he was required by law to register for the draft. I met him on that day in Stonington, headquarters of Eastern Connecticut’s Draft Board. I, too, was required to register for the draft having been just discharged, as Bob had, on a disability discharge. Since both our Army serial numbers began with the numeral one, indicating that we had earlier enlisted in the army and had not been drafted and, in fact, not registered at all we were there to fulfill the tenets of the law. So into the draft board we marched, Bob, minus an arm and I, at that time walking with a cane. We were both classified with whatever number the government gave to discharged war veterans.

Since Jewett City and Griswold were the farthest distance from the Draft Board, located in the Town of Stonington, a greater proportion of draftees in relation to population and in like manner, it would appear that more Eastern Connecticut servicemen killed during World War II came out of Griswold than elsewhere.

(In a note of interest, at the time of my high school graduation, every male member of my class was either in active military service or was awaiting active orders to report for duty.)

Pete the Lobster

Probably one of the best lobster houses in the area could be found on North Main Street at Pete DeGregario’s Lobster Restaurant. It was always crowded, especially on his weekly double lobster night. However, this one night found only two or three patrons at the bar after the dining crowd had left.

Pete the Lobster was a gambler. He’d bet on anything. The horses, baseball and football games or for that matter he wager on almost anything and at anytime. He would probably place a bet as to what floor a descending elevator would stop before reaching the ground floor.

The conversation got around to cherrystone clams and in the difficulty opening them for consumption. Ultimately, the conversation centered on how fast Pete could open them.

I’ll bet each one of you $2 that I can shuck them open faster than you can eat them, Pete said.

You’re on, the customers replied and the contest began.

Pete would be shucking the clams as the trio rapidly gulped them down.

Finally, not able to eat more, the men said, OK, you win and each left $2 on the bar, smiling as they walked out.

It was a good bet; each had eaten more than $2 worth of the delicacies.

George A Tormey

Ask George A. Tormey what the A. in his name stood for and his reply, without hesitation, would have been ANYTHING.

One of Jewett City’s great entrepreneurs, George, it was said, came to town in a box car during the early depression years. Later in life, during his tenure as the Norwich Lodge of Elks Grand Exalted Ruler, a banquet, under his direction, would not be complete unless each person seated at the head table was not presented a box of cigars. His explanation for the extravagance was simply that since it was customary to hand out a cigar at such events, Why be cheap about it, hand out a box.

George, at one time in his career, decided to go into the rug cleaning business with another great entrepreneur by the name of Bill Blake. Now this was a unique business in that the two partners would alternate in the role of owner/worker. The day George assumed the ownership he could be found dressed in a fine three-piece suit, a new white shirt, tie, and of course, his ever present Elk’s tooth dangling from a gold chain that ornamented his vest. When he was the worker, probably a pair of overalls or old chino pants made up his attire. Now, this was in 1945 and rug cleaning establishments, especially those willing to travel to the clients home to do the work, were few and far between. The process consisted of a machine that churned a liquid soap solution, which George identified as his secret formula, into foamy soap suds that were then applied to the rug with brushes.

I worked for George when he tried out his new-found business. His first customer, a lady who owned a $5,000 oriental rug, lived in a large home in one of the society sections of Norwich. I had just been discharged from the army and was collecting my 52-20 (20 dollars a week for 52 weeks) and the chance to earn a couple of dollars seemed too good to pass up.

As I recalled, it was a hot August day when George and I set out