I Shawn

By Denise Hengeli

The novella I Shawn follows the path a young man gripped by the economic depression experienced during 1938, combined with the catastrophe caused by a hurricane that devastated areas in New York in 1938. This young man became head of a family of eight children when his father got wounded in the midst of the hurricane. To assist our nations climb out of the economic depression, President Roosevelt instituted a work program for young unemployed men who not only earned money but obtained training that would help them after they were members of the Civilian Conservation Corps for two years. It is not a biography but rather a fictional story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524699901

Denise Hengeli

Denise graduated from Florida Atlantic University, with a major in English. She has been published by Scribe’s Valley Publishing, Eber & Wein, The Storyteller, and The Lutheran Digest. She’s been writing poetry and short stories for twenty years, and is working on a novel, I, Shawn, planning to submit this work for publication during 2017. Denise attends workshops and seminars to continue fine-tuning her work. A Floridian by choice, she currently enjoys sharing the lives of her six grandchildren.

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© 2017 Denise Hengeli. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  07/14/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9955-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9990-1 (e)

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CONTENTS

I, Shawn

Settlin’ In

My Pa, Patrick Shawn Mahoney

Father Mulligan

Mary O’neill

’Bout The Bronx

Teresa Maria Mahoney

What The Heck Is A Bumbershoot?

The CCC’s In Arizona

Waitin’ For The Truck

My Homecoming

Marryin’ Me Sweetheart

Charlotte Marie

Polio

Charlotte Marie

Becoming A Plumber

Shawn Patrick

Jonas

Shawn Patrick Mahoney

Shawn’s Son

I, SHAWN

The Bronx smells like dust.

I, Shawn Patrick Mahoney, curse the fact that I’m stuck in with twenty-five percent of America’s guys with no job, even though I’m livin’ in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty. Supposin’ the land of the free ain’t got nothin’ to do with anythin’ being free. Nobody’s got nothin’ free, and I still ain’t findin’ no job. Can’t live free without money!

Nineteen Hundred Thirty-eight stinks too. We just got rid of a lousy President. Hoover he’s called, and he’s been useless. Hoover. Just the name makes me think about spitin’ a hack right on the sidewalk. Disgustin’. Hearin’ we got a new one called Roosevelt, but I ain’t yet seen any help from this guy either. To top that, we just had what people are callin’ The Great Hurricane of ‘38! Callin’ all kinds of horrible stuff great. We’ve already been wallowin’ in a Great Depression. That ain’t been great either.

And today, here we all are livin’, all of us Mahoneys, on Crimmins Avenue in The Bronx, where everythin’ is covered by thick dust. It’s nothin’ like what we had in Throggs Neck, the place with the strange name. The Bronx includes Throggs Neck for sure, but there ain’t no Long Island Sound givin’ fresh air billowin’ over small cottages dottin’ shorelines. There ain’t trees, shrubs or my favorite sea grass to clear the air on Crimmins Avenue. Wonder what happens when it rains? I’m thinkin’ the dust will still be stuck to everythin’. It like cold to me, not winter cold, but the bricks and concrete hide people keepin’ them off the sidewalks. There ain’t no people to say ‘hi’ to. I had to scratch my head when I seen wrought iron fences protectin’ steps that go under the buildings. Under the buildings? Never seen that anyplace in Throggs Neck. They’d be underwater for sure. People actually live and pay rent for basement apartments, underground somehow. Their apartments are below ground. Buried. Wonder who thought that up?

Walkin’ about I see men down the street standin’ idly, hands shoved into pockets of worn coats, hardly movin’, just shufflin’ their feet. I’ve seen the coats they wear before. My granpa had one. Some coats are so old I know they must be from my granpa’s time. The Navy gave them out durin’ the buildin’ of Fort Schuler right here in The Bronx. Pea coats they’re called. Made of warmin’ wool. Last forever. Got big buttons with anchors on them. My granpa worked on that fort and said it was built on seventeen acres along the East River and Long Island Sound. New York itself wanted to build up the coast against foreign invasion. Don’t know about invadin’, but my granpa said they worried about the British comin’ to take back what they considered theirs. Brits were somehow crazy in those days. How could our land be theirs? Heard a little ’bout it in school, but I be knowin’ our land can never be anybody else’s land. Wishin’ my granpa was still around. I miss him every day. When he went to Heaven he left the Throggs Neck cottage he built by himself to his son, who is my Pa, Patrick Shawn Mahoney. Once our family settled in, we grew into a whole bunch. But, now in Nineteen Hundred Thirty-eight, my poor Pa has been forced to move his family to Crimmins Avenue in the City proper after the hellish night of September, twenty-first. The Great Hurricane of ‘38, they call it. That damned hurricane pounded Long Island before runnin’ up the eastern shore of New York itself. Not a direct hit for Throggs Neck you know, but close enough to rip away homes squattin’ along the shore, includin’ the cottage my granpa built. When the wind howled like a cat in rut, my whole family covered and held onto each other as winds we ain’t never heard before howled. Never knew wind could be so loud! At the height of the storm we Mahoneys hid in our one bathroom, the smallest children hidin’ in the depth of the bath tub. Rain punched our metal roof, until it peeled off our cottage with the loudest roar any one of us ever heard. It came off like openin’ a can of sardines. Pa said he could feel the roar deep in his throat, and I agree. Shook everythin’. As close as we were crammed, we couldn’t hear each other speak. I could tell our babies were cryin’, but I couldn’t hear their sound. Our ears were in some kind of suction, or filled somehow with water. I could tell Ma was sayin’ the Rosary without stoppin’ by watchin her lips as she tried to cover everyone with her apron. Reminded me of a chicken coverin’ her chicks. At the end of one Rosary, the winds were suddenly quiet, and we thought her prayer brought about the calm. Pa untangled himself from layin’ on the top of his family and stood up.

Mary, me darlin’, I see chairs and beds that flew overhead through our poor roof, causin’ the children to try to see through family members.

Did you pray away the wind?

I think I did Patrick.

I’m knowin’ your prayers are powerful. My Heavens. I take that back. We ain’t got no roof!

Within minutes, what sounded like a train where there could never be no train, grew closer and closer until winds whipin’ from the other side of our cottage hit the largest neighborhood tree growin’ in the sandy soil, and split it open until it crashed on our cottage wall. Like a rifle shot! Everyone was prayin’ now, to whatever Saint they could think of. That tree was always a goofball growin’ so large in sandy soil, but it was the favorite of us Mahoney kids who climbed its tangled branches as soon as our legs were long enough. The neighbors called it the Mahoney Tree. The power of the storm twisted our Mahoney Tree’s trunk open displayin’ its insides.

Lookin’ outside, Pa sighed.

Somehow embarrassin’, seein’ our tree split open, but look Shawn, its roots held in the sand. It’s as though I can see its livin’ inner parts. Maybe it’ll grow again someday.

With the passin’ of the storm, Pa moved his overturned kitchen table aside to go walkin’ outside and tripped over a door that had been ripped from the side of our neighbor’s truck. Ripped it clean off. Pa longed to own such a truck, but now it sat without doors in our yard. So much for longin’. I managed to grab him by the arm and helped him up. He shook off the fall lookin’ sheepish that he had fallen at all.

Ah now, me son, I’m feelin’ embarrassment again, havin’ you help me up. So much dirt and sand in the air it’s as dark as any night.

Instead of givin’ up his search for anythin’ useful, Pa tripped a second time tryin’ to move trashed chairs plus the truck door, and a tree branch from our Mahoney tree punched a hole right in his chest. Went right in. Tryin’ to hide the cut, he wrapped his chest openin’ with a rag he picked up from under the door so me and my Ma wouldn’t see he was hurt.

Don’ be tellin’ your Ma about my chest Shawn. She’ll fuss at me for walkin’ about.

I watched him wrap his chest as he brushed off my offers of help. No hole would slow his search to find