"A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" - An Eternal Gift

 I just finished re-readin "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" for, well, I really can't hazard a quess as to what number of times. Safe to say, probably the hundreth. And, what have I gotten out it? Quite a bit, actually.

The beauty of it is that none of the following can be found in the book. They are merely referred to. Yet the characters are so firmly etched in your heart, that you want to know them on a deeper level. And, knowing what they are referring to is an  obvious way of doing that. 

I was ahead of the curve on "The Little Flower" because of my Grandmother. She'd already told me the stories of the Saints.

"Annie Laurie" was easy because I'd heard it somewhere before. It's a Scottish song, based on a poem by William Douglas, about his romance with Annie Laurie, with the tune added and words modified by Lady John Douglas Scott in 1834/5. I like to think it was a romantic collaboration. 

And during my early teens I had to look up the two verses by Shakespeare shown below. Although I didn't understand them as fully then, as I do now at the age of 70. 

At any rate; know your Bible, know your Darwin, Melville, Dickens, Poe, Hugo, Twain and Dostoyevsky, just to name a few of my favorite authors. But don't ever discount Betty Smith and "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." It was a gateway to greater literaure in my life. 

............

In the Catholic Church, "The Little Flower" is Saint Therese of Lisieux, a Discalced  (Catholic friars or nuns who go barefoot or wear only sandals) Carmelite nun known for her simple message of holiness through everyday actions and her "Little Way" of spiritual childhood.

Marie Francoise-Therese Martin, known as Therese of the Child Jesus,  lived from 1873 to 1897.  Her life was short, but her impact enormous. Her Nickname is "The Little Flower".

Her spiritual teaching, known as "The Little Way," emphasizes that anyone can achieve holiness by performing ordinary actions with great love and trust in God, even in the smallest ways. Deed over Doctrine.

Her autobiography, "The Story of a Soul," is a testament to her simple yet profound spirituality.
Canonized by Pope Pius XI in 1925, her feast day is celebrated on October 1st. She is the patron saint of missions, florists, the sick, and those who are homeless.

............

Annie Laurie
William Douglas | Lady John Scott

Maxwellton braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true
Gied me her promise true
Which ne’er forgot will be
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Her brow is like the snowdrift
Her neck it’s like the swan
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on
That e’er the sun shone on
And dark blue is her e’e
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Maxwellton braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true
Gied me her promise true
Which ne’er forgot will be
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa’ of her fairy feet
And like wind in summer sighing
Her voice is low and sweet
Her voice is low and sweet
She’s a’ the world to me
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Maxwellton braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true
Gied me her promise true
Which ne’er forgot will be
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee
............

Macbeth

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

William Shakespeare
............

The Merchant of Venice (Portia's soliloquy.)

The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God Himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which, if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

William Shakespeare

"Five-Finger Discount" by Helene Stapinski

The only reason I can offer as to why I have never posted a review of this wonderful book before is that I read it in 2001;  eight years before this blog began! Now, with that explanation out of the way.....

What a charming and masterfully written book this is. So much so that it even made the cut recently when downsizing our home with my wife, Sue, in North Carolina. Both lovers of books, we had massive amounts of them at the old house but clearly, many needed to go. This book was not one of those.

Over the years I have read this book several times, and the characters in Ms. Stapinski's life have become as familiar to me as the ones drawn by Harper Lee or even Betty Smith in their respective accounts of growing up, the iconic "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn."  (Technically those books are fictional though both are actually thinly disguised autobiographies.)

I grew up in Brooklyn, just opposite Bayonne, the city a bit South of Jersey City. Perhaps that's why the book caught my interest. Aside from the story of her own colorful family, Ms. Stapinski has also painted a vivid portrait of the corruption which splashed across the headlines of the newspapers I delivered daily when I was about 12 years old in 1966.

Tracing her roots to find out just how her family got to Jersey City is a story familiar to most immigrant families. This includes the family skeletons left behind, and the characters surrounding you growing up. But her biggest question is why did they stop in Jersey City?

Her father and mother are immediately recognizable as being the same type of people we all grew up with. Hard working and basically honest folk, who bend the rules a bit when necessary to make ends meet, or provide something extra for the family.

Jersey City was a major shipping point for all kinds of  goods. From locally manufactured things like toothpaste to imported hams and clothes, a portion of everything seemed to "fall off the truck" just in time for birthdays, or even Christmas. It was the same in Brooklyn as it was in Jersey City. These were two cities where "bringing your work home with you" clearly meant something different than elsewhere.

Ms. Stapinksi writes ably; and with great style. On page after page the reader is regaled with stories of her colorful family; all their strengths and weaknesses are on display. But the love is there, too. I can feel it every time she goes to meet her Dad at the Majestic, the tavern he stopped into each night, coming home from work at the frozen food warehouse, a frozen portion of the nights dinner under his arm.

The author grew up during a time of great political and social change. Jersey City seemed to be doing it's very best to avoid both. Corruption was the norm. But, through the sepia lens of time, and with the skilled hand of a gifted writer, I actually find myself wishing for the "good old days" when I read this book.

We all have our quirky family members. But though many families try, usually in vain, to hide these black sheep,  Ms. Stapinski's family celebrates them in story, passing them down from one generation to the next.

It's a multi generational tale about the Polish and the Italian sides of her family and how they got together. It's also the story of the next generation, her parents. And, it is also the story of millions of 2nd generation Americans, and the line they walk between the values of their own heritage and the American "dream."

From her Grandfather Beansie, to her long suffering grandmother Babci, and her own parents daily struggle with the world around them, this book will keep you reading. And you'll come back to it again for a second helping. Because in so many ways we all share this story.

Masterly interwoven is the history of Jersey City and it's neighbors, along with the political corruption endemic to most industrial towns of the time. With a reporter's skill, she chronicles the major events of the times which came before here, allowing the reader to understand more fully the attitude of most in her community to legitimize the "swag", the stuff which "fell off the truck".

This book works on so many levels that it is almost impossible to do it justice here. You'll follow Ms.Stapinski's journey as a reporter on the local paper, to her year in Alaska and her eventual return to Jersey City, and ultimately her settlement in Brooklyn, where the trees grow. And when the time comes, when all of the loose threads of this tapestry are tied together, you'll savor the memories.
.....................

NOTE: Ms. Stapinski's father passed away on October 22, 1987. I happened to be reading that chapter on October 22nd. So, I found the authors web site and dropped her a note via e-mail. Mistaking me for someone else she replied with a short note which referenced a reading. Looking back at her web site I noticed that she has another book out.

It's about that family skeleton, a crime left behind in Italy.  That book is titled "Murder in Matera". You can be sure I will be reading and reviewing it here. Even if I have to find a copy which has "fallen off the truck."

Also of note is that "Five Finger Discount" was made into a mini series. I'll have to check that out. I wonder if the characters can be portrayed on film as vividly as the way in which the author presented them on paper. It will be a tough match....

Here is a link to the films website. http://fivefingerdiscountfilm.com/

A Christmas Tree Grows In Brooklyn - from Betty Smith

This is a repost from last year and the year before. I present it again simply because I love it that much. I hope that if you have never read this, you will now. Your life will be enriched. And, even if you have read it before, you will find that it will refresh your spirits. I include my last year’s introduction and hope to add a bit to it each year.

If you can read this portion of a chapter from Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” without choking up, then you are probably not living. One of the most poignant portions of a book filled with such moments, this is a tale that should be read each Christmas. To me it is the equivalent of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens; only shorter; as most things are.

In this brief glimpse into the lives of the Nolan family on Christmas Eve are all of the same lessons contained in Dicken’s classic holiday tale. The realities which we live are largely of our own making. And, just as Jacob Marley forged each link of his own damnation in “A Christmas Carol”, we are all capable of undoing those links as well. As you read this, remember that about the tree-seller.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming;

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

"A Christmas Tree Grows In Brooklyn" by Betty Smith (1943)

If you can read this portion of a chapter from Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” without choking up, then you are probably not living. One of the most poignant portions of a book filled with such moments, this is a tale that should be read each Christmas. To me it is the equivalent of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens; only shorter; as most things are.

In this brief glimpse into the lives of the Nolan family on Christmas Eve are all of the same lessons contained in Dicken’s classic holiday tale. The realities which we live are largely of our own making. And, just as Jacob Marley forged each link of his own damnation in “A Christmas Carol”, we are all capable of undoing those links as well. As you read this, remember that about the tree-seller.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming;

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

The Christmas Tree from "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" by Betty Smith

This is from my favorite book ever written, "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" by Betty Smith. I actually keep extra copies on hand to give away. This text is from the 1943 Harper & Brothers 5th Edition. To me, this portion of the book represents something which lies beyond each of our exteriors; the true essence of who we are as individuals; in this case it is the "tree man", who is emblematic of us all; both wanting to give more, yet keenly aware of our own need to survive what is, indeed at times, “...a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!” All the more reason to give what you can to those in need during this holiday season.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming,

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

"Betty Smith- Life of the Author" by Valerie Raleigh Yow

They say good art comes from pain. The life of Betty Smith proves this to be true. But before you read this biography you need to be aware that you may be tearing down the facade that makes her novel, " A Tree Grows In Brooklyn," such a pleasure to read over and over again.

The author, Ms. Yow used to pass a quaint little house adjacent to the UNC Campus at Chapel Hill. Inquiring about it she found that it was the home of the author Betty Smith. Realizing that all of Ms. Smiths papers are stored at the Chapel Hill location she requested, and then obtained permission, to look through them, with the aim of writing this wonderful book.

Drawing upon the University archives, Ms. Yow has written an extensive and accurate biography of both the life of Betty Smith, and her landmark novel "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn." Originally written as an autobiography and then, at the suggestion of an editor, reformed into a novel, this is one of my favorite books. Actually, it is my favorite book.

Beginning with the histories of the real Wehner (Nolans) and Hummel(Rommely) families, the author takes on the novel, piece by piece and points out the differences in the fiction versus the real life stories. They are slightly different, but remarkably the same.

To begin with, Katie's family was Austrian, not German. And Johnny's family was German, not Irish. This was kind of a shock. But almost all of the remaining features of the novel were taken from real life.

Beginning with the caul that was coveted by the midwife at Francis' birth, and continuing on to the local junk dealer and even Aunt Eva, the story is clearly an autobiography. Even Uncle Willie Flittman is there. But sadly, there appears to be no real Aunt Sissy.

The caul story is one of the more fascinating tales in this book. I knew that the practice of obtaining a caul was common amongst seamen of the time, but this was the first book that really drove it home. Maybe because it's real and takes place in Brooklyn.

Another of the striking sequences in the book is the direct replay of her Dad's drinking and day dreaming, much to the dismay of Frances' (Betty Smith's) mother(Katherine) in the novel. Some of the dialect is verbatim and it hurts to think how much this must have hurt Ms. Smith to hear. She clearly worshipped her father, flawed as he was.

The story of her mothers remarraige is also sad. A trash collector 20 years her seinor was bawling her out for sweeping into the street. He came back to apologize and eventually they entered into a marraige of convenience. He had two sons. In many of her private letters and some of her short stories Ms. Smith alludes to some sort of uneasiness concerning her stepdad. And this caused some friction with her Mom. She blamed the daughter for imagining things.

Leaving school at 14 years old so that her brother could continue on to High School is another true event. And it had lasting repercussions. While her brother went on to finish High School, he wound up owning a gas station for his entire life. He never needed his Diploma at all. Ms. Smith, on the other hand, worked for everything required to gain her Bachelor of Science degree, but never received it due to not having a High School Diploma. And when it came time to receive her Master of Fine Arts, she lacked the necessary Bachelors Degree to be awarded the Masters.

There is so much more to this book than just the story of the novel. This book chronicles the entire life of Betty Smith, her marraige and her writing.It is a very interesting and well researched book that strips away all the sepia toned quality of Brooklyn as a serene and quaint place in the summer of 1912. For that reason, and that reason only, I am sorry that I read this book.