Betty’s Journey: A Life Shaped by History and Heritage

By Betty (Paglieri) Mack

Summary: Born in the midst of the Great Depression in 1931, Betty's early years were framed by economic hardship and the evolving landscape of the New York metropolitan area. Raised in New Jersey, she was deeply influenced by both the proximity of bustling Manhattan and the dismissive attitude many city dwellers held toward those across the Hudson. Her family's immigrant roots from Calabria and Abruzzi brought with them stories of struggle, resilience, and adaptation to American life. While her mother navigated the challenges of assimilation and labor in silk mills, her father pursued opportunities in farming and plumbing, eventually shaping a life that balanced old-world traditions with new-world aspirations. Against the backdrop of major historical events—from the construction of the Empire State Building to the unfolding of World War I—her family's journey embodies the perseverance and transformation of early 20th-century immigrant America.

Early Days

I made my debut in 1931—October 2nd, to be precise. As is generally known, 1931 was not an auspicious year for the U.S. and world economies. The stock market had crashed just two years earlier. The roaring optimism of the Twenties had given way to the despair of the Thirties. There were desperate agricultural and manufacturing problems; unemployment was rampant. There was a sense of hopelessness.

Fortunately for me, my world was set in the New York City metropolitan area. I was a Jersey girl, born just eighteen miles from Manhattan, with connections by auto via the Holland Tunnel or the 42nd Street Ferry. There was a thriving Erie Railroad for commuting, with two stations in town. Most radio stations were New York-based, and almost everyone read the New York papers, from the *Daily Mirror* to the *Journal American.* More educated readers preferred the *New York Times* or the *Herald Tribune.* The local *Paterson Evening News* was something of a late-day afterthought.

On the other hand, when city-born types gave New Jersey a passing thought, it was usually dismissive. At best, there was mild tolerance. Even so, we had to endure numerous jokes and sarcasm about being "hicks from the sticks." With the possible exception of the L.A./Hollywood area, anything west of Jersey City and Hoboken was considered irrelevant territory, inhabited by unsophisticated rubes. In truth, the Empire State Building was under construction and rose like a beacon in midtown Manhattan in just fourteen months, completed several months before my own debut. The George Washington Bridge spanning the Hudson officially opened for traffic a few days after my birth. One of my father’s favorite stories concerned the dedication of this bridge—National Guard units marched across it as part of the ceremonies in cadence step rather than regular step, which caused an ominous swaying of the suspension supports. Nothing disastrous took place, but the news reporters had a field day speculating on the possibility that the great bridge might have collapsed into the river at its opening.

Another Depression-era enterprise was being planned by the Rockefeller family, who would soon start building the largest privately owned entertainment and business center in the world. Only eight years later, New York City hosted a World’s Fair that was a wonder of its time. But these considerations are premature. A few observations about my family would be appropriate at this point.

My mother was born in Calabria, a province south of Naples. It was a dry, rural land of large families and small agricultural plots. Poverty and illiteracy were endemic. While northern Italy was becoming industrialized and prosperous, the south was populated by peasants who traditionally worked the land. My mother was the oldest of several children. Sadly, the family's trip to America was horrific. The children were seasick, the sanitary conditions were dreadful, and my grandmother, who was in the early stage of pregnancy, was in such desperate condition that the ship’s doctor had her removed to the infirmary, where it was assumed she would soon die. Happily, no one died, and all were quickly settled in a modest shanty near a quarry, situated between two railroad tracks—one the main Erie commuter line and the other a spur to the quarry.

There were no modern amenities in the shanty, which was not a problem, since none of them had any concept of a modern amenity anyway. At any rate, it was far better than anything they had known in Calabria. Within the year, they had a vegetable garden, several goats, a chicken coop, and a large brick oven for bread baking. Their nearest neighbors were WASP types with ordinary suburban lifestyles. These locals must have been tolerant people because my mother never indicated there was a problem with acceptance. Perhaps the fact that they were separated from the neighbors by the tracks was a factor. Italy was more than an ocean away, and the closest "Little Italy" was six miles distant in Paterson. The Americanization of my mother was about to begin.

My father was born in a small mountain town in the Abruzzi region, east of Rome, on the Adriatic slope of the Apennines. It is a rugged land of rock, sheer cliffs, and deep valleys. The more remote areas are famous for their unusual wildlife. In the arable parts, cultivation is conducted on small holdings by farmers who live in little towns with houses tightly clustered on the tops and sides of isolated peaks.

He arrived in the U.S. in 1904 with his father. He was nine years old, the oldest son. The rest of the family remained in Italy until my grandfather had the wherewithal to organize passage for them all: a wife, two daughters, and three sons. My paternal grandfather enjoyed a somewhat higher social and economic standing than my maternal grandfather, the key element being education. Both he and his wife were literate. This grandfather had no need of a "padrone" to lead him when he left Ellis Island. He already knew, through the immigrant grapevine, where he wanted to be and how to get there. It was to be the Bronx, just across the Harlem River from Manhattan, not far from the Polo Grounds. He was a former farmer and wanted to grow small crops in close proximity to a ready market. What better market than Manhattan?

It may seem odd to think of the Bronx in a rural context, but at that time, land was available for lease in the open South Bronx, and a cluster of truck farms flourished where the Yankee Stadium complex now stands. For my grandfather, it was a golden opportunity. He enrolled my father in the local public school, a place of wonder for a young boy eager to learn, while he pursued the farming occupation he loved for the rest of his long life.

My mother, on the other hand, could not be spared from the home for something as frivolous as school attendance. Instead, she became well acquainted with the neighbors. This began when the family’s chickens produced more eggs than they needed, and the local ladies were pleased to spend a few pennies on freshly laid eggs. One thing led to another, and my mother soon generated more income by being available for occasional housework. In this way, she learned English and met interesting people.

The neighbors she knew best, who became her friends and mentors, were Ryan and Maud Walker, a childless couple who were devoted socialists. Ryan Walker was a political cartoonist for the left-leaning paper *The World*, and Maud wrote short stories under a pseudonym for various magazines. Through them, my mother was introduced to labor leaders and union organizers, including the famous Eugene V. Debs.

To my mother, Debs was a gentle person, kind and polite, who seemed like a father figure. He had gained national attention during the bitter Pullman Strike of 1894, a lost effort for labor. In the end, Debs spent six months in an Indiana jail for his leadership of the striking railroad workers. He ran for president on the Socialist ticket in 1900, 1904, 1908, 1912, and finally in 1920. By then, as an outspoken pacifist, he was incarcerated in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary for his opposition to the Selective Service Act of World War I. He still managed to get nearly a million votes out of a total of 26 million. He died in 1926, and the Socialist Party never gained much traction in the U.S., but he is remembered as a hero of labor and a notable figure in American history.

All this meant little to my mother, who had no political concepts of any kind. She was more interested in learning how to make pot roasts rather than *minestra*, to put butter rather than olive oil on bread, and to set a proper table for dinner. Once, Maud even took her to the city on the train, where they shopped and had lunch at Child’s Restaurant, a favorite eatery for women. What an experience! This continued for several years until the inevitable need for money for a growing family became a pressing problem.

A Hardworking Family

There was a silk mill about two and a half miles away, and my mother started as a spool girl and ended as a skilled winder. The hours were long, but she brought in more than my grandfather was earning in a day. So, she didn't need a public education to get on in life after all.

To my knowledge, my father never met any well-known people. He may have seen some famous ballplayers at the nearby Polo Grounds, the most famous being John J. McGraw. But it seems unlikely, as it was never mentioned. My father was a fan of the New York Giants, but it is doubtful that my hard-working, nose-to-the-grindstone grandfather would have allowed his son to waste time doing something as unproductive as hanging around a baseball park.

Life was difficult. Eventually, leasing a small truck farm became too expensive. Real estate prices in the South Bronx kept rising anyway, so the family moved across the Hudson to Bergen County, New Jersey. Land was still readily available and affordable at that time. In addition to his crops, he was able to add a horse and some livestock to the agricultural mix. My father graduated from school and had hoped to go to college, but it was simply impossible. He decided to become an apprentice plumber. I have no idea why he selected that particular vocation. It certainly was a challenging choice for him.

He had to travel daily on the West Shore Railroad back to the city and be (literally) knocked around by the master plumbers who trained apprentices. They all seemed to be big Irish types who had scant sympathy for little Italians. He did all the physical work the masters didn't want to be bothered with—carried all the pipes up multi-floored construction sites, cut and threaded, soldered and wiped, and was also expected to provide an unending number of pails of beer from local saloons. He passed the test for journeyman plumber just before the war, and he always said that his success with the test owed everything to books and manuals he read about plumbing and nothing to the master plumbers who were supposed to train him.

The Impact of War

It is doubtful that I would have been born had it not been for World War I. Even though my father in Bergen County and my mother in Passaic County did not live many miles apart, the likelihood of them ever crossing paths, much less marrying, was doubtful. But Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia in 1914, quickly followed by the German declaration against France and Russia, which led to the British declaration against Germany. European civilization fell like a house of cards. Even though there was a large number of resident German-Americans, the prevailing sympathy was generally with the Allies.

The Kaiser did not help his cause by trying to trick Mexico into war with the U.S., by sinking the Lusitania and killing American civilians, by blowing up the Jersey City docks in an act of sabotage known as the "Black Tom Explosion of 1916," and, finally, by declaring a policy of unrestricted submarine warfare, which meant sinking neutral U.S. ships. That was the last straw. President Wilson declared war on April 6, 1917, and my father was a member of the New Jersey National Guard within a week. He almost didn't get accepted. In an age when marching was an essential part of a soldier's life, he was about to be rejected for his flat feet. However, calculating minds at the recruitment office prevailed, and he ended up in the Headquarters Company of an engineering regiment. Eventually, his unit became part of the 29th Division, which included other guard units from Virginia and Maryland and became known as the "Blue and Gray Division."

Before the Department of War had gotten all that organized, New Jersey was in a panic about possible further acts of sabotage by Germans, then commonly referred to as "Huns," and the Jersey Guard was scattered all over the state watching bridges, tunnels, docks, water lines, and the like. My father was part of a group assigned to a pipeline service structure located about two hundred yards down the hill from my mother’s family home. The soldiers did their cooking over campfires and, emulating local ladies, appreciated a ready supply of fresh eggs.

One thing led to another, and my father and mother soon became sweethearts. It was not an easy courtship. As was typical of strict Italian families, my mother had been carefully protected against any interaction with young unmarried men. It was an unwritten but sacred rule that girls would remain pure and untouched until marriage. To further complicate affairs, arrangements had already been made for my mother to become engaged to someone named Agosto (August). For a while, my grandmother was blissfully unaware that anything was going on, but when someone spilled the beans, she became wildly enraged. All contact with soldiers, especially my father, was to be immediately discontinued, which naturally made my mother all the more determined to keep seeing him. She also made it clear to one and all—including my grandmother—that she preferred to marry for love rather than obligation.

At this point, Ryan and Maud Walker stepped into the picture. They were on the side of youthful romance and encouraged clandestine meetings between the two parties. When the 29th Division moved to Anniston, Alabama, for training, my father sent mail in care of the Walkers, who would then pass on letters to my mother and send responses on her behalf. This continued throughout the war. For my father, that meant debarkation in France in the spring of 1918, further training in Alsace, and then active participation in the Meuse-Argonne campaign in September and October. The division was preparing for a final push on the fortress city of Metz when the armistice went into effect on November 11. The war was over, but he didn’t get back home until the summer of 1919.

By the time they saw each other again, my father had survived the nightly German bombardments in the Argonne, and my mother had endured a nasty bout of the Spanish flu—a dreadful scourge that kept her bedridden for weeks and killed a number of her co-workers at the rug mill. The world had changed in a few short months, but they remained set on marriage. My grandmother was unable to prevent it. They were married in a little Italian church in Paterson on September 7, 1919. My brother Charles was born on January 15, 1921, and I came along ten years later.

Getting Started

My birth precipitated a major argument between my parents. The general plan was for my grandmother to come over and take charge of the delivery. She was not a midwife, but she was perfectly capable of attending to a normal childbirth. In those days, few mothers went to hospitals for deliveries, so the use of midwives and/or family members was fairly common. I am told that it was not a long or difficult labor, but my father, not being a patient man, panicked. Fearful of the worst, he dashed off to engage the services of the town doctor. It took a while, as the doctor was in the middle of office hours, and by the time he arrived, I had already been born, cleaned up, and swaddled. There was little for the doctor to do except verify that mother and baby were doing well. But he was visibly annoyed about being dragged out of his office for "nothing" and charged a fee of twenty-five dollars. It was an outrageous sum at a time when whole families were living on less than twenty-five dollars a month. My mother, who was already unhappy about having to take maternity leave from her job at the rug mill, was outraged and let my father know exactly what she thought about his decision.

Thus, a disagreement swirled over my cradle at a time when some sort of rejoicing might have been nice. I was to hear about this incident for years from my mother, who evidently was unable to forget and move on. When I was small, I had a vague feeling of guilt, thinking it was somehow my fault. Later, as I matured, the whole affair became boring, and I would carefully "tune it out." Fortunately, by the time I became a teenager, it was virtually forgotten.

At any rate, after everyone left, the household settled down, and my father went off to the Municipal Building to register my birth. They had decided to name me Betty—just Betty, not Elizabeth—which seemed to be an acceptable concept for my parents. Later, when they approached the priest who had married them about my baptism, they were informed that Betty was an utterly improper name and that it was to be Elizabeth or nothing. So, I ended up with two names—one for the Church and one for the world. Betty has always been my legal and preferred name, but occasionally, there were officious types (usually teachers) who insisted that I obviously did not know my own name, the unspoken implication being that this was typical of uneducated immigrants.

I cannot recall my preschool years very clearly. I have dim recollections of a dog named Spotty and a cat called Kitty. I remember falling out of a second-story window and being taken to a hospital in Paterson, where my bruises were examined. Happily, no bones were broken. I recall a child's wading pool, a swing, and a tricycle. I remember how charming baby chicks were, all fluffy and constantly peeping, and how disappointing it was when they morphed into dim-witted, squawking chickens.

There was a large yard—150 feet in front and 75 feet deep—a small house, and, of course, the ever-present vegetable garden, grape arbor, and fig tree. The street was unpaved, but there were few neighbors around, so only three families used the crushed gravel road, which was adequate for daily travel. There were open fields with wild strawberries and blackberries, and also resident snakes. There was a sizable wooded area, a remnant of a 19th-century canal with a towpath and a sluggish pool of water filled with frogs. A bridle path wound through the woods and fields with a distant turnaround at the "famous" Jersey City pipeline that my father had guarded in 1917. Meeting horse riders along this bridle path was one of the joys of my young life. Sadly, some years later, the nearby stable and many of the horses housed there were consumed in a fire.

No supermarkets existed in the region during the Thirties. There was a small A&P, a White Front Market, a butcher shop, a bakery, and a delicatessen in the center of town. Serious shopping necessitated a trip to Washington Street in Paterson, where a succession of ethnic food stores and dry goods stores lined the street. That was an experience punctuated by wonderful smells, fast-talking proprietors, and a feeling of triumph if the (seemingly) obligatory bargaining sessions went your way. Of course, a great deal of food production and preservation went on in the home. My parents had a grape press for making grape juice and wine. Glass Mason jars lined the cellar shelves, filled with preserved goods. I also remember my mother making cheese with rennet and milk. Sometimes, ground-up pork was stuffed into sausage casings and hung up to dry. She made her own spaghetti and had a neat little hand-cranked ravioli machine for special events. When she baked bread, extra dough was flattened out and sprinkled with garlic, olive oil, and oregano before going into the oven. I loved this "bread" and had no concept that it was an early version of what would become one of the world's most popular foods—pizza.

One day, we had just returned from a Paterson shopping expedition when a thin, unshaven hobo knocked at the back door, asking if we could spare a little food. It was a strange experience for me. "Hobo trails" often ran along railroad tracks, and my mother must have been in a generous mood. She told the man, who seemed fairly young, to sit on the back step. She then fried up two pork chops, sliced two potatoes and fried them in the pork fat, and opened a can of peas. She put all this on a big dinner plate and topped it off with two hunks of bread. The fellow was so overwhelmed by this generosity that he could scarcely handle it, either physically or emotionally. I watched him eat what he could, and finally, he tied up a pork chop and the bread in a handkerchief, which he stuffed into his shirt. This hobo made quite an impression on me, as I had never seen one up close until then. Today, I suppose we would call 911 and have the police remove or arrest the unfortunate wanderer.

My mother would often boast that we always had food on the table during the Depression. Oddly, this was in large measure due to the fact that she worked steadily at the Augusta Mill as their best winder. Why the silk business flourished while so many manufacturing enterprises closed their doors, I do not know. My father had passed his New Jersey Master Plumber's exam after the war and had plenty of work during the Twenties, but construction had fallen sharply in the Thirties, and he was forced to try door-to-door selling of encyclopedias and vacuum cleaners. There were no buyers. Finally, he bought a hanging scale, a big roll of wrapping paper, and a supply of paper bags. He took out the back seat of the family Ford and made a bin lined with rubber that could hold ice. With all this in place, he would take a pre-dawn drive to the Fulton Fish Market in Lower Manhattan two or three times a week, load up with fish, and peddle it in affluent towns in Essex County, usually Montclair, Cedar Grove, and Verona. What he didn't sell was for home consumption.

None of this was good for marital harmony. For my father, it was intolerable that he should have to depend on my mother’s steady twenty-dollar-a-week income, while my mother felt that she was a hard worker both at home and in the mill and did not appreciate mean-spirited comments during her free time. There were fights and days when neither one was speaking to the other. I never saw him strike her, but she left him a few times. The problem for her was that when she walked out, the only place she could go was my grandparents' home, about a mile away. They no longer lived in the old shanty, and the new house had room to spare for my mother, brother, and me. But a complete reversal had taken place in my grandmother’s assessment of my father. Where she once considered him an unworthy candidate for a son-in-law, she now perceived him as a resourceful and intelligent problem solver. So, whenever my mother showed up ready to move in, my grandmother would insist that she return home. I think that my parents always loved each other, but both had dominant personalities and were not able to accept things beyond their control. Eventually, life did get better. They mellowed in their later years and lived to celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary.

This blog has been faciliated by AI. The original handwritten version is attached below.

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