By ROGER SALLOOM 

... at the railing of the steamer in 1919. WWI was finished and it was now safe to cross the Atlantic. The immigrant boy is fleeing with his mother from the Old Country where she had to sleep with a gun to protect them.

Little Freddy grows up, works in intelligence gathering WWII for the US Navy, has a life-long career with the Federal Aviation Administration during which he is asked to run all of the technical aspects of one of America’s most important airports, John Foster Dulles in Washington, DC, a promotion he declined because of the pressure of too many foreign dignitaries and statesmen coming and going.

Now he is still our little boy staring up at the statue of Liberty crying.

°°°°

The two of them traveled north by train from Ellis Island up to Worcester.

They went to Grafton Hill where Fred's dad was waiting for them.

His father's first job was not much. He could not speak English and had no wealthy connections in Worcester to help. None of his friends nor family had money. Gido had to make it on his own.

Eventually he was hired by a man to become a door-to-door peddler.

His first assignment was to travel by foot from Worcester to Millbury, Massachusetts everyday. That is no easy walk to work, 7 miles. 

Once there he could then start to work. A penny was money then. He was to knock on doors to sell his pins, needles, thread, and handkerchiefs in his beat-up suitcase.

By the way, my grandfather was not a debonair, sweet-talking type, he was short and quiet.

At the very very first house, the lady opened the door, maybe did not understand what my grandfather was saying, but, whether she did or did not, he had no idea at all what or how to say much to her. It was as if he was a deaf mute.

She told him she did not want any of his dry goods and closed the front door. "Go away." 

However, probably because he did not understand her or he was driven by desperation, he knocked again. She told him to go away a second time and again slammed the door. He knocked a third time. This time, the man of the house came to the door and punched my Gido in the face.

He stumbled over to a horse trough to rinse off his head. The man yelled at him to get his head out of the trough. "That water is for the horses, not you!”

My family would retell this story with humor and a renewed sense of determination to work hard.  We knew we were not lower than horses.

Despite The Punch, my grandfather stayed in the clothing business his whole life.

Should one should start off their careers with a punch in the face? Maybe.

Little Freddy had his own struggles and we will hear about those with the next post. 

I heard about a comprehensive sociological survey which showed that new first generation immigrants in America nearly never need psychotherapeutic services. 

“Well, Roger, your time is up.”

Fred is smiling ever so slightly ... kind of a Mona Lisa smile. The baby is Philip, who Fred helped deliver in their living room. Alas, Philip died in a swimming accident in Worcester while he was in his teens.