Story 3 - beating the odds
Oh… my, my, my. Where shall I start?
My name is Minnie. I was born in a place called Trelawny Parish on the northeast coast of the island nation of Jamaica in the Caribbean Sea. Jamaica, like Puerto Rico and other islands in the Caribbean is known for sugar cane and rum. Very good money for the plantation owners, not so good for those who earned their living by the sharpness of their machete… you know, those big long knives for cutting your way through the bush? Good for cutting bamboo, too.
My grandfather and grandmom cut cane for that living… as slaves… 30,000 in our parish alone. That was until the Brits passed a law abolishing that abomination in 1838.
For my own dear father and mother, the Lord had other plans. Education was very important. It was because of their tough love that I stayed out if trouble and wanted to teach. I studied hard, learned to love books instead of rum and became a teacher‘s assistant in Falmouth. I dreamed of having my own students and classroom. That dream lasted awhile until I met Adrian.
For Christmas in 1925, my parents took me on a long boat trip to Panama, my first time off our island. Panama is where the Yanks built that canal linking the Atlantic with the Pacific. The U.S. Navy was there to protect this important waterway and so was Adrian, My father happened to know someone working at the Coco Solo base who we visited to exchange gifts. That someone had a friend who worked on a submarine as a cook… yep, that was my Adrian.
Adrian looked so proud and good in uniform. Most men do. Still, my father liked him, he sensed a fire in this man‘s belly, a serious drive to succeed on his own terms, not another‘s. At the same time, Adrian knew when to keep quiet and act respectful.
I wouldn‘t want to play him at cards, my father would say, but I might invest in whatever business he had going.
My mother was more reserved, found Adrian soft spoken, but polite… with motives.
When we returned to Trelawny the letters between us rode back and forth on the same steamer we‘d taken, arriving a week or more later. This went on for almost a year. Adrian rode his submarine, the O-9, out for deployments or missions that could last 2-3 months. And then of course, when he got back, all the letters he wrote stowed under his rack would all arrive at our door at once. It was like Christmas in July.
Then the big day finally dawned. My father had given his blessing and it was time for the three of us to make that final sea crossing together. That night before, my friends from school threw me a bon voyage and a wedding party in the cafeteria on our town square in Falmouth. This was it. I laughed a lot and inside I cried a lot. The Lord had a long life in store for me, but it didn‘t seem to be in Trelawny.
Adrian and I got married in a Cristobal church that spring of 1927. It was to become a busy year. The Navy always has the last word in a family‘s decisions and so when the crew of O-9 got orders for the sib base in New London, Connecticut… (where? my father wrote), it dawned on me that all my eggs from now on would be in one basket… Adrian‘s.
The first couple of months in this new place were bewildering, let me tell you. I often felt adrift at sea, Adrian my life raft. He encouraged me to join a group and make friends, he kept repeating that we weren‘t alone. And so I started attending services at Shiloh Baptist Church, just over the hill, not too far a walk for a Jamaican country girl to walk. The Reverend Grimstead was a kind and no nonsense man who made me think of my father.
It took us a few years to finally settle in. Adrian finished with the Navy and wanted to be on his own. His timing could not have been worse. The crash of 1929 was just around the corner. Still, Adrian found work as a laborer and we lived at 17 Hill Street just up the street from where the Lord eventually meant us to be. Two years later we moved for the cheaper rent at 306 Main, but had trouble even with that. In 1932 the Depression was especially hard on people and we wound up living at 20 High Street… yes, my friends, the address of Shiloh. 1933 was better. We found a temporary place at 115 Main and the following year Adrian got rehired as a laborer for the City of New London. 15 North Bank became our new home, a second floor apartment just above Lou Gonella’s billiards parlor. Mr. Gonella grew to trust Adrian and hired him to work as his partner.
It was at this time that my husband‘s interest in games of chance came to the attemtion of the local, and later, the state police.
It was what the newspaper called the Negro numbers, a lottery game whereby Adrian had helpers selling tickets at a nickel apiece. Well, at that time, that was illegal, just like being open for business on Sundays. The police came to our appartment and arrested Adrian. The next day he appeared in Police Court where the judge fined him $25 plus court costs.
In looking back now, I find it interesting to have lived long enough to see Adrian‘s lottery business now run by the State of Connecticut. Now, it‘s just for fun… a dream come true… isn‘t that right, Mr. Governor?
So this was part of the learning curve for Adrian, the learning curve called life. And it went well for awhile until someone else complained to the police, mostly out of jealousy or envy… some people are strange that way, they think they‘re getting tricked or some such nonsense.
This time it was a running card game with some of our neighbors having fun. $4.35 was on the table and for some reason the door buzzer system Adrian had rigged up, didn‘t work. Three police barged in and stopped the game. The next morning Adrian stood before Judge Sullivan a second time and guess what… $25 fine plus court costs and a warning, get outta business or face jail. The four players got hit each with a five-dollar fine.
All the while Adrian continued working in a government program called the W.P.A. or the Works Progress Administration under President Roosevelt. That kept a lot of people busy, housed, and fed working on roads, bridges, parks, public buildings, schools and such. This lasted til 1942, when we realized change was coming… a cool change as they say in Falmouth, So we put our heads and money together and planned. We planned and saved for almost two years and then, in 1944, two things happened by the Lord‘s hand that were real dreams come true.
We opened the Harlem Restaurant at 320:Main Street and became the new homeowners of 7 Hill Street just around the corner. Apart from our wedding, this was the best moment in our lives. We would now be working and living in our own space, for our own good, by our own rules… well, not exactly.
All the same though, we knew that running a restaurant on this stretch of Main Street, day in and day out, would be a challenge… a balancing act with a target on our back with previous encounters with the law. We had to somehow stay off the police radar.
Adrian got better at setting up and holding games of chance for ordinary people without much money to play. He kept it honest and above board. My husband never cheated anyone and stayed away from those who did. Never broke the Lord‘s Commandments, to my knowledge, though he came close at times.
Reminds me of the time by a nosey police who saw Adrian serve a social drink to a friend on a Sunday. We, of course, were closed, both Adrian and Palmer, a close friend, were in the kitchen. Well, the police saw this through the rear window and bam!
Hundred dollar fine.
So we fixed that. The next day we transfered the restaurant ownership to my name, Minnie Boone, and were more careful. It‘s true. You can check the bill of sale in the City Clerk‘s Office.
Speaking of the City Clerk‘s office, did you know that Adrian organized and filed papers for the Atlas Social Club? That was later in 1949. The stated purpose was to promote good fellowship among men of Negro extraction. A copy of the certificate hangs in our home on Hill Street. Cyril Hylton, James Taylor and John G. Morgan (Tiny‘s Heat Wave) are charter members. For Adrian, it was the closest thing to being in Church.
1952 was a tough year, the end of our dream. Again, it was back room socializing on a Sunday and basement liquor sales on Hill Street that got us in trouble. Four police posing as customers got Adrian back before a judge who promised him jail time if he saw Adrian again. Through some misunderstanding I‘d been earlier accused of selling spiked refreshments on Easter and given a hundred dollar fine by the Easter Bunny.
At this point, my husband again changed direction. He bought himself a 15‘ skiff with a 25 hp outboard that he kept at Charlie Herman‘s Marine Service on Pequot Avenue for fishing. In matching his inner spirit of the flamboyant, Adrian painted the boat a flamingo pink that gradually faded to white below the water line. Oh, I wish I had a picture of him underway in that boat, my Navy man!
But it wasn‘t meant to be. In May of ˋ57, Mr. Herman reported the boat misding. Strange that it was never found,
The other direction that changed for my husband was him going back to numbers. In an operation that the State and later the casinos would copy, Adrian pooled money from bets taken where the winnings were determined by the pooled amount. What would people bet on? Sports, election results, the national debt, pennies in a jar… that sort of thing. From the winnings, both Adrian and his partner Ellsworth Bell of Stony Hill took a small commission as a management fee. Just like the State does today, only the State takes more. It‘s called an income tax.
As you‘ve already guessed, both Adrian and Ellsworth got caught. My husband took full responsibilty before the judge who sent him away on vacation for 30 days on Franklin Street. Adrian almost missed Christmas. That was in 1961.
Four years later, in ˋ65, we had to sell our home to redevelopment. We didn‘t want to. We‘d put money into it for various repairs and upgrades. More importantly, our friends were all nearby and redevelopment was scattering them to the wind. Eventually we took $9,500 for our home, a bit more since we didn‘t take the first offer. This way we were able to delay the bulldozer til early that following year.
Sometimes you can beat the odds and still lose the game.
So with the redevelopment money we bought a Victorian on Manwaring Hill just off Williams Street. Unlike many of our neighbors, we now had the money for another house. We were not going back to live in someone else‘s house.
On another note, I played whist and pinochle with a group that met monthly at Our Lady of Perpetual Help. No money on the table. What you played for was fun and gossip. This helped me emotionally in having to leave our first home and the memories.
As a sort of ten year anniversary celebration, both Adrian, now 71, and Ellsworth, now 52, got themselves arrested for running a numbers game. The police held them when they couldn‘t make the $500 bail. More time and money sorted that out. For awhile my husband worked as a school crossing guard. He liked being accessible, always tried to be out and about. My Navy man passed in 1987. He was 87 years young.
As for me, dear friends, I stayed on Manwaring Street, active in the Shiloh Chior and serving on the Missionary Board. It was a pleasure working with such wonderful people. They helped me deal better with the loneliness. My faith never failed me. Looking back on my life with Adrian in New London, I wouldn‘t change a thing.
In 2003, at the age of 100, it was my turn to go over. I rejoined Adrian with the Lord.
Amen.
Photo credits to The Day, U.S. Navy, City of New London, Jamaican Tourist Board, Google maps and New London Landmarks… thank you!