Hornell NY 

Is being revised

From the Paul H. Jones collection -Paul was an early 20 century Erie Telegraph operator.                Double header fast freight pulling out of the westbound yard Hornell on a calm and cold winter morning in 1938.  No doubt a special priority train because it was powered by two 2900 passenger engines.

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Continues from Susquehanna Page     Pia and I got in our rented car and headed 149 miles west to Hornell, the other end of the division.  Hornell is much smaller now than it was a half century ago.  As in Susquehanna there were familiar buildings and streets. 

I remember the World War II years in Hornell, and how busy a town it was.  The railroad back shops, roundhouse, both east and west yards, and the less than carload freight depot, were all working to full capacity.  Because most of America’s young men were at war, there were never enough men to fill all the vacant positions in the Erie shops. 

During World War II, I read newspapers and heard many news broadcasts, of the battles in Europe and the Pacific, and how many soldiers and civilians were killed.  Being far removed from the war, and because I was living a carefree young school boy's life, I could not fully understand, nor could I assimilate in my mind, the war’s brutality. 

 Over the last 50 years, not my cousins, or brother inlaw, or others I knew who fought in some of the battles of that war, have recounted any details of any of those battles.  A good friend and client, here in California was a paratrooper who jumped twice into battles on Pacific islands.  I asked him to recount some details of his jumps and the ensuing battles.  His answer to me was, “Two other units I trained with in North Carolina were sent to Europe, 90% of those men were killed.  Furthermore two thirds of my unit were killed on our first jump.”  He went on to say, “I still have a terrible hurt inside, I was scarred physically and mentally for more than two years after the war.  I still cannot bring myself to tell or write of my experiences in those battles.” 

I now feel very lucky that I was just young enough at the time to miss that war.  Were I just one year older, I would have been drafted in April of 1944.  I remember a school mate who was drafted in April of 1944, and just before school was out in June we heard he was killed on Normandy beach during the invasion of France on June 6.   

Our old home on Front street in Hornell is gone.  The street, which as a child seemed very wide, I can now see that it is about two thirds the width of a regular street.  I remember seeing the River Street bridge being built in 1940; now it's old and dilapidated.  I walked from the location of our old house to the high school building that is now a junior high.  It wasn’t the same; it did not bring back any feelings of my childhood. 

We went to Bryant Elementary; I stood on the sidewalk in front of the school.  I wanted to walk in and thank Miss Kemp, my 6 grade teacher.  The school didn’t look the same, and of course Miss Kemp has not taught there since 1940.   

The Erie roundhouse is gone, the back shop is still there and only from the outside it looks much the same as it did more than 50 years ago.  The old Erie passenger station is boarded up and abandoned. 

We drove 6 miles to the other side of the town of Arkport, to see the farm house and the farm, where my friend Salvatore, and I worked two summers as teenagers.  I suddenly wanted to find and talk to Salvatore.  

We visited old railroad friends who lived in Hornell, and we had a good time at dinner with them.  I asked them where Salvatore was.  No one seemed to know, they thought he moved years ago to Wellsville, or Rochester.  Our two week trip was ending, I had no more time to look for him.  Later I sadly found out that he died in 1986.   

I remember the telegraph class I took at the Erie station to prepare me for a career in telegraphy.  After graduation from high school, I went to work as a telegrapher on the Erie.  The teletype at the time, was already slowly replacing the telegraph.  A month ago, (May 1995) my son Joseph said that he saw an article in a newspaper that recounted; “Recently the last telegraph message in the United States was sent, and it is no longer in use.” 

Hornell and Susquehanna have changed considerably over the last half century.  Most of those living in each town were not alive then or did not live there 60 years ago.  I sadly realized, by seeing old schools I attended and seeing neighborhoods I lived in, I could not recapture old feelings, nor could I relive my childhood, if only for a few minutes.  I remember well my Italian heritage.  As very young children we spoke Italian even before we learned English.  When we played with our cousins Chuck, Frank and Jack and other children we spoke English.  It quickly turned to Italian when we spoke to our parents.   

I can remember in the early 1930 as a very young child hearing my parents and other immigrant Italians still speaking of their similar experiences; when they left Naples and boarded ships for America.  The excitement of being one of many hundred of thousands Italians who emigrated to America.  They were full filling Gods prescription for the American; by adding the Italian in the mix of all the other nationalities.  As the Great Depression deepened they were all too busy trying to raise their families, then to reminisce about those fond years of their youth. 

It is hard to explain just how much I miss my father, mother, and all the old Italians.  They came to America, and through very hard work, made a better life for all of us, the first American born generation of Italians.  Today I miss the Italian chatter of mother, dad, and dad’s twin brother and other Italian friends when they used to visit us.   

The hardships my sisters, myself, and most children faced during the Great Depression in America, pales in comparison with the hardships our parents and that generation faced as children during the late 19th and early 20th centuries in Italy.  World War II for them was the second vicious war in their life time. 

In the late 1980's New York’s Ellis Island was restored, a wall was constructed, and, for a fee, the names of immigrants who came through Ellis Island could be placed there.  I had the Ellis Island Commission place my mother’s name as (Maddalena Palma Mango), and dad’s name as Giuseppi Mango.  I assumed that there would most likely be no other Maddalena Palma Mango, however there might be other Giuseppe Mango.  I misspelled Giuseppe with an i instead of e on the end, so I would know which was my dad.  

On the wall today there are other Mango names, but there were no other Giuseppe, and of course no other Maddalena Palma Mango.  There is a Pasquale Mango, we know that it honors another Pasquale Mango.  Not our Uncle Pasquale whom you will get to know better as this story progresses. 

I am glad to have been the firstborn generation of the proud Italian immigrants.  My parents, and all other immigrant Italians in­stilled in my generation, the ethic of hard work, and much respect and love for them and others.  I am sincerely grateful to have been born to parents, such as these, in this lifetime.

Many of them were barely 16 years old when they left alone for America.  In this tale our story starts with a visit to that small Italian village not far from Naples, where my grandparents and parents lived. It was my grandparent's generation who unknowingly chose the town to which my parents and others would immigrate.  And where Dad came, as a 17 year old in 1913, and where I spent the early years of my life.      Continued on Moiano Italy Page