Stevedores Holding Off Lattes on Red Hook Waterfront?

1.

We might recall that the cruise terminal, which EDC said would generate hundreds of full-time jobs, has generated something like fifteen so far. All kinds of voodoo gets dressed up as science when it comes to economic development.

2.

I am a third generation of a once proud and powerful Stevedore company on the Breooklyn waterfront from the late 1930's till the mid 1960's. we had a proud heritage and name: "American Stevedores, Inc" I am very disturbed that a Company named "American Stevedoring' emerged in the 1990's plus or minus using a name close to my family's name. My Father was eulogized at his death in 1992 on this very same Red Hook Pier. See attacheded: thank you for the reply but I am Joseph A. Chiarello named after my dear Father, Joseph A. Chiarello. My father was the last and 7th Child of Diego/Dick Chiarello & Pasqualina - founder of American Stevedores, Inc. Below is my tribute and eulogy of a great man, my Dad:

Joseph A. Chiarello
Sept. 14, 1925 – Nov. 1, 1992

Joseph, the 7th and last Child of Diego & Pasqualine Chiarello dedicated his Life to:
#1: His Family – His beloved Wife of 44 years, Gloria, and his 3-Children, Gloria, Joseph, & Lisa
#2: Docks of America in the Stevedore Capacity
Eulogy given by his Son, Joseph A. Chiarello, on November 4, 1992
St. Anselm’s Church, Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, New York

Sometimes, the only way we can begin to know who a person was, is by gathering all the experiences from the people whose lives he touched. As I watched Dad’s Family, Friends, and Associates from the Waterfront stand in front of him while he was laying in wake these past few days, I saw tears of loss, tears of memories, tears of love erupt in front of him … Tears driven from beneath by the mixed confused totality of all our visions of being with him. If we were to stop and unwind those tears, we might find many dear moments which would help to explain why we loved this man so much … why we feel so much right now.

I would like to share one of those moments with you.

As a Boy of eight, I would sit on the white sandy beach at the shore of Lake Winnipesaukee in Center Harbor, New Hampshire on a summer’s Friday afternoon. I would stare at the road on the opposite side of the lake and hope to catch a glimpse if a red, 1958 Buick station wagon.

Every summer weekend, Dad would drive seven hours from New York to be with his family in Grandpa Chiarello’s compound of houses. My part of his weekend usually meant waking him up early Saturday morning, hopping into his car, and driving to the bait and tackle store in Meredith. In that dark, damp shack, Dad would kid and laugh with the store’s owner, while I would peer my curious head into the vats of crawfish, minnows, and worms. Once we got our tin can of a dozen night crawlers, we would return home, gather our fishing rods and load up the ‘LENA’ – our 16 foot, 1934, Mahogany Chris Craft Runabout. I loved that boat. I loved the smell of the varnished wood, the smell of the gasoline, the smell of the bleached ropes. I loved my Dad.

Together with the ‘LENA’, we would speed a mile into the Lake and then slow down to a black and white buoy marker, drop anchor, and drop our baited hooks into the Rocks below. Dad would try to catch the evasive, prized Bass while; other sounds would takeover – sounds of wet line winding in and out of the fishing reels, sounds of quiet water lapping against the boat, sounds of quiet love between a father and son. I felt warm. I felt safe.

What Dad gave to me came from the depth of his goodness and love. It was something that was natural to him. Something that he gave knowingly and unknowingly to all his family and even to many friends and associates …. What he gave us was this little spot to retreat to. This place where it is warm and safe and quiet. This place to recharge our spirit and then to open the door and live life with our eyes and hearts wide open.
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FOLLOWING THIS SERVICE, I ARRANGED TO HAVE MY FATHER’S HEARSE DRIVE TO RED HOOK, BROOKLYN AND ENTER THE LAST REMAINING OPERATING BROOKLYN PIER. THE LONGSHOREMEN HAD WASHED AT LEAST 20 FORKLIFTS AND LINED THEM UP LIKE SOLDIERS. AS THE HEARSE PASSED THE LONGSHOREMEN, MANY NODDED GOODBY. THE HEARSE PROCEEDED ALONE ONTO THE LONG PIER THAT REACHED TOWARDS LOWER MANHATTEN. LOOMING TO THE RIGHT, THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE SILENCED ALL OTHER SOUNDS WITH ITS NOONDAY HUMS OF TIRE ON STEEL GRATE. MY FATHER STOOD TALL FOR 1-MINUTE AT THE END OF THE PIER.
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Comment by Joseph A. Chiarello — 2/26/2007 @ 1:17 am