Reviews and sample chapter below
Dr. Anthony Crowley
Bruised, beaten, still beating
This incredible memoir, No Time
to Say Goodbye, tells of entertaining angels, dancing with devils, and of the
abandoned children many viewed simply as raining manna from some lesser god.
The young and unfortunate lives
of the Tuohy bruins—sometimes Irish, sometimes Jewish, often Catholic,
rambunctious, but all imbued with Lion’s hearts—told here with brutal honesty
leavened with humor and laudable introspective forgiveness. The memoir will
have you falling to your knees thanking that benevolent Irish cop in the sky,
your lucky stars, or hugging the oxygen out of your own kids the fate foisted
upon Johnny and his siblings does not and did not befall your own brood. John
William Tuohy, a nationally-recognized authority on organized crime and Irish
levity, is your trusted guide through the weeds the decades of neglect ensnared
he and his brothers and sisters, all suffering for the impersonal and often
mercenary taint of the foster care system. Theirs, and Tuohy’s, story is not at
all figures of speech as this review might suggest, but all too real and all
too sad, and maddening. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get into a time
machine, go back and adopt every last one of them. I was angry. I was
captivated. The requisite damning verities of foster care are all here,
regretfully, but what sets this story above others is its beating heart, even a
bruised and broken one, still willing to forgive and understand, and continue
to aid its walking wounded. I cannot recommend this book enough.
Compelling page turner that is
also a true story!
Verified Purchase
John Tuohy writes with compelling
honesty, and warmth. I grew up in Ansonia, CT myself, so it makes it even more
real. He brings me immediately back there with his narrative, while he wounds
my soul, as I realize I had no idea of the suffering of some of the children
around me. His story is a must read, of courage and great spirit in the face of
impoverishment, sorrow, and adult neglect. I could go on and on, but just get
the book. If you're like me, you'll soon be reading it out loud to any person
in the room who will listen. Many can suffer and overcome as they go through
it, but few can find the words that take us through the story. John is a gifted
writer to be able to do that.
This book was amazing. The author
John Tuohy writes about a life ...
Verified Purchase
This book was amazing. The author
John Tuohy writes about a life as a child that is so sad but he continue on and
made something of his life. Sadly back in those days people turned their heads
even when they knew the child was not well taken care of and even today we have
that problem and the system still has many faults. I plan on reading other
books by this author because I like his style of writing.
Page turner
Verified Purchase
I love to read and get lost in
the stories I read. This story is heartbreaking and empowering. So happy that
your goal of becoming a writer was achieved. I highly recommend this book to
everyone.
This is a wonderfully written
book
Verified Purchase
This is a wonderfully written
book. It is heart wrenchingly sad at times and the next minute hilariously
funny. I attribute that to the intelligence and wit of the author who combines
the humor and pathos of his Irish catholic background and horrendous "foster
kid" experience. He captures each character perfectly and the reader can
easily visualize the individuals the author has to deal with on daily basis.
Having lived part of my life in the parochial school system and having lived as
a child in the same neighborhood as the author, I was vividly brought back to
my childhood .Most importantly, it shows the strength of the soul and how just
a little compassion can be so important to a lost child.
I truly enjoyed reading his
memoir
Verified Purchase
I truly enjoyed reading his
memoir. I also grew up in Ansonia and had no idea conditions such as these
existed. The saving grace is knowing the author made it out and survived the
system. Just knowing he was able to have a family of his own made me happy. I
attended the same grammar school and was happy that his experience there was
not negative. I had a wonderful experience in that school. I wish that I could
have been there for him when he was at the school since we were there at
probably at the same time.
Great Book!
Verified Purchase
Hi - just finished your novel
" No time to say goodbye" - what a powerful read!!! - I bought it for
my 90 year old mom who is an avid reader and lived in the valley all her
life-she loved it also along with my sister- we are all born and raised in the
valley- i.e. Derby and Ansonia
I enjoyed this book
Verified Purchase
I enjoyed this book. I grew up in
Ansonia CT and went to the Assumption School. Also reconized all the places he
was talking about and some of the families.
Dr. Waln Brown
A Captivating and Uniquely
Revealing Foster Care Memoir
Many foster youth suffer
psychological and other adjustment problems during their placement in the
foster care system and emancipate from foster care unprepared for life on their
own. John Tuohy should have been just one more negative statistic, especially
since his siblings, who were also foster kids, endured mental health problems
long after leaving foster care. It is what made a difference in his adult
outcome that makes this revealing foster care story unique and informative and
a must-read for foster parents and foster care professionals.
An truthful, inspirational and
uplifting memoir of life in the US foster care system
This book is definitely a must
for social workers working with children specifically. This is an excellent
memoir which identifies the trails of foster children in the 1960s in the
United States. The memoir captures stories of joy as well as nail biting
terror, as the family is at times torn apart but finds each other later and
finds solace in the experiences of one another. The stories capture the love
siblings have for one another as well as the protection they have for one
another in even the worst of circumstances. On the flip side, one of the most
touching stories to me was when a Nun at the school helped him to read-- truly
an example of how a positive person really helped to shape the author in times
when circumstances at home were challenging and treacherous. I found the book
to be a page turner and at times show how even in the hardest of circumstances
there was a need to live and survive and make the best of any moment. The
memoir is eye-opening and helped to shed light and make me feel proud of the
volunteer work I take part in with disadvantaged children.
You never know what people are
going through
Monica Kloss Robustelli
No Time To Say Goodbye was by
far, one of the best books I’ve ever read! I couldn’t put the book down. I
laughed, I cried, I got angry! To have gone through what he did, and actually
made something of himself, God bless him! I grew up in Waterbury. I met John as
a teenager hanging around Fulton Park, and never knew he was in Foster care.
You are one in a million John. This book is a must read!
Get ready to ride the emotional
rollercoaster of a child that is forced to grow up before your eyes.
What an emotional rollercoaster.
I laughed. I cried. Once you start reading it's hard to stop. I was torn
between wanting to gulp it up and read over and over each quote that started
the chapter. I couldn't help but feel part of the Tuohy clan. I wanted to
scream in their defense. It's truly hard to believe the challenges that foster
children face. I can only pray that this story may touch even one person facing
this life. It's an inspiring read. That will linger long after you finish it.
This is a wonderfully written memoir that immediately pulls you in to the lives
of the Tuohy family.
Excellent Read
Also having been in Connecticut’s
foster care system and St John’s at the same time as John, I would make this
book mandatory for anyone working in the foster care system. This book touched
my heart. It was funny at times, sad at times, it showed the will of such a
young man that wanted to be more then his circumstances!
Roland R.
Great characters......Great
book!!
The author covers raw subject
material (life in the foster care system) with a perspective only someone who
"lived it" can provide. While his humor helps to soften the blow, the
reality of being raised by people who don't care about you is devastating and
opened my eyes to the everyday brutality that can so often go unnoticed. John
Tuohy's rich characters, his family, left me wanting to scoop them all up and
hug their troubles away. This book is a great read.....get it!!
Edward F Albrecht
A most read for Nutmegs or not
I liked the book from cover to
cover especially since I grew up in Waterbury Connecticut. I never realized how
difficult it was being a foster kid until now. Wonderfully entertaining from
the first page until he last page.
Geoffrey A. Childs
Very Readible
I found this book to be a
compelling story of life in the Ct foster care system. at times disturbing and
at others inspirational ,The author goes into great detail in this gritty
memoir of His early life being abandoned into the states system and his
subsequent escape from it. Every once in a while a book or even an article in a
newspaper comes along that bears witness to an injustice or even something
that's just plain wrong. This chronicle of the foster care system is such a
book and should be required reading for any aspiring social workers .
Kimberly
Heartwrenchingly Honest
Reviewed in the United States on
May 24, 2015
I found myself in tears while
reading this book. John William Tuohy writes quite movingly about the world he
grew up in; a world in which I had hoped did not exist within the foster care
system. This book is at times funny, raw, compelling, heartbreaking and
disturbing. I found myself rooting for John as he tries to escape from an
incredibly difficult life. You will too!
karen pojakene
this book is a must-read for
anyone who administers to ...
this book is a must-read for
anyone who administers to the foster care program in any state. this is not a
"fell through the cracks" life story, but rather a memoir of a life
guided by strength and faith and a hard determination to survive. it is
heartening to know that the "sewer" that life can become to steal our
personal peace can be fought and our peace can be restored, scarred, but
restored.
(Sample Chapter)
NO TIME TO SAY GOODBYE.
Chapter One
Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little,
I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you, -
and full as much heart! ― Charlotte
Brontë, Jane Eyre
I am here because I worked too hard and too long not to be here. But although I told the university that I would walk across the stage to take my diploma, I won’t. At age fifty-seven, I’m too damned old, and I’d look ridiculous in this crowd. From where I’m standing in the back of the hall, I can see that I am at least two decades older than most of the parents of these kids in their black caps and gowns.
So I’ll
graduate with this class, but I won’t walk across the stage and collect my
diploma with them; I’ll have the school send it to my house. I only want to hear my name called. I’ll imagine
what the rest would have been like. When you’ve had a life like mine, you learn
to do that, to imagine the good things.
The
ceremony is about to begin. It’s a warm June day and a hallway of glass doors
leading to the parking lot are open, the dignitaries march onto the stage, a
janitor slams the doors shut, one after the other.
That
banging sound.
It’s
Christmas Day 1961 and three Waterbury cops are throwing their bulk against our
sorely overmatched front door. They are wearing their long woolen blue coats
and white gloves and they swear at the cold.
They’ve
finally come for us, in the dead of night, to take us away, just as our mother
said they would.
“They’ll
come and get you kids,” she screamed at us, “and put youse all in an orphanage
where you’ll get the beatin’s youse deserve, and there won’t be no food
either.”
That’s why
we’re terrified, that’s why we don’t open the door and that’s how I remember
that night. I was six years old then, one month away from my seventh birthday.
My older brother, the perpetually-worried, white-haired Paulie, was ten. He is
my half-brother, actually, although I have never thought of him that way. He
was simply my brother. My youngest brother, Denny, was six; Maura, the baby,
was four; and Bridget, our auburn-haired leader, my half -sister, was twelve.
We didn’t
know where our mother was. The welfare check, and thank God for it, had
arrived, so maybe she was at a gin mill downtown spending it all, as she had
done a few times before. Maybe she’d met yet another guy, another barfly, who
wouldn’t be able to remember our names because his beer-soaked brain can’t
remember anything. We are thankful that he’ll disappear after the money runs out or the social worker lady
comes around and tells him he has to leave because the welfare won’t pay for
him as well as for us. It snowed that day and after the snow had finished
falling, the temperature dropped and the winds started.
“Maybe she
went to Brooklyn,” Paulie said, as we walked through the snow to the Salvation
Army offices one that afternoon before the cops came for us.
“She
didn’t go back to New York,” Bridget snapped. “She probably just—”
“She
always says she gonna leave and go back home to Brooklyn,” I interrupted.
“Yeah,”
Denny chirped, mostly because he was determined to be taken as our equal in all
things, including this conversation.
We walked
along in silence for a second, kicking the freshly fallen snow from our paths,
and then Paulie added what we were all thinking: “Maybe they put her back in
Saint Mary’s.”
No one
answered him. Instead, we fell into our own thoughts, recalling how, several
times in the past, when too much of life came at our mother at once, she broke
down and lay in bed for weeks in a dark room, not speaking and barely eating.
It was a frightening and disturbing thing to watch.
“It don’t
matter,” Bridget snapped again, more out of exhaustion than anything else. She
was always cranky. The weight of taking care of us, and of being old well
before her time, strained her. “It don’t matter,” she mumbled.
It didn’t
matter that night either, that awful night, when the cops were at the door and
she wasn’t there. We hadn’t seen our mother for two days, and after that night,
we wouldn’t see her for another two years.
When we
returned home that day, the sun had gone down and it was dark inside the house
because we hadn’t paid the light bill. We never paid the bills, so the lights
were almost always off and there was no heat because we didn’t pay that bill
either. And now we needed the heat. We needed the heat more than we needed the
lights. The cold winter winds pushed up at us from the Atlantic Ocean and down
on us from frigid Canada and battered our part of northwestern Connecticut,
shoving freezing drifts of snow against the paper-thin walls of our ramshackle
house and covering our windows in a thick veneer of silver-colored ice.
The house
was built around 1910 by the factories to house immigrant workers mostly
brought in from southern Italy. These mill houses weren’t built to last. They
had no basements; only four windows, all in the front; and paper-thin walls.
Most of the construction was done with plywood and tarpaper. The interiors were
long and narrow and dark.
Bridget
turned the gas oven on to keep us warm. “Youse go get the big mattress and
bring it in here by the stove,” she commanded us. Denny, Paulie, and I went to
the bed that was in the cramped living room and wrestled the stained and dark
mattress, with some effort, into the kitchen. Bridget covered Maura in as many
shirts as she could find, in a vain effort to stop the chills that racked her
tiny and frail body and caused her to shake.
We took
great pains to position the hulking mattress in exactly the right spot by the
stove and then slid, fully dressed, under a pile of dirty sheets, coats, and
drapes that was our blanket. We squeezed close to fend off the cold, the baby
in the middle and the older kids at the ends.
“Move
over, ya yutz, ya,” Paulie would say
to Denny and me because half of his butt was hanging out onto the cold linoleum
floor. We could toss insults in Yiddish. We learned them from our mother, whose
father was a Jew and who grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in New York. I assumed that those words we learned were
standard American English, in wide and constant use across our great land. It
wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties and moved from the Naugatuck Valley and
Connecticut that I came to understand that most Americans would never utter a
sentence like, “You and your fakakta
plans”.
We also
spoke with the Waterbury aversion to the sound of the letter “T,” replacing it
with the letter “D,” meaning that “them, there, those, and these” were
pronounced “dem, dere, dose, and dese.” We were also practitioners of “youse,”
the northern working-class equivalent to “you-all,” as in “Are youse leaving or
are youse staying?”
“Move in,
ya yutz, ya,” Paulie said again with
a laugh, but we didn’t move because the only place to move was to push Bridget
off the mattress, which we were not about to do because Bridget packed a wallop
that could probably put a grown man down. Then Paulie pushed us, and at the
other end of the mattress, Bridget pushed back with a laugh, and an
exaggerated, rear-ends pushing war for control of the mattress broke out.
Chapter Two
Poverty
is the worst form of violence. Mahatma
Gandhi
On the night the cops came, the flame from the oven gave the room a wonderful yellow and blue glow and eventually we tired and lay quietly and watched its reflection on the faded cold yellow walls. We thought we would sleep well that night because we had not seen any cockroaches around the house. Most of the time they were everywhere, in our clothes and our beds and in the food cabinets, and one of us would have to stay awake and brush them off the bed so the others could sleep without having the bastards crawling all over us.
Bridget
had placed our wet shoes and socks on the open oven door. Seeing them, I
studied the bottoms of my feet through the flickering light. They were wrinkled
from snow that had flooded through the worn soles of my mismatched boots.
Although my feet were cold, they burned.
One by
one, we faded off into a deep sleep, our small bodies exhausted from a day of
trudging through the deep snow that covered the winding sidewalks of Waterbury,
all of which seemed to be uphill. We were awakened abruptly by a pounding noise
against the door and the muffled, deep voices of men in a hurry. We pushed more
closely together on the mattress.
“If it’s
the Kings,” Paulie said, referring to the Puerto Rican gang that roamed the
neighborhood at will, “they got knives.”
The Latin
Kings were a teenage Puerto Rican gang that hung out on the streets, drank rum
and Coke, and wore black leather jackets and blue jeans. They were tough, very
tough. Cop cars avoided driving past the street corners where the Kings
gathered. They took what they wanted from stores and stripped down random cars
for parts. They were the real neighborhood law.
The Kings
ruled over the South End and mostly fought the black gangs from the North End
and sometimes the Italians from the Town Plot neighborhood. Their fights,
“rumbles” they were called, took place in empty parking lots. Twenty-five to
thirty gang members on each side charged into each other with knives, tire
irons and chains. Their rumbles lasted no more than five minutes, maybe ten,
and then they broke off, carrying their wounded with them if they could.
Sometimes, if the wounds were bad enough, the gangs left them behind for the
cops to bring to the hospital.
They
mostly left us alone, but Bridget was approaching her teen years, and she was
already tall for her age and attractive and some of the Kings had taken to
following her home and groping her.
But this
night, the bright beam from a cop’s long silver flashlight filled the room.
That it was the cops instead of the Kings made no difference to us. They were
both trouble.
A cop with a round red face appeared at the
window, his mouth open, his eyes squinting across the room. Our eyes locked. He
turned from the window and yelled, “Yeah, they’re in there,” and then turning
back to us he looked at me and tapped on the glass.
“Sweetheart, open the door, like a good kid,”
he shouted through a frozen smile through the frozen glass. We stared at him. We weren’t about to open
that door to him or anyone else.
“It’s
okay,” he assured us. “We’re not gonna hurt you, so open the door.”
“No!”
Denny shouted.
“Little
boy,” the cop said politely in a way that seemed strangely menacing, “please
open the door,” and a cloud of cold breath floated from his mouth.
“Your
mother,” was Denny’s answer, his answer to many things in those days.
The cop
turned away from the window, wiped his running nose, and shouted, “Okay, kick
it in.”
“Hide
under the bed!” Bridget yelled, and following her command we grabbed Maura and
scurried into the living room where it was dark, and slid under the bed with
its worn box spring, no mattress.
“Push up
against the wall,” Paulie shouted. “They can’t reach us there.” And we did,
covering Maura with our skinny frames.
In our
part of town, and among people like ourselves, the policeman was not our friend. The policeman was to be feared.
Policemen locked up our parents and our neighbors. We saw them beat up men who
were too drunk to stand. They poked people with their nightsticks, “paddy
clubs” we called them, and drove past us and screamed at us to “get out of the
street” and threatened us with putting their foot up our asses, and they would,
too. We feared the cops for good reason. And now they were banging down our
front door.
I had a
cold, or what I thought was a cold. I kept losing my balance and falling down,
and couldn’t move very quickly because of that, but figuring on an all-night
siege, I slid out from under the bed and ran back to the kitchen just as the
cops broke the door off its frame with a loud, violent crack. They rushed in as
I opened the warm refrigerator door and found the rolls of olive loaf that I
had taken from the Salvation Army Christmas dinner earlier in the day. That’s
why the cops were there. Not for the olive loaf, but because somebody at the
Salvation Army told them about us.