A little red-haired boy was born in New Haven, Connecticut, in June of 1900. The turn of the century.

His parents – Pat and Anna – were Irish immigrants. His father, a policeman.

Little Frank Cassidy looked for ways to earn money and help out his parents. He sold lemons on street corners near his home on Lombard Street. He’d search for pieces of coal to bring home. One year, he found enough along the railroad tracks to heat their home the entire winter.

Frank, who would one day become my maternal grandfather, dropped out of school after completing the eighth grade. He’d just turned 17 when his father got sick and passed away in 1917.

There were still eight mouths at home to feed.

As America’s involvement in World War I approached, the Connecticut Legislature called for an “inventory of resources.” Frank, just 16, lined up for an interview. The Military Census form listed his employment at the time as a “steam fitter’s helper” at New Haven Gas Light Company.

Here’s the list of census questions that established each individual’s “resources,” along with Frank’s responses in February 1917:

A year later, Grandpa’s draft registration with the War Department listed his employment as a millwright at International Belting Company. Thankfully, the war ended before he was called to military service.

Grandpa became a plumber’s apprentice. According to the 1920 census, he worked as a steam fitter with his older brother Jack.

But something changed.

During the 1920s, Frank got a bad feeling about the economy. According to handwritten notes from Grandma some 40 years later, ” … he felt a depression coming, so he joined the police force. The Captain thought he was foolish to leave the plumbing business, but Grandpa was right. A terrible depression came in 1929, but he worked all through it.”

Grandpa was assigned badge number 140.

I don’t have memories of Grandpa telling stories about his life as a police officer, but thankfully, my older brothers do.

Harry’s memories:

I remember a story about his going out to find a patient who’d gone missing from the psych ward of one of the New Haven area hospitals. He found the fellow and coaxed him into the patrol car. On the drive back to the hospital the patient started freaking out: “They’re out there! They’re coming to get me!” Grandpa pulled the car over to the side of the road, got out, ran around the car a few times waving his nightstick, got back in the car and said, “There, I chased them away.” This reassured the patient for several minutes, but Grandpa had to repeat the performance a couple of times before arriving at the hospital and delivering the patient. The administration was so impressed by his handling of the situation they offered Grandpa a job on the hospital security staff – which he politely declined.

Another story I remember is one when he found a drunken man stumbling down the street on a cold winter night. Grandpa considered arresting and jailing him for public intoxication, but decided against it when the fellow said he was almost home and would be okay. The next day the man was found in a roadside ditch, dead of hypothermia. Grandpa must have felt terrible, and ever after that episode he always brought drunken people to the jail to dry out overnight and get sober enough to get home safely. Hearing this story as a kid was probably my introduction to the concept of “tough love.”

Middle brother Dave remembers:

Grandpa loved to tell stories and appreciated practical jokes. A vignette he related from his days as a policeman: a couple of pranksters on the force called two fellow officers late at night, telling them there was an emergency at such-and-such a location and they were needed immediately. From a hiding place, the perpetrators watched their victims, with faces full of adrenaline and worry, go by on a streetcar. Fifteen minutes later, back came the officers, this time looking completely pissed off. Grandpa laughed so hard while he told this story that he could hardly finish.

Here’s a treasure Mom passed along to me, Grandpa’s police whistle.

Retired New Haven Police Sergeant Tony Griego helped out again, this time providing information about the above whistle and these pins:

Griego: The “NHP” was actually a collar pin (one pin) that was worn on the left side of the collar over all winter overcoats, light jackets, or in his frame of time what we called the choker (a dark-blue medium-weight jacket that had a tight collar). A NHP tie clip has a clip in the back that clips on the tie. Many officers would have silk woven inside the collar to protect the neck. It had a double row of brass buttons in the front. This jacket had a split on the bottom of both sides that gave easy access to the 38 Colt six shot revolver that officers carried.

In the late 1800s all the way to about 1970 the whistle was issued to all officers. In the early 1900s it was the best way to alert another beat officer that you needed assistance. I think each officer chose his own whistle chain.

Here’s another story from Dave:

A treasured material inheritance from Grandpa is his full-length cashmere winter coat, which is still in excellent shape and which I reserve for special cold-weather occasions (when I’m really feeling jaunty, I pair it with a fedora). I’m glad to have had the coat on during the graveside service for Grandpa’s beloved daughter Joan.

Other stories about Officer Cassidy?

Mom’s sister, Bunny, surprised me with this story about a job offer to hit the road with a top entertainer. Mom waited until her father retired to write a poem about her fears for his safety. (Both stories already exist as blog posts; please click the links to read them.)

And Grandma, true to form, loved to tell the story of dressing up “as a bum” one night and harassing Officer Cassidy at Church and Chapel Streets. She really had her husband going for a bit, but her bursts of staccato laughter gave her away.

Harry remembers Grandpa’s nickname: For several years his beat was in the Italian section of New Haven. The folks there took a liking to him and called him “Capo-rosso” after his red hair. Grandpa picked up some Italian words and expressions, including a couple of rather crude ones which I will not repeat.

Dad recalls his father-in-law telling him how he resisted moving away from walking a beat, even when it involved turning down a promotion. Officer Cassidy wanted to walk the neighborhoods, talk to the families, check shop doors and business gates to be sure they were properly locked up at night. When patrol cars became more common, he was the first to instead use a motorcycle to help with traffic at Water Street.

Sergeant Griego recalls: Kids would yell at beat officers. “Brass buttons, blue coat, couldn’t catch a nanny goat!” When I went on in 1967 all new “rookie” officers walked a foot beat for over a year.

Bunny remembers her father, long after retirement, itching to help when a traffic jam all but halted the flow of cars in one busy intersection.

“Dad! Get back in the car! You’re not in uniform anymore!”

Moments later, Grandpa got back in the vehicle. He’d waved on the traffic, first one way and then the other. Although no longer wearing badge 140 or carrying a gun, he had briefly served as an officer of the peace once more.

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