These are some of my earliest memories—the people, places, photographs and little moments from my childhood that have stayed with me through the years. Some I remember clearly, while others have been kept alive through family stories and photographs.
This is where my story begins.
MY BIRTH.
I was born on July 22, 1962, at Saint Mary's Hospital in Passaic, New Jersey. My mother often told me that it was a hot summer day and that thunderstorms rolled through while she was in labor.
I was the third child and the baby of the family, with
two older brothers born in 1955 and 1960. My mother, Pearl Ann Thayer-Kenney,
remained in the hospital for five days after my birth. During that time, my
parents struggled to decide on a name for me. My father had several names he
liked, and they could not easily agree on one.
At the time, my family was living with my father's
foster mother, Caroline Heuser McCrea. According to my mother, she was not
particularly thrilled about the arrival of another child in the household. To
help keep peace in the family, my parents ultimately decided to name me after
her. On the fifth and final day of my mother's hospital stay, they settled on
the name Caroline Marie Kenney.
As I learned more about my parents and family history over the years, the
story behind my name began to make more sense. Their decision was about more
than simply choosing a name—it reflected the family dynamics, relationships,
and circumstances they were navigating at that point in their lives. I will
share more about my parents and those relationships later in this memoir.
MY PARENTS
My parents were married on November 19, 1955, at St. Mary’s Church in Nutley, New Jersey. Many years later, I would be married in that very same church, making it a special part of both their story and mine.
After their wedding, my parents settled in Nutley—a quaint town filled with tree-lined streets. They made their home at 10 DeVausney Place, in the house that Caroline and Frank McCrea had built.
My father was a police officer with the Nutley Police Department. My dad followed in the footsteps of his father, Captain Frank McCrea of the Nutley Police Department. This photograph was taken in the 1940s. Captain McCrea is on the left side of the photograph.
Frank McCrea had been a captain in the department. Although Caroline and Frank never formally adopted my father, they raised him and loved him as their own son. Back then, people did not necessarily use labels such as “foster parents.” They were simply the mother and father he knew.
Frank passed away in 1951, several years before my parents married. After Frank’s death, my dad remained in the house with Caroline because she did not want to be alone. I believe he felt a deep responsibility to care for her and treated her with the love and devotion of a son caring for his mother.
When my parents married, they all continued living together in the house on DeVausney Place. Caroline became the grandmother we lovingly called Mum-Mum.
Having a grandmother in the house made family life easier in many ways, although I can also remember occasional squabbles between my mother and Mum-Mum. Mum-Mum did most of the cooking, while my mother stayed home to care for us children. Later, I recall that my mother began working at the dress factory located behind the shop my father had on Harrison Street.
I always viewed my father as a
gentle giant—strong, protective, and dependable, yet stern at times when the
situation called for it. One of the ways I often describe him is as a man of
few words. He wasn't someone who spent his time chatting endlessly or
"shooting the bull." But when he did speak, people listened. What he
had to say usually mattered.
My dad enjoyed smoking cigars,
something I absolutely hated. Even today, I can remember that smell. Yet it
never stopped me from climbing on top of him when he was stretched out on the
couch after a long day. He would smile and say, "Here's my little
pip-squeak!" Those are some of my fondest memories.
Out of my siblings, I was probably
the closest to my father. Perhaps that's not unusual. After all, I was the
youngest child and the only girl—the classic "Daddy's little girl."
During the summers, our family often
stayed at Grandma McCrea's bungalow in Herbertsville. Some of my happiest childhood memories
come from those days. My brothers would frequently encourage me to ask Dad if we
could go to the Point Pleasant Boardwalk.
"Go ask Daddy if we can go to the boardwalk," they would say. I remember asking, "Why don't you ask him yourselves?" Their answer was always the same. "Because he'll say yes to you."
At the time, I never really understood
what they meant. I didn't think my asking made any difference. Looking back now
as an adult, I realize there were probably many things my brothers and I didn't
understand about family life. We had no idea whether taking three children to
the boardwalk was financially possible at that particular time. We didn't know
what bills needed to be paid or what sacrifices our parents were making behind
the scenes.
As children, it may have seemed to
my brothers that I was the favorite child and that I always got what I wanted.
But that wasn't really the case. What I see now is a father who loved all three
of his children and a family doing the best they could with what they had.
Childhood often gives us one perspective; adulthood gives us another.
What remains clear to me all these
years later is how safe and loved I felt when I was with my father. To me, he
was my gentle giant.
My Dad’s Legacy of Service and Love
On October 20, 1987, I lost my dad, Detective Sergeant William Kenney. I was only 25 years old. Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal.
My dad was able to walk me down the aisle and see his first grandchild, Donald. He was so full of life and so excited to be a grandfather. Then, without warning, he was gone. It was unimaginable to grasp such a loss.
Not a day goes by that I do not think of my dad. I have always tried my best to let my children know who their grandfather was—not only as a policeman, but as a good man, a good father, and a good husband.
My dad served the Nutley Police Department for 32 years. He cared about people and had a special way of helping kids in town before they got themselves into trouble. Over the years, I have heard wonderful stories from people who remembered him and the difference he made in their lives. It means so much to know that his kindness and his service stayed with them.
He also loved my art. Every day after high school, I went to art class at the Nutley Art Center on Chestnut Street, owned and operated by Vivian Fikus. When class was over, I would walk to the police station to meet my dad for a ride home. He always showed off my artwork and was so proud of my talent.
I hope I made him proud throughout my life. I carry his love, his pride, and his example with me always. ❤️
We loved to doodle silly clown faces, taking turns adding each part. I might draw one eye, and then she would draw the other. We continued back and forth until the clown was finished—and usually very funny-looking!
We also played what we called the block game. Each person took a turn drawing one side of a box. Whoever drew the final line that closed the box placed their initial inside it. As I grew older, we played Hangman, too. These were our old-fashioned games, long before video games came along. They were simple, but they gave us many happy hours together.
My mother was always creating something. I loved sitting near her and watching her sew. She made beautiful dresses for me, and when I met my first little girlfriend, Sharon Payne, at about three years old, Mom made us matching dresses so we could look like twins.
She also made Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls and many other kinds of dolls—some nearly four feet tall! She sewed most of my Barbie clothes and even created furniture covered in fur for my Barbies. I had so much fun with all the imaginative things she made.
My mother also worked part-time at Kabba Dress Corporation on Harrison Street, which was owned by Evelyn and Albert Kalooky. The dress factory was located near my father, William R. Kenney’s shop, Kenmac Tool. Both businesses were part of the small manufacturing community that existed in that Nutley neighborhood at the time. Her talent was part of both her work and our life at home.
In 1973, when my mother was only 39 years old, she became gravely ill. She underwent major ileal conduit surgery and remained hospitalized at Mount Sinai for more than eight months.
At one point, a priest came to administer the Last Rites. I was still young and had difficulty understanding what was happening or just how serious my mother’s condition had become. I only knew that she was terribly sick and that the possibility of losing her was very real.
When she finally returned home from the hospital, she weighed only 88 pounds. Her recovery was long and difficult. She had to learn how to walk again, feed herself, and manage many of the everyday things she had once been able to do without thought.
I distinctly remember the physical therapist who came to our house to work with her. His name was Paul. I watched as he helped my mother regain her strength and relearn the physical skills her illness had taken from her.
It was an extremely painful and frightening time for me. I remember that period, and the difficult years that followed her illness, very distinctly. Her recovery became a journey for our entire family—one that changed our lives and left memories I have carried with me ever since.
My Mother Chose Life...
My mother was a fighter. During her illness, she chose life, and nothing was going to keep her down. My dad was by her side through all of her recovery, loving her and helping her every step of the way.
When my dad suddenly died, it took a terrible toll on her. I do not think she ever truly got over losing her husband. She never looked at another man. Instead, she focused her love on her children and grandchildren.
She was a wonderful grandmother, and my three children were so fortunate to have known her. They got to know her love, her strength, and the special way she cared for the people around her.
My mother had been through so much, but she kept going. That is who she was—a woman who chose life, loved deeply, and never gave up.
Mom went on to become a wonderful grandmother. She was a beautiful soul who found her greatest joy in helping others. She was always making something with her hands—sewing, crafting, and creating things to give away. Her creativity and generosity touched many lives. She gave her time and her heart freely, and in doing so, taught me some of life’s most important lessons.
I carry her spirit with me every day. She lives on in the things I create, in every act of kindness I share, and in every moment when I remember to be strong, gentle, and giving—just like her.
