Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. január-június (40. évfolyam, 1-26. szám)
1986-01-02 / 1. szám
Thursday, Jan. 2. 1986. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ 13. ...On One Particular Christmas John Gojack ■ When one has reached three score years, it is pardonable not to be able to remember every Christmas Eve in one’s past. We all recall customs of this joyous season; whether the tree is decorated Christmas Eve, or earlier, and whether Santa arrives on Christmas Eve or slips down the chimney during the night, with gifts opened Christmas Day. In prosperous years, which meant that both my father and mother (who came to America from Transylvania, Hungary in 1906), were working, Christmas meant having a young pig being fattened with corn in the yard or basement for that great December feast day. Every detail of one particular Christmas is remembered while others are recalled only vaguely, and some not at all. An earlier Christmas time the pig was being fattened in the basement for weeks and had developed a love for coal with its corn. At butchering time, day before Christmas, the pig was so frisky that my father and brothers had to chase it for a long time before Andy caught it with a flying tackle. We held it while Pop slit its throat, not too well, so that blood-splattered, we lost our grip and the fiesty pig got away again. By the time we caught it again, I thought Pop would stick us with the pig knive, as he threatened with choice worker’s language. We dipped the pig in boiling hot water for easy scraping of the hair. I goofed and kept it in too long and the hair set. Not being able to scrape the hair off, Pop ordered me to shave it with his old straight razor. That took some time and I remember all that, but nothing more of that particular Christmas. Lean years were something else, and when the flu, in those days before penicillin, ended my mother’s life far too early (Pop lived on to 83, with a arm and leg cut off in a railroad accident when he was 60), there were no more traditional Hungarian- American Christmas celebrations for our family. Buried at 31, leaving my father, a hard-working factory worker to care for six hungry children, my mother, an amazingly resourceful, beautiful woman, and' a tower of strength, left a legacy of something strong in her brood. The three oldest, girls of 13,11 and 9, were able to stay home and escape the orphanage. Pop kept his promise to take care of the kids, and though he loved his palinka (a strong, plum whiskey), he never touched a drop during the week and only hit the bottle on the weekends. He had a grueling job at the Dayton Pipe Coupling Company, up at 4:30 to be at work by 6:00. At the fiery drop-forge hammer all day, by the time he got home around six in the evening he could barely get though supper. Shortly after, he dropped half-dead into bed. It wasn’t long before the three boys, 6, 4*/2 (that was me) and 3, we placed in the hands of the Sisters of the Precious Blood, in the orphanage across town in Dayton. Orphanage life in those days should not be described in a Christmas Story. Repeated runaway attempts always failed until age 12, when the railroad was discovered as a superior means of flight. Steam engines had a tender attached, which held the coal and water. Just behind the tender there were places one could stand, holding tightly of course to a ladder or some other apparatus, while enjoying the swiftest travel possible in those days as a non-paying guest on the railroads Now this was riding the blinds! At age 16 came the Christmas to remember. Riding the blinds, in a blizzard, on Christmas Eve. December 24th held the promise of a sweet Christmas that year. When not seeing America from box cars, or going more swiftly from place to place riding the blinds in search of jobs and meals, there was always the haven of one sister or another, or even going to Pop’s to live for a while. This particular Christmas I was enjoying life with my sister Pauline, whose husband Frank had a good, steady job as shipping clerk at Specialty Papers in Dayton. We were good friends, and semi- pro football, which we played in later years, was our greatest love. I helped earn my room and board by baby-sitting their first boy and doing household chores. That day before Christmas I stayed home to watch the baby while they finished Christmas shopping. They promised to be home before five, when I was to join my pals for I cannot remember what, but probably a movie. About four, Frank’s father came to the house with his Christmas present, a full gallon of delicious home-made Hungarian red wine. Being 16, I was granted the honor of a sample glass. No need to describe the vintage year with adjectives dear to wine snobs. 1 did praise it, and Mr. Jenkins, or Janka to use his Hungarian name, offered a second glass. I was aglow' and happy, despite the tardiness of my sister and her husband. After five, I was peeved and helped myself to a third glass. When that was downed, I was getting angry because my pals came by and told me where to join them if I could get away soon. It was going on Six when I took the fourth glass, either to calm my anger or because the wine tasted like nectar from heaven. By the time the folks came home, the baby was asleep and I was past anger and very woozy. I reported the afternoon’s events and pointed to the glorious gallon. It being now somewhat short of a gallon, my brother-in-law stormed. Rather than argue I ran upstairs to my room, put on my sheepskin coat, woolen cap and leather gloves, and slipped out the front door while they were in the kitchen, not noticing my departure. It was snowing heavily, with large wet flakes, and the wind was blowing fiercely. Knowing that I had missed the planned evening with my pals, my feet turned towards downtown and somehow I walked or staggered to the Union Depot. I asked the ticket agent when the next train was due, and he looked strange when I said it didn’t make any difference where it was going. It turned out to be the St. Louis Limited, with the next stop Indianapolis and only a brief stop at Richmond to take on water. That was a 100 mile run and a brilliant idea came to mind. In my billfold was a brief love letter, with the address of a girl I met in August, while traveling first-class through Indianapolis. First class meant hitch-hiking. Three of us went to the Vincennes melon fields, to earn more money than we made as caddies at the city golf course. Stuck for a few hours awaiting a lift, we met two pretty girls living near our thumbing spot. I can still taste the delicious Kool-Aid that 'The Railroad Was a Superior Means of Travel’ Anna, what’s-her-name, gave me with a charming smile. We exchanged addresses just before our ride, and that was the beginning of a mail romance. About Thanksgiving my letter was returned, undelivered. Now my Christmas Eve escape from the shame of drinking someone else’s gift wine, took on a purpose. I would find Anna and rekindle our summer love. Up to the station platform when the crack train pulled in from Columbus, unloaded and loaded passengers, I waited for the crucial call of “All Aboard!”. As the wheels began to turn, the conductor grabbed a handrail and swung aboard the moving train. I darted out from behind a pillar and grabbed the handrail at the back of the coal tender, swinging up to the blind, a narrow platform with eight or ten inches for standing room. Having done this many times before, it was easy even in icy weather. Still heady from the wine, I felt aglow at once more being a non-paying guest of the Pennsey. As the engine picked up speed, and the wind cut more fiercely, it threatened to be a very cold ride. Long before we reached the Richmond water stop, I wondered if anyone could live through this bitter cold, and I moved from one side to another to avoid the strongest winds. Despite my wool-lined leather gloves, my fingers were numb with cold, and it was questionable whether I could hang on. Even with heavy work shoes and two pairs of socks, my feet started to freeze. Realizing it was not possible to hang on much longer, I climbed up the ladder on to the water tank, where there was some protection behind the higher coal bin. There I crouched almost into a ball, and when it seemed that this was not much warmer than the blind, we slowed down and rolled to the water stop. The íremen climbed up the coal pile and as he reached for the water spout he noticed my frightened, shaking and nearly-frozen body. Startled, he shouted above the noise of the engine, “what are you doing out on a night like this? Are you crazy, kid?” No, I replied, "I'm just going to Indianapolis for Christmas.” He told me to stay put while he finished taking on water. Then he ordered me over the coal pile down into the cab. I began to thaw out as he shovelled more coal into the firebox, while shouting to the engineer that I had been riding the blind since Dayton. They exchanged some words and asked if I was hungry. I admitted having no food since lunchtime. Out of a lunch box came the most delicious ham and cheese sandwich, on dark rye with onion, that I have ever tasted. Is this why ham and cheese on rye is my favorite sandwich? Then came a big piece of apple pie, washed down with good, strong and very hot coffee. Now, with a warm body once again and wrinkles out of my stomach, it seemed I had died and gone to heaven, and I really learned the true spirit of Christmas giving. As we slowed down for the Indy station, they gave me directions to Anna’s street, not too far away. Coal dust and soot was washed off in the station men’s room, and now very sober, but excited, I walked fast down the cold and deserted streets. Arriving at my destination, instead of her house I found only empty lots. While frantically doublechecking street signs in the still-falling snow, a police car drove up. Hearing my story, they described my problem as what later became known as urban renewal. Suggesting the Salvation Army for a night’s lodging, they kindly drove me there, surely feeling sorry for this half-frozen ghost of a boy. The Sally procedures were well known to this seasoned traveller of 16, who had booked into many throughout the country. Registration, shower and delousing went quickly, and it took only seconds to fall asleep on that luxurious army cot, with sheets and warm blankets. Early breakfast was strong coffee, buttered bread and hot oatmeal. Christmas morning was spent playing checkers, cards, leafing through old magazines, and swapping experience and advice with older hoboes and homeless men. I was the only boy in the place. From these sage travel agents I learned that another crack train heading east to New York, would pull out of Indy about three for a non-stop run to Dayton. It had stopped snowing, was near zero, but the wind had died down. With no water stop, the ride back, on the blind of course, was bitter cold but almost pleasant. No matter where you go, it is always good to be going home. Reviewing the past 24 hours, as we sped past the frozen Indiana corn fields, I decided it was not a bad Christmas, except for the nearfreezing and the Salvation Army dinner. Obviously, I was getting hungry again and anxious to make Dayton. After carefully washing up in the Union Station, I walked the two miles home in record time. My knock on the door was answered by brother-in-law Frank, who said, “hurry in, Johnny, it’s cold as hell out there. ” Watching me take off the sheepskin and cap, he added, “you’re just in time for supper, but if you want to, go clean up and we’ll wait fór you.” I asked if there was time for a bath and he slapped me on the back, saying, “sure, take your time, we’ll hold it up for you.” As I rushed two steps at a time up to my room, he yelled, “sure, take your time, but don’t take too long or the wine will be all gone.” Coming down to the kitchen, squeaky clean and in fresh clothes, I picked up the baby and bounced him on my knee. I noticed Pauline and Frank looking carefully at me, with smiles on their faces. The baby chuckled and laughed and no one said a word for some time. Breaking the silence, as he poured out a healty-sized glass of wine from the gallon jug I started on about 26 hours earlier, and clicking glasses, Frank said: “Merry Christmas, Johnny, it’s good to have you home! ” Asl sipped the wine, I felt no more cold and only the warmest glow. Frank continued, “we’re glad you got back in time for supper,” and the chicken paprika, the strudel and lots of other Hungarian goodies filled the room with smells still in my nose. Pauline said, “even the baby missed you, where have you been?” I turned to Frank and said, “thanks for the wine, old buddy,” ignoring Pauline’s question for the moment. She repeated it, saying “where were you, we were worried about you because of the blizzard.” So I took another sip of wine, smiled at both of them and said: “oh, just out.” John Gojack is a financial marketing consultant and co-owner of a local casino.
