Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. július-december (40. évfolyam, 27-49. szám)
1986-11-06 / 42. szám
8. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ Thursday, Nov. 6. 1986. Pop loaded the basket with bacon, pork chops, pork shoulder, cheeses and other foods not available in the neighborhood grocery. He waited until I caught the streetcar going back to the West Side, and then caught his streetcar in the other direction to go to work. Being slight and skinny, I often had trouble carrying the basket. After a year or so, at age twelve, Pop left me downtown and gave me money to do the shopping on my own. It was a good feeling to realize that Pop trusted me and let me carry out this responsibility for our home. It was years before I realized he was álso providing me with training that helped in my future. Since I enjoy shopping, especially in food stores, Pop was never aware that he also trained me to be a good house-husband. After Labor Day, I asked about going to Holy Name School. "That's going to cost a lot of money, Johnny. Why don't you go to a public school?" he asked. I went to two schools before finding one that considered me in its district. Within a month I was expelled for being "untidy," not paying for required books, and being tardy almost every day. Pop left for work at 4:30 a.m. and our alarm clock wasn't working. When I woke up and ran to school without breakfast, it was too late. So I found another school and got along well expect for the problem of my sweater. "Young man, you will have to change your sweater or wear a coat. The condition of your sweater is creating a disturbance in your class," announced the principal. "I don't have a coat and this is my only sweater. It's terribly cold this winter and I've got no way to wash and dry my sweater. I have nothing else to wear to school," I explained. "We're poor and my folks can't buy me a winter coat." The sweater was a heavy green wool, with a hood for severe weather. Not being washed, the sleeves had become heavily crusted. I had no handkerchief, so after wiping my runny nose for weeks on the sleeves, they took on an unattractive coating, slimey to be accurate. "I have no choise, Johnny. You'll have to stay home until you can come to school with a clean coat or your sweater washed," the principal said. I scrubbed and scrubbed the sweater on the washboard until I got it clean. The problem was getting it dry. I spread it on the kitchen table, then hung it over a chair near the stove, and yet it took three days to dry. On returning to school, the principal told me I was out of their district and would have to report at another school. I sweated that school out until summer, with decent grades, despite some days at home to wash and dry my sweater. Pop was on short weeks at the factory, so I couldn't ask him to buy me a coat or another sweater. When school was out, we went "junking" for food and money. "Junking" meant pulling a wagon and scavenging in trash cans in the better neighborhoods, then selling the newspapers, copper, zinc, and iron to the junkyard. "Here's a better idea than junking," I told my pals. "People leave good junk in empty houses, and there are lots of them in Dayton View, where the rich people live." In our first effort, an empty mansion taking up most of a block, we found impossible to enter. A second look revealed a basement window that could be pushed in. Being the skinniest, I slid into the basement. The door at the top of the basement steps was locked. "See, if there's a laundry chute and shinny up," a buddy suggested. That was the first of many houses I entered, going up where the laundry comes down. I got up the chute and opened the front door for my buddies. We found the house empty until we reached the attic, which was full of boxes, crates and furniture. We debated. Should we open some boxes or leave? Our decision turned not on morality. "If we open boxes, and not even steal anything, the police will have fingerprints. This is next to murder. Let’s get out," said the oldest of our gang. This new field of scavenging proved to be more profitable than checking out trash cans, and we slipped into many grand houses until I had a real scare. Sliding down a poorly-closed basement window, I noticed it was warm and heard a furnace operating. "What the hell are you doing down here?" A man grabbed me as I was opening the kitchen door. "Just looking for newspaper and junk. We thought the house was empty." "Well, you're mistaken. We live upstairs, and you're lucky I believe you," he said showing me his policeman's badge. He took me out the front door, where I yelled to my friends to come meet him. He gave us a good talk about breaking into houses, and that ended our efforts to "junk" in empty houses. My sister Catherine, a quiet, warm-hearted lady who was not well and who never married, would visit us briefly from time to time. She worked at the Dayton Rubber Works and walked out of her way at least once a week, mainly to check on my welfare. "You're too skinny, Johnny. Are you eating enough?" she asked. She didn't know I was much too active. "Sure, I eat enough.. A big cereal for breakfast, salami or some good meat sandwiches for lunch, and you know Pop always fixes a big supper," I said describing a typical day at our kitchen table. "There's something wrong with you, Johnny. I'm going to ask the nurse about it next time I go to First Aid in the shop." At her next visit Catherine had the magic formula to put meat on a skinny kid. "The nurse said you're probably not getting proper nutrition. That means healthy food." Smiling, she asked, "How would you like to make fifty cents a week for taking care of your nutrition?" "What's the catch: Why do I get fifty cents a week?" She produced a large bottle of cod liver oil, with instructions for me to take a teaspoon in the morning and another in the afternoon. She gave me fifty cents. I took a teaspoon and hated it, but the fifty cents was a powerful incentive. It turned out to be a weekly allowance from Catherine. I took the cod liver oil for a year and gained two pounds. I was the envy of kids nearby. None had a father with the imagination of mine. None had a father who would dare make a Transylvania farmyard out of a Dayton, Ohio backyard. Mine was the only one who took his boy out every Saturday for a different adventure. I'd wave goodbye to my pals from Pop’s old Ford sedan. We'd return that evening in a Ford truck, with a pig in back, or goats, or chickens, or geese, or rabbits, or a calf or cow, or bloodhounds, any animals that would provide food or breeding for profit. Pop was a marvelous horse trader. He worked hard all week at the factory. Weekends were devoted to wheeling and dealing, bolstered with nips of whiskey. One weekend he traded in a perfectly good Ford for an older, small Ford truck. "Pop, I think that used-car dealer took you for a ride." "Bull shit. How in the hell am I going to get four goats into that little Ford?" That was my first clue that he had bought four goats, cash and carry. Some neighbors needed goat milk, and that was to be our next sideline. It didn't work because the goats wouldn't let me get close! My orphanage cow-milking experience was of no help. Pop had no time, for milking in the morning and was too tired at night to hassle four feisty goats. Pop never lingered over an error. The goats went, traded for four bloodhounds the next weekend. "We'll breed them and sell the young ones to police departments. You'll have to learn to train them, Johnny." The bloodhounds were lazy and acted as though they would never follow a turtle's trail. "Hell Pop, I can't train Buddy, that damn Airedale we've had for years. He's got a mind of his own. The neighbors say he's another Gojack." The hounds were hopeless. The vet said they were fixed and that's why they were fat and lazy. "No puppies, no business. We'll dump them for a better idea," Pop announced. We spent one Saturday looking for a pony. "Great, Pop, I can sell pony rides." No farmer had a pony to trade őr'sell. *" "Let's trade the bloodhounds for this little donkey. The kids will like him even better than a pony," Pop suggested. "This little donkey looks as big as a mule, Pop. If we can't keep a cow in the backyard, this guy won't last. He's bigger than most cows," I said, killing the deal. In two weekends he negotiated a trade, and we came home with the truck loaded with crates full of rabbits. Fortunately for me, there were acres of rich alfalfa growing wild along the banks and levee of Wolf Creek, one hundred yards from our house. I spent many hours picking alfalfa, cleaning cages, filling water pans, and keeping our dog away from the rabbits. < "You're doing a good job taking care of the rabbits, but I don't think we're going to make much money in that business. Hungarians like chickens, not rabbits," Pop declared. At such times he spoke with the decisiveness of a business tycoon. It took three Saturdays scouring the countryside before he found a deal on the rabbits. I enjoyed the rides over the narrow county roads. Even stopping to fix a flat tire, and learning to patch a tube myself. Best of all was listening to Pop debate with the farmers. "You can see these rabbits grow overnight and they produce more just as fast. We're only trading them because alfalfa is getting scarce where we live," Pop said. "No worry about alfalfa if you swap for these chicks. A little chicken feed and you'll have eggs every morning and fried chicken every Sunday," returned the farmer. Finally tired of the effort to close out the rabbit venture, he traded them for some healthy chicks by sweetening the deal with cash. The chickens were an excellent investment. Fresh eggs, chicken
