Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. július-december (40. évfolyam, 27-49. szám)
1986-11-06 / 42. szám
Thursday, Nov. 6. 1986. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZO 9. Catherine, Elizabeth, Viki Jo (daughter) and John T. dinners every Sunday, and very little work was a welcome change. Pop never tired 0f the chickens but said he had "an idea to make more money, with even less work." "Oh shit, Pop, we're doing great with the chickens. What in hell could be as good as that for our back yard?" I asked, fearing another costly trade. "Listen Johnny, do you remember High Pockets, that tall fellow who works with me? Well, his brother is making money hand over fist with bees making honey! And we can get most of the hives for our chickens." It seemed the trade was already made. Our chickens and more cash for eight hives of bees. It took most of the next Saturday to complete this transaction. The hives were lined up on stands along our backyard fence. With friends stopping by during Sunday, all I heard were tales of how much money is made, with little or no effort, in the honey business. But in less than forty-eight hours we were in and out of the bee and honey business. Across the alley from our back yard was the Simonds-Worden-White Company. The factory windows were wide open and production was underway. In the country the bees went for flowers.. In the city, people. And there were lots of workers next door in the abrasive wheel department. With thousands of bees aiming for human skin, there was chaos first, then retreats to other parts of the factory. Within a few hours production was halted in those departments nearest our yard and seriously hampered in other departments. By noon there were police knocking on our door. They asked for Pop, who of course was at work. They promised to be back in the evening. They returned and kept telling Pop about a city ordinance he violated. "I don't know about any ordinance. I don't know what that means. I came to a free country, the United States of America, and any city ordinance is below the freedom of America. This is my yard and I am free to use it. Isn't that what freedom means?" Pop was polite but firm. "We can't argue with you about our free country, Mr. Gojack, but let me explain once more why you cannot keep bees here. It's disturbing the peace, the peace of many men working at Simonds across the alley here." Pop told me later he knew the bees had to go, but was trying to keep them until the next Saturday. While they were waiting for my father to line up friends to help load the bees, I had a pleasant conversation with a policeman. "What about goats or chickens?" I asked. "Chickens are okay, but I don't know about goats. If your father plans to get some, he should call the city attorney first." The bees were loaded and ready to return to open fields. "When he cools down, tell your father that your bees went through most of the plant and shut down over half the production. Not one worker could stay in this half of the factory, and dozens suffered bee stings." The bees had to go back to the country. They did that evening, after extensive discussion between two policemen and Pop. Urban progress in Dayton had now banned bees as well as cows. "Please tell Mr. Simonds, I am sorry and we'll stay out of the bee business. We want to be good neighbors," Pop promised. They shook his hand, and we had an empty yard until Saturday. No, till Wednesday, the day Buddy came back. Our airedale was tough, but he refused to share our backyard with bees. Pop made a wise move. We went back into chickens. Our bee invasion of the factory was the talk of the neighborhood for weeks. "Everybody says your father wants to get into business, but changes his mind every weekend," said one pal. Cracks like this were clearly picked up at home. "What does your old man do? Sits on his ass and gets drunk every weekend. My Pop at least tries, and I give him credit for that. And wouldn't you like to be with me on our weekend drives, in the country?" That ended the criticism. Besides my own activity away from home, it was easy to handle the yard and have the house spic and span when Pop came home. I even cleaned the extra bedroom we used for storage. In the fall, smoked meats, canned hot peppers, pickles, a barrel of sauerkraut, and another barrel of sour cabbage heads, filled this room with delicious, zestful odors. In our house stuffed cabbage and chicken paprikas tied for honors as the Hungarian national dish. During the week, Pop was in bed before seven, totally worn out. His job running a drop-forge hammer exhausted him. Years of eating smoke at the coke fire gave him a hacking cough and asthma. He always fixed some kind of pork for supper and shortly after going to sleep he needed water badly. "Johnny, get me some water," he'd call out. "Okay, Pop," I'd yell back, so he would know I was in the house. I'd take him a tall glass of cool water and wait for him to finish it, then go for another glass to place at his bedside. I enjoyed this chore as a chance to help him. With school starting again, I didn't know where to go, having parted company with the ones nearby. I took this problem to my sister Elizabeth. She had moved into their new home on the fringe of Dayton View. "Register at Colonel White, Johnny. It's supposed to be one of the best schools in Dayton. You'll have to use our address, but that's all right." From the first day in the seventh grade at Colonel White, Jr. High, it was clear I was the only poor kid there. The morning was spent briefing on schedules and an announcement that the cafeteria would *■ be open at 11:45. I asked a kid and learned there was a good lunch available for fifteen to twenty cents. Having not one cent, I spent the lunch hour walking around the neighborhood, amazed at the size and beauty of the houses. Next day I came to school with a brown bag, featuring a pork chop sandwich, an apple, and a small thermos of coffee. I looked into the cafeteria and saw all the students lined up in two rows. "I've never seen anyone eating here who didn't buy his lunch," a teacher said in response to my question. I went outside, past the ball field and found a grassy spot just out of sight. It was a good, hearty lunch and I enjoyed it, that became my habit as long as I attended Colonel White. In the science class, all students were expected to buy a huge book for fifty cents. Each day the teacher called out the names of those who had not yet purchased the book. Before the second week ended, mine was the only name called. "John, you simply must bring in fifty cents for the book no later than next Monday," he announced on Friday. All eyes in the class were on me. "Please bring up your fifty cents for the book," he ordered on Monday. "I don't have it." "That's no excuse. You were told that the dealine was today." "I'm sorry. I just do not have the money." "John Kojack, that is no excuse. Will you please tell this class why you, as the only student, do not have the money for your required book?" Tears were beginning to well in my eyes as I stood up, angry because he stressed and dragged out the "K," which he knew was not in my name. "I don't have the money because we are a poor family. My mother died and my father just got laid off from his job. My brother-in-law is working only two days a week. When winter comes, I'll shovel snow and earn the money to pay for it. What else can I do?" I asked, crying openly by now. "Well, you can stay after school and we'll discuss it then," he said to a hushed classroom. After school I waited while he talked to two students. With the last one gone, he stepped in front of his desk, his hands spread wide on it, and stared at me. ( To be continued.)
