William Penn Life, 2011 (46. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
2011-03-01 / 3. szám
(: i Tibor S TcLk6 with Tibor Check, Jr. Thank your lucky stars if you have Hungarian grandparents IN A FEW of my past columns, I have eluded to the fact that my siblings and I missed out on a big part of growing up by not having grandparents there to help guide us on our long road to maturity. My mom's father passed away in 1988, and, until her passing, Grandmother Titak Marshall was too frail to even visit us for more than a few hours. My Nagymama Cseh passed in 1993 when I was only 3 years old. I remember some things about her, but those remembered experiences are small in number. Nagypapa Endre was the most memorable of all four grandparents. Unfortunately for my siblings and me, he passed on much too early as well. My Nagymama Cseh was cool! One of my fondest memories of her is when our family attended a summer picnic at the Northeast Ohio Hungarian Club in Hiram, Ohio. "Gramma Yonka" (she taught me to call her that) would give me to eat some szaloncukor from Hungary. I remember the fast czardas being played by Feri Borisz or Joe Jeromos; those lilting Magyar melodies resonated through the woods of the picnic grounds as grandma pushed me on one of the swings the club had made for the kids in attendance. She also used to take me on the dance floor in an attempt to teach me the intricate steps of the Gólya. At a Szüreti Mulatság picnic, I recall the two of us being put in a jail by an official looking rendőrség. This incarceration occurred because we had "stolen" some fruit: just a few seconds before the mock arrest, she picked me up to pull down a bunch of grapes that were hanging from a series of vines that were stretched across the ceiling of the csárdás ház. I was scared to be in that jail. (If you have ever been at the N.E. Ohio Magyar Club Picnic Grounds, you know why a little kid would be afraid of being put in that particular jail, because it is a real, iron-gated holding cell!) I recall asking her: "Nagymama, we aren't supposed to steal?!" I started to cry. Nagypapa Cseh came over and gave the policeman some money. He let us out of the cell. My Mom came over to help comfort me. I remember everybody was laughing, but I couldn't understand why? ■ Consider & Discuss Last month, I commented on the future of our Hungarian communities and WPA. Do you agree with my predictions? How can we reverse the trend of Hungarian ethnic apathy? As is the case with so many fraternal, religious and community service organizations, there is a lack of interest from the younger generation. How can we get my generation of young people more involved? My sister, my brother and I cherish our Hungarian heritage and enjoy any opportunity we can get to display our love of all things Magyar. That love and pride were instilled in us by not only by our parents but also our wonderful grandparents. This photograph may not be of the highest quality, but it is definitely one of my favorites; it reminds me of the importance-and the joy-of family and of keeping traditions alive. At that same szüreti bál, I recall Mr. Rudy Gall taking off his shoes and socks as he rolled up his pant legs to the knees. He then jumped into a big wooden barrel and started to march in place. The zenekar played music while he lifted his legs in a furious motion. I noticed his legs and feet were stained purple from the grapes he smashed with his two feet. I observed him putting an empty cup in the barrel and drinking grape juice from it. To this 3-year-old boy, these choreographed actions were quite strange. A few days later, my Nagymama Jonka passed. As mentioned in earlier columns, my final memory of my grandmother was that of her lying in state while it appeared that Mr. Borisz was playing just for her some very sad songs on his violin. As I grew up, Grandfather Cseh was there for me, but just as I grew bigger, his strength began to diminish. We visited him every Saturday. We helped him climb the 27 steps up to the broadcast studio of WKTL-90.7 FM, to do our weekly Magyar radio show. My family accompanied him faithfully to the radio show as we brought the listeners music and news of the Hungarian community in the tri-state area. I was 13 years of age in 2004. It had been a little over 10 years since the passing of Grandmother Check. On that dreaded Holy Saturday night, my grandpa went to join my grandma in Magyar Heaven. We did a lot of things with my gramps in the way of Hungarian Style. We frequented the Hungarian Business 8 0 March 2011 0 William Penn Life
