A great pleasure in life is doing what others say you can't!
A great pleasure in life is doing what others say you can't!
The last decade of the 19th century, the winter of 1894–1895, finds Wladyslaw Mzrepskie born somewhere close to the port city of Gdansk in Poland, known by the German name Danzig, on the Baltic Sea in Northern Poland. He later travels to Eastern Pennsylvania to secure his papers, a certificate that will enable him to seek his fortune in the anthracite coal region.
A certificate of competency was issued to Walter Mzrepkie on December 21, 1895. After a time, the Americanization of Wladyslaw Mzrepskie became Walter Majewski, and finally Walter Majewski.
While working in this area, Walter probably lived in a boarding house in a small town called Shenandoah in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania. A beautiful young lady working there caught Walter’s eye, and they became very friendly. She told him of her situation. She wanted to come to America from a place called Lithuania but was very poor. She had relatives in America who owned the boarding house and paid for her passage. In return, she would work a number of years, receiving room and board until the debt was paid.
Walter was overwhelmed with love for the young lady, Zofie Walukanis. They became boyfriend and girlfriend, and after some time together, Walter paid off Zofie’s debt.
On October 14, 1899, Wladyslaw Majewski and Zofie Walukanis were married in Shenandoah, Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania.
Walter and Zofie came to Western Pennsylvania to begin their family and married life. The children arrived in rapid succession. In the year 1912, Walter Majewski and his wife Sophia became naturalized American citizens. On July 5, 1912, the ceremony took place in the Court of Common Pleas in Uniontown, Fayette County, Pennsylvania.
Walter, through hard work and study, became very good at his work,a specialist dealing with steam power, which was used to operate the coal mines. So good, in fact, that he became a foreman. The family moved from one mining town to another, towns or patches with names like Buffington, Lambert, Bridgeport, and Alicia. There were, and still are, many coal mining towns throughout the Bituminous Coal Fields.
English became the language of choice in the Majesky household, especially between parents and children. In this way, Walter mastered the English language. Of course, Sophia and Walter conversed in Lithuanian and Polish with their friends from Europe.
Time passes, and the Majesky clan increases,John, Alex, Florence, Aggie, Julia, and around 1925, Helen, who was the last. Along with these children, there were several stillborn, including a twin for Helen. Some of these children were buried in unmarked graves at St. Thomas Cemetery in Footedale, a church Walter helped build. He served the church in various positions for many years.
While all this was going on, old Walter got to fooling around with his neighbor’s wife. Her husband got wind of it and came after Walter. Ole Walter ran off and left town. After a time, through a mutual friend, things were patched up. Sophia handed Walter an ultimatum: before she would take him back, she wanted all new furniture. Walter, ever so grateful for a second chance, agreed.
A train arrived in the town of Republic. Workers were busy carrying all this magnificent furniture into the Majesky house. Neighbors, people from far and wide, gathered to watch the proceedings. The event took on a festive atmosphere,old women in babushkas sighing and pointing. There was a large RCA Victor Victrola, a big round oak dining room table, many chairs with leather-padded seats and carved feet, kitchen cabinets, a treadle sewing machine, a bookcase with glass doors, large religious pictures for the walls with beautiful frames, and many, many other pieces too numerous to mention. Walter, Sophia, and the kids were once again one big happy family.
At one time, Walter Majesky, along with his coal mining obligations, operated a store in Briar Hill. With his large family, he had ample help to run the business. Everything was humming along pretty well when, as luck would have it, the store caught fire and burned to the ground,a total loss.
Walter would walk into the local saloon sporting a handlebar mustache. Soon, some of the men would come forward to buy drinks and make a toast. In those days, Walter was the mine foreman, and as was the custom, the workers were bound by a silent code to show respect,and they did. All Walter needed to do was raise his glass and smile.
Sophia and Walter’s oldest son, William, prepared to leave the nest. Around the year 1917 or 1918, William, perhaps 16 years old, approached his dad. A reluctant father embraced his son and handed him maybe 20 dollars. With a few tears from Sophia, Bill was off to the big city,Detroit, Michigan.
Eventually, Bill adapted to city life. Through night school and perseverance, he became successful,a partner in an auto parts business. After a few years, Bill owned the business. Bill Majesky became Bill Myers. Brother Charlie joined him, and later so did Johnny. Soon Johnny became Johnny Myers, while Charlie remained Charles Majewski. Flo came to Detroit, and finally Helen. Bill married Mildred Johanson; they had one daughter. Charlie wed Bessie Livingston, and they had many children. Flo remained single, and Helen joined Aggie in Philadelphia, where she married Ed Petterson. Aggie was married to Frank Lacy. Both Helen and Aggie had several children.
Around the year 1927, or somewhere close, Peter Benjamin Majesky was discharged from the Army. He had his name changed while in the service to Miske. Peter B. Miske married Mary Harrison, and they had one daughter, Betty Ann. Adolph Majesky, Pete’s younger brother, spent a good deal of time with his older brother, who was employed by the West Penn Power Company. A job opening became available, and Pete was able to get the job for Adolph. During this process, Adolph Majesky became Edward Miske.
Edward Miske went on to marry Sophia Dzurik, and they had two children. Sophia became afflicted with a form of rheumatoid arthritis, which caused her to be handicapped, not being able to walk for more than half of her marriage of approximately 46 years,an extremely dreadful disease.
Julie Majesky married Earl Smith. The marriage lasted several years but ended in divorce. They had a daughter, Janet. Julie then married Bob Armstrong. They spent their quite happy lives together down at the lower end of West Brownsville along the Monongahela River. Bob was famous for his gardens,classes from the local school had been known to visit on occasion. Julie enjoyed a number of hobbies, including making homemade root beer. Throughout all this, Julie remained a devout Roman Catholic. Bob was a Protestant.
Sometime during this period, the power used to operate the mines changed from steam to electricity, not a good time for Walter Majesky. He became a regular coal miner, a timberman, and a roof bolter. They set timber posts to secure or hold up the roof of the mine, sometimes a risky process.
Walter Majesky had many close calls working in the mines. He retired sometime in the early 1940s. I believe his total Social Security check amounted to 26, maybe 28 dollars a month,subsistence wages even then.
The United States was engulfed in World War II. The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. The United States was at war with Germany and Japan. Walter, although in failing health, decided to return to work in the mines. After a few months, he became very ill,black lung plus many other respiratory ailments. Sometime in 1942, Walter passed away. His wife Sophia followed him one year later in 1943. All the nice old furniture was either sold or given away. The house at 1313 Sheridan Avenue was sold for $2,500.00,a good buy even then.
In my opinion, my grandfather was truly an amazing man. Think about it,born in a foreign country, poor, managing to make his way to America. He taught himself the English language, raised a large family, owned a nice home, and owned and drove several automobiles,a Model T Ford and then a couple models from the 1930s. He loved to read books (as I do). I can picture him in his rocking chair, reading, smoking his pipe, listening to the news on his Grunow console radio, occasionally spitting into his green ceramic cuspidor and then clearing his throat.
Peter B. Miske became ill sometime in 1928, something related to an extremely painful back injury. After several months, Peter died.
The Majesky family at this time consisted of Walter and Sophia, children Bill, Charlie, Edward (Adolph), Johnny, Alex, Julia, Flo, Aggie, and Helen. Pete had died.
In 1929, Ed Miske married Sophia Dzurik (my mother and father). I was Born on Baltimore Street, north side of Brownsville, October 10, 1931. About five years later, a daughter, Shirley, was born March 12, 1936. A full-scale depression was gripping the United States. It started in October 1929 and, for many people, lasted up until World War II. Almost everyone was out of work or only working part-time. My dad was no exception. Life was very hard, but we survived.As mentioned in a previous chapter, Sophia became afflicted with rheumatoid arthritis. Sometime in the 1940s, I remember going to see a movie with my mother, The Philadelphia Story, I would guess maybe 1943, at the Plaza Theater in Brownsville,Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, and Katharine Hepburn.
From this point on, I will write about the most interesting things that I can remember about my early years, not necessarily in chronological order. My dad used to cut my hair with a pair of hand clippers (I still have them). If I flinched or moved, he belted me one alongside the head. If I sniffed, he would scream or yell. I was sure to be happy when he finished.
One day I was over at my grandmother’s house, and Alex showed his father an old Morgan Silver Dollar. My grandfather seemed fascinated by the coin. Alex gave it to him, and he let me hold it. Wow,I have this coin in my collection.
Christmas Eve at the Majesky house was indeed something special,always fish, pierogies, mashed potatoes, nut rolls, and all kinds of goodies. Before beginning the meal, there was a blessing or prayer of some sort and the passing of oplatki to one another, a Christmas wafer. I would offer mine to you, you would break off a piece, and in turn I would snap off a piece of yours, and so on and so forth. The Christmas wafer was blessed and was supposed to bring good fortune. After supper, midnight mass. Me and Shirley slept over at Grandma’s on Christmas Eve. My mother, father, and aunts went to our house to trim the tree and wrap the presents. Christmas Day,lo and behold, me and Shirley, wide-eyed and full of wonder. Nobody could tell us there wasn’t a Santa Claus. What a time we had.
Sunday afternoons, the Polish hour was on the radio. Aggie, Flo, and Helen,three of my aunts,would push the big round dining room table off to one side and polka up a storm, with me sitting in a corner clapping, my hands up and yelling. My grandmother sat across the room tapping her foot to the polka beat. Picture an old lady with a white towel wrapped around her hair like a turban, one tooth in front, smiling. What a time this was,everybody was dirt poor, but we didn’t know it.
Sometimes Aggie would play the mandolin and Flo would sing. The one song I remember is, “I’m dreaming tonight of blue eyes, who is sailing far over the sea.” Other times we would crank up the old RCA Victrola,no speakers, a megaphone, spring-driven, no electricity. What a machine. The one record I remember was “Springtime in the Rockies.”
When it came time to take a bath, the members of the family heated the water on a coal stove and carried it upstairs, dumping it into the bathtub. There was no refrigerator, so perishable foods had to be used within a couple of days. They had what they called an icebox. Delivery people used to drive through the community selling big blocks of ice. As kids, we would chase the ice truck. Often, the iceman would give us a piece to chew on.
My house was only a block away from Grandma Majesky’s house, so naturally I spent a lot of time over there. “Grandma, can I have a piece of jelly bread?” “Sure, go get it,” she would say. I’d go to the icebox, take out a huge loaf of bread, a big round loaf, slice a piece perhaps the size of a dinner plate, more than an inch thick, and smother the thing with homemade jelly. Then I would come and sit near my grandmother, and we would talk. I would tell her about all the things I was doing, like swimming in the river or cutting somebody’s grass or school activities. She would sit there twirling her thumbs,something she did almost all the time,holding her hands together, rolling one thumb over the other and under the other one. “Eddie, don’t eat like a dog, eat pretty, take small bites, chew your food slowly,” all in broken English. I would say, “Okay, Grandma,” and for a little while I was doing it right, but before long I was gulping the delicious bread down as before. She would just shake her head. I can relive this scene over and over in my mind. The picture is as vivid as when I lived it. I can mentally smell the bread and jelly as well as taste it. My grandmother’s smile is as beautiful as ever,one big long tooth left right in the middle of her mouth on top!
As a youngster, I roamed the surrounding hills with friends, playing Cowboys and Indians, catching lizards and crawfish, we called them crabs. We picked junk up and sold it to the junk man who came around with his truck once a week. We hauled coal for people. We cut their grass. We collected beer bottles and returned them to the beer garden for two cents apiece. This was much later because prohibition existed for a large part of the 1930s.
Growing up in this part of Brownsville, us kids usually swam in three different places: the Mud Hole, the Pier, and the Steps. I loved to swim and learned at a very early age. My parents tried very hard to keep me away from the river. They feared for my safety. The Mud Hole,the water was shallow and you could mud crawl, pretend like you were swimming, practice dog fashion. Very muddy there, but when we were really young, this is where we learned to swim. The Mud Hole is located under a railroad bridge near the yard office, not far from where I live now. After learning to stay afloat, we went to the Pier several hundred yards west of the Mud Hole. Boats used to tie up there waiting to enter the locks that were located in Brownsville then. It was difficult to get to,you had to scale down a rocky bank, big boulders piled on top of one another, a type of wall, I guess. We would swim out to the pier, climb up the ladder, and lay in the sun, jump and dive off, while hollering at the cook, “Throw us an apple!”,and sometimes they did. In those days, the river was like a huge sewer. Someone said that because we swam in it so many times, this river water gave us immunity to most diseases. All summer long, and after some summers I spent along and in the Monongahela River, me and my many friends were almost like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn on the Mississippi, me on the Monongahela. The other place we swam was called the Steps. It was in the other direction down from my house now. These three places we mostly swam, but there were others,the lock wall, Newtown Patch, Alicia, Pike Mine, and West Brownsville once in a while.
The Steps were a set of steps built into a sloping finished wall of stone and mortar. The wall was like an incline out into the river. Boats and barges came very close to shore, so the river channel had to be deep enough for them to navigate. This was actually the entrance to the locks,a dangerous place. When a boat and tow were entering the locks, a huge steamboat named the Sailor, with a large paddle wheel located at the stern, drove the boat. The tow had to be split,three loaded coal barges, and the remaining barges went through the other chamber. If I remember correctly, a full tow was nine barges, carrying about 1,000 tons each. The boat would be maneuvering the tow to line it up with the locks. When reversing or backing up, it created what we called slack current or slack water. This current was very dangerous for swimmers anywhere near the stern,you could be pulled under. I was once caught in this slack water. I swam down as deep as I could and swam away from the area. In those days, I could literally swim 50 to 100 feet underwater. You reach out over your head as far as you can and bring your arms like paddles down to your sides and move your legs and feet to propel yourself forward.
I loved to see how far I could swim underwater. Now that I think about it, if everything went right and I stayed in a straight line, I believe I would have swam much further than 50 feet. Another thing we used to do was pick up the bottom,15, 20, maybe 25 feet deep,go down, grab a handful of mud, surface, and throw the mud up in the air. You had to prove to the other kids that you indeed had gone all the way down. When you think about it, even though we were all very poor, we had the biggest swimming pool in town.
Sometimes me and Billy Timms (if I was Tom Sawyer, then he was Huck Finn) would go up on the hill,the one behind my house now,and go from yard to yard. Some had apple trees or pear trees or even grapevines. We would tuck our T-shirts into our pants and fill the front of our shirts with whatever we could steal. Then we would go back down to the riverbank and chew away all afternoon.
We would throw old bottles into the river and pretend they were Japanese ships, throwing stones at them pretending that we were American fighter planes. Early in the spring, we challenged one another to see who would be the first to jump into the river. I remember early March,the water was so cold it took your breath away.
Sometime back in the early 1940s, Flo, Helen, and Aggie, with my dad as the driver in Grandpa Majesky’s old black sedan with the yellow wheels, took me along. I was somewhere between 5 and 7 years old, maybe younger. We went to Charleroi to visit Mary Miske. The apartment was above some sort of business. A pink-haired lady with a gold tooth or maybe a missing tooth, a little on the heavy side, with a big smile,we sat around the table, and she took out tarot cards and told fortunes. I remember talking to a beautiful little girl with long Shirley Temple curls,guess who this was? Betty Ann. This is about all I remember. Flo was always fascinated by fortune telling,maybe this is where it all started.
An old wooden building located where the South Brownsville Fire Company now stands,three or four stories high. Me, Billy, and Dickie Giles pried a loose plank off the back wall just above the stone foundation. We climbed an old rickety ladder inside the old elevator shaft to the third floor. Dusty and full of cobwebs, the building had been abandoned for many years. Not a safe place,many rotted boards in the floors. Three old trunks way back in the corner,we busted these trunks open. Wow! Two big ceremonial swords, “Knights of Pythias” engraved on them,one sword gold-colored, the other black and white or silver. Dozens and dozens of cakes of Octagon soap, all kinds of old clothes, and many other things long forgotten. I was reaching down deep in one of these trunks. I felt something round with a chain. I slowly and carefully pulled the thing out and slipped it into my pocket. I took the gold sword. They came to my house at night and told me that the police had found out about us and were looking for the swords. I gave them the gold sword and told them to throw it into the river. I later found out they had sold the sword to an older guy who was a collector. Win some and lose some.
An old lady, Mrs. Cole, lived down on the middle alley near the Sons of Italy. I showed her several cakes of Octagon soap. During World War II, many things were rationed, including soap. She bought all the soap we could find,or steal, depending on how you define it. I was very enterprising even then. The thing that I secretly removed from the trunk turned out to be an old Waltham railroad watch and chain. It takes a key to wind it up. I had one made for it. I still have the watch, and it runs. A date, 1984, scratched inside the case indicates that’s when it was once repaired. A number of years went by, and then this old building caught fire and burned to the ground.
Billy Timm’s brother Johnny had a job at the Farmer Dairy down on Water Street. Billy had the task of taking Johnny’s lunch down to him every day throughout the summer vacation. Why Johnny didn’t take his lunch in the morning, I have no idea. If Curly Rankin, the manager, was not at the dairy when we were there, we would drink half the chocolate milk from a quart bottle, then go over to the separator, an apparatus resembling a beehive that separated the cream from the milk, and fill the bottle with thick, rich cream. Once again we would go over to the riverbank and indulge, with results of unbelievable diarrhea.
Almost every Saturday morning, me and Billy, as well as others, usually had to report to a railroad cop’s office, which was located in the Union Station building in downtown Brownsville. His name was Price. It was a type of probation we never paid for, but when we reported, they often made us perform chores like cleaning up his office, going to the store, delivering something to the post office, always something. Even when he didn’t catch us trespassing, he accused us. The fact of the matter was, you had to trespass on the railroad to get to the river, and the river for us was a way of life.
The last car, whether it was a passenger or a freight train, was called a caboose. They don’t use them anymore. I think cell phones or the walkie-talkie helped eliminate the caboose. In the old days, we would sneak into a caboose. Underneath a leather-type cushion or mattress, there was a storage area inside that had dozens of dynamite caps. We would take some of these, go up on the hill behind the house where I live now, to the old stone quarry we called “The Old Indian Cliffs.” We would lay several on an old rock, go to the top, and throw large stones down. Wow, the explosions rocked the hillsides, and we scampered into the woods screaming and laughing hysterically.
Back in the good old days, before I started working in the bakery shop, I used to go up to Hiller and stay about a week or two at my grandmother's house. Their name was Dzurik, my mother’s parents. There was a large yard, cherry trees, a cow named Daisy, a big dog named Chigger, and a huge hog in a pen. What a time I had up there.
A kid who lived next door, his name was Bobby Hines, and I ran all over the place. We picked blackberries and stole things out of people’s gardens at night, tomatoes, onions, and other vegetables. We raided grapevines and apple trees. We hung around the old red schoolhouse and played kissing games with the Robert sisters, Virginia and Florence. I really enjoyed that.
My grandparents spoke broken English. My grandmother called me Eddie, and my grandfather worked at the Maxwell Mine. He spent most of his time off drunk when he could afford it.
Their house had three rooms and a sun porch. At one time, maybe nine people lived in these crowded conditions. All the boys slept in one room, the girls and their mother in another. My grandfather slept on the sun porch, which they called the “bootka.” Many times we would be sitting around at night, and he would wake up drunk, go out to the power switch, and pull it. Out went the lights. Everyone would moan and complain, but it was a common occurrence, and looking back, kind of funny.
They used an old, shabby outhouse, with no toilet paper. An old Sears or Montgomery Ward catalog served that purpose. There was a sign on the wall written by my uncle George that read, “Some people come in to sit and think, but I come to…” you can imagine the rest.
All three of my uncles, Charlie, George, and Mike, were in World War II. Charlie and George saw combat. Mike was some sort of medic, but the war ended before he made it overseas.
My aunt Katherine had a paper route, and I used to help her deliver papers once in a while. We would stop at a little store called Hackney’s. She would buy us what was called a “Hobby,” an eight-ounce paper cup full of chocolate ice cream with a stick in the center. You rolled the cup between your hands until it came out. I can still taste it.
My aunt Katherine, a beautiful lady, went out to Cleveland, Ohio, lived with her two sisters, got a decent job, and married a man named Paul Ziebel. About two or three months after getting married, she became ill. She was diagnosed with a brain tumor, became paralyzed, and spent perhaps 40 to 50 years bedridden. And so it goes.
On Christmas Day, December 25, 1943, I got a cowboy suit for Christmas. It was a sunny, warm day, maybe 70 degrees or more. I put on the cowboy suit and ran all the way up to my grandmother’s house in Hiller, pretending I was riding a horse. They took out a camera and took a picture. I still have that picture in one of our albums.
The Dzuriks were not as sophisticated as my dad’s side of the family. There was no bathroom, just an outhouse. They took baths in a galvanized tub, heating the water on a coal stove. The house had three bedrooms and the sun porch, the “bootka.” They had electricity and water. At one time they had a cow named Daisy. One of the boys would take Daisy out to pasture in the morning and bring her back at night. They had a large shed for her in the yard.
They raised chickens and had a hog pen with a huge hog in it. I used to climb a big crabapple tree next to the hog pen and throw crabapples at the hog, who ate everything.
They had a grape arbor that stretched from the house outward, at least 40 to 50 feet. When it was in full bloom, it felt like walking through a tunnel. Red, green, and purple grapes hung in huge bunches. I used to eat as many as I could, which guaranteed diarrhea.
I also helped my aunt Katherine deliver papers, and afterward we would stop at Hackney’s and have that chocolate ice cream treat. I can still taste it. It was similar to a chocolate Klondike bar.
There was a reservoir in Hiller where kids used to sneak over the fence and go swimming. It was very dangerous. The sides sloped steeply, and it was hard to grab onto anything. Over the years, several kids drowned in that reservoir.
Me and a couple of friends would roam the hills, pick blackberries, swim in the reservoir, which was prohibited, and steal stuff out of people’s gardens in the evenings. All the kids gathered around the schoolhouse. We played all kinds of games like hide and seek, catchers, kick the stick, and more. When we played kissing games, I had a favorite, a little blonde looker named Virginia Roberts. Those were the days.
Long ago and far away, people were very poor for the most part, but I sure had a wonderful childhood. Take a look back at where you came from to understand the tremendous hardship these people suffered. They lived in poverty in the old country. How they accumulated enough money to make it here, not speaking the language, and then slaved their lives away working in the coal mines is truly amazing.
My grandfather was dying. He was sixty-some years old. One of my uncles told him a priest was coming to take his confession and give last rites. Old Charlie responded, “To hell with that, give me a beer.” They soaked a cloth in beer and rubbed it over his lips. He smiled and died.
I started school at Second Ward on Water Street, then went to Prospect School in fourth grade. I believe no buses, we walked most of the time, we ran. I went to junior high on Front Street and the high school on High Street. In between I went back down to the Second Ward in the afternoon for woodshop and math. For the most part, I got good grades, at least I passed every year, and I graduated in 1949.
In tenth or eleventh grade, I made a scrapbook for our teacher, Jesse Coldren, the teacher I remember and admire the most. He required us to make a scrapbook dealing with crime. I called mine “The World’s Most Notorious Criminals.” I did quite a bit of artwork and included mainly newspaper pictures and articles dealing with World War II. That was what my scrapbook was about, World War II, Hitler, and all the other Nazi war criminals.
Old Jesse Coldren asked me if he could keep the book until the end of the year and put it on display. I told him sure, I would be proud to have him do that. He told me that I would receive an A plus for the entire year. I still have the scrapbook, and writing like this sure does bring back memories.
When I was in junior high school, probably seventh grade, my English teacher, Miss Roscoe, came to me and told me the school was having a war bond rally. At this time in our history, the country was fighting World War II. The kids would buy savings stamps, and when they had enough, $18.75, they would convert them into a war bond, which would help fund the war.
A contest was being held for the best slogan, the best motto, the best poem, and perhaps the best song. If you won, you got savings stamps. She told me, “Edward, I want you to enter the best cartoon. I’m putting you over in the study hall, and I want something by noon. The principal insists we come up with something, and I insist, Edward, that you do.”
Sitting in the study hall, I wondered how I ever got into this mess. Finally, it came to me. The Plaza Theater in Brownsville had a bank night every Friday night. You bought a ticket, the stub was put into a big drum, and the man turned the drum and mixed them all up. A stub was drawn, first prize was $25. Mr. Smith’s number was 224, and he won first prize. He declared, “I’m buying a war bond.”
Time passed, and all the students were gathered in the assembly hall. R. Donald Conn, the principal, stood at the podium. For the most original cartoon, one that could be published in any leading magazine, the winner was Ed Miske. All my friends started calling me Edna. My prize was a movie ticket to the Plaza Theater. After several weeks and a couple of fistfights, things got back to normal, and I became Eddie again. I got A’s in English for the rest of the year.
Sometime in junior high school, Jack Fenwick had a 16 mm movie camera. Me, Jack, Dave Peet, and Endsley took the camera and tripod up Allison to an old ash pile near the river. The ashes came from the nearby coke ovens. We used Regis's 1935 blue Dodge sedan for the scene. Dave wore an old gray German uniform. He made it look German. I really think it was from the American Civil War. I had a navy blue old suit coat. He used white abrasive tape to make the lapel resemble a German officer, a couple swastika pins to the collar, and I used this German helmet that I have here.
Me and Dave are fighting over a water canteen in a foxhole of sorts. We are dying of thirst. Jack is operating the camera. Regis is firing shotgun shells into the ashes, big clouds of dust give the illusion of being shelled. James zooms in on me and Dave. The canteen falls to the ground and all the water is lost.
Black and white silent film, but the local Fabian Club goes crazy over the film. Jack showed it at his house to all of our crowd. He used a record player background music, "Devil in the Sun." I have to say it was something else. I wanted to remind you, no television yet available at this time. The best you could do was radio, tapes, and recordings. The 16 mm camera Jack operated with a hand crank on the side.
What happened to the film? Someone would say Jack sold it. Someone bought it and donated it to the library. A lot of different versions.
In early October morning, sometime in the early 1980s, I was getting my car inspected over at Gus Collins gas station at the bottom of Blaineburg Hill on Railroad Street in West Brownsville. Gus was under the chassis looking for deficiencies. The Ford Limited was a beautiful car, but like all American-made cars, more and more deficiencies showed up as the car got older, more than its share.
“Yeddie!” an old guy yelled at me as he came through the front door. “Louie Dalson, is that you? My God, you look pretty good, Yeddie!”
“You too, Louie! What kind of job do you have now?”
“I’m working up at Helman Barge Company, having been up there since August 1951. I have a house on Second Street, two kids, and a beautiful wife.”
Louis Dalson, one of the owners of the International Bakery, where I worked when I was about 13 years old.
The year was 1945. Spindle had taken me down to meet Lewis, who was looking for more help to run the bakery.
“You must be at least 14.”
“Jesus, Louise, look at Eddie. He’s big and strong and smart. He’s also 14,” Spindle commented.
“OK, Yeddie. If you can carry a 100-pound sack of flour, I will give you a job.”
A guy takes a 100-pound sack of salt off the truck and throws it on my shoulder. Louise says, “Take it upstairs to the mixing room.”
I struggled up the stairs, at times on my knees, sweating, panting like a horse. Finally, I got the bag to the mixing room. Louis was following right behind me. Spindle was edging me on, “Come on, Eddie, a couple more steps, come on, you can do it.”
The mixing room attendant took the bag. Louise looked at me and said, “You had a hard time, but you try so hard. I’ll give you a job.” Wow,$.40 an hour, my first job greasing pans.
The bread dough came down a chute into a machine called a divider. Philip Steffanoff, another owner, operated this machine. The dough was divided into individual pieces, usually 16-ounce pieces. It traveled on a belt, which dropped it into a spinning tub that rolled it into shape. From here it went on a series of overhead belts, which were enclosed and was called a proofer. After so many minutes, about 15, the pieces would drop into a machine called a molder. Spindle operated this machine.
He would throw a piece of dough into each pan, which had three sections. It took some skill to throw, or maybe toss, the loaves just right, and they had to be centered and straight in the pans. I picked up the pan and put it on a rack. When the rack was full, we shoved it into the steam box, all the while making sure that Spindle had pans to toss the loaves into, and get a new rack after pushing one into the steam box.
There was no way to stop the machine once the loaves began falling out of the roofer proofer. You simply had to move fast to keep up. When the proofer was about half empty, new dough was coming down the chute into the divider. The process was repeated over and over all day long. There were three or four thousand loaves of International white sliced bread. It was called honey bread. Early in the morning, before this process was begun, we made cinnamon rolls, machine-made hamburger and hotdog buns, and at the end of the process, usually by late afternoon, we made rye, French, and Italian bread. A large cake shop upstairs made all kinds of small ones for lunches and big ones for weddings.
A rack was a piece of equipment, six or eight wire shelves with wheels on the bottom, six to seven feet high, about two feet wide, perhaps seven feet long. The steam box was a room made mostly of concrete blocks, iron doors, and tracks inside to accommodate the racks, usually a six-pack at a time, always full of steam, which allowed the bread dough to rise to the proper size.
The steam box, or steam room, had large iron doors on both ends. At the proper time, the bakers would take the racks out of the steam room and place the pans into the automatic elevator oven, which had 24 shelves. The bread was fully baked after it traveled the full distance through this automatic gas-fired baking system. Once baked, the bread was taken off the pans and put on racks again to cool, and then sliced and wrapped. The machine that sliced and wrapped the bread was indeed high-tech for its time.
A large table, about 10 feet long, maybe 5 feet wide, was constructed out of very heavy lumber, the top surface worn very smooth. After many years of use, the surface was heavily floured, and all of us were kneading the rye bread. Philip was teaching me. After a time, he said, “You do OK using your hands. You take two loaves and kind of roll them from the side. You can feel them tighten up and place them in special trays.” These would be baked in the open hearth oven.
Eventually, I was making the cinnamon rolls. I would roll the sweet dough out several feet, maybe 8 to 10 inches wide, sprinkle it with raisins and cinnamon, roll it up, and cut the whole thing into half-inch slices, place them into the special pans. When I started, we were making 10 dozen a day. After several weeks, orders increased to well over 100 dozen, maybe because I put in more cinnamon and raisins than I was taught to do.
Sometimes I would take a pan of cinnamon buns while they were still warm and run up to the cake shop, put a piece of wedding cake icing on them, and eat the whole thing while I was working. Louise caught me once and said I was eating up the profits. I told him I was a good worker and I deserved a little treat. He laughed and shook his head.
I worked after school and on Saturdays. I helped clean up the place after school. I put the French and Italian bread into the bags, along with the rye and potato bread. I helped Tammy Tim’s at the open hearth, everything the bakers needed like extra racks or sacks of flour. It was my job. I helped. I also waited on customers.
Johnny Beharry worked the night shift. We became really good friends. His job was to load up the trucks. International didn’t bake any pies. They bought them from a company in Pittsburgh called Real Pie Bakers. The pies were delivered several times a week. On more than one occasion, me and Johnny split an egg custard pie. Wow, I could still taste it.
11th grade, 1948. I told my homeroom teacher about my job that I started at four.
“Mr. Slick, do you think I could get out with the bus students when school is dismissed?”
The bus students were dismissed earlier than the town students.
“Miske, now how much time difference is there between the bus students and the town students?”
“About a minute or two,” I replied.
“How far can you get in a minute?”
“Probably all the way to the bottom of Angel Street.”
“If you can go that far in one minute, you don’t need any more time.”
I got out of school at 3:25 PM. Ran all the way home, perhaps three-fourths of a mile, changed clothes, ate something. I always listened to Marice Spitacney’s orchestra on the radio for about five minutes, then ran down through the alley to the bakery. I started working at 4 PM every school day. The orchestra theme song was called “Gypsies’ Love.” I can still hum the tune. No television then.
Spring of 1949, my last year of school. The committee for the graduation class established the day at Kennywood Park. Johnny Beharry and I were taking two absolutely beautiful girls to the celebration. He’s taking Mary Jane Ciconnee, and I’m taking Millie Ducar. We were going in his 1943 Pontiac convertible with the top down. Wow. He was wearing a yellow shirt and brown slacks, and so was I. I can’t remember whether this was planned or just happened. Louise said that we could go, but that we had to come back to work that night and do our jobs, which we did.
After taking Mary Jane home, Johnny told me to go take Millie home in the convertible. Driving her home and parking in the back of her house, hugging and kissing, what a hookup. I walked her to her door, kissed again, and on my way back to the car, I stepped on what I thought was a brick walkway. It was a gutter. I slipped and fell down and got my pants all wet and dirty. Luckily, I found a rag in the car’s trunk. I didn’t want to get the car seats dirty. Everything turned out just fine. After doing everything that I was supposed to do, bagging all the bread, sweeping up, etc., I helped Johnny load the trucks.
Sometime in the 1980s, I’m not sure if it was after I retired, but April 1, 1985 or not, I was shopping at Foodland and somebody yelled, “Yeddie!” and came up and grabbed my hand. “I see your name in the paper,hospital,I think you were sick.”
“No, not me, Louise, my dad.”
The significance of the encounter is to show how me and my old boss remained close friends over the years. I asked Louise what happened, why the bakery had to close. His answer was something like this: A&P came to town, along with Acme, Foodland, and bigger supermarkets like Kroger. They operated their own bakeries. Because of their huge market share, they could sell their products at lower prices, lower than International Bakery could produce them. Mom and Pop grocery stores went the same route. Very few of them are around now. Someday drugstores are next. Even now, competition among them is overwhelming.
Later in the summer of 1949, I had a week’s vacation coming up from the bakery. Chuck Haner, a friend and classmate, and I went to Cleveland, Ohio to find jobs. I wrote Louise a nice letter, apologizing for not giving him proper notice and that I was leaving. I really believe the friendship I shared over the years with my former boss influenced me in my life.
Going way back, even before first grade, I remember that I liked to draw pictures. The paperboy used to drop off blank sheets of newspaper. These were used to wrap bundles of newspapers, I imagine to protect them. A truck would deliver the papers, and the driver would literally throw the bundles onto the paperboy’s yard, maybe onto his porch. The paperboy would bring these blank papers to me, and I would cut them into letter-size sheets and make a never-ending supply of art paper.
For some reason, my dad wasn’t happy with me drawing pictures all the time. What he wanted me to do was math tables over and over. He would ask me, “What’s 7 × 6?” If I didn’t know it right away, he would make me write “7 × 6 is 42” perhaps several hundred times. One thing is for sure, I learned my tables, and I must say I never forgot them. When I drew pictures, I used to hide them. Once my dad was convinced that I knew my math timetables from 1 to 10, he would back off a little. I used to daydream about becoming an illustrator of some sort.
I got good grades in art class at school. After growing up and spending time in Korea and Japan, I noticed that every street corner had a person doing portraits. I came to the conclusion that making a living as an artist required skills that I just didn’t have. How much getting knocked around by my dad for drawing pictures had to do with my decision, I don’t know, perhaps some. That’s not to say that one could not enjoy sketching as a hobby, which is the way I went. I still enjoy doing it.
I remember helping Mark and Marcy with some homework that required artwork. I got a note from the teacher saying, “Mr. Miske, you do nice artwork, but we would really like to see what Marcy can do.” That settled that. The teacher was absolutely right, of course.
A lot of guys like to hunt, fish, or play ball. All these things are part of living. I used to play softball. I was good enough to get by. I gave it up when I got a job in the bakery, greasing pans and doing other work. I became fascinated with collecting coins, reading books, listening to good music, and gardening. I have even studied paintings and marveled at the way an artist transmits light, like Thomas Kinkade with sunlight shining through a landscape.
As I grew older, almost everything fascinated me. High-tech almost overwhelms me. What a time to live. President Bush is urging NASA to return to the moon. I would like to see this happen again, maybe eventually building some sort of base on the moon. Wow.
Can you imagine retiring at a reasonable age and enjoying all of the things that will be obtainable? If you can’t afford them, it is still a goal worth shooting for. You have already taken the first steps. Every thousand-mile journey begins with a single step.
I was headed for Korea aboard the USS General Anderson, a large transport ship carrying about 4,000 troops and crew, along with many civilians and a lot of cargo. Every day I would go up on the deck, which was very crowded, to a small area near a vent from the galley, located near the exhaust from the engine room. I would sit there with a clipboard and do some sketching, or do some reading, or just daydream, mostly about coming back home.
Many people on the ship were seasick as all hell. The fumes in this area were so strong that if you were seasick, you certainly wouldn’t be able to stay there. For me, it was ideal. A guy from the infantry named Mills asked me to draw him something sexy. He said, “Ed, I’ll give you my cigarette lighter for the picture.” I said okay. Believe it or not, I still have the lighter in my souvenir collection.
When I was first married, I was laid off from Hillman Barge Company for a couple of weeks. I was hanging out at a bar in downtown Brownsville. The bartender was a retired sergeant named Sergeant Bigorea, a wizard at doing card tricks and telling jokes.
I attended Signal Corps school at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. After finishing schooling, my military occupation number was 332223279. I believe I was a telephone repairman. After graduating from Fort Monmouth, I was sent to Korea. As luck would have it, I got there about the time President Eisenhower’s people had negotiated the truce.
Some of the things that happened to me while I was in Korea took place in a country still in turmoil. There were still many red alerts and all kinds of skirmishes, but as time passed on, things settled down somewhat. Halfway through my tour of duty, I went on leave to Tokyo, Japan. Me and a friend traveled to many historic Japanese places. I sampled the cooking, which was not bad if you liked fish oil.
The Japanese beer was delicious. We took quite a few pictures there and had many stories to tell about my experiences in Korea, Japan, and aboard ship.
We crossed the International Date Line, which qualified us to become members of the Golden Dragon Society. We were in a typhoon for several days. Ninety percent of the ship’s passengers were sick, not me. I seemed to take life aboard a ship pretty well. While in Korea, I volunteered to fly and help deliver mail. I met many interesting people throughout my time in the military. Once again, time passed on. After completing my tour of duty in Korea, I came back home. I was placed in the inactive reserve for six years.
I went back to my job at Hillman. Things were slow, and I became a laborer. We put wooden docks on barges, cleaned out old barges, mostly old coal and debris.
Years ago, I was in Sasebo, Japan. We were preparing to go to Korea, but there was some sort of delay. I’m not sure what the reason was. Anyway, a large contingent of Turkish troops arrived. It was standard procedure to limit water use in the afternoons at this particular military facility. Only the commodes and drinking fountains were functional. These Turks ran into where the commodes were, like a large Quonset hut with outside outhouses. Many got down on their knees, literally washing themselves, laughing and yelling like wild, crazy people. If I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t believe it.
After a time, an officer speaking at one of the many briefings we attended said these Turks came out of the mountains back in Turkey. They were specially trained fighters who were especially ruthless. At night, they would infiltrate enemy positions, and when they killed enemy soldiers, they would cut off their ears. Then they would present the ears to their company commander and were given so much money for each ear. He said, unfortunately, some of these Turks were so intent on getting ears that they would sometimes kill friendly allies or even each other. He also added that the North Koreans were so afraid of these Turks that they sometimes dropped their weapons and ran in terror.
I was part of the Message Center Company, 304th Signal Battalion, attached to the 22nd Signal Corps, which was part of the 8th Army. We were stationed a few miles from the Korean capital, Seoul. My MOS was a telephone repairman. Sgt. Blackman, who was my first sergeant, called me into the orderly room upon my arrival in Korea. He said, “Corporal Miske, you’re scheduled to work in the comm center, but I need someone at the company with your experience.” I had been an electrician’s helper at Hillman Barge Company before I was drafted. I simply replied that any way he thought I could best serve my country sounded good to me. Needless to say, we became pretty good friends.
A “Katusa” was a Korean who had served in the army but had more time to serve. They were Korean workers assigned to the American military. I was put in charge of a group of Katusas. We were setting up ten-man squad tents. I was mostly concerned with the lights and outlets that were installed inside each tent, making sure not to overload circuits, going by the book. “Follow me.”
An old building housed a photo lab. Rolls of film taken from aerial reconnaissance planes, mostly helicopters, were processed there. This was part of the Message Center Company. I talked a helicopter pilot into letting me fly with him on a reconnaissance flight over Seoul, the capital city. They were surveying damage to certain areas. This was some experience. These helicopters were stripped-down versions with just a frame and a big bubble cockpit, no guns, just cameras. I believe the camera was a 16mm handheld.
Sometime later, perhaps a couple of months later, me and a good friend, Terry Hunt from Cincinnati, Ohio, got permission to fly with a mail delivery outfit. This plane was a de Havilland, I believe, a Canadian-built aircraft very similar to the plane that John F. Kennedy Jr. was killed in. I have pictures showing me standing by this plane. Its outer skin or covering was printed canvas, believe it or not. I took a picture out of the window. You can see the rice paddies below as we flew between mountain ridges, the wind blowing the craft, making it feel like you were in a rocking chair or a small sailboat. Landing on these small ledge-like areas on the side of the mountains was really scary. I know damn well I wouldn’t volunteer to do this now.
Anytime anyone would seek permission to participate in any of these flights or any other risky activities, you had to sign a release, mainly stating that you did this at your own risk.
Sometime in the late 1930s, say 1937 to 1939, as a young kid roaming the streets, getting into trouble, and trying to learn to swim, Indian Head pennies still showed up in change, and you ran across a silver dollar now and then. I would say this is when I first began saving coins.
Some of the kids I played with, if a coin was from a foreign country and you couldn’t spend it, many times someone would say, “Hey Eddie, you want this old coin? It’s no good.” I’d say, “I sure do. I’ll give you a nickel for it.” German, Italian, French, Mexican, Polish, soon I had a coin collection. I’d swap two pennies for one Indian Head penny and so on. Something about collecting coins fascinates me. Not as much as saving money, but it sure is a fascinating hobby, especially old American coins in good shape.
Mike Cimaglia, an old friend who had a paper route back in those days, gave me a large cent, not in good condition, but if you held it just right under the light, you could see the date 1816. While walking along the shore just above Hillman Barge near Allison one summer afternoon, I found a half dozen old Indian Head pennies. Slowly but surely, my coin collection became massive.
During World War II, almost everyone had some coins that someone in the military sent them. “Hey Eddie, you save coins, don’t you? Here, you can have these.” They didn’t mean much to them, but to me they did. I had a small wooden chest full of coins.
When I started working at Hillman Barge Company in late summer, August 1951, a coworker, Alvee Frasee, and I used to go to the First National Bank in downtown Brownsville and cash our checks. Alvee would say, “How many are you getting tonight?” I would say, “Forty.” When I cashed my check, I would ask for forty silver dollars. I figured I could keep the old ones and spend the rest. Alvee would do the same thing.
When he worked overtime, I would drive him home to Allison because he didn’t drive. I spent most of those silver dollars. In fact, I think I paid for one of my cars with a bunch of them. I still have maybe thirty or fifty from that time in my collection now.
Ernie Smith, a collector and a darn good welder, another coworker from Hillman Barge Company, introduced me to the United States Mint. I can’t recall what year it was, but I have been buying proof sets every year for many, many years. Ernie has since passed on, but I know he had trunks full of coins. I bet his kids had a heck of a good time with them.
Ray Hodo, a locksmith, gambler, and all-around character, had a shop near the Union Station in downtown Brownsville. One day, my grandmother Marge, who loved to gamble and play numbers, was over at his shop. Ray showed her two old coins that someone had used while playing numbers. He asked if Eddie still saved coins. She said I did, and she bought the two coins for fifteen dollars apiece.
One was a beautiful fifty-cent piece in good shape dated 1808. The other, I believe, was 1846 and almost as good in shape. Can you imagine someone walking around with an 1808 coin in their pocket? Wow.
I was working up on the hill in my backyard and found a round object all covered with mud. I ran down to the house, washed it off in the kitchen sink, and it turned out to be a 1901 Morgan silver dollar in very fine shape.
I was drinking beer down at the Moose Club one evening when Whitlow came in and said, “Miske, I got something for you.” He handed me a handful of silver coins from Iceland.
Not too long ago, a neighbor woman, a good friend who Marge helps out once in a while and whom I have helped on occasion, gave me a small container full of coins. There were old Liberty half dollars, Buffalo nickels, and at least two Indian Head pennies.
I bought myself a ten-dollar gold eagle just to have one. It was a beautiful coin that I kept in a special place. I think I paid $150 for it.
When I was in Korea, an old drinking buddy named Horne, who worked in the supply room, and I were living in an old building that used to be part of the University of Seoul. This building complex had been used by the Japanese when they occupied Korea. Ceiling work was being done, and one of the boards along the wall split and fell to the floor. A Japanese silver coin rolled across the floor, about the size of a silver dollar, engraved with dragons and with a face value of one yen.
Horne handed it to me and said, “Here, it’s yours.” I said, “Wow, let me buy you a drink, old buddy.” I still have the coin. Horne later lived in Florida, and his hobby was deep-sea fishing. He told me many stories about catching huge fish. Stores and restaurants would buy everything they caught. The going price was fifteen cents a pound. He said he sometimes made several hundred dollars on a weekend, tax-free, while enjoying his favorite hobby.
Tommy Pecosh, a high school classmate who served in combat in Korea before I got there, told me about a time when they were pinned down by enemy machine gun fire. It was nighttime, cold, and raining. He and others were crawling through the muddy perimeter around the Chosin Reservoir. He reached out and picked up a round object, a rather large Chinese coin, badly damaged but still interesting. He gave it to me, and I still have it.
Tommy went on to college after Korea. He tried to talk me into going, but without success. He became a teacher and later went to Saudi Arabia to teach English at one of their universities. After returning, he became very sick with a liver infection that turned into cancer, and he passed away.
Me and Ernie Smith were drinking a couple of beers one day at the Hotel Rivera, a local bar we all called Mickey’s. Bruno Fillapone, another old friend, came in and showed us two coins, one silver and one bronze. During World War II, Bruno had been part of an invasion force moving up through Italy. Along the way, they broke into an old Italian museum. Bruno picked up these two coins. Because Ernie was older and had a big collection, Bruno gave him the silver coin and gave me the bronze one. The coin dates back to the time of Alexander the Great. Like I said, coin collecting is very fascinating.
Bruno and I used to build crystal radios back in the old days. One night, he picked up a station in Texas, maybe 800 miles away.
Probably my best story about coins happened sometime during World War II when I was in junior high school. There was a parade in town with two British tanks transported on lowboy military trucks. After the parade, the tanks were taken down to the Allison junkyard, I imagine just to park them before moving on.
That night, me and Skinny Hennessey snuck into the junkyard and got inside the tanks. Feeling around inside, there was a lot of sand and debris. I found two coins from Turkey and several armor-piercing slugs. Skinny found a couple of coins from South Africa, which he later gave to me. I still have them. Like I said, collecting is a fascinating hobby.
A couple of my uncles gave me a lot of coins they picked up while serving in World War II. Last summer, a neighbor on Sheridan Avenue gave me a little container of coins, Indian Head pennies, fifty-cent pieces, maybe fifty coins in all. She would call me if she had a problem, or call Marge, and we would try to help her. She also gave me an old clock she had in the basement. I cleaned it up and reset it, and it runs pretty well. It has a quartz movement, a Westminster chime every fifteen minutes, and it counts the hours.
The very first time I met Marge was at the Brownsville Vets Club. I had a fake ID, a draft card that a friend, Bill Goglin, had made for me. Pete Vargo, the commander in charge of the club, knew I was too young to drink, but told me that if I behaved myself in the club, he wouldn’t say anything.
Marge’s family, who I didn’t know too well at the time, was sitting at these tables. I danced with Marge’s older sister a few times, maybe a couple times with Marge, who was very young at the time, 15 or less. Her dad George talked me into driving them home up to Century Patch. The road was horrible. My old Plymouth continued to bottom out so many times I was going crazy. I told George never again, and I never did. Sometime later on, they moved to town.
Time passes, drinking in a local bar with an old school chum, John Gavala. He suggested we go visit a family up on Second Street, and they were old friends who recently moved to Brownsville from Century Patch. We spent the entire evening with the Easter family, Henrietta Tootie, and Margaret, three young attractive daughters of George and Regina Easter. We talked and danced and told jokes and laughed a lot. I was particularly attracted to Marge, getting her back in a corner for some hugs and kisses.
At the time I was dating an old girlfriend who was a waitress at Fiddles, an old hangout for a lot of us young people. Betty quit her job for a better job in Cleveland, Ohio. She would come home on the weekends and we would date each other, usually a drive-in movie and some dancing at the Sons of Italy or the Vets Club at the time. Betty bore a striking resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor. She was always talking about getting more serious, but I kept stalling.
I had worked at a local bakery shop from around 1944 to high school graduation in 1949, went to Cleveland with an old high school buddy, Chuck Haner, worked mostly at a place called Perfection Stove, and came back to Brownsville in early 1951.
I ended up in the Army sometime in late 1952. At the time I was working at Hillman Barge Company. I began working there in the summer of 1951, but she sent me a Dear John letter. She felt that since we were not that serious, she should find somebody else and get on with her life. I agreed and we parted ways.
After coming home from Korea, I was driving up Water Street here in Brownsville. Sitting on the steps of the old Farmers Dairy building was this beautiful young lady. I stopped. We made a date to go to the drive-in theater. I can't remember the movie. Yep, you guessed it, this beautiful young lady is your grandmother.
We dated each other for a long time. For some reason I kept putting marriage off. I finally went to see the priest. Marge became a Catholic and we were married February 7, 1959, in Saint Mary's Church in Brownsville, Pennsylvania. Absolutely the best decision I ever made. To fall in love when you're young and grow old in love, my definition of true happiness.
A few years before February 7, 1959, driving past the Farmers Dairy building on Water Street, my old white Plymouth, two nice people got together, Marge Easter and Eddie Miske, wow. It took almost five years to tie the knot. Looking back, what a time we had, the Brownsville Vets, the Sons of Italy, and all of the romantic nights at the Hollow, a love story second to none recorded in our memories forever and beyond. To fall in love when you're young and grow old together in love is truly the meaning of almost perfect happiness. How does one measure the success of such a relationship? Quite simple actually: Marci, Marc, Nick, Richard, Joey, Megan, and Amanda. And now, in the twilight years, laying on the couch embracing each other while watching TV, sharing dinner, delivering Avon orders, balancing a bank account, enjoying good health, happy 50th anniversary.
At this point I would say to you, and your classmates, and anyone else who's listening: study hard, be the best you can be. You live in a beautiful country with countless opportunities, but only to those who qualify. To qualify, you must prepare yourself. Study, be honest, don't smoke, be kind to others, take care of your health, physical and mental.
I was fortunate enough to belong to the United Steelworkers Union. They negotiated our contracts with the company. One of our benefits was after working for 30 years you could receive a pension. This was the height of my ambition. After 33 1/2 years at Hillman, about 53 1/2 years of age, I asked for my pension and retired.
I would say to you, and to anyone else who would care to listen, the greatest thing that ever happened to me, my happiest time, was when I was married to your grandmother. The second greatest thing was when I retired early at the age of 53 1/2 years old. I put it this way, I had 365 paid holidays a year. I could watch the seasons change by looking out my front window instead of working out in the cold, the snow, the rain, and the hot sun.
My lifetime hobbies have been gardening, coin collecting, reading, drawing pictures, taking long rides into the mountains, cooking, banking, helping my wife with her Avon, swimming, taking long walks, writing letters, drinking beer with my friends, projects around the house, watching late movies, investing money to make a living without working, or should I say earn an honest living through investments, which is certainly a great achievement, listening to street music, copying audio tapes. I'm sure the list goes on and on. I remember shooting pool and playing cards, ping-pong as a young man at the Young Men's Club, pitching horseshoes, trying out new restaurants, new clothes, new cuisine, sharing hobbies that many of our Avon customers have. What a wonderful existence. Hope you can do better. It's there, it's there, believe me.
While all this was going on, we had two beautiful children, Marc and Marcy. We had lots of good times and some not so good. Your mom and Marc went to Catholic school where they did well. Did you know your mom went to college for a year and maintained an AB average? Your mom and her brother were in the school band. Would you believe she was a member of the sodality and Mark was an altar boy?
A region of time, not all who enter manage to navigate successfully. Many enter the region; relatively few complete the journey into the next region, the ninth decade. As I see it, longevity consists of 10 decades, extremely difficult to achieve, but not impossible.
As I complete almost 7 decades, I am 79 on October 10, 2010, I remind myself that a year and a half is more than enough time to make lifestyle changes that, if done properly, will enhance my chances of success.
The recommended food pyramid becomes mandatory. Harmony with the universe, a complete rhythm with nature as taught by Deepak Chopra, becomes a guiding force. Exercise, walking, biking, reading, gardening, listening, music, relaxation, meditation, elimination of anger, stress, jealousy, learn to contemplate, never criticize. Raining today, sunshine tomorrow, then, as if by magic, the world becomes a more beautiful place.
We only have one time around. Hang onto it as long as possible. The catalyst I'm using is life itself. A formula is slowly emerging. Moderation is the password. Let the journey continue.
A recent lab report offers more encouragement: a lower cholesterol of 222, down 28 points from 250; triglyceride improvement of 95 points; weight loss, although slow, better than it was, 223 1/2 down from 229. I can and I will be better.
Meat or food containing cholesterol one day, vegetables and no cholesterol the next. Maybe cholesterol one day and no cholesterol for two days would be more ideal. Try to limit calories to 1200, difficult perhaps. Anything in this world, earth or wild, is not easy to seek. Longevity is not enough; but to seek longevity and feel good, act good and be good. We have discovered the formula.
Implementing it is the challenge we face, but the rewards are so great. The effort seems to shrink as we consistently improve our physical and mental condition. Let the journey continue.
Sunday, July 25, 2010. The year seems to be passing by at a record pace. This year's garden is much improved from last year's. My Aunt Dorothy’s daughter, called Dorothy, passed away a cancer victim. They really enjoyed the “Thinking of You” card that I sent them. Marge’s idea, I believe Dorothy had entered her eighth decade. I am certainly not far behind.
Much, much more effort is required to improve my situation. My attitude needs a complete overhaul. Each day offers me the opportunity to increase my effort, to try harder tomorrow. Perhaps in the meantime, let the journey continue.
My son Marc, sitting on the front porch, remarked to his mother, “Someday I’ll be sitting here with friends. Someday I’ll be sitting here with friends. I’ll tell them how Dad leaned a chase lounge up against the house to create an arbor for some cucumber plants.” My response may not be absolute.
My dad made it to almost 92. I feel certain I could top that. I may be sitting on my front porch with some friends, and I’ll be commenting about my son: no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t quite make it. But for now, let the journey continue.
Joe Lesko, man about town, retired businessman, former owner of the Antique Grill, bachelor, devoted Catholic, excellent conversationalist, person with a vast knowledge about Brownsville’s past, coin collector, and dealer in antiques.
John and his sister lived their entire lives in their parents’ estate in the Pike mine patch. Joe was honored for his service to the town by having a boat trip in his honor. Joe, at 91, still driving his car, working endlessly for his church, St. Nicholas, as a maintenance person and also as a cantor. Joe has now entered his ninth decade. He still finds time to assist Norma, Ryan, and her organization. His service has been publicized many times in the Herald-Standard.
One should not compare his life with others, but on occasion, comparisons can be of special value. Just like me, Joe has survived prostate cancer. Like Joe, I find coins, antiques, and Brownsville’s past fascinating. I do not share this enthusiasm for Catholicism, but longevity, if he can do it, so can I. Let the journey continue.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010. Instead of carrying buckets of water up the hillside to water the garden, I hooked up the hose in less than 15 minutes. I saturated the entire garden effortlessly. Watering down like this once a day should be significant. With the buckets I had to lift, poor refill, labor, to maintain my balance as I crept between the plants. It took more than an hour to complete this task. From now on, this is the way to go.
As I approach my eighth decade, I’m thinking gardening is not the best of hobbies money-wise. It is far more economical to drive out to the fruit market: beautiful large red tomatoes, absolutely delicious at $.89 a pound; squash at $.39 a pound; and large firm cucumbers, three for a buck.
No watering, no planting, no weeding, no spraying, always excellent results. Reading novels, tinkering in my workshop, walking through the mall or Walmart, eating out, being busy talking with old friends about the old days when you run into each other, traveling with National Geographic on my 42-inch plasma, seems like a beautiful alternative to gardening. Let the journey continue.
September 16, 2010. The garden is almost history for the year. A few green tomatoes clinging to the remaining vines; however, two huge zucchini plants still survived. Delicious chocolate zucchini cake, five double recipes. Zucchini casserole combination of mushrooms, onions, green peppers, cubed zucchini, sliced garden tomatoes, cubed potatoes smothered in a large can of Campbell’s tomato soup, some oyster crackers or buttered toast, an excellent entrée on a no cholesterol day, flavored generously with seasoned salt and garlic powder, and then just plain sliced dipped in egg, covered in flour and cornmeal, fried to golden brown.
Eulogy Margaret Rosette Easter MIske
Today, we are here to honor and celebrate the life of Margaret Rosette Easter MIske. Margaret or Grandma as I know her was born on October 18th 1936. She was a sister, wife and mother. She was married to the love of her love Edward George MIske on February 7th 1959, a marriage totaling 63 years. She had two children Marcy and Mark, she was a grandmother to 5 and great grandmother to 3 children. She was the most compassionate and loving person that I have known and always seen the good in people.
Margaret was not only a mother, but a career woman as well. She sold Avon for 53 years and played a huge part in creating the finatical freedom that her and grandpa enjoyed through their life. I could remember walking to downtown Brownsville with her in order to deliver Avon books to customers. When she couldn’t deliver the items herself, Ed was always there at a moment's notice to help her make the delivery to her customers. She turned one of her spare rooms into a warehouse of Avon products with boxes towering over 6 feet.
My mother has lost her best friend and shopping buddy. During my childhood there were too many times to count where I was the third wheel in their shopping adventures. Most of the time not wearing a seatbelt in the backseat, but hey those were the times.
When my little brothers Richard and Joe both broke bones she was there to devote her time to ensure that my parents could keep providing for us without skipping a beat. She was the most dependable and supportive piece of our family, Margaret was our rock!
For me my gramma provided a loving heart and was always there to listen. She was a kind soul and was always interested in my life and what I was doing. During my travels I would try to bring her back little bells that she had collected. These little bells were displayed all over her house. She had amassed over 600 bells in her collection and I made it a point to see if there were any that I could buy for her when traveling to a new place.
Even though gram has moved on, she will always be in our hearts. Her love that she shared will inspire us to be better people and to live a little kinder.
Thank you for your time and for celebrating the life of Margaret Miske.
Eulogy Edward George MIske
Today, we are here to honor and celebrate the life of Edward Geogre MIske. Ed or pap as I know him was born on October 10th 1931. He was a brother, veteran, husband and father. He was married to the love of his life Margaret Rosette Easter MIske on February 7th 1959, a marriage totaling 65 years. He had two children Marcy and Mark, he was a grandfather to 5 and great grandfather to 3 children. He was a loving man you liked to joke around in an effort to bring a smile to others faces.
Ed was drafted into the service of his country during the Korean War serving from 1952-1954. One story he told me a long time ago was of him staring at the stars in Korean telling God that if he ever got back to Brownsville he would never leave. I can say with 100% certainty that he kept his promise to god.
Upon returning to Brownsville, Ed became a welder and worked at Hillman Barge Company(HBC) until he was able to retire when he was 52. He told me that his goal was to retire as soon as possible. While he worked at HBC and during retirement he drove my grandmother around delivering AVON products assisting her for over 50 years. He was asked by his co-workers what are you going to do with all your free time. He simply said watch the seasons change from his porch and late movies on TV.
Grandpap always tried to instill in his children and grandchildren the importance of saving money and good financial habits. He and Marge bought us U.S Saving Bonds during our childhood. They gave us a $100 bond for Christmas and $50 for our birthdays. We were able to cash these out once we graduated high school. This provided us with a good financial foundation to start our lives with. This is something that I adopted and I continue to this day to this for my own daughters.
I used to love going down to my Grandparent's house and asking to grab a handful of coins. Ed had a little chest filled with nickels, dimes and quarters. He would always laugh when I put my hand in there to grab those coins. Usually I would get about $50 dollars in coins. He would always want us to count them at the kitchen table to see how much we would get. I miss those days, but will cherish them as long as I live and hopefully someday I could do this for my grandchildren.
Even though Grandpap has moved on, we can all rest easy knowing that he is reunited with his honey Marge. The love that Ed and Marge shared will inspire us to be better people and to live a little kinder.
Thank you for your time and for celebrating the life of Edward Geogre MIske.
My final thoughts on this project
The year is now 2026 and I started this project back in 2004. My grandfather would always tell me about his childhood so I asked him to start writing about his life. A world before computers, social media and modern conveyances. As you have read he had a great memory, he would have been in his mid 60’s at the time he wrote these letters to me.
The sad thing about all of this is that you think that you will always have time with those you love, but there is never enough time. I hoped that we would have gotten more into his children, my mom and uncle but he probably thought that there was more time. Also when you're living history you always feel that you will remember those times better that are happening now, but that is not the case.
My grandmother Marge was instrumental in my grandfather’s success in life. She sold Avon for 50 years and allowed him to invest that money so they could become comfortable in the twilight of their lives. Remember it takes two people to make it work, it’s a total team effort!
He loved his kids and tried to help them out as much as he could. We all have our own path to follow. My mother went on to raise 3 great sons and has shared her life with the same man(my stepfather Rick) for the past 40 years. Time flies by and as you get older the days feel like minutes and the months feel like weeks. I’m only in my mid 40’s, but as you get older the more you appreciate life and the gifts that you have been given. I hope that you have found this helpful, may your journey be long, happy and that you find a love to share them with.
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