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About me

I was born in Worcester, Massachusetts. My Father and mother were both born in Poland. Pa was 58 years old and Ma 54 when I was born, at home, and in the same bed I slept in years after. That is, after the first years were spent tucked away in a bureau draw -- so I've been told. I was a Mama's boy in the early days, Pa's boy later. Conversations between Ma and Pa seemed to flourish with a fancy array of Polish curses. Polish is a very melodic language and if weren't for the stomping of feet and flailing arm gestures one would think they were expressing pure passion mingled with rich ideas. I maneuvered between them and steadfastly held my ground, though they seemed to ignore my presence, I tangled their feet until they drifted apart with Pa muttering, "Galecian traitor!" and aristocratic Ma spewing "You're a peasant!" - continuum of the Old Country's strife. Yet, they never physically touch one another during these bouts. They loved me dearly as I them. But, often I would wonder what occasion brought them together, where I could have come about. Then I smile - I was born on New Years Day. They gave me a rich happy life, with abundant freedom. Even when the leather shaving strop came down on my little arse for breaking some absurd adult rule I learned a lesson, the harder I cried the harder came the whacks. When I stopped crying the whacks stopped.

Since that lesson, though a wimp I remained at home to win over my mother, outside in public I never cried no matter how much it hurt. I showed no fear, I had no fear of anyone or of anything. I also learned to act afraid to be like everyone else - yet I never cried. I loved to scrap with so-called tough guys. Once in a while I'd get bested. A seventh son of a seventh son if it hadn't been for my sister Sally, she was first born. But as nature has it women tend to get like a man as they get older , so if she lives long enough and turns into a man then the prophetic seventh son I become. Bless her, she was also a mother to me.

Pa, as a young man and a victim in Poland's never ending strife was conscripted by the Czar to serve in the Japan Russo war of 1905. His talent was utilized to the utmost for the war effort - he spoke Russian and so became a barber for Cossack officers whom took great pride in their meticulous mustachioed faces. His sense of humor spiced the many stories he told. Every morning I'd beg him to tell a story, it didn't matter if I heard them a hundred times over they all held me spellbound. My favorites included many fox outwitting the wolf stories and those he told of his experience with the Cossacks. How they struggled to drag a cannon 3000 miles across Siberia over mountains though mud and through the most horrendous weather. Finally they reach Manchuria. The first day of battle the Japanese captured the infamous cannon and used it against the Russians as they ran for their lives. Cossacks well known for their brutality enjoyed planting fear into people. Occasionally it backfired. One day, this particular Cossack officer whom Pa had taken extra care not to cut because of his pocked skin, threatened to kill my father if he simply nick him with the razor. Then after, Pa said how he callously wielded the razor as he whisked the hair off the Cossack's face. The nervous Cossack reminded him about the consequences should he be nicked. Then inquired if maybe he had frightened him so much, that caused him to act awkward and fidgety. In a joking manner Pa calmly remarks, "I have no reason to be afraid! If I accidentally nick you I simply slit your throat!" The Cossack felt the terror and fears Pa dealt, it was no joke. Pa was a tough dude. The moral in this story as they were in all his stories, "Turn fear about, use it is a tool. Even the fearless Cossack suffers from fear." If you fail to man the gates of your enemy, at least find a way to be the barber of their leaders…keep your razor sharp! Pa joked again, "If you face a hairless faced enemy, then of course, you must out fox him! If your enemy happens to be a woman - best drop to your knees and beg for mercy!" He deserted the rag tag leftover Russian army. Soon after the Czar was murdered he came to the good old US of A. Or a least that's how I remembered the story as it was told.

Pa did wonders with string. He fixed everything with string: not only did he wrap the garbage, he repaired the plumbing, the electrical, all appliances, shoes, clothes books, and his cigarette holder. He even took a souvenir Nazi flag my brother Hank sent back from the war and ripped it up to edge his quilt, using string. I also, followed in his foot steps. Using string and clothes-pin I made a parachute out of the center swastika. The parachute got hung up in the overhead power lines crossing through the back yard - it hung for years as a reminder of the war years until it finally rotted away. Both Pa and Ma's family in Poland was just about destroyed by the Nazi's and the war. Yet, I hold no animosity toward either the Russian or German people for what happened. Though I do feel a bitterness toward a world that pitifully siphons Poland's suffering to enhance their own lot. The Pole with a history of being betrayed has learned to read between the lines and through most schemes. An instinct nature empowers victims with as a defense mechanism.

Nitorig (k)