A Belated Thank You

THOMAS MICHAEL KUBICA

PFC - E3 - Army - Selective Service 4th
Infantry Division Born on Friday, October 10, 1947 From SMOCK,
PA Length of service 1 year. His tour began on Jul 21, 1968. Casualty
was on Nov 7, 1968. In KONTUM, SOUTH VIETNAM HOSTILE, GROUND
CASUALTY MISADVENTURE Body was recovered Panel 39W - Line 33

Everybody in Smock knew Tommy Kubica. He lived in the house right across the street from St. Hedwig's Church. If you went out the side door of the church, you'd end up on Tommy's front porch. So as an altar boy, his "commute" to the church was a snap.

Tommy had several sisters, Irene being the oldest and the same age as me. He also had two younger sisters who may have qualified for the "whoops" award since they were so much younger than Irene and Tommy.

All the kids had black hair. And Tommy used to put some kind of "product", to use a 2010 word, in his hair which made it really shine and stay in place.

Like all of the wives who lived on Smock Hill, Tommy's mom stayed at home and worked as a housewife, which is a pretty major job. His dad worked in the coal mines, like so many of our fathers.

Tommy was two years older than me so he was considered one of the "big kids". He ran fast, could play excellent baseball, and was a very kind boy. Mostly. I remember the time when Tommy provoked our even bigger friend, Jackie Rafter, who chased Tom for over a half hour. "Kubba" was able to evade a pretty strong whipping from Jackie by hiding in some tall grass which allowed Jackie to miss stepping on Tommy's head by about 2 feet. (It was dark.)

To paraphrase John McCutcheon's great song Christmas in the Trenches, the Vietnam war was waiting for Tommy after graduation from Uniontown High School. And his rather low draft number didn't help either.

I remember when Tommy came home from the Army all decked out in his dress uniform. I looked into the Sunday morning church crowd from my altar boy perch and saw this handsome man in uniform, black hair now virtually gone. He even looked taller. It was after church that he told me of this place that he was being sent. I said good-by and thought how I might look in a military uniform.

He wasn't gone more than a few months when word came that Tommy was killed by friendly fire. "Friendly" fire? I remember attending his funeral. And on each visit I make to Smock today, I stop by and say hello to Tommy and everyone else that I miss.

Tommy got his "welcome home" but a welcome that was draped in black with an honor guard. But for many returnees from that awful war in Southeast Asia, our welcome home was different. Some of us were spat upon and were called baby killers. Some were denied membership in the Uniontown VFW because Joe Vicites, their Commander, thought that Vietnam wasn't WORTH membership in the VFW. Soon the Uniontown VFW will be closing their doors because of lack of membership funds and donations. One guy told me that they don't even have enough to pay the electric bill. My suggestion is to go dig up Joe Vicites and ask him for a loan.

But people who were in military uniform were respected in Smock. I think that the reason is because so many of the old timers wore similar uniforms at one point in their life. And they realize that our freedom came at a price.

Too much of a price for Tommy Kubica and all of those people in the Smock cemetery who get a flag on their headstone twice a year.

What do we say nowadays? "Thanks for serving"?? I even attended a free dinner at Applebee's on Veteran's Day for people from all branches of the armed services. The looks of anguish and stress on the faces of those who may have gone to Desert Storm were sad. "Stress acquired disorder". Also there were the faces of the people of my generation who knew about jungle warfare and also knew that at any instant, they could be blown to bits by a hidden land mine. Faces that are still back there and have yet to return.

But the curious ones are those faces of Korea and even a few from World War II. They appeared relaxed and uncommonly content. Maybe it was because they knew who their enemy was? Maybe time does heal all?

Time will never erase my memory of my down the street neighbor. Or my grandfather who proudly wore his World War I campaign hat on "Decoration Day".

One of the few memories that I have from my military service that my father's "new" wife didn't throw away in the trash was a tiny badge that states the purpose of all pararescue specialists everywhere; "That Others May Live".

I sure wish I could have saved Tommy.

New Year's Revelations

A few stories ago, I said to myself, "that's it... I'm done with this thing. Little did I realize that IT wasn't done with me. And just like the varieties of Heinz pickles, I have written 57 little stories. On occasion, I have used this medium to spew out my feelings on certain things while taking leave of my memories of that dear old coal town just off of Route 51. But for the most part, those of you who still read this blog have learned that the fictitious Lake Wobegon of Garrison Keillor is not the only place that makes memories.

On my last visit home, I noted that there are very few people who still inhabit "the Hill" that were around when I was a kid. Other than my relatives who don't even know if I exist, there are only a couple of people left who I wish were related to me in some way. They taught me a lot, mostly by example.

This year, I gave up both of the digits in my age and our year is giving up the last two digits as well. So what have I taken away from my upbringing to use as reference for this new decade?

People are intrinsically nice. And those who aren't can go jump in Spillway Lake. I'd like to spend more time with the good people I know and less time trying to talk myself into liking the jerks of the world. I have learned that smart pills are actually rabbit "pellets" and just because someone says that I'll like something may not be telling the truth. I can list the people that I really like on one page of stationery (if I write small) and I don't really care whether they tell me that they like me too. I learned that swimming in Redstone Creek will turn your skin orange. It's not the clothes that make the man. Never go shopping hungry and never eat anything bigger than your head. Open doors for people even if they don't acknowledge what you just did. Be kind to strangers. Listen when someone talks to you and don't interrupt them; they probably have something important to say. Music should be felt while playing and not played with feeling. Degrees are for thermometers. Drop to your knees and thank God that your grandparents may still be alive. Take the "suckers" off the tomato plants daily. And don't hang out the wash on any day but Monday.

To all of those from Smock past or present, I can only say thanks for all of the memories and we'll see you at this coming year's reunion.

I'll bring the kolatch.

Another year blown to hell.

OK, I just said that to get your attention. And I got too, didn't I?

Actually, the year was well worth living. Most of my friends still have jobs and are surviving this huge economic recession. Some have jobs that may call them back in the future. Others have no prospects of work in the foreseeable future. I can tell you personally about that one.

I remember talking about the "end times" as a kid and it quite frankly used to scare the crap out of me. I pictured big fireballs being hurled by avenging angels who wore white robes but wore no smile. I figured that this is the just punishment from dancing too close to those girls from Royal at the Smock Recreation Center. Maybe I'll take a fireball to the head for all of those tomatoes that I stole?

What I dreamed of doing on my last day on Earth is running up to St. Hedwig's Cemetery and saying hello to all of those people that I knew when they pop out of their graves. It's funny but that thought didn't scare me at all. I wondered if Eddie Myers, our whistling bread man would still be whistling or if Frankie Blanda would show up wearing that really bad leisure suit that he's wearing in that picture that's plastered on his tombstone? And what about all of those cats that Mr. Spiskey drowned in the Redstone Creek? There should be tens of thousands of those. And what about old Bill Flanagan, a man that I first met while he was laid out stiffer than a board in his casket?

Sir Isaac Newton said that we stand on the shoulders of giants. Well, we do. My giants happen to be coal miners and steel workers and the occasional man who delivered either bread or beer. And the only place you can see their names today is in a little patch of land on the outskirts of Smock where they're carved in granite.

We owe a lot to these people. Our way of life, the way we view others, and how to treat relatives and friends. And the truth is that Lindsey Lohan or P. Diddy or or Shakira (is that her first name or her last?) haven't really taught me anything useful. Yet for some reason, people line up in front of the box offices to see them. Some camp out overnight just to get a ticket to see them. But how many people do you know have camped out overnight in front of John Hovanic's house or waited to hear a polka band play a wedding in the old St. Hedwig church hall? It would be worth the wait indeed.

Oral Roberts just hit the "general cancel" last week as we say in organist speak. We were told not to watch him on TV when we were kids or we'd surely go straight to hell. And so I watched him, rolling his eyes and speaking in languages that sounded like blabber commanding diseases and afflictions to "come out" of people. I figured that Oral had his own language, just like the priest had Latin. But I so wished that old Oral Roberts lived in Smock. Oh, he'd be different, just like the openly Presbyterian Hart family who must have surely done human sacrifices in their basement. The Catholic church would have been no match for him but oh, he was such a good man. Like Eddie and Frankie and Mike, he was a good man.

And last week, Oral Roberts, just like all of those who are now under that small patch of sod on the outskirts of my town, breathed their last breath on Earth and took their next breath in Heaven. I really do believe that. Mike Senker and Oral Roberts must be talking about their great kids. And Frankie Blanda's beer truck never needs an oil change. Not any more.

Hey, Happy New Year out there. Let's hope that 2010 doesn't get blown to hell, OK?

It's CHRISTMAS

No, it's not Holiday Time or the Season or Yuletide. It's Christmas. And I'm trying really hard not to curse, but I am sick of these people who deny what is so very obvious. And so, this Christmas, I am going to give you a gift in the form of a suggestion.

In 1996, Cori Connors who is originally from Penn Hills and spent time working the coke batteries in Clairton (now THERE'S a tough woman) has the most incredibly gentle side you have ever heard. In her CD, Sleepy Little Town, she describes all of the wonderful things that she experienced as a child growing up in Western Pennsylvania a few decades ago. You know, the many things that YOU remember as a kid.

You will positively LOVE this CD and you should go to http://www.coriconnors.com/ and get it today, right in time for Christmas. But wait. There's more news. Cori has done the musical unthinkable and just released One Small Boy. This is not meant to be a sequel to Sleepy Little Town, but more of a continuation, sharing personal thoughts and inspiration prompted by Christmas. This CD is, well, incredible. Cori's gentle and assuring voice will take you back to Smock, Penn Hills, or wherever you remember Christmas (and not the "Holiday Season").

Smock went through the changes. First there were beautiful smelling pine trees that were cut usually at night on some person's farm. The trip involved snow and/or ice, or at least rain. Then came the aluminum trees that changed colors thanks to this slowly rotating color wheel that was situated near the "tree". Then followed the green artificial tree that even came with an aerosol "real pine scent" which smelled more like new shoes. And justifying the old song "Everything Old is New Again", we have come full circle to getting a real pine tree, except the cost now is about ten times as much.

Do you remember those beautiful trees that were always put in the living room and always near a window? The ones with those special ornaments that were so personal to the family that lived in the home? And the smells of Christmas. Not just pine, but the baking that started weeks before Christmas. I used to think that Advent was marked by the number of nut rolls my grandmother made. The more she made, the closer it was to Christmas.

And the craziest of all traditions is that we actually went to church. That's right. Most of us went to Midnight Mass or or some late night service.

It was all great. Every bit of it. And it was Christmas. Like what is coming again soon. Like it has for over 2,000 years.

And nobody conjures up those great memories like my good friend Cori Connors. Take a trip to her website, http://www.coriconnors.com/ and listen to her music.

I'll show you Christmas, buddy. A Christmas like we had in our sleepy little town of Smock.

Smock Recreation

As this year's Thanksgiving becomes nothing more than a memory, and visions of snowflakes appear outside my window, I cannot help but think of those blessed days of Summer back in our little home town.

If you refer back to the blog entry called A Year of Firsts, you would not be surprised to know that the only house with an air conditioner in the Smock Hill of the early 60's belonged to our parish priest. And considering how hot under the collar he would get at times, he deserved it.

For the rest of us, we had to find interesting and clever ways to cool off. You could sit in the basement next to the coal bin but most of our basements didn't smell like flowers. You could sit next to the four-bladed fan with the "G.E." (which stood for General Electric) situated in the center of that guard so that you don't cut off your fingers. Then there was the garden hose.

But for the resourceful Smock resident, there was Spillway Lake. Situated about an equal distance between Smock and Perryopolis on Route 51, Spillway Lake was an easy 10 minute drive from home. "Spillway" had a big building with the showers and bath house on the ground floor and an entertainment hall above where you can spend a lazy Sunday afternoon listening to polkas, waltzes & obereks, which is what you would also hear Johnny Sims play on the radio if you stayed at home. There was the marvelous "protection net" that gave you the feeling that you were separated from the hostile other side of the lake where fish, water snakes, and all sorts of evil creatures lurked. But we know that the net really didn't work, so you swam and you took your chances at being bitten or eaten alive.

Spillway Lake was full of magic for some lucky people like my dear friend Gene, who we know better as Bug and his wife Star, who met each other at this verdant setting decades ago.

Also, if you swam to the other side of the lake, there were rocks that you can hide behind and make your own personal brand of luck.

But as the years passed, more opulent swimming holes were formed such as the "see-ment" pool created by the Curfew Grange in Flatwoods. It lacked the black mud which oozed through your toes that Spillway Lake had. And, after swimming in this new pool, your white swim suit would not be that familiar color of yellow that branded you as a Spillway swimmer. There were no bands, no hot dogs. Nothing but clean water and a wire basket to store your clothes. I liked the fact that you could open your eyes under water at Flatwoods and actually see stuff. My friend John Michael Hovanic still cuts the grass there during the summer.

For the more enterprising few that required a lake-sized experience, there was Shady Grove Park, which was located in Lemont Furnace, PA (pronounced LEE'-mont) and was more like a 15 to 20 minute ride from Smock. Aside from the grassy area around the pool which was big enough to land the Hindenburg, the pool was equally as gargantuan. In the more shallow side was a fountain which had holes in the bottom so that you can explore the inside if you were small enough (like me). And then, there was the high dive, which you climbed a long series of steps to get to. It amazed me that you could jump from this platform and probably count to 50 before you hit the water. You can still go to Shady Grove in the summer where the daily admission is up to $7.00. SEVEN BUCKS???? It used to be 50 cents.

On Sundays, the old men gathered behind my house where there was a pretty nicely kept horseshoe pit. They'd curse, tell stories, and drink Rolling Rock pony bottles. It was located next to the ditch where Walter Dubos would cut the heads off of his chickens on Sunday. Now I know how the people felt in ancient Rome.

We had many ways to occupy ourselves while spending very little money. But the focus was that we occupied ourselves with very little planning. To do something fun on Sunday didn't require a flight plan, enroute food and two pit stops on the way.

For lack of a better way to put it, we'd just go jump in a lake.

(Thanks to Gene "Bug" Vitikacs and his dear wife Star for the inspiration on this one. You may live near Philadelphia but you'll always be my "through the wall" neighbor.)

Happy T. Day Revisited

Last year, I wrote about Thanksgiving. And I wrote about hunting and my grandparents and a miracle that happened at St. Therese's Church in Wilmington, Delaware, and being generous and Arlo Guthrie.

But this year, I want to talk about other things I still recall at Thanksgiving time from when I was a kid back in Smock.

Like the songs. Oh, we did Harvest Home and Now Thank We All Our God (written by one of the Luther Brothers; either Martin or Lex). But recently, I found myself humming a tune and then, quite suddenly, realized that it was one that my Mother used to sing during the Thanksgivings and Christmases of the 1960's. It was called "You Can't Be True Dear". Look it up. It was an old German song that Connie Francis and Patti Page doctored up and made very sad. And for my Mom, it was doubly sad since it was in the early 60's that we began to celebrate Thanksgiving without my Dad. He left us for someone else and so that very song was a pretty strong dose of reality.

It made me think of divorce back in Smock. You see, there wasn't any. NONE. I think that in those days, people worked hard to get along with their spouses and with their neighbors. Isn't it interesting that in today's society where divorce is over 50% that we still hear people harping about how "marriage is work"? Well they can harp all they want because its true. But why work knowing that work was usually hard and laziness is easy. And addictive.

On Sundays at St. Hedwig's, you could look around at all of the couples. Sure, they were there together every Sunday. John & Dorothy, Helen & Ted, Mike & Mary. And they worked hard at their jobs in the mine and the mill but they worked hard at their marriages. Even my uncle Mike and aunt Helen who I can't stand are celebrating something like 75 years of marriage, so they must be doing something right!

You can still drive through Smock and see the rather barren gardens that you see in late November, but during the summer, you can also see all of the work that was put into those wonderful vegetables and flowers.

Porches were literally scrubbed with detergent and hot water (which caused them to also be painted regularly). The concrete walkways were also scrubbed with the same stuff.

Now you can drive through Smock and see piles of garbage and old abandoned cars in some of the yards. Or the boxes of who knows what. Or the perpetual Christmas lights that go in and out of season each winter. These are the homes of the younger people who have taken up residence after people died or moved away. And the music in these homes has been replaced with constant fighting or the sound of video games.

So does this sound like a kid who lived in Smock that should be thankful this Thursday? I hope so. I'm thankful that there still remains some people who work in gardens or on their relationships. And I'm thankful for the peace that covers my little town after the shouting is over and the last Nosferatu is killed in Vampire Slayer III.

You see, I'm very thankful for the hope that someday, these new neighbors will want to ask why people smile so much while they're digging up their yards or why some folks still hold hands after 60 years of marriage. And along with the thanks, I'm also hopeful that the shouts of anger will someday become shouts of joy when their son or daughter gets a hit on the ball diamond that I played on when I was a kid. And hopeful that the kid calls the two adults in the stands Mom and Dad instead of Mom and (fill in any man's name here).

But I'm especially thankful that my 87 year old Mother doesn't have to sing "You Can't Be True Dear" any more.

I never thought that I'd be thankful for old age and forgetfulness but I surely am.

A Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Retail Establishments

In the days of the coal mines, H.C. Frick had a brilliant marketing idea which spawned the question "Why not build and run stores in these little mining towns and bump up the retail prices by a few percent so that it was convenient for the local shopper and profitable for...me?" And out of the ground came the Union Supply Company Store, a place made famous by Tennessee Ernie Ford and perpetuated by this very blog.

As a kid, I remembered my Grandmother's sister, Katie, who worked at the Smock Company Store. She would allow me to ride on the running board of her 1948 Dodge so that I could cheat death. Aunt Katie worked in the office surrounded by a forest of vacuum tubes that would periodically vomit up a container with a bill for lumbar or gas or peanut butter accompanied by money. She'd put the change and receipt in an envelope and the tube would take the canister back to the sales counter totally by magic.

You could buy a coat, chipped ham, a saw, some candy and the oil you used in your miner's "sunshine lamp" all in one place. It was a poor man's Macy's. It flourished until someone invented antitrust lawsuits and then one day, it became a skating rink that doubled on Saturday nights as the Smock Recreation Center, a place where a young man could meet exotic women from Royal and Keisterville. Today, it doesn't have the grand storefront windows and mannequins that displayed the fall lineup for the modern man and woman from Smock. That's it right there at the top of this chapter. I miss the windows.

And then there were the "Mom & Pop" stores. On the "new side" of Smock, Charlie Peskie ran such a store and was in direct competition with Florek's, a converted living room that Andy Florek's parents ran on Smock Hill. In either store, you were able to buy necessities such as bread, candy, milk, pop, candy, ice cream and candy, (Its a wonder I still have teeth.) Charlie was a very mild-mannered guy who rarely said much. The Florek's didn't say much since they spoke "broken" English.

Those in Smock that said Uniontown was a much better place to shop never really appreciated Charlie's and Florek's stores until ten or twelve inches of snow fell and blocked the roads.

And some of the older people appreciated Morris and Alvie Bortz who built a bar just up from the company store where people with other needs found shelter and an escape from the hell that was called the Colonial Mine. Right down from the bar was the Bortz Beer Distributor, where a simple phone call would spring Franke Blanda into action who would deliver that much needed case of Iron City right to your door.

Across from the old company store was a brick building which could be considered by today's standards as the Smock Shopping Mall. On the left side was the U.S. Post Office and on the other was Nick DiNardo, our stereotyped Italian barber who literally gave me my first proper haircut.

I also remember that if you were a member of the Smock Rod & Gun Club, which arose from the halls of the old coal mine bath house, you can grab a beer on Sunday. And if you could keep a secret, you could also play a little poker or drink a cold one behind what used to be the St. Hedwig's church hall. My Grandfather knew both of these places very well.

You got gas at Ed Sparrow's Pennzoil gas station (see elsewhere in this blog) or got your clothes cleaned at Colonial Cleaners who, like Frankie Blanda, delivered your pants right to your DOOR.

Money changed hands in several different ways in the Smock that I remember. And most of that is gone today thanks to what some call progress. But on that rare occasion, and if your timing is right, you could still enter through the Company Store's back door and find the occasional bake sale or dinner put on by the Christian Mothers. The sounds and the smells are the same and they still call a sixty year old man Bobby Joe. And for a few God-ordained holy minutes, I'm back again.

The only other wish I had at that moment was to walk outside and hear my Aunt Katie yell "OK Bobishka, hold on tight" as I cheated death once more on that running board.