I Owe My Soul to the Company Store

Oops I did it, the end

2011-04-11T14:33:00.000-04:00

Some of you may have caught my last post on this blog. It was here for a minute and then gone the next. If you caught it, good. If you didn't, good.

All I'm going to say here is that if you enjoyed reading any of my spasms, you may want to take a look at the new blog, "Pittsburgh Sermons". http://www.bobpegritz1.blogspot.com/

Most of what you'll see is not about Smock, but more the rantings and ravings of that same Smock kid who wishes that he could live life over again in that tiny town. But since I'm not a fugitive from justice, I'll just have to visit in my dreams. The new blog is sermons. Meanderings from my tiny brain on things that I usually wish were different. So go ahead and check it out. Just turn the lights out when you're done. We don't work for West Penn Power.

A Fond Farewell and update

2010-09-04T13:15:00.000-04:00

So it's been a good run, this little blog. And since my last "spasm", I must tell you that I think that I've told you pretty much all that there is to say about my little town of Smock, Pennsylvania.

But instead of saying goodbye and slamming the door, I'll tell you a few more things before I go.

Just this week, a friend and neighbor, Rich Constantine passed away from a personal invasion of cancer, the equal opportunity destroyer. I really never got to know Rich personally but every time I spoke to him, he always had time to speak back. That was a quality that Rich and so many others in Smock had. I'll miss him.

My old friend John Hovanic, whom I've spoken about so many times, is starting to, well..., fade. Age is catching up with him as it is with all of us. I don't even think that John dug a garden this year. And that's serious news. I'm glad his kids are well and able to look after him. And if you're traveling down Route 51 South and you've just passed the I-70 intersection, look to your right for Grille 51. That's Dorothy Hovanic's lovely restaurant. It has a bar made of poured concrete and there's something to be said for that. And Dorothy.

I couldn't say goodbye without mentioning my dear friend Marian Senker. She and I are the same age. Her Mom, Mary, is hanging in as best she can but she, like John (they are related) is fading a bit too. You may remember the news of a daughter stabbing her Mother in the heart about 2 years ago who lived in Smock. The victim was Marian's sister Theresa. Despite that, Marian goes to visit her niece every week at prison. There's a life lesson to learn there.

Two months ago, I was asked to speak at the Smock Reunion. I declined. I initially was asked how long of a talk I would give. I answered "maybe 10-15 minutes." I was then asked if I could make it 5 minutes. When asked why, I was told that no one will listen beyond 5 minutes because they will want to be talking and catching up on the news from their friends. When I said that I would probably hold their attention, I was told "I don't think you can". I then politely said "no thanks". Some might say "typical" and I would agree. The only time that the people of Smock allowed themselves to be lectured to was on Sunday mornings, and this was on a Saturday night.

So what's left? The church now only has Mass about 2 times a week. The old bathhouse from the Smock Colonial #1 mine still stands, and for many years, became the Franklin Rod & Gun Club. Granted, you could sight in that .243 or 30-ought-six hunting rifle, but you could also get a drink on Sunday, which was its main popularity. The ball diamond is still there, one of the only really "FLAT" ball diamonds in the area. The Colonial School is now the Volunteer Fire Department. And, if you look close, there are still remnants of some of the old outhouses and coal shantys.

But if you listen really hard, you can still hear....nothing. That blessed silence that is only punctuated by the occasional automobile, bird, or wind. And if you're like me and you've lived there once upon a time, you can hear Mr. Florek pop the clutch as he rounded the top of the street where I used to live. And you can hear Mrs. Dubos almost constantly calling for one or more of her 9 children, all living in HALF of a Smock company house. The Angelus still rings at noon and 6:00 PM but Kuba doesn't pull the rope on the single bell which has been replaced by a loudspeaker.

It is simply not the same, no matter how hard I close my eyes and try to resist the changes.

As Eleanor Vrabec once wrote in a high school essay, climbing the hill from Route 51 was like taking a trip to Heaven. All of the craziness would fade away and be replaced with the radio sounds of The Johnny Sims' Polka Party.

But that's all gone now. Smock has changed, but I fervently pray to Almighty God that I haven't.

So please, would the last person out please turn off the lights? We don't work for West Penn Power.

Remembering William Flanagan

2010-07-17T20:09:00.001-04:00

When I was a lad of 10 years old, William Flanagan died. (That's not his picture over there on the left, but he probably looked like himself) When I looked at him lying there in his coffin which was placed in the living room of his home, he looked like he was a thousand years old. OK, a YOUNG thousand years old.

And, thanks to Bill Flanagan (I hope you don't mind me calling you "Bill"), I was able to get a half day off from school. You see, I went to first and second grade in the school three doors up from St. Hedwig's Church and right across the street from John Hovanic's home. Younger people would know this place today as the Parish Center, a place to go to catechism and summer school. Mrs. Butler was my first grade teacher and Mrs. Diehl taught me in second grade.

Third grade saw me become a first class commuter so I rode the bus to Keisterville (no, I'm not kidding about the town's name) and sat in Mrs. Sanner's class. I loved third grade because I got to sit next to Connie Hoyock, my first love. (It was unrequited). But Mrs. Sanner used to take us out for nature walks and since I spent most of my time outside anyway, it felt good to "take the air" with my class.

Fourth grade caused me to commute even further to the Menallen Elementary School which was on Route 40. The cool thing there was that this school was BRAND NEW. My teacher, Mrs. Eleanor McMaster, wasn't so brand new. I remember her husband Eugene used to work at the Company Store in Smock. The one funny thing was that Mrs. McMaster used to pronounce the word "food" differently. The way she pronounced it made it rhyme with "good" or "hood".

William Flanagan died and needed to be buried and so he needed a priest AND he needed some altar boys. That's where John Michael Hovanic and I came in. The funeral Mass at St. Hedwig's was at around 9:00 AM and so we needed to not go to school. At that time, I wish that all of the old people died, once a week, and on a Monday. And if anyone who reads this knew of Bill Flanagan or his relatives, please tell them thanks. It really made my day in so many ways.

First, there was the trip to Mr. Flanagan's home. He lived on "the other side" as we Smock Hill natives would call it, up by the other Smock school. I never attended this since the Redstone Creek was the dividing line between Smock Hill and the "other" side. It also divided Franklin Township from Menallen Township. So we go into Bill's home and there he is. All decked out in a suit he probably never wore with those two floor lamps on either side of the casket. You know, the ones with the glass lamp shade that was pink at the top and got redder as it got closer to the bulb. I never knew until much later that these lamps were owned by the Haky Funeral Home to make the dead seem more "lifelike". I thought that it just made Bill look pinker. But to get to Bill's home, we rode in Father Oris's behemoth of an Oldsmobile 98. We were both scared to ride in the front so we rode in the back. That car was so big that I could stretch out my legs and not touch the back of the front seat!!!

Then there was the Mass, and then off to some cemetery but not St. Hedwig's. It was some other place. Then, because the Irish followed the funeral customs of other European cultures, we went back to old Bill Flanagan's house where we ate like pigs. And on top of this, we were each given.....oh my......wait for it.........FIVE dollars. I said to myself that more people have to start dying around here.

I don't know what made me remember William Flanagan through the years. Whether it was the fact that he wasn't a "Hunky" or the fact that his family really put on the "feed bag" that day? Or maybe it was the money? Or the fact that I missed a half day of school without being sick?

But to this very day, at every Mass I attend, when the lector says during the petitions to remember those who have died or when the priest says "Lord, remember those who have died and have gone before us marked with the sign of faith...", I always remember William Flanagan. And I cannot tell you why.

I just know that Bill had to die in order for me to remember him. And now, I hope you remember him too. And everyone who made my little town so unforgettable.

Inside Influences

2010-05-23T16:22:00.001-04:00

Some time ago, I had written about the influences that surrounded the children of Smock, PA and called it "Outside Influences". This is not a repeat of that but rather, a look on what is created on the inside by living in a tiny coal mining village.

Each year when Memorial Day comes around, I tend to be nostalgic about the men and women who went to war that lived in Smock. When I was a kid, the wars that our neighbors fought in were World War I, II, and Korea. Things were different then and those that fought and survived did not complain about why no one recognized their efforts or understood their "battle fatigue" or "shell shock". They just endured without complaining like my dear and beloved grandfather, Andy Ponzurick. Sure, the old campaign hat of World War I sat on the back porch shelf right next to his boater, that straw hat with the wide circular brim and the 2 inch black hatband with the red stripe. Oh sure, your grandpap had one too.

But it was that inner peace that he had which confounded my senses. How could he have gone through so much without one war story or one complaint? He never blamed anyone or anything. He didn't even use the Veteran's Administration Health System. And yes, your grandfathers did the same. You need not remind me. They were just like Andy.

Was it faith in God or faith in Iron City that helped him cope? Or during his one week per month trips to Bortz's Tavern, was it his chance to talk with people of similar experiences? We all know that some of the horrors of the coal mine were almost as dangerous as Peleliu or Belleau Wood. We all knew the bitterness of the joke that went "Widow Brown?" "What, I ain't no widow." "The hell you ain't." Some families saw their dead fathers and grandfathers transported to their homes in a wheelbarrow. Some heard about the deadly fires and rigging that took lives in Clairton.

But why were we so calm about it all?

I think I know why. It is in our genes. It was passed to us from our grandparents both genetically and by example. We did not shirk away from adversity. We never turned our back on hardship. Some of us thought that hardship was God-given. Some of us thought it came from H.C. Frick or George Westinghouse. But wherever it came from, we shouldered it like a roof timber or Number 2 shovel and went on.

Dear reader, do you realize the legacy that our families handed down to us? That beautiful but stiff upper lip that never quivered when the doctor emerged from a room and said "I'm sorry". We have a legacy that we absolutely must pass on to our children. We WERE as tough as nails. Some of us still are. Some of us should remember and get, as the military states, "squared away". But we cannot let 2010 catch up to us.

Back in the Smock of the 1950's, many people, even as close as Uniontown, used to say that Smock was 20 years behind (or "behint") the times. To my ears back then, that was both good and bad news. Today, it is the best compliment I could hear.

I firmly believe that strength comes from two places; inner strength that we develop as children watching our parents cope with adversity which is sometimes translated to you and me, and the strength that comes from the conversion of knowledge to wisdom. This comes from watching life unfold around us and our reactions to it.

So who are the lucky people that "get it"? Get the opportunity to be born in a small coal town and you get it almost automatically. You don't need to steal when you can work for something you want. You don't need to cheat when your wife or husband shares the same simple ideals as you. You don't need to be jealous. The person across the street probably works at the same place you do. And the government doesn't "owe" you anything. YOU owe the government for taking in your grandparents when they came here from Slovakia or Poland or Hungary. And you know it.

The inside influences that you were born with are still there, nurtured by the experiences from your parents that you had as a child.

When you made a phone call, it had to be local or you just didn't do it. And, the phone was bolted to the wall and had a dial. Nothing in your house needed recharging. And if you wanted a car, Mom and Dad said "Sure, now just go out and earn the money to buy one." It was simple. When we were kids, we worried if we'd have someone to take to the senior prom. Today, the only worry is what color limousine that is going to be rented.

Do you see the differences? Nowadays, many Smock people are "foreigners". Not from other countries but from other lifestyles. Lifestyles that were literally unheard of when we were kids.

So, call me a nostalgic old man who yearns for the past and sometimes lives life back there. That's fine. But if you come to my door and knock, you won't be welcomed by the long barrel of a shotgun, but by someone who is going to ask "what can I do for you?"

We have to hang on to those inside influences. We simply must.

Know your station

2010-04-27T10:01:00.000-04:00

Its just funny how things change. And for those of us who still have the coal dust on our shoes, we know that when change comes, it isn't always the best. Not that we all feel that we should lead a life of oppression or dismay, but we do come from a place where complaints usually follow with a "be glad you got what you got and shut up". It's that simple.

I have this friend who works in a very responsible position. And his work is seen by millions of sets of eyes. Thanks to a stern and straight upbringing, he has a work ethic that is seen as normal in our little town, but is far from it when you move just 50 miles away from the "Smock 1" sign on Route 51. We were taught to be the best that we could possibly be. Our parents tried to instill this in us so that we didn't end up like them. I don't have to tell you this because readers of this blog know it. Our fathers and mothers weren't rocket scientists nor did any of them work in the White House. They were simple and proud people that wanted something better for us. You can't blame them for that.

Today, I can see changes that have happened for me, my friend, and others that I know. And despite our efforts, we do not always get the reward we're searching for. Instead, we are looked upon as those who try but will never "rise" to the top like those who view us have. The sad truth is that if those who are viewing us look around, they will find that they are looking up and not down at us.

And so, where do we go from here? Sadly for many, we maintain our station in life and do the best we can without reward or recognition. But our parents did not teach us to be recognized or how to handle accolades. We were taught to accept who we are and where we came from. And if that's not enough, well, too bad.

But revisiting that place so many times, I have personally come to know that this is not where we must always stay. By sheer perseverance combined with a good attitude toward work, family and others, we will eventually rise above those who think that footprints all over our clothing is normal. It is not.

Spring is here and Summer fast approaches, my favorite time of the year. And with the passing of each day, the sun stays up in the sky just a minute or two longer. What this should tell the casual observer who was born and raised in our little town of Smock is that we should never be happy with the status quo. We will work and break our backs to be better than the next person. We saw our fathers do that in the mines and the steel mills. And now that brilliant attitude lives inside every person who has the coal dust on their clothes. Spring is a time for renewal.

My prayers go out to the families of the miners in the Upper Big Branch Mine in Montcoal, West Virginia. And also, we should remember the families of the miners who were NOT involved in this accident. They know the reality of the dangers down deep in the mine. They are the ones who will rise up in the morning and go back to the pit, despite the new graves that have resulted from that very workplace just a few weeks ago.

They know their station. And they will go back. Just like me and my friend who feel that sometimes life simply isn't fair.

What will we do? We lace up the boots and put on the pit belt and we go to work. Mom and Dad would be proud.

Bob is happy

2010-03-18T11:05:00.000-04:00

There is this friend of mine named Guy. And over the course of about 5 years, I have watched him evolve into a most excellent husband, father, and friend. I remember that he used to have an e-mail address that read "Guy is happy". When I first met him, he was happy, but not to the expectation of the e-mail address. He was a somewhat happy man but today, he's a shining example of those three words that describe him to others.

Back in Smock, I remember that when our parish priest used to go on his annual vacation, we'd get this guy from St. Mary's in Uniontown named Father Drab. Yep, I'm not kidding. And Father Drab lived up to his name in many ways. The clearest example I recall is when, at the Preface in the Mass, he'd turn to the people (this was when the altar was against the back wall of the sanctuary) and say in his middle-European voice "De Lard be wit choo". English has just taken over from the Latin but it hadn't quite taken over Father Drab. Then he'd say "Leeft up yore hearts" in the most somber, dour tones imaginable. Like as if someone just ran over his dog. SO sad. And even as a kid, I used to think HEY, isn't "Leeft up yore hearts" supposed to mean "be HAPPY????"

One of my friends totally insisted that Jesus never smiled. He would have bet his life on that. And when I'd ask him if what we may be eating was good, he'd always answer "It's all right". WHAT? Commit!!! Be more emphatic. Say it like you mean it. But I was one of the few people in Smock that could make him smile. Or laugh out loud. I usually had to do something stupid, but he'd laugh until he lost his breath. And that WAS great.

I often wondered what Johnny Sims, who would broadcast the Polka Party from Latrobe, used to mean when he'd say "Happy music for happy people" when everyone around me acted in some ways like they were just handed their airline ticket to hell.

Legend has it that after the great flood, Noah's relatives scattered to the far corners of the Earth. And God (Bo'je) asked each of them what they wanted, which was granted to them. When they got to the Slovak people, God said that he ran out of "stuff" and said "I'll give you a language that when spoken, will sound like a song and a place to live in the shadow of the Tatra Mountains." I would have said "HEY, where's the holupki and the happy music for happy people?" which would have guaranteed me a First Class ticket on that airplane to hell.

Those of you that know me also know that times have been more than "interesting" in a rather negative way. But thanks to God's timing and intervention, things actually appear to be changing, which is what boys and girls from Smock pray for. My changes are coming through knowing someone named Debbie who hails from exotic Steubenville, Ohio. And the changes haven't gotten me a job, but they have allowed me to better understand my station in life and what absolute bliss may be in store.

So to the children of Smock, do not be dismayed. There is hope, but you may have to wait 60 years to find it. But when you do, life will be so much sweeter. Johnny Sims' will not have any static or interference on the radio, every day will be like Sunday after the Forty Hours we had in May at St. Hedwig's, and God's graces will literally overwhelm you. For THAT is the gift that is reserved for those little urchins that roamed the streets in Smock so long ago. That's your reward because you're minds aren't cluttered with great piles of garbage. Father Drab used to say "Wait...your reward is coming." Well, mine just pulled up driving a grey Ford Windstar.

Leeft up yore hearts? Absolutely.

Why aren't we all in jail??

2010-02-27T11:48:00.001-05:00

So you had a rough upbringing? Got hit with the "korbatch" one too many times? Too many trips to the woodshed or the basement? Oh yeah, we've all been there and done that. Or have had it done to us.

We watched our parents disagree to the point where they needed armor to defend each other. Or how we watched the dog or cat go sailing over the back porch railing when they decided to "christen" the new living room carpet.

And kids are supposed to emulate their parents, right? They're supposed to be like Mom & Dad? So why aren't we in jail by now for crimes of spousal, child and animal abuse?

I'll tell you why. Reverse psychology. "If you take up smoking, I'll beat you to within an inch of your life", spoken by a concerned Mom with that Lucky Strike hanging from the corner of her mouth. Or, "I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it", spoken by a father after 5 rounds of a "beer and a bump" down at Bortz's. Do as I say and not as I do. But how do you STILL explain the "I wanna be just like my Old Man"?

Even in a child's tender and mixed up mind, we see things that impress us and we see things that scare the pants right off of us. We knew that our parish priest didn't need to be married to have kids to slap around. But we knew that if we went home and told Mom or Dad that Father Steve gave a little "size 12" discipline or that Mrs. Butler cracked us with a paddle, we'd get twice as much for just saying so.

So where's our own Easter Rebellion or Tea Party? Why haven't we gone back and beat the living daylights out of Mom, Dad, Father Steve, and Mrs. Butler? Why don't we we just snap when we've heard "Why can't you act like Piwowar's kids?" for the nine hundredth time?

Maybe there's a reverse psychology going on? We had front row seats to our own special brands of discipline. But we're missing the point. We WERE disciplined. We were threatened with death. OR WORSE. "You just wait until your Father comes home". A minor stay of execution.

In my own case, my parents did not set a good example. But they TAUGHT one. And those of you who are reading this can probably say the same, unless your name is Beaver Cleaver or you're one of those "Three Sons". Man, they had it good. Or did they?

Most importantly, even though we were threatened with death and dismemberment, we survived without too many physical scars. Or even without too many emotional ones. I find that the typical Smock kid who is now in his or her 50's or 60's is well grounded, fair, and genuinely loving toward any offspring they created. It's love. But where in all of that violence did we find love?

It was there. We just chose to look at the bad side. We just chose to concentrate on the welts on our collective dupetchkas. But somewhere beneath the curse words and threats, there was love. True and honest love which stays with us to this very day. Love that causes us to stop short of things that would possibly land us in prison. Love that is taught by a coal miner with a 5th grade education.

Why aren't we all in jail? Because if we were, Mom or Dad will find us and boy, we'd have hell to pay.

We aren't perfect. Unless you asked our parents about us when we weren't around. Then suddenly, we'd grow a halo.

Go figure.

You're from Smock? SO WHAT?

2010-02-17T11:48:00.000-05:00

If you are looking to find Smock, PA on a map, good luck. And if you find it on a VERY detailed map, you'll see that there's only one road in and one road out. Unless you know the less traveled other road that took you past the farm where people like Joe DiCosimo lived.

So you're the kid of a coal miner. Or a steel worker. Or a farmer. And yeah, you went to a school that maybe had more than one grade in a classroom. Or you ate lard sandwiches during the depression. Or you can trace your entire history in the record books of St. Hedwig's. So you hung around in a gang. Or had to ride an hour on a drafty bus just to get to school. Or maybe your bathroom was 30 yards or so behind your house? Maybe you learned how to cook on a coal stove? Or your clothes dryer was a piece of rope that connected your home with that other "house" where you weathered all temperature extremes? Maybe you were the brunt of ridicule by those "cake eaters" from the big town?

So life wasn't so easy? SO WHAT??????

Every kid I grew up with graduated from high school. A major percentage of them went on to college. Some of us held down simple jobs but we held them nonetheless. We were never fired from work. No one accused us of being lazy.

Mom washed clothes on Monday. So what? Well, if you did the wash on any other day, you'd be wearing clothes covered in black soot. The coke ovens had to run if we were going to make steel. Mom also kept the dust and soot to a minimum in the house. Do you know how "stable" a coal fire is in a stove? Baked goods which were highly dependant upon constant, stable temperatures just flew out of those ovens. No one complained, but if anyone had the notion, you were told to button your lip before you get it smacked. Yep, we had child abuse, if that's what you wish to call it.

Dad was quiet and said little. When he did speak, many of our fathers talked with accents that were the target of impersonation. "You don't behave it, I'mma send you to the GYPSY." (There were the threats but I don't remember one child who actually was sent to this mystical cult.) And why did Dad always have to go to the bathroom when the National Anthem was played? So what?

Why were we threatened with violence if we missed church on Sunday? And why, after church, did the whole town smell like boiled cabbage? Why didn't people tie up their dogs and cats? And why, OH WHY did our parents treat those dogs and cats better than us?

Two words immediately come to mind; character and integrity. The Bible teaches us that steel sharpens steel. And a tough upbringing taught us that adversity is also a gift from God if we choose to look at it that way. Of course, John Hovanic would say "What doesn't kill you will make you stronger." Good one, John. Deep within those hard times were lessons learned. No one I knew that cleared three feet of snow with a Number 2 shovel ever had any permanent back injury. But you needed that path to get to that tiny house in the back yard. And how many of you who shared a duplex house can remember those outhouse conversations? They sure took away our inhibitions and made us appreciate the luxury of a porcelain throne.

We faced tough times with tough people. People who could shake off the chiding of others while they put on their hard hats. People who learned that God was first and family a close second. Honesty wasn't even talked about since the only people who practiced deceit were those of us who stole tomatoes on moonlit nights. But hey, we only stole enough to eat.

If I owned an industry today, I'd hire the people that I grew up with in Smock. They'd be loyal, honest, chock full of integrity, and would only call in sick from a hospital bed. They'd give you a solid eight hours a day and not complain if the temperature went up or down a few degrees from 72. They'd sing while they worked and would never forget where they came from. They would respect everyone, every day. They'd care for their families and for each other. Integrity and character weren't words in a dictionary. They were a way of life. And parents and grandparents would pass this down to the next generation and guard these virtues as if they were gold.

And on Sundays, we'd all eat boiled cabbage.

So what? So there!

Valentine's Day

2010-02-13T14:53:00.000-05:00

Valentine's Day was a day full of mystery and suspense when I was growing up. In the single-digit grades, I remember getting a whole fistful of valentine cards and sending them out to all of the girls in my class. Every one heard from me. Friend to all, boyfriend to none, scared out of my pants. The teacher doubled as a mail sorter and delivered all of the cards to each person. And every year up until about 6th grade, I got a pile of cards that warmed up the most frigid February day.

What you must understand is that all of the girls would just sign their names on the cards with no emotion and send them up to the mail-sorting teacher. Each boy's name was on an envelope and so the sorting was pretty easy. But there I'd be with a strangle hold on about 15 Valentine's Day cards.

Sure, the cards said many things but one of the more common denominators was the word "love". Wow, a four letter word that you could say and not have to go to confession. Say it as a kid and you may see someone blush. But say it as an adult and well, that's another story.

In Smock, everyone had experienced tough love at one time or another. It may come at the end of a ping pong paddle or a hickory switch or it may come wrapped up like a pierogi. But one way or another, most of us were told that we were loved in a very indirect sort of way. The only person who used the "L" word openly was the priest, but all of the altar boys knew that he really didn't mean it when it came to treating us nicely. Or did he?

And when it came to our parents, sometimes we were just sat down in front of a plate of mystery food and were told to "EAT" and that was that. Parents sort of let us get away from some of the ablutions that the cake eaters did in Uniontown. Maybe that was one of the ways that they "loved" us?

And unlike the germophobes of the 21st Century, we didn't always wash our hands or faces. Have any of you seen this new ad for this soap dispenser that squirts it's product into your awaiting palm without having to touch a disease-infested plunger? Come on. The kids from Smock probably have enough antibodies in their blood to ward off swine flu AND leprosy.

Outward signs of affection were not the norm in Smock. If you had the courage and moral fortitude to kiss someone, it was probably on the ramp that led from the company store up to Smock Hill. It was conveniently dark and so you could peddle your devil-inspired romance with nary a witness except for the odd cricket or toad.

Parents didn't show any PDA's (public displays of affection) either. Maybe they didn't want to give their children any "ideas"? Well if we were old enough, we pretty well knew that Mom and Dad HAD to do something since we had seven brothers and sisters? But that's why the bedroom door had a lock on it. And no one dared violate the secrecy that was inside without paying dearly.

So why was Valentine's Day so special to me? Many of you who read this know that this was one of the only days of the year that anyone showed me affection. If you know me, you know why. If you don't know me, suffice to say that my parents held a rather dubious honor of being one of the first married couples in Smock to file for a divorce. They were having too much fun hurling insults and shoes at each other. And for many years, I felt that just my existence was a terrible reminder to them of days that would sooner be left forgotten.

But HEY, those days are gone and I'm no worse for the wear. There were other kids from Smock that came from families where the parents weren't exactly Ward and June Cleaver. But you know who you are and your secrets are safe with me.

But we all lived for that day in mid-February when a white envelope would arrive at our desk and the card inside said "Be mine" or "You're the one" or even mention that four-letter "L" word. And you cannot deny that we felt better about ourselves and others in those tense moments when we'd open those envelopes and read the card inside. Maybe they were lies?

Maybe not.

A Belated Thank You

2010-02-01T14:21:00.000-05:00

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

2009-12-25T21:38:00.000-05:00

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.

2009-12-23T14:49:00.000-05:00

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

2009-12-02T14:35:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-27T10:51:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-22T21:11:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-19T13:50:00.000-05:00

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.

OK, one more......

2009-11-12T21:56:00.001-05:00

There's a main road that passes by Smock called Route 51. And, counting this one, I have written 51 stories, mostly about my little town.

In talking to a friend tonight who hails from Smock, I began to think about the divorce rate of our town. I think I can accurately say that it was less than one percent. And then, came the bigger issue. Why?

Was it because we were brought up by parents who actually knew of the word "commitment" or maybe was it those pesky little vows that were said at the altar? Was it the handholding that we thought was odd for people in their 70's? Or was it some secret signed document that said that if one person leaves another, the one left behind can hunt the other down with a 12 gauge?

I think it was the polkas. Every Saturday and Sunday, people would search the AM radio stations that belted out the songs from people like Lil' Wally or the Versatones or Marion Lush or the local group from Grindstone, The Invictas. (I think they were named after a type of car.) Johnny Sims from Latrobe was heard on Sunday and always started his "Polka Party" show with the phrase "Happy music for happy people." And it was happy. And Slovak and Polish words to these songs usually spoke of the important things in life like love, the "old country" or food.

At weddings, the polka band factored heavily in the evening's entertainment since the whole celebration was for the newly married couple. Men actually danced with their wives. And toward the end of the evening came a ritual that EVERYONE from Smock has at least once in their life took part. The Bridal Dance. A circle was formed with an entrance at the 12 o'clock position and an exit at the 6 o'clock position. Upon entering, the maid of honor had what looked like an apron but truthfully, it was a huge sack to hold what you deposited in it to dance with the bride. A good bridal dance can pay the mortgage on a new home for a couple of months. Ushers from the bridal party only allowed you to dance with the bride for a few seconds, since the longer the bride lasts (and the band), the more she made. At the exit of the circle came the reward of a piece of wedding cake and a shot of the cheapest whiskey you could find at the Uniontown State Store. Oh, and if you put the cake under your pillow, it is said that you would dream of your own future bride or groom. All I got was an ear full of icing and cake all through my hair.

On one polka show from Fayette County, the Slovak announcer, who had a rather thick accent, advertised Beer City, a local "beverage" distributor. Their phone number was Geneva 8-1110. However this guy, in his thick Slovak accent would say "Geneva eight, one, nadda one, same ting, nya-ting. I loved that guy.

We were happy people who listened to happy music. Walking up the street on Sunday, all you'd hear is Johnny Sims playing the new one from Cleveland's Frank Yankovic while all you'd smell in the air was cabbage. And after the music faded away, mothers would smile at fathers sitting on those old metal porch gliders and they'd hold hands.

"Daddy, I still love you." "What, and you think I don't?" Then mother would sing "Kocham Cię kochanie moje." "Hey old man, are you crying?" "No, I got something in my eye."

Me too.

Growing old gracefully

2009-09-06T12:55:00.000-04:00

You can only say so much about Smock, Pennsylvania. And, I believe that I have said it. At least most of it. And the stuff I forgot to say is probably better left unsaid.

But the truth is that our little town is dying, just like the old timers that still live there who were part of my childhood. I really wish them well and hope that their tomatoes grow better next year. But the few traces of young people in Smock are those who appear to wish to escape the prying eyes of the DEA or ATF. The thing that must attract these types are that Smock is so remote. But that was the charm of the town in days gone by too.

When people had birthdays, it was pretty common knowledge. I knew the birth dates of my neighbors and would be happy to celebrate their special days, but I was seldom invited. But that didn't stop me from being happy for them.

I am about to turn over a rather important page in my personal history by getting rid of the "5" which was the first digit of my age for the past 10 years. And getting that "6" may not mean much, but to an avid reader of the "Irish Sports Pages" (the obituaries), there are more and more familiar names popping up along with unfamiliar people who are kicking off before they got a chance to exchange their "5". Grow old gracefully? I'm trying, but I'm not doing such a good job.

So in the days and hopefully years that I have left, I will continue to sneak down into Smock and do my "routine" which is to visit the cemetery, see my pal John Hovanic and Marian Senker, stop by Eleanor Vrabec's for the news and something that she just baked, and then head back to the city.

I have to tell you that each time I leave that town, my heart aches just a little more. I know that it could never be the same, but some of it still is. And oh how I treasure that part.

If you have moved away from your home town, I would strongly advise a visit. Not just to see the relatives or friends, but to visit the place that more than likely molded you into the person you are today. And don't shoot through with your foot mashed on the accelerator. Stop, sit down, and take in the history. YOUR history. And let it wash over you like a balm. Because you see, we don't have to constantly live in the past, but a glance in the rear-view mirror isn't so bad once in a while.

If you were from Smock and you are reading this and you have children, please do me a favor. If for any reason, I someday show up in the Irish Sports Pages, please teach them to come back. Or you do it yourself. Say hello to John Hovanic, senior or junior. It doesn't matter. And say hello to Marian and her great husband and her Mom, who still remembers.

And on your way out of town, please do me a favor and stop at the Smock cemetery and dust off the picture of Frankie Blanda wearing that awful brown leisure suit and orange shirt.

Oh, and the last one out, please turn off the lights. We don't work for West Penn Power, dammit.

Church

2009-07-26T09:58:00.001-04:00

For my entire adult life, I have always heard that you should never comment about politics or religion unless you want to get into a fight. I'm not looking for a fight, but I'm going to comment about something very sensitive.

I am a Roman Catholic. I was born into the faith and for a while, turned my back on it, but happily returned. Now I know that we're supposed to go out and make converts according to The Great Commission in The Bible, but I'm guilty of not being the best evangelist when it comes to my religion.

Back in the Smock of the 1950's and 60's, you would not think that the 98% of our town's population were interested in gaining converts since most of the services were standing room only. We went to church and we kept to ourselves.

We had our annual church "bizarre" (which was the way it was spelled in our weekly bulletin). I remember the pizza and the Vernor's ginger ale. Oh mercy. And the penny pitch which was not rigged. In the nickle pitch, you could win....glassware. The bingo area was off to the left in the back lot of the Smock school. At night, you could hear Tony Pindrock's voice over the vacuum tube driven public address system as players sat beneath bare light bulbs that attracted herds of moths, bats, and other night creatures.

The notice for our church bizarre was in our church bulletin, right there next to the EXACT dollar amount that everyone in Smock gave the prior Sunday. Those that were not in the "Dollar A Sunday Club" were omitted and were labeled cheapskates by those who were published. Of course our well to do folk who gave more were at the top of the page with their $20.00 or $10.00 listed. And on Christmas, FIFTY BUCKS. Imagine the amount of popsicles you could buy for fifty bucks.

But I digress. This past week, I got a couple of e-mails from someone who wanted me to know in no uncertain terms that I was a hell-bound heathen and that my Catholic beliefs were, well, satanic and that my only salvation was to immediately turn my back on my religion and join another faith.

For her sake and for the sake of those who may write me and tell me that I am truly hell-bound, I am not going to abandon my faith. Not even if satan himself popped up out of my living room floor, held out his hand, and said "Put her there." No one to my knowledge has ever produced any factual evidence showing miles of Presbyterians or Lutherans or Jews or Methodists or Mormons in line at the pearly gates just waiting for admission, saying that it was THEIR religion that was the key to the Kingdom.

So, much to the dismay and most likely disgust of those out there who disagree, I am convinced, just like all of those good people of St. Hedwig's in Smock, that we're all on the same train, but just in different cars. Oh yeah, and then we'll have arguments about whose train car is nicer.

I wrote to this woman and asked her why she didn't accept my religion as easily as I accepted hers. I have never received a response.

So lets turn to Old Hundredth or Pange Lingua Gloriosi or the Doxology or even "Morning Has Broken" and stand up and sing. God loves us. And I'll meet you outside of the really posh dining car where all of the Catholics are.

Mazel tov.

Independence Day

2009-07-04T09:07:00.001-04:00

As I opened my e-mail this morning, I see where my dear friend El McMeen wrote a Letter to the Editor of the New York Times asking why there was no mention of Independence Day anywhere on the front page.

Because I'm about 50 miles displaced from my dear home town of Smock, I rely on the online version of the Herald/Standard, the local newspaper that is published in nearby Uniontown.

It appears that the Herald/Standard followed suit with the Times and totally eliminated any reference to Independence Day on their front page. No banner at the top of the page. No story featuring an old military vet reminding us of how valuable our freedom can be. Nothing.

Call me a flag waver. I'm proud of it. And proud of what millions of young men and women have done in years gone by to keep that freedom alive in this country.

I remember reading Jesse Ventura's book on "telling it like it is" where he said that he would not get in the way of someone who wanted to burn an American flag in his front yard. At first it was shocking, but do you know that flag burning is PROTECTED by the First Amendment of our Constitution and ratified by the U.S. Supreme Court in Texas v. Johnson, 491 U.S. 397 (1989), and reaffirmed in U.S. v. Eichman, 496 U.S. 310 (1990)?

In other words, our FREEDOM in the United States even allows us to burn and/or desecrate an American Flag. How many countries give their population that much freedom?

Back in Smock, I remember the old timer's taking such care and respect when hanging out Old Glory on Flag Day, Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. They remember. They heard the screams of battle. I still hear them myself.

I even remember Kuba, our church sexton who would respectfully raise and lower the flag in the front yard of St. Hedwig's rectory every morning and evening. That flag pole is gone. And it appears that the national pride and love of country may be gone a bit too.

My grandfather was in World War I. I still remember his old campaign hat resting on a shelf in that little room behind the kitchen right next to his straw boater. I asked him about it once and clearly remember that he did not want to talk about his time in the war. But if you asked him about WHY he fought, you'd better sit down and get comfortable because you're going to hear at least a one-hour lecture. And he wasn't even born in the USA.

Today, it seems in vogue to bash the President, our country, its lawmakers, and even it's military.

This blog often reflects back to a time when things were different. Oh how I wish that we could be back there today.

Happy Independence Day everyone.

And remember, if you are hanging your flag vertically on your front porch, the blue field of stars goes on the left side.

Father's Day Revisited

2009-06-21T11:32:00.000-04:00

Last year, I made a poor attempt at describing what Father's Day meant to me. And predictably like always, my mind drifts back to a more gentle, uncomplicated time.

You may ask, what are the fathers like in Smock? They are quiet. Reserved. Reluctant to accept any accolades bestowed upon them on this or any other day. And if you walked up to most of them saying "Happy Father's Day", you might get a smile or a wink and that's about it.

Most of the fathers in Smock on a day like today pause to remember their fathers. Those guys who left an entire country and along with it, relatives, friends and a way of life. They came here, many would say, to make a better life for their own sons and daughters. Boy, did they ever. And how.

But they don't expect to have a whole day set aside for making such a big sacrifice. I think that the only thing that they do expect is that we, their kids and grandkids, just do well. Just be happy. And they don't even expect a simple thank you. The thanks is in the doing, just like it was for many of them.

Our fathers came from places and towns that we had to practice to correctly pronounce. They had brothers and sisters that they will never again see this side of heaven. And mothers and fathers who broke their backs to save up enough for a one-way fare on a steamship to America.

And so what did they do when they arrived in places like Smock? They had little crib sheets that had small phonetic phrases such as "Hi boss, you have verk for me?" The boss was usually either a pit boss in the coal mines or a labor gang supervisor at the steel mill in Clairton. And their future bosses would respond favorably and send them out to do some of the most back breaking, lung destroying, ear shattering work, all for about a dollar and change per day.

They managed to save money from that meager wage to buy half a house with a paper thin wall so that you could sit up at night and hear what gossip is going on or who is getting their young buttocks fanned for not behaving well in church that morning.

The term "wait until your father gets home" took on a frightening and all too real meaning back in Smock. We feared Dad in a certain manner, but we respected him. And when, after a few Iron City beers, he would begin telling stories of the "old country", we sat there and were riveted to hear this same guy who was usually quiet create vivid images of friends, family and even fun in this foreign land where class and status meant nothing. A place where butchering a chicken or a pig would have made the front page.

Our fathers were like icebergs; you only saw the 10% that was above the water line. But their upbringing, values and faith ran deep. And for most, those admirable values fortunately trickled down.

So for Andy and John and Fred and Teddy and Joe and Mike and Ed and Tom, Happy Father's Day and thanks for being just who you are.

Since words on Father's Day don't come easy from a Smock kid, just remember that we owe you more than you will ever know.

"You better"

2009-06-08T22:12:00.000-04:00

Three weeks ago, Heaven gained a saint and Smock lost one of it's most beloved people. Dorothy Hovanic was married to her husband John for 61 years. Now that she's gone, I miss her. I visited with her just 3 weeks before she died, which once again proves that no one knows when it's time to say goodbye.

But I'd like to dwell on the living and tell you about Dorothy's husband John. I've mentioned him several times in my meanderings here but I really want you to know more about this man.

First, he had a son who he also named John who is my age. We went to school together, were altar boys at St. Hedwig, engaged in the seasonal tomato and crab apple wars, and played football and baseball. John raised a fine man who today still lives in Smock with his wife and next door daughter and son-in-law.

Two years ago, my Delaware best buddy Brian and I rented a couple of very large Harley Davidson motorcycles and roared through Smock. We parked the bikes and started walking around that single block of streets that were all too familiar. I saw John trimming the hedges in his yard and introduced him to Brian. In less than 30 seconds, John offered to fill Brian's saddlebag with tomatoes. What Brian thought was rather unique was just normal for me. It was John being John. No frills. Nothing fancy. Just a man offering another man something that he grew in his garden.

Do you see the importance in this? Do you really see it???

John Hovanic goes to church rather often. Every day. And its not because the church is only 100 yards from his house. He takes that religion stuff seriously. And he lives it seriously. Both in his actions and even in the wonderfully simple Bible based rhymes he still can recite since he was in the third grade.

Today, I visited John, thinking that I could do something for him by spending some serious quality time with this great man who just lost his wife only weeks ago. Instead of feeling like I accomplished something, I came away feeling that I have been given something much more than I expected. The genuine thanks and love from a genuinely solid man. When we were saying our farewells, I told John that I'd be back soon. His response was "You better." Two words that spoke volumes.

This is why I write this stuff. I want to do my best to insure that you, the reader, never forget these people in my little town. Because if us kids, like John Michael (John's son) and Johnny, and Pickey and Junie and Tommy learned anything, we learned to be.....real. And we learned it from our parents and from neighbors like John Hovanic.

It is never too late to put a little love in this world for our families and those around us. Some of us, like me, learned this lesson rather late in life. Others learned many years ago. But the bottom line is that we learned respect and admiration for people who are the true saints that still walk the earth.

John Hovanic would agree that we need to yank out the I-Pods and Walkmen and stereos and spend some time appreciating the people and things around us. We should all promise ourselves to open our ears to non-electronically generated sounds once in a while.

If we don't do this, we'll end up being no better than last month's tomatoes.

Roots

2009-06-05T08:33:00.000-04:00

Many people have to resort to elaborate computer searches to find family. Or some go to their local Latter Day Saints church where they can find an incredible resource to track down their prior generations. Some hire folks to do this work and others have the time to do it on their own.

I feel that a lot of what is to be said about one's roots can be found in the place where they were raised up from childhood. That place for me is Smock, as if you couldn't figure that one out.

Over the time that I have done this little blog, I have had the pleasure of experiencing the occasional surprise by hearing from a relative or friend that I spoke of here. And the one thing constant is that they always dedicate a few lines or a paragraph to "the way it was". It is a constant in these lovely e-mails.

Could it be because they think that reflecting in the past would be appropriate since I do it all of the time? Or are they being polite?

It is my opinion that they do this because they, like me, realize that the past was just simply better than it is today. Oh sure, we know that we cannot change the past and that's good enough for us. And we CAN change today, but the change that we are looking for would take a Biblical force to make things better, so in reality, it would be next to impossible to do that.

All one has to do is leaf through the cable news channels to see how the world is doing today, and if you are from a small town, you would quickly begin to think of better times and invariably, those times are well behind us. Gone with the wind.

Reflecting as I and my readers do on stuff that is well over one's shoulder is sort of a coping mechanism that we use to deal with the things of the present. We all say "Boy, I wish things were like they used to be" but in reality, we know very well that they are not. But we can wish, can't we?

What is beautiful and lovely about these people and their rather skewed backward/forward outlook is that they appear to be able to deal with the present BETTER than those who, for some unfortunate or catastrophic reason, cannot or will not look into the past.

Those of us who cannot reflect on the "good old days" dwell on current events which can then result in fear and anxiety. They have no historical point of reference.

For me, my point of reference is St. Hedwig's Church, a sulphur creek, lots of woods, kids who have dirty faces, Florek's store and Andy Ponzurick, my grandfather. Some say "Bob, you should not live in the past". My advice to them is that they should join me, if but for a little while, and go to that place that means the most. It most certainly helps me deal with the economic and political insanity that we see on the seven o'clock news.

Sir Isaac Newton said that we stand on the shoulders of giants ("nanos gigantum humeris insidentes"). He was referring to the blind giant Orion who carried his servant Cedalion upon his shoulders. My mental image conjured up by this quote shows a much different picture.

We should not live in the past, but we should never forget those latter day saints who have made the past a worthy reflection and point of reference in which to view our present day circumstances.

Thanks Andy.

Mike Gallagher

2009-05-23T23:15:00.001-04:00

When Mike finds out that I wrote a chapter in my blog about him, he's gonna flip. No doubt he'll ask me to remove it. Not because he is a fugitive from justice, but because he his modest.

When Mike isn't doing his other job which is working for a progressive Pittsburgh chemical company which manufactures "biofuels", he is a dad, a singer, a friend, and a saint.

Mike earned his status as a father when he started his family with the love of his life, Marlea. He even titled his new CD for his wife. Mike has four kids. Two are in the U.S. Army, one is preparing to go to the American Seminary in Rome (yes, Italy) and Mary Kate is at home. Go to Mike's FaceBook page and see how many pictures there are of him. And then count the pictures of his wife and children. This, as far as I am concerned, speaks volumes. Mike is one of the best Dad's I know. I would like him to be my Dad but I'm about a decade older than him so that's out.

When a person sings, they use the same vocal cords that they use for talking, except they hold on to specific frequencies and try to keep things in tune while stories are told. So when a person sings, they really are vulnerable. It's hard. And it's not easy remembering all of the words to all of the songs. Some might say that Mike spends a lot of his musical time singing in pubs. An Irish pub is usually filled with a handful of people that come to hear the person sing. The remaining 90% are there to meet friends, eat, or watch TV. Oh, and they drink too. But whats amazing is that they also talk loudly. And when Mike tries to sing louder, they talk louder.

Tonight at a pub in Carnegie, a neighborhood named for Andrew, I saw this young couple. They were both locked in to the TV because Pittsburgh is on the way to winning the Stanley Cup. But after the game, they were locked in to the commercials. She even locked in to her boyfriends cellphone call list while he went to the men's room. While all of this was going on, Mike sang a couple of anti-war songs. (Did I tell you that one of Mike's sons is in Iraq and the other is training to go to some other sand-laden dangerous paradise?) But all the while that Mike sung these songs with a few love songs thrown in, the couple would not even look his way. And they were only 5 feet from Mike. But Mike doesn't complain because he knows that there are others peppered in the crowd that really want to hear what he has to sing about.

The friend part came on gradually as we got to know each other over the past couple of years. I played on his recent CD and he is going to be on my upcoming recording. But when Mike was kind enough to take some words I scratched down 5 years ago and set them to music, both he and I had no idea where the song would be today. It is presently finding its way through Pittsburgh government and hopefully on to becoming the official song of our city. You can hear it at http://www.youtube.com/ and search for BobTheWhistler. Then look for Fire & Steel. It takes a real friend to take your words and make them come alive with music.

Finally, Mike Gallagher is a saint. (Oh man, is he going to kill me....). With God's help, he single-handedly brought me back to the Roman Catholic church after an absence of over 20 years. Mike and I have played music for the Bishop of Pittsburgh more than once. He is an excellent example of a man who is strong, yet humble. But more importantly, Mike is a holy man in every definition of the word.

Sure, there are other saints in my life; Charlie, El, Cori, Brian, Ricky and the other Mike. If you know me, then you know their last names.

But Mike is special and I wanted you to get to know him.

And these saints are teaching me about what is important and what isn't. Mike is important and so are all of you who spent the time reading this.

Tonight I'll thank God for Mike and for you. Call it a Litany of The Saints.

Old School

2009-05-13T17:55:00.001-04:00

What you are looking at is a motorcycle that has been refurbished to reflect an "old school" motorcycle design.

Many things can be classified as "old school" such as cars, transistor radios, turntables, buildings, cooking and people.

Dorothy Hovanic was old school. Sure, she was 82 when she died last Saturday, but age rarely comes into play when pinning that title on someone or something.

For people, old school can mean those who won't change. Like Father Richard Infante of Pittsburgh who still has not been willing to learn how to use a computer or even myself when I chose to write a song about Pittsburgh that looks back into history instead of celebrating Pittsburgh's present status as a world leader in medicine, education, and music. We're not stupid and we're not resisting change. We are comfortable with who we are and where we are. Yes, comfortable.

In a blog or two ago, I mentioned Dorothy Hovanic's husband, John, who can still fit into his Marine Corps dress uniform. John still grows a garden and has done so for many years before the word "recession" or even "victory garden" were coined. He enjoys tending to his tomato plants and Dorothy enjoyed watching him and eventually making marvelous culinary delights from the very things he grew.

My home town of Smock is undergoing a change. We are slowly slipping away from being old school. Younger people now inhabit the houses which are now over 100 years old. Grass grows up to your knees and concrete sidewalks have as many cracks as lines on a road map. Cars are parked in the yards on that grass that we religiously mowed weekly. And I hear that drugs and alcohol have replaced penny candy and Sun Drop.

But what is really problematic is that the respect for people and even things is slowly fading away, just like Smock's octogenarians. Which begs the question "What will happen to the old school of thinking when all of those remaining fossils either die or get deported to nursing homes?"

I went to Dorothy's funeral yesterday and saw her son and my friend John Michael. Yep, I still call him that and he still calls me Bobby Joe. And that's OK. He's old school. Still married to the same girl for 20+ years. Still lives in Smock but on the "new" side of town. Worked in the steel mill and retired from the same job. Never took a penny of "government money". I love that guy.

So I guess my definition of old school means that you stay honest, work hard at working hard, love your family as well as your neighbor, and NEVER under any circumstances, lose respect for yourself and all those around you, whether you know them or not. You know, all of that love God and love your neighbor stuff. Like Moses and Aaron taught.

I don't know what's going to happen to my town. The only surviving thing from Smock in twenty years may be this blog that I write. My hope is that those who may read some of the stories here may be curious as to what the term "old school" means.

If I'm around in 20 years, I'll be glad to tell you about how things were in the Smock of the late 20th century.

And if we both live long enough, I'll introduce you to John Michael Hovanic, a perfect example of what old school truly is.

Or should I say "was"?

Mary Ponzurick

2009-04-29T19:59:00.001-04:00

To many, the name Mary Ponzurick doesn't ring a bell. Even most people who still live in Smock don't remember Mary. But I do. She was my mother's mother. Grandma.

My first recollections of Mary were when I was just a skinny kid who could almost fit into a water bucket.

Mom & Dad and I lived in the same house as Fred, Mary, Fritzie, Sissy, Junie and Picky. Not to mention Susie, their orange tabby cat. We had all of the luxuries. TWO coal burning furnaces, connected by a common chimney. One was in the kitchen and one was in the living room. But our bathroom was about 40 feet down a narrow footpath behind the back of the house.

Many have used the following phrase as a joke but I actually lived it. I took a bath on Saturday night whether I needed it or not. And since we didn't have such a thing as a bathroom, we went to Grandma's house which was only two rows and two houses away from us. We used to cut through Mr. & Mrs. Olesh's yard on the way to Grandma's and it was always nice to speak to them. Mr. Olesh aways occupied a glider but Mrs. Olesh knitted in a hard backed chair. It seems like she always knitted so I thought that she was knitting a cover for a battleship. What did I know?

We'd get to Grandma's on Saturday where she was usually in the kitchen making the beginnings of Sunday's dinner while listening to "My Larry". To you and I, that was Lawrence Welk but Grandma really made him her own. Between the holoupki rolls, she'd dart out from the kitchen if she heard her Larry introduce Norma Zimmer (The Champagne Lady) or Big Tiny Little on piano (the predecessor of "Choanne" Castle).

She had a true claw foot bathtub with a rubber stopper. She also had ACTUAL hot water that didn't have to be made that way on the stove. When I sat in that thing, the water actually came up to my neck. I NEVER wanted to get out. And I was always amazed that there was this ring around the tub following my bath. I knew I didn't cause it to be there since my bath from last week was still going strong.

I was Grandma's scribe. She used to write letters to her sister, Mary Carnot, but since her hands were a bit shaky, she'd have me write the letters. They always started "Dear Sis, just a few lines to let you know that everyone here is all right". But then she'd launch into Grandpap's drinking and gossip heard in my Aunt Helen's beauty shop. There was always an edible reward for writing these letters for her.

She taught me so much by example. Go to church every day if you could, take a bath now and then, eat pork on New Year's Day, and wear good shoes or your feet will be mangled and eventually fall off.

I only took up the Irish whistles years after she had died but if I had played them in the 1950's, she would have probably willed her entire house to me and everything in it. She was one for the music.

Many people used to say "Mary, if you don't stop eating that jelly bread and butter and all of that kolatch, you're going to have a heart attack". Their warnings came to pass and she died. At an even 100 years old. I could still hear her laughing about all of those admonitions.

Mary Ponzurick was one of the sweetest women I have ever had the pleasure to know. She had these cataract glasses that made her look like an alien, honest to God blue hair, hearing aids in both ears, a wearer of "rouge" and Avon's "Here's My Heart", a polka fancier and a true lover of Larry Welk. She even tolerated her husband Andy's monthly four day binge at Bortz's tavern. (Mary knew that he earned it; he was a retired coal miner).

Today, I have this vision of Mary sitting on the front porch of a red tiled house in Heaven. Grandpap's in the living room watching the Pirates and nursing an Iron City while Bob Prince calls the plays. She's in that old green rocking chair and St. Francis is there by her side with a pen and paper.

"Dear God, just a few lines to let you know that everything here is all right."

Helen

2009-04-19T20:44:00.000-04:00

My earliest memories of my childhood were when I was in my crib. There were three tiny plastic figures that were on a bar which coursed through their circumference so that they could spin when they were moved. The crib had wooden slats in the bottom and I used to escape by turning up the end of the mattress and sneaking down through the slats to the floor. This confounded my mother since she could never figure out how I did this.

Once, I heard my mother talking to Helen about this. You see, Helen lived in the same house that I did. She lived on the other side of the walls that divided our house in half. She was there with her husband Ted and her two sons, Thad and Bob. The conversation that took place between Helen and my mom was on the back porch, which also had a railing about 3 feet high through the middle. Autonomy was the watchword of the “company house”. And as they talked, each sitting on their own side of the porch, they looked past the “out” buildings.

Each company house in Smock had a long out building that had four doors. The two doors on the left belonged to the left side of the house and the two doors on the right belonged to...well you know what I mean. The doors were, from left to right, coal shed, outhouse, outhouse, coal shed. They were painted the same green color as our house until it was painted brown with white trim around the windows.

Beyond the outbuildings were the “ball field” behind our big house and then woods that, as a child, I felt went straight up to heaven, but in reality, it just went to Constantine’s farm.

Helen and Margie would sit there for hours in the spring, summer and fall and talk about many things. Most of the time, they would get quiet when I showed up or the question would be raised “Where in the hell have you been?” My customary answer was “out” or "playing with Bob" who is Helen's son.

As a child, there were few things I really knew about Helen. She was a great cook, baker, housekeeper, mother and Christmas tree decorator. And she had a heart of solid gold.

I probably met Helen when I was three or four years old, but my memory is only good for the things IT wants to remember.

I could bore you with the countless Helen stories that I remember, but I am just going to say this; Helen was like a mother to me. And because of some of my life's situations, she proved it in thousands of different ways. And every time I would visit her through all of the decades, she had that smile. And that loving voice, which would become stern if she felt that I needed to be corrected on something.

Helen died early this morning. She was in her 80's. And let me assure you that when I would get in the mood to write one of these 40 something stories about my little town, one of the first faces that my mind's eye would see is Helen and that dear smile of hers.

So Ted, your wife Helen is home tonight. And I don't know what she's made for dinner but I know that it will be wonderful. And YOUR Christmas tree will shine brighter than any other this December, because Helen is home.

Oh "Neighbor", I am going to miss you so much.

Easter Snow

2009-04-07T15:04:00.000-04:00

Dan Gallagher is the son of Mike Gallagher, a Pittsburgh Irish singer songwriter and sort of a local legend. Why do I say that? Well, it seems that not everyone KNOWS Mike but everyone's either heard him or heard of him.

Dan is in the St. Paul Seminary in Pittsburgh and is studying to become a priest, which I think is rather unique in this day and age where young men and women would rather marry their future ex-husband or wife and live perfectly dysfunctional lives.

Yesterday, Danno got the news that he is going to be continuing his priestly studies at the Pontifical North American College in Rome. Ehhh, that's Rome, Italy. He and the Pope will be neighbors. And as I thought of Dan and his future, I looked outside and it was snowing like the blazes.

And this spilled out.

The holy men of ages
Are called toward the Light
And chants which promise Heaven
Ring out into the night

In marble churches gathered
All dressed in common thread
A prayer like incense rises
Give us our daily bread

O Mary, our dear Mother
Look down upon our land
And give us peace and gladness
For in your Son, we stand

To save the world from evil
And praise His holy name
To realize Your goodness
Is what we dare to claim

The gifts your Son has given
Adoringly we raise
And in this one communion
Your endless love we praise

Protect your holy servant
And make him Yours for life
Give him songs of blessing
And keep him free of strife

For the love of God is endless
The prophets tell us so
His words like crystal raindrops
Are pure as Easter snow

This one's for you Danno. Enjoy your time and say hello to B-XVI for me.

That HAS to be the Pope's license plate!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's You I Like

2009-04-03T11:20:00.000-04:00

Not many people know this but to the left here is a picture of a friend of mine. Yep, I met him and corresponded with him right up until the time that he died.

I think that this is the first time I have ever written two entries to this blog in two days. But I wanted to say something and this way, I can say it without anyone telling me to shut up.

Yesterday, I traveled down to my home town of Smock. The women of the community bake these incredible long nut rolls (we call them kolatch or kolatchi) twice a year. At Christmas and Easter which means that right now is KOLATCH TIME. My first question is why only then and not all of the time? Labor intensive? Some secret middle-European instruction in The Bible?

Anyway, I visited some friends and made a couple of new ones. One new friend is related to Ed Sparrow, made famous in my "The Town Mechanic" blog entry. I also met the man who currently owns the beer joint where my grandfather used to get sloshed in 3-4 times a month.

But what a difference in people. One was sawing down the stump of an old tree and the other was in a wheelchair. One chain-smoked while the other had a very welcoming demeanor. But walking away from this meeting, I felt that I liked both of them for who they were and not WHAT they were.

Fred Rogers taught me that both from inside a small vacuum tube in my television set and right to my face on several one-on-one meetings I had with him. But if this "I like you just the way you are" stuff is for real, where did Fred get it? He got it from Mrs. McFeeley. Not the make-believe wife of the "Speedy Delivery" mailman. But from his mother. McFeeley was her maiden name.

I can't help but believe that our mothers taught us this when we were children. Oh, she may not have said it in those very words, but she said it. And where did Mom get it? Her Mom? Yep. And where did SHE get it? If you go back far enough, you'll find it came from The Bible.

Now if there are readers here who are atheist or otherwise, let's pretend that we got that phrase from the planet Skyron in the Andromeda galaxy. Either way, it makes sense.

During these days of economic tension and the discord that it brings, why don't we look toward God (or Skyron) or even to Fred Rogers for a little easy advice?

When I visited my friends in Smock yesterday, I found that I loved each of them for who they are. And believe me, it took most of my life to get to this point too.

But the direction that I got as a child and adult may have come from The Bible, Fred Rogers, or Skyron. The real thing here is that you GET IT. Practice a little Smock philosophy and start to like people for who they are and not who you want or expect them to be.

And perhaps while walking down that street toward St. Hedwig's or past Ed Sparrow's garage, you'll come across this guy..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BN9ynEJzLo&feature=PlayList&p=D80448CC58D64C38&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=55

If you do, please tell him that his old friend Bob said hello.

A Song For My Town

2009-04-02T10:14:00.000-04:00

Five years ago, I was in this rather melancholy mood after listening to five songs that were submitted to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette as "Pittsburgh songs". I hated every one of them, so with a tiny tear in my eye and some words wanting to be written down, I wrote Fire & Steel, which I feel is a true Pittsburgh song. Now, all I need is for the Pittsburgh City Council to agree with me on this and my legacy as a Western Pennsylvanian will be sealed.

Last night, I was in the same sort of mood when this just exploded on to my computer keyboard:

My Smock Pennsylvania Home

© Words by Bob Pegritz

Not long after Lincoln spoke in Gettysburg town
A young German man and his wife bought some ground
Less than two hundred acres from the Sharpless estate
Would make for a place to call home.

Young Sam sold some land to a mining concern
Then houses sprung up for the men who would earn
A poor worker’s wages way down in the mine
In a pit where the devil calls home

We sang as we shopped in the company store
On Monday the women hung clothes on the line
And waited for Andy and Teddy and Mike
To come home from working the Colonial Mine

The children had games that their grandparents played
Doors had no locks and at dinner we prayed
Thanked God at St. Hedwig for treating us right
And blessing our lives and our home

We sang as we shopped in the company store
On Monday the women hung clothes on the line
And waited for Andy and Teddy and Mike
To come home from working the Colonial Mine

Come back up the hill where Heaven is found
Relive the old glories on that holy ground
And hold on to memories close in our hearts
In Smock, Pennsylvania, our home

We sang as we shopped in the company store
On Monday the women hung clothes on the line
And waited for Andy and Teddy and Mike
To come home from working the Colonial Mine

We sang as we shopped in the company store
On Monday the women hung clothes on the line
And waited for Andy and Teddy and Mike
To come home from working the Colonial Mine

This is for Sam and Andy and Teddy and Mike.

And you.

I-Ignore

2009-03-18T18:50:00.001-04:00

And I thought that the 80's was the "me" generation. In my perspective, it has now run rampant into the 21st century.

Nowadays, everyone has those two white wires festooned on the front of their necks indicating that they have no good reason to speak to you. None. And if you speak to them, chances are good that you won't get through because they are listening to the latest songs by Miley, Madonna or Mozart. Either way, you're not getting through. And if the volumes are up at a certain level, they'll still ignore you when you speak to them when they're in their 60's because they will be deaf. That's right, deaf.

So is Bob gone off his rocker by attacking the good people at Apple? No.

As you know, it is my habit to wax sometimes rhapsodic about my days in Smock, when no one had a computer, an I-Pod, an ELECTRONIC picture frame, or hardly a television. Sure, you can go back to my older posts and read Outside Influences and Bob Rides the Bus and you'll find mention of this, but I want to go into a bit greater detail here.

In Smock, even today, we speak to one another. Whether it is across the porch railing, the clothesline, the hedge fence, or even through the rather thin wooden walls of the outhouse (which is pretty extinct by now). We spoke of politics or how NASA is goofing up the weather (not global warming) by shooting those rockets into space that are somehow messing with the clouds. We spoke of ourselves and yes, we often spoke of others, not necessarily in glowing terms. But we SPOKE. I remember that many of us used that bus ride to New Salem or Haddonville or Uniontown to catch up on talk. With not even a 6-transistor Philco radio in sight. We did not have computers which would hog our attention away from the dinner table or even the church. There isn't a Sunday where I attend church that someone isn't texting someone else at any given time in the Mass.

So what truly is it that we lose here? Our ability to communicate with others. Is that important? ASK YOUR PARENTS that question. The reason that they're celebrating their 52nd wedding anniversary is because they talk to each other. Oh, you may not see it; it may be confined to the bedroom or to other secret places like the basement where YOU won't hear. Or maybe it's in Croatian or Slovak or Polish so you can hear but you don't understand. But they talked.

Today's electronic world is a good one. One that enables people like me to freely express my opinion in a medium that sends not just the printed word but pictures too over what appears to be vapor to another computer so that you can read this. Some have actually complained about my musings but it's their right, even though they may be wrong.

I think that a pair of ear plugs is pretty obvious. It's like closing all others off. Like closing the door to your bedroom. But now, they're closing the door on a lot of polite society who don't wish to do anything more than to talk about the WEATHER. But that's boring. Unfortunately, our teenagers today have the attention span of a may fly. Is it our fault? Maybe.

The Mormons aren't all crazy. And believe me, they will say the same thing about us non-LDS folk too. One of the things I learned about this group of people is that they dedicate an evening each week to ......wait for it........EACH OTHER. Family Home Evening. One of the most sensible things that has ever been thought up by ANYONE. Imagine if you will, telling young Nichole or Josh that he or she has to lose the I-Pod or the computer or the God of today's society, the cell phone, for a couple hours a week. I'm afraid that many would simply rather choose death.

Sure, talk about Smock all you like. We may be backward a bit, or maybe we're a bunch of Hunkys, or hillbillies, but we talk to each other and the divorce rate was almost non-existent. So if you take a ride through my little town even today and you see John Hovanic out in his yard trimming his hedges or fruit trees, stop by and witness something amazing.

He will actually talk to you. And if its August, he'll offer you something from his garden. Tell him I said "Hello" because John doesn't text. Or e-mail.

And the only wires he may have hanging over his shoulder will be used to tie up tomato plants.

The "Hunky" Gene

2009-03-14T10:37:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid in Smock, the "town" kids in Uniontown used to call us "Hunkys". Wikipedia defines "hunky" as a derogatory term for immigrants of Hungarian, Slovak, or generally middle-European people. BUT, it also defines the term as "beefcake" or a person who is a "hunk". Nice. And the term is LOCAL. It is used primarily in Western Pennsylvania or Western New York.

So what is the "hunky" culture? It is a way of life developed by our ancestors to express freedom of religion and the regaining of their personal freedoms which were taken away in the "old country". And we could not accurately describe the "hunky" culture without mentioning food. (See "The Food Article" elsewhere in this blog.)

Hunkys settled into mostly industrial areas because they weren't afraid of work. Hard, back breaking work found in places like coal mines and steel mills. And the dedication of those Hunky workers was phenomenal. I actually know of a coal miner who stood in cold water at work for so long that he had to have both legs amputated below the knees because of the destruction of his blood vessels. He was fitted with two artificial limbs and promptlywent back to work in the mine. That's Hunky style, my friend. A little crazy, but there was no welfare or pity for these men and women.

Sometime in the 1960's, I started to hear the term "Hunky style" used to describe polkas that were....well....hunky style. You'll just have to go to YouTube and find some and take a listen.

Hunky men loved many things. Guns, beer, Hunky food, trucks, deer hunting and Hunky music, just to name a few. The Hunky women loved pretty much the same stuff. And Hunky people in general loved (here, you should fill in the blank) and most everything and everyone.

OK, before some narrow-minded self important outsider starts to slam me for Hunky exploitation, let me continue my comments on this subject.

Hunky people loved God. They were in church every Sunday. And they were generous to a fault. I grew up thinking that it was mandatory to take food to a family who was either poor or recently lost a loved one.

Sure we ate and grew some pretty impressive hunky bodies. But we took those bodies out on the dance floor at every wedding. After all, when a girl from Smock was married, you invited practically the entire town. And if you didn't dance, then shame on you.

We grew "organic" gardens long before the term was invented. We baked pies from wild apples and blackberries and used recipes passed down from grandma. And if you happened to be at a home when dinnertime drew near, you stayed. In fact, you were almost MADE to stay.

There was a bond and a brotherhood in our little Hunky town that could never be broken. Sure, people would talk about their neighbors, but show me a town where that doesn't happen. At least in Smock, the worst person would still be looked after by the rest of the town if they happened to fall on hard times.

I found a great dictionary of our West Pennsylvania "language" called CoalSpeak. You can find it here.. http://www.coalregion.com/Speak/speakA.htm

So to all of those Hunkys out there, may I suggest that after reading this, we take a look at that old lunch bucket that Dad took to the mine every day or go out to the butka and slice off a piece of kolatchi and grab a Rolling Rock and turn on the polkas. After all, that's what we do.

An' I'll see yinz guys later. That comes from one Hunky to another.

The Sound of Music

2009-02-19T10:44:00.000-05:00

Music has always been an influence on people beginning as a child. I feel that if a young boy or girl is deprived the joy of music, even as an infant, they are missing something huge.

When I was just a kid back in Smock, we did not listen to a varied bunch of musical styles. When walking up the street from church on a Sunday in any other season but Winter, you could hear the strains of Lil Wally or Marion Lush or The Dynasonics coming from almost every home. Sunday meant church but it also meant polkas.

As you are most aware if you have read any of my prior blog entries, Smock was a town that was filled with primarily Slovak and Polish people. Sure, we had a few other ethnic groups thrown in but those middle-Europeans were the majority. So polkas were prolific.

And even if you weren't Polish or Slovak, you knew the difference between an oberek and a czardas and you knew what "Chicago Style" verses "Hunky Style" meant. You knew that Ja Parobok z'Kapusan was played at weddings and you could hum The Bridal Dance. And you got your share of this music at weddings, parties and every Sunday when Johnnie Sims Polka Party was broadcast from Latrobe, home of great polkas, Fred Rogers and Rolling Rock beer.

For me, I began my "study" of music on the piano in St. Hedwig's church hall when I was 5 years old. It was an old upright. I remember that it came from Philadelphia, which was a town far, far away. I had no idea that it was out of tune. The church hall was never locked for the same reason that you never locked your house or your car doors. Later at about age 9, I began to sneak into St. Hedwig's (which was also always unlocked) and play their awful electronic Baldwin organ. I learned what all of the little tabs did. And I used to think that the keyboard marked "Swell" meant that you could play some really swell music on this thing. I even learned to play the 16 pedals which were immaculate since no foot had ever trod on those in our church.

As far as I know, the only musical person that studied music was Bob, my neighbor. I used to hear him squeaking his clarinet through the walls of our duplex home. He went on to play saxophone and trumpet and founded a polka band called The Dynasonics. Other than Bob, I was the only one that I knew about from Smock Hill who ever saw the inside of a recording studio.

Music tells so much about a society. And the music that echoed in those hills around Smock was decidedly middle-European. But it was happy music, most of the time. Besides, how can you tell a sad story in a polka?

As Johnnie Sims used to say, "Happy music for happy people."

Later in life, I took up the Irish whistles and like the piano and organ, I taught myself. And ironically today, I still play happy music, mostly in churches.

Who would have ever thought that Jack & Margie's kid would ever do that?

Fayette Nam

2009-02-05T16:58:00.000-05:00

This is a completely undoctored picture taken of the sign at the Fayette County fairgrounds last Monday.

My good friend Bob Dvorchak and I began referring to Fayette County as "Fayette Nam" when we were in our 20's. Seems as though the term has caught on.

As many of you would know, Smock is fixed in the south central part of Fayette County and we pretty much enjoy that Fayette County "sunshine" as you can see here in the picture.

Well, I thought I'd make a list of ways that you could tell someone was from Fayette County. And no, none of these were stolen from Jeff Foxworthy. It's all pretty much {{{gulp}}} true. There may be a few questionable words here, but you must please consider the source.

You know that you're from Fayette County when:

You've never been up Route 51 North further than Marlene's.

You deer hunt (NOT "hunt deer") with a gun that costs more than your car.

You have at least one car in your yard that is older than 1960 (on blocks).

You think a stripper clip on a gun magazine is erotic.

You think that expensive liquor is Jaquin's Ginger Flavored Brandy

Your doctor tells you that you have nocturnal emissions and you check your car.

You have actually received and eaten government cheese.

You think that eating at Hooters is "livin' large".

You think that Budweiser is an imported beer.

You tell your friends that the Yuengling Brewery misspelled "Yingling".

You wrote in Jeff Foxworthy's name for President of the U.S.

You were once picked up by a woman who said "Hey, nice tooth".

Your thought that the best 3 years of your life were 5th grade.

Someone asks if you want to "shoot the Ohiopyle rapids" and you get your gun.

You call a woman with two black eyes and a broken jaw "a slow learner".

You love anything by Dinty Moore.

You have drunk numerous times from a hose.

You've been to the Look Inn in Rowes Run and lived to talk about it.

You think that Big Foot is a truck.

You have at least once in your life wished you could play the chandelier.

You have at least one family member named Pickles.

You think that the word "Cooder" is an anatomical term.

You think that Ben Roethlisberger actually owns a company that sells beef jerky.

You not only know what a kolatch is but when and where to buy it.

You married your high school sweetheart...while still in high school.

You have actually participated in and won a pissing contest.

You think that the hymn Ave Maria doesn't have enough bass.

You think that tire, fire, plier, higher, and dryer all have one syllable.

You consider dentistry a luxury.

You've either owned a dog or have been personally called "Shit for brains".

You know someone who has met Elvis.

At one time in your life, you did not have indoor plumbing.

You learned to shoot before you learned to spell.

You think that Gomer Pyle was an actual Marine.

You can name 47 different brands of cigarettes.

You've changed the oil in your car and then used it in your lawn mower.

You actually know how to start a tractor.

You blame extreme weather conditions on NASA.

For those of you who would like to find me and "teach me a lesson", I live in Yazoo City, Arkansas and yes, I'm in the book.

The Food Article

2009-01-25T15:10:00.000-05:00

Many of you were wondering when I was going to get around to talking about the food of my ancestors. That time is now.

Because of the tiny towns that dotted Fayette County like a patchwork quilt, Smock was known as a "patch". (Oh, so you live in the patch? Yes.)

And because many people from all over Europe settled in the patches of Western Pennsylvania, you would think that we enjoyed a huge and varied menu of exotic dishes from all over the world. Nope. If you went to a wedding, funeral, first communion, confirmation or anniversary, the dinner fare would most likely be from the middle-European area. Some called it "hunky food".

OK, roll call. Kielbasa, pierogi, chadnina, kapusta, saurkraut, holupki (golabki), borscht, kluski, pagach, cochanina, goulash, treska, rigatoni, pickled eggs, and let's not forget the kolatch or the lime green Jell-O with the carrot shavings on top for dessert.

The people of Smock were talented. In each home, I found that the recipe for ham was different. And the differences don't stop with ham. The cabbage rolls (insert YOUR favorite term for these here) differed. Some people used a lot of cracker meal in the hamburger. Others used none at all. (Those were the rich people.) And there were preferences for butter over sour cream with pierogies, depending on your heritage.

Some foods had names that were just made up. Like city chicken, which was actually breaded veal on skewers. (We didn't see that too often.) And noodles and cottage cheese probably has some Slovak or Polish name, but we just called it that.

Mashed potatoes always had at least one stick of butter (never margarine) thrown in and sometimes, a block of cream cheese. Only the rich Uniontown "cake eaters" would put parsley or some other doo dads on their potatoes.

One of my favorites to this very day was learned from my neighbor, Bob. Just dice up about 3 tomatoes in a bowl and add a dash of olive oil and a splash of Regina wine vinegar. That's it. And in the summertime, add an extra tomato. And you think that California invented a lot of the diet foods?

In Pittsburgh, like everywhere else, coffee was a staple, but the kids usually drank pop, which is "soda" for the rest of the world. We had brands like Vernors and Sun Drop which are still around but rather hard to get. But like Radar O'Reilly from M*A*S*H, we drank our share of grape and orange Nehi.

Today, many ice cream companies try to mimic the taste of a Creamsicle. They fail far too often. Popsicles were 5 cents but to enjoy that wonderful orange and cream taste would cost you a penny more. For the life of me, I wonder why most of the kids from Smock still have the teeth that they were born with?

Most everyone had a garden in Smock and my neighbor and I knew the location of every tomato patch in those gardens. (Please see the "tomato salad" reference above.) Yes, it was theft but we only took a couple. So the garden was a food source and an ammunition source come late October. Tomatoes had a great trajectory and exploded on impact.

So now I'm going to finish this chapter in my blog. I'm hungry.

And you know the one "bad" thing about many of these European dishes? You finish your meal and 72 hours later, you're hungry again.

All About Me (and Cori Connors)

2009-01-15T08:11:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I was "tagged" by Cori Connors in her blog. Cori writes about her family. And not only writes about them, she writes songs and sings about them. I wish I had the talent (and the family) that I could write and sing about. Of course, if I sung, I would clear the room. But Cori has the sweetest voice in Christendom. And several years ago, she recorded what I think is the best Christmas CD in the entire world. I'm not kidding. The very best. I have to thank my dear friend El McMeen for sending "Sleepy Little Town" to me with a sticky note saying "This is the best Christmas CD ever." He was correct then and still is today.

So Cori wrote all of these things so that people would get to know her better. Things like favorite things of all sorts and some personal things too. At the end, she "tagged" me and said that now, I have to list these things myself. So, if you really want to know more about me, read on. If not, click over to CNN.com or YouTube.

TV shows (and movies) I like
1. NCIS
2. Pushing Daisies
3. Anything that Ken Burns produces
4. The Princess Bride
5. In The Good Old Summertime

Favorite restaurants
1. Adzema's Pharmacy (yes, they STILL have a lunch counter) Pittsburgh
2. Morton's Steakhouse (Anywhere)
3. Le Champignon (Philadelphia)
4. What's Cooking at Casey's (Oakmont, Pittsburgh)
5. Police Station Pizza (Bridgeville, Pittsburgh)
6. The Charcoal Pit (Wilmington, DE)
7. Jessop's (New Castle, DE)

Things I did yesterday
1. Practiced my whistles
2. Scheduled a mass to be said for someone
3. Recorded music for my dear friend Bobby D.
4. Froze my %$!! off
5. Got my oil changed and state inspection done
6. Went to lunch with Charlie Heaton, an organist of international fame and good friend

Things I look forward to
1. Travel to McLean, VA today to play music and to see all of my friends there
2. Seeing my friends Jay Ungar and Molly Mason this weekend
3. Seeing my friend Trish Siefert this weekend
4. Staying with the Marks' family, all who are very cool
5. Seeing my excellent friends Brian and Guy who are Ravens fans
6. Seeing the Pittsburgh Steelers go to the Super Bowl (and beat the Ravens on Sunday)
7. Recording a new CD
8. Spring, and time to ride motorcycles

Things I like about Winter
1. Nothing
2. Did I say "nothing"??
3. Absolutely nothing

Things on my wish list
1. To really "hit it off" with a special person
2. A new motorcycle
3. A constant pile of new tunes to play
4. Good health (that's pretty standard)
5. Having someone leave me a million bucks in their will
6. Make that 2 million
7. To hear God tell someone "Let me tell you about my friend Bob."
8. And to tell God "Let me tell you about all of my friends."

OK, that's it. But really, buy Cori's CDs. ALL of them. She does not know how to record junk. But if you only get one, get Sleepy Little Town along with a box of Kleenex. You'll need it.

So do I get to tag people now?

A Year of Firsts

2009-01-12T10:50:00.001-05:00

1958 was a year that I learned a lot of new things. Not necessarily from school either. (Apologies to Eleanor McMaster, my 4th grade teacher.) But from real life experiences. Please let me explain.

As a child, I was inquisitive. And, as they would say in Ireland, I was a "bold young man". So when I walked by the St. Hedwig's Parish Rectory in Smock and saw all of these colored lights flashing through the smoked glass of the living room picture window, I just had to know what was going on. And if you knew Rev. Fabian G. Oris like I did, you realized that I was tempting fate and taking my life in my hands when I approached his front door. Undaunted, I rang the doorbell, a device that NO ONE had in Smock. The button even lit up. Amazing. Then, I began to think about Father Oris and how strict he could be and suddenly wished that the door remained closed despite my joy of pushing the lighted button. But the door opened and there he was, about 6 feet of angry priest, face in a scowl, saying "Well Pegritz, what do YOU want?" I told him that I was curious about the colored lights on his window and he said "You want to know about this? Well, come in and I'll show you."

When I walked in, I thought that I would see some torture apparatus adorned with flashing Christmas lights, but instead, my jaw instantly dropped. A television with colored pictures. And the Pittsburgh Pirates were playing baseball on the greenest grass I have ever seen. I was speechless. Then, as an act of charity, Father Oris offered me a bottle of pop. Then I knew that I must have been beheaded and that this was all a dream. But the bottle of Sun Drop came and I knew that I was in some sort of heaven for headless boys.

While watching this amazing display of electronic genius, I noticed something else. The living room had no floor. What I meant was that the carpet went all the way to the wall. Wall-to-wall carpet, I was told. Who makes such a thing? The angels?

Father Oris drove a 1958 Oldsmobile Dynamic 98. It was light blue and had at least 17 tons of chrome on it. And the engine was huge, and it had an automatic shifter. But that wasn't the amazing part. Instead of window cranks, it had.....buttons. Little buttons that when you pushed them downward, actually opened the windows by some magic force. And they closed automatically too. One day in July, when the temperature was in the 90's, I saw that the '98 was outside with the motor idling. I asked Father Oris if I could put the windows down because he would roast if he got into that car on a day that was so hot. He said, "Do not touch my car and don't touch the windows or you'll let all of the COLD air out." I thought that perhaps Father Oris had just a bit too much altar wine that Sunday.

For some celestial reason, Father Oris performed a sudden act of compassion and asked me to join him near his car. He said "Get in." I thought that he was going to drive me home and tell my mother that I was useless and needed to be destroyed. When I got into the car, it was COLD. And lo and behold, beneath that 20 foot dashboard rested a box with four chrome plated "nozzles" that spewed cold air. On the top of the box read the word "Frigidaire". I instantly realized that Father Oris had a refrigerator in his car. He called it "air conditioning." I called it amazing. He then said he'd drive me up to the top of the street where I lived. I said a silent prayer that SOMEONE would be watching when I stepped out of that Olds 98. The only one to witness this event was Prince, Mr. Florek's dog.

So inside of a two week period, I saw my first doorbell, color TV, automobile air conditioner and wall-to-wall carpet. And they all belonged to the priest.

Now if you feel like most of the people in Smock in 1958, you would say something like "that priest sure spends the parish's money and buys all of those nice things; things that WE sure don't have and probably never will." But even at age 9, I knew that the priest had to get up every day of the week and say mass. I always thought that getting up really early was something that required super-human ability. I still think that way today. But then, there were the weddings and funerals and travel to the hospitals or homes where sick people were. And then making sure that Kuba cleaned the church and that all of the bills were paid. I realized that he DESERVED these things, even if he didn't work in the Robena coal mine.

So today, I have a healthy respect for the clergy. They make all of that hard work that they do seem easy since we only see about 10% of what they do each week. I now also realize the years of sacrifice in divinity school or seminary that must be done before you can buy your first Oldsmobile.

I also learned that Father Fabian Oris wasn't evil. Oh, we all have our weak moments when God is not pleased with our actions, but we are also taught that we have a God who loves us in spite of the goofy things that we do.

And, I thought that I'd never see the day where I would have my own air conditioned car, wall-to-wall carpets or color TV. But today, with the graces from the very God that Father Oris taught me to love and to serve, I have all of these things myself.

Except for the doorbell.

Corporal Punishment

2009-01-02T15:08:00.000-05:00

I'd like to get 2009 off to a rousing start by discussing something that everyone who has ever lived in Smock experienced at one time or another.

The device used to exact discipline was called by many names. Paddle, pit belt, korbac (from the Slovak, pronounced kor'-batch), Old Reliable, the "stick" or "lickin' stick". Sometimes the bare hand was used. Sometimes a device. But either way, this was our just reward for going against authority or breaking the rules. Or for uttering curse words in ANY language.

Yep, we were spanked. There is no delicate way to approach this, just as there was no delicate way that our parents approached this disciplinary art form. Usually, the target of opportunity was our behind. Or butt. Or dupetchka. Call it what you like. But when Mom or Dad were finished, we had learned a lesson about outcomes.

In Smock, we got away with a lot. Throwing hard husked corn on the wooden porches of the neighbors during Halloween, "washing" the face of one of the Dubos girls with snow (there were 8 Dubos girls to choose from), taking that secret sip of altar wine, or stealing perfect tomatoes from the neighbor's garden well after dark. None of these things were considered offensive unless we were caught in the act.

But it was the more serious offenses that got us into trouble. "Talking back" to our parents OR our neighbors OR the parish priest was big on the list. However talking back to people that your parents didn't like was forgivable. Stealing was always bad since it was covered under secular law and the Commandments. Getting into fights was marginally bad, depending on who won and for the reason that the fight initially broke out.

We all know the reasons why our parents would occasionally blister our behinds. Incidentally, a very good friend and songwriter wrote "blister your behind" in a song and had to literally soften this since he got so many complaints from his listeners. Were we abused as children? Did our parents raise up a bunch of kids so that we would occasionally appease their sadistic psyches by becoming objects of torture? Were we just destined to go under the lash once in a while?

Those of us who grew up in Smock were familiar with the phrase "If I hear that the teacher paddled you at school, you're going to get twice as much when you get home." Was this a bold threat by our parents? No, it was a promise. An oath.

And then there was confession since practically everyone in Smock was Roman Catholic. Most of you who read this know what confession is. This is not admitting your sins to your parents. Nor is it even admitting your sins to a priest. It was admitting your sins to GOD, while the priest was an intermediary. But in the secret room of the confessional, sometimes the sacred seal of confession was broken when we all heard the priest loudly exclaim things like "YOU DID WHAT?????" or "WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO STOP?????". There was one incident that I recall when one of the Smock Hill boys was in the confessional and the priest came out from the other side, grabbed the poor kid by the scruff of the neck, and escorted him rather roughly to the communion rail only to command him to kneel on the floor and not on the ugly red kneeling pads that were off to the side. All of us in line quietly left the church before our turn in the box thinking that this kid must have killed off a family member or stole from the poor box or something equally as heinous.

So how did we turn out from this life of threats and abuse? Pretty well, and with little or no psychological trauma. Of the kids that I grew up around, I do not recall hearing any stories of repressed rage resulting in bank robberies, murder or car theft. But, all kidding aside, I also know that many of us went on to be good husbands, wives and parents. Shoot, some of us even won national awards for things like bravery, journalism, medicine and flying into space.

I don't think we bear any physical or mental scars for that matter. And you can rest assured that if we got our backside's kicked for doing something bad, we never did it again.

Well, almost never.

'Twas the Year After Christmas

2008-12-26T18:55:00.001-05:00

Well, I thought I'd end this year's meanderings with a picture that was taken only yesterday. That way, if you curse at me, you'll know what I look like. The wine glass was a prop.....not.

Recently, I have been blest with a couple of e-mails from two brothers that had lived on the other side of my living room wall for the first nine years of my life. Their "official" names are Gene and Dennis but we knew them better as "Bug" (for June Bug...he was born in June) and Picky (you can add your own reason here). I want to thank both of them for reminding me of a few stories that my feeble brain could not retain over the years. So I'd like to remind you of what they reminded me about.

A couple of stories ago, I talked about "outside influences", referring to the trends and fashion from the big city of Uniontown and the bigger city of Pittsburgh. By the time these things got to Smock, they were about five to ten years old. And I thank God for that. But Bug reminded me that we had a load of outside influences since we spent most of our time outside. Leave it to Bug to set me straight, something he's been doing for many years.

Above the sloping ball field behind the house where I came to live after leaving my through the wall buddies was a pretty steep hill, mostly adorned with a narrow assortment of what we called "jagger" bushes. But there were paths. Paths that were there longer than we could all remember. Some of us thought that the Indians made them.

In the fall when Bill & Bob Constantine's sweet corn was ripe, many of us would follow these paths through the woods and end up in a huge cornfield. There, we would "borrow" as much as we thought we could eat and enjoy this in a clearing about halfway between the farm and Smock Hill. Some of the older boys would get an 8 gallon mini-keg of beer (brand was not important) and others would show up with butter, salt, hot dogs, fresh tomatoes (which were also borrowed) and other picnic food.

Now I want to stop right here and remind you that we were pretty much teenagers. Some even younger. And we played with fire. REAL fire. In today's world, I don't dare suggest what teenagers are doing when they are left to their own devices. The kids I grew up with had the knowledge of how to cook, make a fire, and hide an 8 gallon mini-keg from prying eyes. And we were discreet. We knew how to hunt down choke-cherries and harvest the hollow shoots of weeds that grew wild down by the creek to use as a primitive blow gun. When we had crab apple fights, we used young tree branches much like the slingshot that David used in the Old Testament. (No one got hurt; just a few black and blue marks). We knew how to fashion a gun from a piece of wood that could shoot a rubber band that would raise a welt on the victim. And I won't go into the mud ball fights in the "off season" and snowball fights in winter.

What harm did we really cause? What lives were destroyed? How much did all of this cost our parents?

The tattoos that we carry today aren't made of ink, but of memory that is literally emblazoned in our minds. They were good times that every kid from Smock yearns to re-live. And now that our parents know what we were doing out in those woods, I would say that they would not mind if we didn't change a thing had we the power to become teenagers again.

The real message here is that you will not find any stories like this on YouTube or MySpace today. But I sure wish that you could, if only for the sake of the kids.

And if I were somehow able to be transported back to those hills outside Smock with nothing more than a pen knife and a few matches, I'd want Bug and Picky at my side. And, if given a few hours, they and I would be enjoying things that the kids of today may call silly. But to us, we were truly on the top of the world.

Lights, camera, Christmas

2008-12-20T09:54:00.001-05:00

Uniontown is just ten miles South of Smock on Route 51. That is where we used to go (and still go today) if we want to buy anything more than a postage stamp or a stale glass of beer. In the 1950's, Main Street in Uniontown had a brick surface. And on Friday nights, Main Street was closed to traffic to allow vendors to sell anything from cheese to cider. Those of you who remember G.C. Murphy's Department Store also remembered that you could get a coat, Christmas decorations and a milk shake from their soda fountain.

There were stores for the "normal" people and stores for those who were much more financially blest and obviously did not derive their income in a black, wet pit using a pick and shovel. I remember that the women who worked in these posh stores wore enough perfume to knock a fly off of a manure wagon. They also wore "rouge", something that you don't see women wearing in the Victoria's Secret catalog. I thought that they were from another planet where the inhabitants all had rosy cheeks and rivers of perfume made all of the flowers wither.

At Christmas, the women of Smock didn't really smell like anything. It was the men who smelled of things like Iron City beer and cabbage that had completed its alimentary journey. And it was those same men who would begin their Christmas preparations by insuring that the deer meat was still frozen and that mother had enough flour and walnuts to make kolatch, a rare delicacy that was only made at Christmas and Easter. And the men did not help out in the kitchen. They usually spent their time hunting or enjoying a beer and a bump at Bortz's tavern.

The outside lights were huge and needed to be nailed to the wood frame of the house and front porch. And, they were red, orange, green and white. That's it. I learned some really good curse words helping my father nail those lights up along the porch.

But all of these traditions aside, our little St. Hedwig's Church took on a beauty that was only seen and felt at Christmas. The two trees with simple lights were near the side altars and a manger scene was always beneath the altar where Mary's statue stood. The figures had to be at least fifty years old. The church was central to our town and still is today.

I remember that the "richer" people in Smock bought motorized rotating Christmas trees that were aluminum and had shiny aluminum branches. A rotating color disc in front of a spotlight shined and made the tree change from crimson to a very realistic yellow. But manger scenes beneath these modern marvels were handed down through several generations.

So what do you hold sacred this time of year? I remember that we actually CELEBRATED Christmas. God sent his only Son to redeem us and provide salvation. And as we were properly taught as children, without the BIRTH, we could not have the DEATH, and without the death, we are lost. This is why Easter is even more important than Christmas.

And as in years past, those good people in my home town will remember Christmas in our tiny church that still smells of fresh pine (and not aluminum). They remember when they share the oplatky at the dinner table. And even if the old glass lights are now replaced with modern LEDs that light up our own silent nights, you can still see the holes where we placed the nails.

These memories will flood their minds and hearts and make another Christmas so worth while.

The Holiday Pine & Party

2008-12-01T12:14:00.000-05:00

Every year, businesses along with our friends at the ACLU manage to squeeze out a little more Christmas and squeeze in more terms that are less offensive. Macy's now has a "Holiday Parade" and many businesses have a "holiday party" for their employees. Oh, let's not mention the "C" word or we'll offend someone.

In response to these less offensive titles, well respected people like Paul Harvey, Andy Rooney and Ben Stein have created really excellent essays about the meaning of Christmas. And we read them and make positive comments. But somehow, we still fall in the "holiday" rut.

Back in the days when Smock had a serious population, a hotel, a railroad station and a company store, Christmas meant something. I remember going to the Union Supply Company Store with my great aunt Katie to find a manger scene. Try to find one today at K-Mart, WalMart, or any department store. If you do, Jesus and the Holy Family would be stuck behind some boxes that held the latest HXQTZ-9000 turbo computer.

Even the word "creche" which can mean "Nativity scene" isn't used much in the U.S. But in countries like Ireland, creche more commonly refers to a day nursery.

In Smock, several families which had a bit more money would place a life-sized Nativity scene in their front yards, right next to the Blessed Mother fountain or grotto that remained up all year. And no one stole the figures of the Wise Men or Baby Jesus. Today, you have to seriously consider covering the Baby Jesus with Geico instead of a blanket.

We used to go to the local farm that had CHRISTMAS trees and cut one down. I had to stand there holding the tree steady and upright while my Dad would saw away at the trunk and Mom would complain about how cold it was. And no matter how much plotting and calculating Dad would do, the cut at the base of the tree was always off a bit. Thank Goodness for those tree holders with the three screws that you had to endlessly adjust for windage and elevation, and Coriolis effect along with gravitational and y/z axis deviation. And when you were done, it was still crooked.

But among all of the whining and complaining, there were true holy moments. Moments like when you hang that ornament that was given to you by someone special who is no longer with you or like when you place that rather time-worn angel at the top of the tree, or when you lay the Baby Jesus in the manger. It seems like time stands still just for a few seconds. These are the truly treasured moments.

Well, it is during those times that I hope you remember the true meaning of Christmas. Sure, I can wax religious and spew out some Biblical references. But Christmas, not the "holiday season" is the second Thanksgiving at the end of the year. We give thanks for our friends. And relatives. Definitely in that order. And we pray that we can understand the difference between the things we need and the things we want. And as my friend the late Jones Pickens used to say at dinnertime, "keep us ever mindful of the needs of others." Now THAT'S Christmas.

Usually after "Rooshin Christmas" in Smock, everyone puts out their old dried up Christmas trees for H.C. Brown to collect in his all purpose garbage truck. One year, my friends and I placed piles of these trees on our sleds and took them to the top of the hill behind our house. It only took one match to set about 20 trees ablaze that had flames reaching at least 50 feet into the air. Everyone on Smock Hill came out of their houses to see that sight. And we were told that we had done a good thing to shout "Happy New Year" while the fire lit up the entire hillside that cold January night. I'd like to see Guy Lombardo top that.

So this year will most likely be like the others. Holiday this and seasonal that. But did you ever wonder why the churches are so crowded for Midnight Mass and Christmas vigil services?

I'll just bet that those atheists are jealous.

"Merry Christmas and God bless us all, cried Tiny Tim."

T-Day

2008-11-22T19:08:00.000-05:00

Well now, if my previous couple of entries have dragged you down to the point of near suicide, please allow me to wax poetic on the beauty and solace that is Thanksgiving.

I can remember back in Smock that Thanksgiving was one of the few days of the year where cabbage was not the primary scent that would emulate from the doors of all of the houses as you walked home from church. On Thanksgiving, if you were lucky, the aroma of turkey, chicken, or some other fowl was the olfactory blessing of the day, mixed with the unmistakable scent of deer. Baked deer. Or fried deer. Or deer casserole. Or maybe deer steaks. Or deerburgers. Or perhaps deer stew.

Yes, we were a band of hunters. In fact, most of the schools in Fayette County were closed on the first day of deer season. If they weren't, there would be a disproportionate amount of mostly young men that had sudden cases of the flu, stomach ache, appendicitis or even worse. And those that both miraculously recovered and bagged a six-pointer the previous day regaled their friends with the story of the 200 yard shot with "Dad's ought-six", made with open sights. Oh yes, the more difficult the shot, the more glory.

Men in Smock lived for the hunt. And they loved the hunt. So much so that as recent as today, I read an obituary saying "He was an avid deer hunter." Yep, it ranks right up there with being a die hard Steeler fan or lover of bingo. "Die hard". No pun intended. But there have been more than one Smock resident buried with a Steeler shirt and/or Terrible Towel.

My grandfather, who I loved so much, used to hold court at the table on Thanksgiving. And then at a predetermined time, he'd run around the table with this triangular piece of turkey and chase me saying "Hey Bobby, do you want the "last thing through the fence?" The non-Catholic hoards would refer to this part of Thanksgiving anatomy as "The Pope's Nose". Ugh. I usually escaped by running downstairs and locking myself in the coal bin. And then as in every year that passed, my grandmother, who held a close second to grandpap, would try her best to force one bite of sweet potato down my throat, all to the cries of "No, no, nooooo, not that." To this day, if you tried to get me to eat one of those cruel orange results of man's original sin, you would tell that I was not your friend by the choice of language that greeted you.

After dinner, my grandfather would sit in his red lounge chair which had the constant Iron City beer on the left side and watch football since Bortz's Tavern was closed. And then after the appropriate nap, it was time for the second wave of ultimate destruction of the turkey and anything else that was now covered over on the stove. I was especially fond of the stuffing and the contents of the plastic bag in the turkey that was like the toy prize in the Cracker Jack box. Oh yes, my grandfather taught me to appreciate the delicacies of his youth. Things like pig's feet, fresh cut bacon and a gelatinous dish made from boiling pigs feet that I will simply not describe for those who have weak constitutions.

On Thanksgiving Day, 1987, I attended mass at St. Theresa's in Wilmington. And it was during that mass that a miracle took place. The baskets were passed at the offertory. But before that, the priest said that today, the baskets held $10.00 bills. STACKS and STACKS of $10.00 bills. And we were instructed to take one or two or a whole fist full of them. The priest said, "don't worry, if we run out, THERE'S MORE." After the offertory, we were told that we could use the money any way we wanted. But we might want to think about those less fortunate than us. After mass, I found an old lady wheeling a shopping cart that contained her entire life. I gave her the two $10.00 bills that I took and felt pretty good about it.

There is a lesson here. A lesson that goes back to the days when I was a child. Sure, I could feel good about this since it was a SURPLUS. It didn't hurt to give away this money. So later that same T-Day, I gave away the entire contents of my wallet; about 80 bucks. That stung. But it was one of the greatest and best pains I have ever felt. It reminded me of the Bible story of the widow's mite. Sure, the pharisee plopped a big wad in the temple that day, but it was his excess that he gave. The widow gave her lunch money.

I also remembered the song that was playing on the radio when I gave away that $80.00. It was THE traditional Thanksgiving Day hymn, Alice's Restaurant. Written and sung by Arlo Guthrie, son of an American icon. And I could not think of anything better to give to for Thanksgiving 2008. So here you go... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_7C0QGkiVo

.....walk right in, it's around the back, just a half a mile from the railroad track.......

HEY !!!!!! Happy T. Day.

Veteran's Day

2008-11-11T10:44:00.001-05:00

Veteran's Day is not for the dead. That would be Memorial Day, which was covered earlier in this blog.

In Smock, Veteran's Day was not "celebrated" but do not think for one second that it was not remembered. When I was a kid, it was called Armistice Day, which commemorated the signing of the treaty to end World War I on the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

Modern posters say that Veteran's Day honors "all who served". And rightly so. Many of us include the dead in this but I prefer to think of those that are still above ground.

And so, in my childhood memories of Veteran's Day, I remember the old, arthritic men who would hang the flag out on their porches or wear their World War I campaign hats. I actually remember my grandfather's "tin hat" that he kept from that war which is exactly like the one in the picture here. World War I was called the war to end all wars. As my grandfather would say, they came up short when they gave out that title.

One of the things that Veteran's Day taught me as a child was the respect that people had for anyone who fought for their country, right back from the Revolutionary War to today's fighting in Iraq. These people were admired and praised for what they did. God and Country meant something.

In today's society, God has become the cellular phone and Country is something that is to be mocked and ridiculed at any opportunity. How can we honor our veterans if we do not honor the country for which they fought? The answer to this is that most of us simply do not honor our Veterans today.

Sure, we pay them what the Bible calls "lip service" by waving flags and patting uniformed men and women on the back while saying "well done" but do we really mean it? Is there real sincerity there? When a veteran walked by in the Smock of the 1950's, often a hushed remark accompanied them like "he was in the Great War" or "you be sure to call him MR. PONZURICK" because of what he did.

In today's "it's all about me" society, it becomes just as difficult to relate to fighting in the Baghdad streets as it was to relate to the fighting in the jungles of Phu Cat, Vietnam. You can almost hear the comments of "well at least they're not fighting down the street".

If you exclude the "family feud" that we fought in the mid-1800's, the last war fought on our own soil was mentioned only in the history books. We never knew anyone from those wars.

So then wars that were fought in remote places with exotic names like Verdun and Cassarine Pass and El Alamein were easy to forget. And along with them, we forget the men who hang those flags on their porches.

We feel pretty good about our returning soldiers from Iraq. There are even groups of people who meet returning troops at airports whether they know these military men and women or not.

Several years ago, I had written a surgical technology course for a Northern Virginia college. Part of the requirement of establishing this program was to get written affiliations with hospitals so that our students could rotate through their operating rooms for the very necessary practical experience that was required to graduate. So I got the idea to go to Walter Reed Army Hospital and Bethesda Naval Hospital and see if they would enter into this agreement with the college. What I saw there wasn't horrible. It was much worse. There were literally squads and platoons of amputees lining the halls and rooms of these hospitals. And in that instant, I learned that these are the returning troops from battle that didn't come through the airport halls, but rather were transported by military aircraft directly to these hospital for rehabilitation and fitting for prosthetic limbs. And there are thousands of these real war heroes there today.

So this Veteran's Day, I will remember those old men who dared not tell us youngsters of the horrors of the gas clouds or the trenches or the prison camp in Hanoi. But I will also remember these young people, and dare I say children, who will bear both the mental and physical memories of defending freedom and justice. They are the ones who deserve our admiration and respect on this Veteran's Day.

Snow daze

2008-10-30T15:19:00.000-04:00

As an adult and as a person who has worked for years in operating rooms, snow means potential injury to one's property and one's self. And the injury to one's self doesn't stop at broken bones and heart attacks.

One of the things that I really try to get across in this series of what I call mental "spasms" is that there were kinder and gentler years back in the days when Smock was my home town. Maybe not too gentle.

When it snowed in Smock, it was cause for a celebration. Kids literally RAN out of the house at the second they heard other kids hollering or playing. And the intensity of the fun was ramped up because there was always the potential of not having to go to school the next day. On those nights, we played games (which was mentioned in another "spasm" of mine) and we'd go "sled riding". Not sledding. That was for the "cake eaters" in Uniontown.

You can tell a child's sled in Smock by the condition that it was in. Since sleds were well used, there was the usual bent runner or broken wood slat. And we had a form of duct tape that we used to repair the broken wood. But the REALLY cool thing was that most of our gang's fathers were "handy" and could fashion another wooden slat that was usually better than the original. You always knew the sleds that were "fixed" by the lack of varnish or color of the wood.
We had a hill behind our house. In the summer, we used it for baseball. It was really hard running to first and second base but after second, you thought you could fly since it REALLY was "all downhill from there". There was a drainage ditch that was just behind second base and behind it, the field rose up about 3 feet. Then, the hill rose up dramatically and became much more difficult to climb. Now those of you who know of these winter sports also know that "dramatic" hills were marvelous to come shooting down on a Flexible Flyer or any other type of snow contraption. Oh, we saw it all; inner tubes, plastic sleds (WHAT WERE THEIR PARENTS THINKING???) and even cardboard. That hill beckoned kids like the sirens in Ulysses. I even remember one particular hill ABOVE the main hill that was called "Over The World". You shot down this really steep bank, then UP what skiers would call a "mogul" and then down, down, down toward the waiting ditch behind second base. If you did it right, you flew through the ditch and could actually sled right into your back yard (if you were me or my neighbor Bob, or the Dubos sisters or Jimmy and Phil and Paul Zimcosky).

But if it snowed SO much that the school bus, which had tire chains that broke many a school kid's heart, didn't make it to Smock, there was the Hill of All Hills. Simpson's Hill. The road that leads West from Smock Hill began an upward climb for just over a mile. And in usual Fayette County fashion, it had a lot of twists and turns. And, since it was a ROAD, it didn't have ditches and trees and "jagger" bushes to get in the way. This was the sled riding holy grail. And since the Menallen Township snow plows were pretty efficient, the Grail was not usually within reach.

One day, after a hellish snowstorm, we found that our school bus Old Yeller didn't make it. (It was a 1949 Dodge with LEATHER seats). And Simpson's Hill was perfect. Bob, my next door neighbor and I went up the hill with my sled, which was slightly longer than Bob's. We didn't know physics so we weren't aware that if two of us got on one sled, it would go faster down the hill. I remember it took us about an hour that day to ascend the Grail and after getting up there, we both sat on the sled and talked.

I need to stop the story and thank my dear and good friend Bob Szelc for something. There were countless days and nights that Bob and I would talk about what we were going to be and do when we grew up. Bob, I have treasured those talks and will, like Smock, hold them in a special place in my heart for as long as I live.

After a short while which was determined by how much we didn't feel our toes inside our rubber boots or our fingers inside our gloves, we set that sled on top of Simpson's Hill and got ready. Thanks to my Grandfather (who was also recently mentioned in this blog), my runners were greased with the leftovers that had helped to fry his bacon and eggs earlier that morning. Kids, take my advice; your sled will smell like breakfast, but putting bacon grease on your runners will make that thing go down a hill like the runners were on fire. Old man Yonker, Johnny's grandfather, came by us in his blue 1952 Chevrolet coupe. He was heading for Smock so he blew the horn as we saw him pass by, snow flying from his chain-clad rear tires. Bob said, "Nobody blows their horn at us". I didn't understand just then. As the blue Chevy turned past Watula's house, we pushed off down the hill in pursuit. We caught up with Mr. Yonker about 1/4 mile prior to the turn for Smock Hill. We were going like lightning. So fast, that I had to hold on to Mr. Yonker's bumper to avoid from going under the rear of his car. After another 100 yards or so, I turned back to look at Bob. We were both laughing like fools. What Bob saw was my face totally covered in white snow. I couldn't think of anything to say but out came "Hello Santa Claus" and we laughed our way clear up Smock Hill on just the momentum of our sled and Grandpap's marvelous bacon grease.

OK, so why did I tell this? Because YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE. How many experiences did you have as a 9 year old that have stuck in your brain for fifty years?

Bob and I can tell you hundreds of stories. And that's why I write this blog. Just to share them with you.

Fresh dirt

2008-10-20T10:12:00.000-04:00

Every summer when I was a kid, my uncle Dick from Pontiac, Michigan would bring his wife (my Mom's sister) Evelyn and their three boys Pat, Jim and Ed to Smock. Part of the ritual while they were in town was to eat pancakes, a mythical but legendary angelic food that must be common in Pontiac, since I never ate them at any other time. Another ritual was to go up to the field behind my house and shoot at bottles and tin cans with my uncle's .22 caliber rifles. For a kid from Smock, this was truly a glimpse of heaven. And thanks to the instruction of my uncle, I shot "expert" in the Air Force and have the ribbon and certificate to prove it.

The people that lived right through the wall of my circa 1895 duplex home had two sons, Thad and Bob, who also enjoyed the shooting when my uncle came to town. But they asked themselves, "why does it have to end when this guy goes back to Michigan?" They bought their own rifles, something that was forbidden in my home. But they saw fit to take me along with them to shoot at Number 4 bridge. (You guys have made countless memories for me).

Number 4 bridge was a railroad bridge that could be accessed two ways. You can drop over the hill behind my house to the Redstone Creek and follow upstream or you can walk down to the Smock post office and follow the railroad tracks. Either way, you found yourself at Number 4 bridge, a 50 foot high perch over the creek that had a walkway and railing that was made to rest a gun upon to steady your aim at the glass bottles and cans that became our moving targets in the wretched water.

For the benefit of the environmentalists, the Redstone Creek to this very day flows....orange. The source of this cotaminated sewer and stream was an old coal mine that closed because of a huge sulphur deposit. Water found its way in and through the mine and eventually found the Monongahela River, which is one of the three rivers that merge in downtown Pittsburgh. Yes, there is probably a six foot layer of broken glass just downstream of where the bridge used to be, but I don't know anyone who kayaks or swims in a creek that smells like rotten eggs. And Redstone is STILL is the primary sewerage deposit for many homes along its banks.

Over the past 50 years, Thad and Bob and I still found our way out to where the bridge used to be. (Someone took the iron and sold it for scrap). Our more modern access to the area is through the property of Ray McGill, a well known farmer who allowed us passage through his "lower forty" and down to the bridge. Ray never asked us for anything, but we felt that a couple of bottles of Four Roses or Imperial whiskey would be appropriate, as well as provide evening entertainment for Ray and his wife Cindy.

I never got to know Ray that well, other than to know him as a very happy individual. Maybe it was our "gifts" that made him happy? Maybe not. But yesterday, Ray McGill died at 55 years old. And since you don't know Ray, it is important for me to tell you that he had seven children; Daniel, Betty, Tammy, Amy, James, Mandy and Chad. And everyone knew of the McGill farm which was the first property you pass when you turn off Route 51 into Smock.

So another grave is dug and will soon be covered with fresh dirt. I guess it is inevitable that as I and many of my friends pass from decade number five on to decade six, there will be much more fresh dirt in those peaceful cemeteries in Smock.

Ray once described himself to me in rhyme, "Ray McGill lives over the hill, never worked and never will." Smock has many happy people. They played polkas at Mike Senker's post-funeral luncheon last week. I hope that tomorrow, after Ray is lowered to his final resting place, someone has the decency to play Hank Williams.

The Town Mechanic

2008-10-15T12:33:00.000-04:00

In the 1950's, Smock had more than just a bar when you counted up all of the retail establishments. There was Nick The Barber, Ohrin's Market, Charlie Peskie's Market, Ed Spooner (another barber) and even a store on Smock Hill called "Florek's" which occupied the living room of the family home. There was the post office and the Union Supply Company store.

And then, there was Ed Sparrow, who owned the Smock Central Garage. He was about 6 foot tall and had blonde hair which was usually covered up by this skull cap with the bill turned upward. The cap read "Pennzoil" and had black and white stripes. His work uniform was just that. A grey and black striped pair of coveralls, white shirt and a black bow tie. Ed was not merely a gas station attendant/owner but the single executive of the Smock Central Garage. And, you knew it.

Ed had a matter-of-fact way of telling you something whether it was about a machine or about how to drive to Grindstone. And if you pulled into Ed's garage, your oil and water (coolant) were checked along with tire pressure. And windows were cleaned, front and back.

Ed never had any air powered tools or anything with the words "Snap On" or "MAC" stamped on the sides. Some of his old pipe wrenches had wooden handles. He also had the old brass oil cans that had that long, skinny spout which dripped oil when you pressed the bottom of the can with your thumb.

You would think that Ed would have cars lined up for gasoline or for oil changes, etc., but you would be wrong. I'm not sure if anyone will ever know why people drove to other towns for gas or routine auto service. Maybe it was because he was not Roman Catholic in a town that had only a couple of families drive to Pleasant View Presbyterian Church on Sundays to consort with devils, according to Mom & Dad? Or maybe he was just too friendly? Or maybe people just didn't like Pennzoil gas? Or was it the sign near the cash register that had the picture of this older woman behind what looked like an antique desk with a manual calculator that read "Our credit manager is Helen Waite, so if you want credit, go to Helen Waite"? But Ed was one of the finest men that I knew in Smock.

A modern day Ed Sparrow is Mel Bagley, owner of Mel Bagley's Auto Service in West View, PA. Mel will change your oil and oil filter and lubricate your car for under 30 bucks. And you can wait the 15 minutes it takes seated on an old Chevrolet Bel Air station wagon back seat, which does not have arm rests, cup holders or a hole where you can stick your skis.

Yesterday, I had the misfortune to allow a 1/2 x 2 inch bolt impale into my right rear tire sidewall. (For those who don't know, a sidewall puncture cannot be repaired). Mel said that there was a nearby tire store that would sell me a new tire and install it on my wheel. Mel said that if he installed a new tire on his tire machine, it would really destroy the wheel. But then he said "wait a minute". A few minutes later, Mel came out with a very not so used tire that was the exact size of the tire on my car. "How much?" "Nothing...I save these for my friends who have this kind of problem." Mounting the tire cost $15.00.

Ed Sparrow's garage is still standing and locked up but through the windows, you can still see a bunch of old tools and gas station "accessories". If I ever get in there, I know of a nice brass oil can that has Mel Bagley's name on it.

Good-by, Mike

2008-10-10T10:44:00.000-04:00

I remember the day that Mike Senker moved to Smock. I must have been in about 4th grade, making me 10 years old or so. You knew someone was moving in because of the amount of people poking their heads from their back doors or blatantly walking up the street to get a glimpse of the new people.

Mike had four children. Marian, Theresa, Monica and Diane. With exception of Monica, Mike's kids had "problems". Marian wore braces on both legs and walked with crutches. Theresa had an exaggerated gait with slurred speech. And Diane was carried everywhere she went. And to top it off, Mike moved into the one non-standard home on Smock Hill. All of the other houses were company homes.

In the late 1800's, the Colonial Mining Company had an architect draw up plans for a duplex home. They were made from wood and were rather autonomous. Each side of the house had it's own sidewalks front and back, and it's own coal shanty and outhouse. Mike's home was a small white square place that was different.

The kids in Smock were very hesitant to socialize with any of the Senker girls. Not because they weren't born in Smock and not because they lived in a different style of home, but because they were "crippled". Yep, that's the word that they used. But when you talked to any of them, you found that the only thing that may have been less than perfect were their legs. But we're not talking about them here; we're talking about Mike.

One thing that made Mike fit in with his neighbors was that he was Roman Catholic and therefore attended St. Hedwig's. He also loved polkas and was a fellow "hunky". But soon, people started to think of Mike as different too. He went to church too often. In fact, daily. And people would see Mike sneaking into church when there wasn't anything going on inside. I feel that this may have created some resentment in some of his neighbors. "How dare him go to church more than ME? Who does that guy think he is?"

Smock will be a bit of a poorer place now that Mike Senker is gone. He was clearly the most religious man I have ever met. I have never heard him raise his voice. He adored his wife. If they had arguments, they never made it outside the walls of their non-standard home.

When his profoundly ill daughter Diane died at about age 12, Mike asked me and a few others who found him and his family to be "different" to be pallbearers for his lovely daughter. I can remember this as if it were yesterday. How could we think of them the way that we did and then have him turn around and give us this honor to carry his daughter to her grave?

Yesterday at Mike's funeral, Father John Sedlak allowed Mike's daughter Monica to speak after the mass. Several years ago, Mike told her that he was ready to go to Heaven. It was a statement of his undying faith in God. Monica told her father that she knew he'd go straight to Heaven when he died. It was his answer to her that I think I shall never forget. He said "I'll be waiting there for you."

This should speak volumes to you and I, those people that called Mike Senker their neighbor. He had raised his children to live without resentment or self-pity. And, he raised his children to love those who may not love them back because they had some physical incapacity.

Those of us from Smock can say that Marian, Theresa, Monica and Diane were raised well because they lived in Smock, a town that was "behind" Uniontown by 20 years and "behind" Pittsburgh by at least three decades. We can say that Mike's children turned out so well by not having those outside influences that I had mentioned to you before. And if you believe this, you are just partially correct.

Mike taught his children right from wrong. He spent time with his daughters and saw beyond the crutches and braces. He saw his children as perfect little girls and took the TIME to raise them up.

In our society today, I see two very important things happening. I can see where parents are too busy to spend time with their children. And children who have so many distractions that they do not have the time or inclination (or love) to spend time with Mom or Dad.

I think that we can take a lesson from Mike Senker, a simple but magnificent man from Smock.

At the luncheon following the services at the cemetery, they played polkas. It was Mike's last request. Mike knew where he was going along with everyone at the Smock Volunteer Fire Department hall. And when you think of it, isn't this a cause for celebration?

The one sad part about yesterday was when looking across the tombstones at St. Hedwig's cemetery, there was just way too much fresh dirt. Eddie Myers (the whistling bread man), John Bozek (Pecker's dad), and Mike Senker's daughter Theresa.

I just hope that they leave some room for me.

Clothes Make The Man (and Woman)

2008-09-28T14:21:00.000-04:00

It is true that as a youngster, I adored my maternal grandfather, Andy Ponzurick. And right behind him was my maternal grandmother, Mary.

Andy and Mary had one son and four daughters. Andy, Margaret, Evelyn, Patty and Helen. My aunt Patty moved to Cleveland, Evelyn to Pontiac, Michigan, Margie (my Mom) and Helen stayed in Smock and "Junior" was killed in World War II. So what's this have to do with clothes? Nothing. I just wanted you to meet my family.

Each month, Andy received a pension check. My grandmother would cash the check and give "Grandpap" about 10-15% of it, which he would immediately pocket and head down to Bortz's Tavern, one of the very few retail establishments in Smock in the 1950's. In those days, you didn't see many women down at Bortz's unless they were "bad". But prior to going to the "beer garden", Grandpap would perform an interesting ritual. He would take a bath, wash his hair in a barrel behind his back porch which collected rainwater, shave using a tan colored Remington electric shaver which he would then clean with a small bristled brush. He'd collect the whiskers in an old Marsh Wheeling cigar box, put on a clean white shirt followed by a suit AND tie. And a hint of Old Spice. Just to go to Bortz's.

While there, he would drink Kessler's whisky chased with an Iron City beer. Some call these drinks "boilermakers" while others called it "a beer and a bump". He knew that he was finished drinking when he realized that he was almost unable to walk. Then, Morris Bortz would call my Aunt Helen and eventually, I was usually nominated as the escort service to walk him home, even if Helen's rather mean-spirited husband had a perfectly functioning car. The walk was about a half mile. Uphill. Our walks home were GREAT. Grandpap would talk about so many things. Work, growing up, Mary's pierogies and how nice Mr. Gatey's lawn was. We had time since the uphill walk was usually pretty slow. That time also allowed me to appreciate the white straw hat in the summer and the grey felt hat in the winter. Sometimes he'd let me wear his hat.

Today at church, I looked around at all of the brushed denim and cargo pants that are worn to attend services. And the T-shirts which said any number of things. (All Steelers shirts are excluded from this observation.) Two 14 year old girls walked by moving rather slowly so that all could admire their fashionable shirts and skirts which left practically nothing to the imagination. I asked them, "If you girls were going to meet boyfriends, would you dress like this"? Their answer was "Oh no, we'd really get decked out and put on our really GOOD clothes." Really good clothes.

So in my mind, I thought that these kids now would get "really" dressed up for a school boy but not for church. Our society has been changing of late based upon convenience. Not to mention texting while standing in line for communion.

So what's important anymore? Andy Ponzurick used to mockingly be called "mayor" since he dressed up just to go to an old broken down coal miner's bar in Smock.

So dear reader, this is more of a rant than a blog today. We can dress up nice for a date but church and work takes second and third place in the wardrobe department.

But I still have to ask why did Andy Ponzurick put on a suit and tie EVERY time he went to a local bar? Tradition based upon childhood? A hidden agenda? (Remember, there were no women at Bortz's.) Maybe a way to show that he was better then the rest of those guys? He worked in the mine, shoulder to shoulder with them so that could not be the reason. What was it then?

I think that he WAS better than those guys. And better than all of those today who think that levi's and a t-shirt that says "Nike" on it is within the fashion limits for attendance at the local church. Or bar.

Often when I close my eyes, I can see Andy walking down that "ramp" toward Bortz's with that grey suit and that gorgeous white straw boater hat with the black silk hat band. Why did he look the way he looked?

Respect. Respect with just a hint of Old Spice.

Outside influences

2008-09-09T09:54:00.000-04:00

One of the best things about growing up in a small and rural town in the 1950's is the lack of influences from the "city". And we're not talking Pittsburgh. We're talking Uniontown.

Let me give it to you straight. Most of the families in Smock never had television. Oh, we all had radios since the Eleventh Commandment was "Thou shalt listen to the Johnnie Simms Polka Party on Sunday afternoon from Latrobe". It was pretty cool to walk up and down the street and hear one radio fade away and another get louder, all being tuned to the same AM frequency. I think I learned the first four lines of Ja Parobec Z'Kapusan thanks to Johnnie Simms.

So how did we entertain ourselves and each other? Since we were boys, we played male exclusive baseball, softball and football. However, we also played hide and seek, catchers, and a middle European form of hide and seek called Lie Low Sheepy. Girls could join us on these.

Cut The Pie was a winter sport. It really was catchers played in the snow. The first kid out in the field behind our house (which was always cut with the lawn) would make a big circle in the snow. Then there would be two diameters; one going North and South and the other East and West. What you then had looked like a snowy representation of a big Bayer aspirin. Then catchers was played. The game was to strictly adhere to the established pathways in the snow. If you strayed from the pathway, you "cut the pie" and then you became "it". Easy.

Because of the lack of television, radio, and other things electronic, we actually read books and used our imaginations. I remember a big mound of finely crushed coal near my back yard that doubled nicely as a pirate ship, a drainage ditch that became a battlefield, and a specific apple tree that became a rocket ship. My secret can finally be let out that I fought more battles, sailed more seas, and navigated galaxies in those mental vehicles that I created.

Thanks to Father Fabian Oris, Pastor and Chief Disciplinarian at St. Hedwig's Church, I saw my first color TV, first wall-to-wall carpet, and first actual Frigidaire automobile air conditioner. But since Father Oris was a priest, he was exempt from being looked at in those days as "uppity".

If you talk to one of the old gang from Smock today, you'll find out something that some might call odd. The casual observer might detect the personality of a dreamer or a person who likes to do things their own particular way. These individuals truly are what they are. Some of us became writers or computer wizards or pilots. What qualified them for these important occupations was that in their youth, the machines and factories where they had their first exposure to these honorable occupations were no more than trees or a mound of dirt or a baseball diamond that sloped uphill with a pretty big ditch in left field.

My dear friend "Junie" (he was born in June) and I spoke about this recently. I said that I thought that we were fortunate that we did not have outside influences; influences from Uniontown or Pittsburgh.

"Bobby, we had lots of outside influences. We were outside all of the time when we weren't either in school or sleeping."

I stand corrected.

Something for FREE

2008-09-01T19:33:00.000-04:00

My dear friends, I am going to tell you something personal. I am a most single man and haven't been on a "date" for about two years. Oh, I could say that I'm very busy but more likely it's because I'm just unlucky. Which is why I jumped when I heard that the web-based Yenta, eHarmony was allowing me to plough through the depths of the Pittsburgh dating world for free this weekend.

And, I have learned a lot.

Many people use cute aliases like "Daisy" and "Rosie" and a myriad of other flowers instead of their real names. I believe that this is a tactic to entice the unsuspecting bachelor into a web of terror unlike any known before.

Then there's "The one thing that (lets call her Violet) is passionate about is ____". I have read answers like money, power, travel, movies, walks in the park, dogs, squirrels, and taffy. But no one was passionate about God or friends or doing good things. They probably ARE passionate about these things, but they're not going to expose themselves to just anyone.

"The three things which Violet is most thankful for are ____". Pork, beer, and chocolate. And I'll bet that she eats and drinks all three TOGETHER. With her seventeen cats.

"The most influential person in Violet's life is ____". I've seen mother, grandmother, priest, neighbor and best friend. These are good. But I've also seen gynecologist, tarot card reader, Dear Abby, my psychotherapist, my ex-husband and Delilah.

"Violet's friends describe her as ____". You can simply recite the Girl Scout qualities since the Girl Scout Handbook is where she got these traits. Besides, who in their right mind is going to say gossipy, cheater, liar, maniac and even a BIGGER maniac.

"Three of Violet's best life skills are ____". Dealing with her ex-husband, handling my dysfunctional mother and finding new ways to pay the monthly rent. A close second are not getting pregnant, maintaining a perfect attendance at AA, learning to trust after HE did me wrong and learning how to not hate my lousy lying neighbor.

"The most important thing that Violet is looking for in a man is _____". Boy, I simply don't have room for these. We can start by re-writing the Girl Scout character traits followed by money, stability, being punctual, that he changes his underwear regularly, thin waist, liberal piercings and tattoos that are spelled correctly.

"The first thing you'll probably notice about Violet is her ______". One woman actually said "butt". Another said "chest". Then there were smile, eyes, hair, nasal septum post, personality, neck, scars and "my ability to put my legs behint my neck". Honest.

"Violet typically spends her leisure time _____". Bowling, cleaning, talking on the phone, driving my school bus, getting hammered (drunk), riding my Harley, dancing, calling my lawyer, or spending time with my "ex".

And finally, "The things Violet simply cannot live without are _____". Chocolate, Pringles, my 17 cats, my warm up suit, my Pontiac "Feeerio", my I-Pod, a man in my life and Starbucks "Macchiatos". (Do they sell cars now?)

OK, I'm not being stereotypical and I am not representing that a lot of women who live in Pittsburgh and get on eHarmony are co-dependent addicted psychopaths, but let's think about this. Many say, "Well, I'm not going to some BAR to find a man". Gotcha. Or "I just don't like the whole dating scene today". Yep.

Haven't these people heard of meeting people in SAFE places like church, friends homes, private and company parties or neighbors? Ohhhh, that's right. They're not all atheists, unemployed loners and sociopaths, right?

I actually spoke to one of these people this weekend on the phone. After 2 minutes, I knew that I had to look further. And when I told her that I didn't think that the "chemistry" may be there, she actually said "Ohhhhh, that's where you're WRONG."

Help.

Power

2008-08-26T23:23:00.000-04:00

I'm going to step out of my old rubber boots and Woolrich coat that almost everyone wore in Smock to get a bit serious. Besides, it's my blog and I'll write what I want to. And, I can even end sentences poorly too and that there.

Some friends of mine are going through some tough times right now. At first I felt helpless because I cannot snap my fingers and make things better, as much as I'd love to. But the more I thought of this, the more I remembered a poem I once wrote that someday someone will turn into a song and I'll make millions of dollars and have a huge party with all of my friends.

I wrote "God's Almighty Hand" or "In His Grip" several years ago during a very dark time. A dear friend recently said that she has been feeling a lot of pity for herself and despair since pity sort of breeds that stuff. And, another friend's Mom is having some big time surgery soon, which I sort of talked her into and even gave her the hospital and doctor to go to.

God’s Almighty Hand (In His grip) by Bob Pegritz

Wind and rain, freezing cold
Your face too numb to feel
Pain transports senses, heart and soul
To places man can’t heal

The desperate thoughts that tear at you
The season of the storm
You search in vain to find a place
With breezes calm and warm

Tears falling down in swollen streams
Create this bitter psalm
The heart that beats within your chest
Lacks any form of calm
Then cries to God in darkened halls
Transport on angels’ wings
You hear your cries of anguish still
In Heaven’s canyons ring

When hope seems fleeting, Jesus hears
With tender love, He stands
The grip you feel when pain abounds
Is God’s almighty hand

We mumble thanks with half-true hearts
And think that it was fate
When down another path we take
Of jealousy and hate
The distance comes when one by one
Your good friends fade away
There isn’t scarce but One to hear
The slander that you say

And then again, our Jesus views
Our souls in weakness stand
That warming touch when hearts grow cold
Is God’s almighty hand

When life is dark and cold and bleak
And pain seems not to end
Remember God is watching you
Our Healer and our Friend

Give up your pain into His hands
And faithfully endure
In spite of bitter paths we walk
God’s promised help is sure

And bitter tears will drift away
Like tides on Heaven’s strand
Raise up your arms and hold fast to
Our Savior’s mighty hand

Raise up your soul with outstretched arms
Upon His love, we stand
Know that you’re always in the grip
Of God’s almighty hand

Forever sing while in the grip
Of God’s almighty hand

So there. It is my prayer that my friends who are going through this pain right now feel God's hand and take strength from Him to help them through these tough times.

You can pray for them too if you want. Don't worry about their names. I told God who they are.

And if you hear a splash in the not too distant future, you'll know that a large pile of fear, doubt, pain, and uncertainty has been thrown into the Chesapeake Bay and the Susquehanna River.

Smells and Bells

2008-08-22T16:28:00.000-04:00

In Ireland, many of the towns that you approach from a neighboring hill would have a few obvious features. One of them you would notice would be that the mostly square Church of Ireland (Anglican) buildings were located in the center of town while the Roman Catholic church was usually on the outskirts and could easily be identified by the tall steeple with the cross on top.

In Smock, St. Hedwig's Roman Catholic church was smack in the middle of that part of town where I lived called Smock Hill. If you drove through Smock Hill and didn't see it, you lied about coming to visit.

The Presbyterians had to seek refuge at the Pleasant View UPC church which was located between Smock and our neighboring town, Royal. That's where Linda Hart and her heathen family went on Sundays to practice who knows what kind of sorcery.

And who would guess that those cherubic young lads who robbed tomatoes from your garden under cover of night, threw hard corn and snowballs at your porches (it was a seasonal activity), and asked your grandfathers for a taste of his elderberry blossom wine were the same angels who donned black cassocks and snow white surplices to assist the priest at Holy Mass?

The "sacramentary" was a book that seemed to weigh about 174 pounds that for some unknown reason, had to be transported from one side of the altar to the other a couple of times during mass. And that's not to mention the wrought iron stand that it sat on which dug into your hands like barbed wire. Lucky that the bigger guys got to do that, which left the task of the bell ringer to me.

Recently, a dear friend named Mike Gallagher, a great singer and player of Irish songs, sent me an online petition which pleaded to "bring back the bells at mass". I never knew someone took them. But it was my job to grab on to that brass handle from which hung FOUR various sized bells with multiple tiny clappers inside of them which harmonized when they were rung. So, I was one of the only people besides the priest that got to make noise during the service.

Back in ancient Rome when Christians were essentially lion food, the rite of the mass was held in secret, usually behind shrouds or curtains and usually in courtrooms. The priest did all of that priest stuff behind the curtain but before and during the elevation of the consecrated elements, some guy rang a bell as if to say "HEY, look over here!" The host and chalice were raised above the curtain so that all could see. That is the true origin of the "elevation". And that railing that divides the spectators from the counselors in court looks an awful lot like the communion rail in many churches in the "olden" days.

The bells were rung seven times at mass. First, when the priest holds his hands over the gifts and says "bless these gifts that will become for us the body and blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ". Then at the genuflection PRIOR to the elevation of the host or chalice, the elevation itself, and the genuflection after the elevation. BUT, there was one day in the year, Easter Sunday, when the lucky bell ringer got to ring his head off during the "Gloria in excelcis deo" which was sung. The bells were rung from the first note of this 3 minute chant right to the last note. Man, that was heaven.

Before Easter, during Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday, we weren't allowed to ring bells. So we had to use the knocker. This was a device with a flat surface to which was attached a wooden hammer whose handle was on a hinge. You would flail this thing instead of ringing the bells which then made this hideous "CLACK CLACK" sound. I used to think that we did this to remind us of the nails being hammered into Christ's hands and feet. It literally used to scare the crap out of me.

When I got a little older, I graduated to censership. Yes, I got to light the tiny round charcoal that fit into the center of the thing we used to burn incense. There was a particular way that you passed this thing to the priest. If you did it wrong, you could end up with "celebrant flambe". During those special times when we had processions, we'd all slowly march around St. Hedwig's to the strains of Pange Lingua Gloriosi. What a cool song. Since the priest was last in the procession, the head guy carrying the processional cross better know when to zig and when to zag and how fast (or slow) to walk. You never gave this job to anyone who played football or ran track. But for me, I tried to see how much of a fog I could raise before the song was over.

One of the more coveted roles of the Smock altar boy was to serve at funerals. First, you got to miss some time from school since most of these were held during the week. Second, you would pray that the cemetery was at least 400 miles away since it would take longer to get home. And thirdly, we got PAID. Usually a quarter, but that helped all of us put the "fun" back into funeral since that could buy you a grape Nehi and FOUR popsicles from Florek's store. And you never told your parents that you were paid, lest you were forced to put some of it away in the family sock. I once served at the funeral of William Flanagan. I never knew him before he died, but I have literally prayed for that guy and his family for the last 47 years. I made a dollar that day.

Church traditions were big in Smock, and they should be big today. Some of the traditions were easy to understand and some of them scared the pants off of us like kissing that dead Jesus statue on Good Friday. But they gave us and hopefully continue to give us a healthy respect for what is to be held sacred.

Recently, I stopped down at the old company store in Smock which is now partly a museum, and went in the back where there was a lot of old church memorabilia. Something was on the floor covered with a sheet. I uncovered it and there it was, the dead Jesus statue. And for just a moment, my blood ran cold.

We should hang on to our old traditions. Well, most of them anyway. And God bless you, Bill Flanagan, wherever you are.

The Company Store

2008-08-14T11:17:00.000-04:00

When the Colonial Mine was established in Smock, the miners had to have a place to shop unless of course, they either take the train or later, the Uniontown-Royal cab to do their shopping. H.C. Frick had a novel idea which was to build "company" stores in these towns and mark up the prices about 10-20% higher than Uniontown prices so that the profits came right back to the owners of the mines. You could buy anything from chipped ham to a new shirt to tires for your car (if you had one) from the company store. And, the money you made from shoveling that 16 ton "Frick load" was credited right to an account at the company store. You were never paid in cash or by check. Some company stores actually gave the miners "script" which could be redeemed for goods ONLY at that specific store. A couple of the requirements that a coal miner needed besides having a strong back were to have oil for his "sunshine lamp" and a sharp pick to mine the coal. The company store was all too glad to SELL the miner's their needed oil or sharpen their picks for a small price. And when it was time to take some money out to visit Uncle Mike in Cleveland, the company store would try to talk you out of spending your hard earned cash by saying that Cleveland was "bad" or you could take the same vacation money and build an indoor toilet (all parts for sale at the company store). Some enterprising miners would buy a major appliance a good deal cheaper in Uniontown but the delivery of the refrigerator or stove would take place at around 3:00 AM. If a miner was caught buying something away from the company store, you sometimes would get a notice that the particular shaft you worked in was suddenly flooded. The note would go on to say that the shaft would not be dry for a week and during that time, you can "enjoy your new refrigerator." How quaint.

And every summer, H.C. Frick, the owner of most of these mines and company stores would throw a party for his employees called the "Frick Picnic", usually held in Fiedor's Grove in Mount Pleasant, PA. There, you could drink a couple of free Rolling Rocks or eat a hot dog so that you could feel better about the arthritis, black lung and peripheral vascular disease that was creeping into your body thanks to your work environment. So the miners in these small towns were really getting "Fricked".

If you live or travel near Pittsburgh, you can visit one of Frick's homes in the Point Breeze section of town where you can see Henry Clay Frick's pristine 1914 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost along with literally millions of dollars of art.

Or, on some Saturday, you can turn off Route 51 at the "Smock 1" sign and head down the hill until you come to the Redstone creek. Just on the banks to the right, you'll see a very long building, which used to be the Union Supply Company Store. Go to the rear of the building and follow the steps for the "museum". The ladies and gentlemen there will show you how life used to be when we had operating mines and a very thriving company store.

No one had a Rolls Royce in Smock. And no coal miner was ever caught dead in what we think of as a "luxury car" unless it was that last ride in Steve Haky's Cadillac hearse. The cars we had were used to get back and forth to church on Sunday and to go to neighboring Uniontown to shop for food, etc.

And the only Silver Ghost that was ever in Smock was a sled that lived in Fritzy's coal shed.

Yes or no

2008-08-12T12:50:00.000-04:00

When I think back on the days of my youth in my little town, I remember that most people, especially those OLD ones in their 60's and 70's, were people of few words.

When you sat down at dinner, chances are pretty good that you'd get a plate shoved in front of you with one word; "eat".

Or if Nick the Barber said "Do you want your hair cut the same way as last time?", he expected a yes or no.

Nowadays, we need to have things explained. So Bob, here's your dinner, nice and hot with a hamburg that I just bought from the Giant Eagle in Uniontown with that gravy that you like so well on it. "But Mom, where's the mashed potatoes and "MY" glass of diet whatever?" First off, as a kid, your Mom would never give you a running play by play of your dinner. And, if for any psycho (not psychological) reason that you had where you'd say "I'm not hungry", then that dish would be taken out from under your upturned nose and you simply didn't eat.

In the 1950's, try and tell your parents that the dress they bought you was not "in" or was too loose or was the wrong color. Suffice to say, they did not return it for something else. Or if that baseball glove had the wrong signature of a player on it, you can bet that Dad didn't say "No problem, we'll take it back and look for the Roberto Clemente model."

And what is really crazy these days are those parents who actually fret about what their children may think of THEM. Oh, if I tell Billy that he's grounded for getting a D in English, he may really hit the roof. WHAT???? If I tell Mary that we're going to Ocean City for vacation, she might get mad and not go? HUH?????

Sometimes we may benefit from talking with our parents on the matter of how we were raised. Sure, it may not be politically correct, but it was correct. Why do we need "life coaches" and parenting books to teach us what to do with our kids? We have the Bible and we have our own life lessons as reference.

This morning, I had to go to the doctor. And in my usual elegant style, I turned on the wrong road and got on Pittsburgh's Liberty bridge. I knew that if I didn't bail out and turn right onto the road that goes to Mount Washington, I'd be in for a really severe detour. Just before getting to the top of the road to finally turn around and get back on the right track, there was a late model gold Pontiac in the middle of my lane with the four-way flashers on. Since this road has one lane going up and one going down, I made sure that the way was clear for me to go around the car, go to the top of the hill, and turn around.

Coming down the other side, I put on my own four-way flashers and stopped and asked the driver (who had a wife in the front seat and two young children in the back), "are you OK?" He said that he was out of gas. I spared him my 20 minute lecture on how he should NEVER run out of gas and asked him "Would you like me to call for help"? He said "I don't know...we don't have a cell phone." I said "I do have a cell phone...would you like ME to call someone for you to help you?" He said "Who are you going to call?" At this point, cars were backing up behind this guy as well as behind me since we now blocked the entire road. "I'm going to call someone with GAS." "Who?" Finally, my Smock upbringing rose up and said "Listen, I need ONE WORD from you...yes or no." He looked sort of perplexed and said "Yes or no? I need to know who you're going to call." Finally, my grandparent's upbringing came out and said "Listen, this is your last chance...if you want me to get someone up here with gas, you need to say ONE WORD, yes or no.!!!" At this point, it reminded me of the judge in My Cousin Vinny who asked "How do you plead?" and Vinny kept wanting to give explanations. "YES" came the response and I assured him that I would call. Further down the hill, as the people behind me no doubt continued to make threats on my life, I called 911 and asked if they can send help to this motorist who was out of gas. The answer? "YES"

I almost asked him what house he lived in back in Smock.

What's in a name?

2008-08-08T17:39:00.000-04:00

In our little community of Smock, we had a lot of Christian names. Names like John, Thomas, Eugene, Robert, Daniel and Francis. However, most of the kids in Smock could not tolerate having to use such Biblical references and so we were all thankful for nicknames.

The house where I grew up was a standard Smock duplex. Two families separated by what seemed to be about 1/4 inch of wall. But the founding fathers of Smock knew something about autonomy. Each side had it's own porch, front and back, it's own lawn, it's own sidewalks, front and back, and most importantly, it's own coal "shanty" and outhouse. If you went back to Smock today, you'd still see a few of coal shanty/outhouse combos and some still "work". From the back porch, you would see that the coal sheds were on the outside of the small group of buildings and the outhouses were next to each other. Why? Conversation. Privacy was maintained by another one of those ultra thin walls, but if you heard the other side's door open and close, you knew that at least you could have a chat while you shat. And you knew the outhouse doors by one very important feature which was a "V" shaped cut in the top to let in sunlight. But I digress.

Fred and Mae lived on the other side of my house. They didn't have nicknames. But they also had four children; Fritzy, Sissy, Junie and Picky. They were really Francis, Mary, Eugene and Dennis. But the only time those names were used was when your parents were mad at you. There was Kikle, Weezie, Moe, Zimmy, Kubba, Pecker and Youk. Even the grown ups had nicknames. Pickhandle, Tutto, Oogie, Pea Head, Nutzie, Kuba, Pecker (there was Big Pecker and Little Pecker), Frankie Bo, Figgy and Shanny. We even had names for inanimate objects such as the thing you got your behind whacked with when you were bad (corbutch) or the thing where you stored the corbutch (butka).

Then there were the derivations on your real name like Bobby D. and Jimmy C. And then there was the worst. I used to hang out a lot with Fritzy and Junie and Picky but I also hung out with Bob. After I turned 9, we moved up the street to a house that had indoor plumbing and an inside coal bin. Man, we were in high cotton. Bob lived on the other side of my wall with his brother Thad. And, Bob was older than me, so he got to be called "Bob". I on the other hand could not be "Bob" since that was already taken. And so someone with an absolute evil mind decided that since my middle name was Joseph, I became Bobby Joe. And, to this day, this soon to be 60 author, musician and medical/legal consultant is still known by that "name". For years I hated it but after a while, when I'd hear it, it was a kind of stamp of approval or a way of knowing that I truly belonged to something. Or someone.

My heart REALLY goes out to Tommy Bozek. Smock always had a bar. And our bar was Bortz's. Then it became Petrock's. Now, I'm not sure what it's called because there's no sign out front any more. But a few months ago, I was thirsty and stopped in for a 55 cent Budweiser and looked at the guy sitting next to me. When we started to talk, he even sounded familiar. It was Tommy Bozek.

Pecker?

Bobby Joe???

Some things never change.

Bob Rides the Bus, The Sequel

2008-07-29T19:41:00.000-04:00

The bus system we have here in Pittsburgh is called PAT. Some say "Pittsburgh Area Transit" but I say Pretty Awful Time. In the time since my last spasm, I have stood mostly between my Ross Township French chateau and the downtown terminus. And while standing, I often have the opportunity to experience something that smells like what you get when you cross a huge pile of wild onions with diarrhea. Yes, it's that bad. And new colognes and perfumes are being invented daily that rival syrup of Ipecac. For those of you who don't know what that is, look it up. Someday, when I am filthy rich, I'm going to have my chauffeur follow the bus route into town every work day and savor the clean smell of fresh filtered air scented ever so softly with lilac.

While I'm on the subject of riding the bus, there is something else that I have noticed. Electronic stuff. Stuff that you stick in your ears to totally blot out reality and take you to whatever musical world that you have downloaded from Napster or Rhapsody. Or, you stick your telephone up to your ear and begin talking in a 120 decibel voice to insure that you remind everyone around you that YOUR life is SO much sweeter than the plebeians that ride this cattle car. Or you take that same or similar electronic gizmo and begin to feverishly type out wee messages to most likely the President or the Pope advising him on how to better run things.

What all of this does is insure that our ability to converse in a sensible and interesting manner is being wiped out as fast as the Pet Rock. Not only do we not speak to our neighbors on the bus, but they don't DESERVE our time. Besides, they SMELL. WE matter, since it is all about us. Just look at that guy up in Vermont a couple of weeks ago who was hit by a car and laid in the street while people passed by. Well, at least they slowed down to check him out. So that makes us a caring people, right? We slowed down. But we never stopped texting, talking, or listening to Waylon Jennings sing the theme from the Dukes of Hazzard on our bleeding I-Pod as we passed by his injured body.

God made these people, people. And whether or not you like to admit it, He made them in His image. Oh sure, send me your atheist comments. I'll read them, because God made you too. And he made U-2. And He gave us brains (some less than others) and intellects and mouths to talk with so we can freely express what we think.

So if you see me on the bus, turn off your blasted electronic thingy and say hello. I'll most likely talk back, unless you just ate one of those double garlic pizzas with extra dead possum on it.

Bob Rides the Bus

2008-07-14T20:41:00.000-04:00

When I first started riding the bus, I was only 8 years old. And it took me to a town called Keisterville, which nobody ever pronounces like that. We called it Keister. It was only a couple of miles from Smock, but to me, it felt like I was on the dark side of the moon.

As we rode the bus, we had older kids on board that were headed for the Uniontown Senior High School. One of those passengers was a guy who was considered "slow". Let's call him Jinxy. Jinxy was our official 21 year old senior but had a heart of gold, unless you crossed him or made fun of him.
In the Smock of the 1950's, there were two popular brands of smoking tobacco. One was called Half & Half, although I really never figured out which half was which, but I knew that before it found it's way into my grandfather's pipe, it smelled glorious. I sometimes had the honor of twisting off the metal ring that locked in the freshness and sticking my nose in that can. It's one of the things you never forget.

The other pipe tobacco was called Cutty Pipe. If you see old pictures of Irish leprechauns smoking those clay pipes with the long, curved stems, those are actually called Cutty Pipes. But there was a brand of tobacco called that too.

So one day, the seniors of Uniontown High took to smoking pipes, and Jinxy was not going to be left behind. So, he took up the habit which began on the back of the bus. A guy could get away with this violation of the rules especially in the warmer weather since all of the bus windows were down and you can hide behind the tall seat backs and smoke.

One day, Jinxy was smoking his pipe in the back of the bus and I noticed that each time the bus hit a bump in the road, Jinxy's head would bob up and down and his eyes would roll back into his head. I did not know this, but this was a desired effect. So I went back to the rear of the bus and said "Hey Jinxy, what's that you're smoking?" He said "Half Cutty Pipe, half Half & Half. I went insane with laughter which was great for me, but it hurt Jinxy's feelings which prompted him to put me into a headlock and began to beat the top of my head with his clenched fist. It took 3 guys to get him off of me.

Today, on the ride home, I got on the bus and realized that some things never change. The person sitting in the seat just ahead of me had applied something similar to my Grandmother's favorite perfume, Avon's "Here's My Heart" which smelled like a flower shop straight from hell. She also smelled like she applied it using a Wagner Power Sprayer set to "Fog". Behind me was another person who must have had the More Garlic Pizza from Garlic Brothers.

Mix those two smells and you have something that makes you drop to your knees and be grateful that the ride was only 20 minutes.

I really longed for the smell of half Cutty Pipe and half Half & Half.

911 or 913?

2008-07-01T09:05:00.000-04:00

As a boy growing up in Fayette County, we were never taught to pray, except at night, when we either prayed for the people in our lives or suffer the pit belt across your already tired behind. Prayers weren't for everyone else, but just for those in the immediate family. Other families should have their own prayers so we didn't have to mess with them.

Everyone, save three families, went to St. Hedwig's Roman Catholic church located on Smock Hill. The three exemptions were Reverend Nedd and his wife who pastored a small Baptist church well out of town, Mary Taylor and her husband, who I believe went to Reverend Nedd's church, and the Hart family, who were non-Catholic heathens who most likely participated in demonic rituals and other devil worship (they were Presbyterian). As a child, I was allowed to speak to Reverend Nedd and Mary Taylor, but the Harts were "off limits" since no one knew a lot about them. Since nobody knew their background, they HAD to be evil sorcerers.

Linda Hart was my age and wore....glasses. Glasses that allowed her to peer into the souls of others and helped to focus the powers of hell. Otherwise, she played the piano and made pretty good grades in school. One day, I was standing outside the Hart's home listening to Linda play rather non-satanic music when her mother appeared and asked if I'd like to come in. Whoa. On one hand, this was like entering the inner sanctum of the Masons but on the other, it allowed me a peek into what was surely the occult. After entering, I found Linda playing a rather pretty demonic tune on the piano while her mother, eternal priestess of the netherworld, offered me cookies. What was an 11 year old Catholic boy to do? I ate four of them and much to my surprise, I did not die.

After listening a bit more to Linda and the piano, I went home and told my mother of my exploits. I was beaten to within an inch of my life for cavorting with pagans and eating their demonic cookies which would, according to Mom, rot my soul. I have no idea how I was able to survive all of this, especially when I was going to make my first confession really soon and Father Oris would no doubt pour a bucket of Holy Water over me to douse the evil spirits.

In my subsequent years, prayer resulted in luck. Good things happened and God was on my side, although I now play music in several "demon-infested" churches. How could HE smile on me for doing these things?

Now, I'm going to tell you something personal. On Sunday evening, June 22nd, I complained to God. No, not some whiny, wimpy "you never do anything for me" prayer but a full-bodied tirade telling God that He is falling down on the job. You see, I have not had a lot of work for six months and I was sick and tired of staying home. So I really let God have it. "YOU DON'T LISTEN. MY PRAYERS ARE BOUNCING OFF THE CEILING AND EMBEDDING INTO THE RUGS. UGH. MY FAITH IS SLIM TO NONE AND ALL I SEE YOU DOING IS MESSING WITH THE WEATHER.

So I asked God to show me a sign. My financial status was emergent and so I made an emergency prayer. Let me know in some tangible way where even an idiot like me would understand that this would be a message from YOU.

Dr. Joe Klimoski delivered more than half of the population of Brownsville. He was one of those rare general practitioners who did it all; delivered babies, burned off warts, set bones, did hysterectomies, gall bladder and appendix removals, and even did the occasional tonsillectomy. "My license says to practice Medicine and Surgery" and that's what I damned well do". Joe had one vice which was playing the illegal numbers. And the only number he'd call into his bookie was "913". Every day. Shoot, even the hospital switchboard operators paged him by saying "913, call the operator" or "913, report to the operating room".

Ever since I left the Brownsville Hospital in June of 1977, I would point at the television if the Pennsylvania Lottery was on, snap my fingers and say "913 !!!!!". It never came out.

After I made my demands to God on June 22nd, I knew that "60 Minutes" was coming on soon so I turned on the television and switched to Channel Two. The Pennsylvania Lottery was on so I took this as a sign to go to the refrigerator and get an orange. As I passed by the television, I snapped my fingers and said "913". The Daily Number that was drawn was 913. Perfect. Not backwards or "boxed". 913.

Was this the sign I literally demanded to see? I'll bet Linda Hart's devil-piano on it.

Father's Day

2008-06-15T18:37:00.000-04:00

So what did Father's Day mean in our little town of Smock? Since it fell on a Sunday, everyone except the one non-Catholic family in Smock went to St. Hedwig's church to listen to the bilingual sermon. Half in English, half in Slovak. Actually, the preaching from the pulpit was more like being scolded for doing some heinous crime like leaving church during communion or not coughing up the money to be publically listed in the church bulletin in the "Dollar A Sunday Club". I remember that the people who gave 5, 10, 15, and an unbelievable twenty bucks a Sunday were listed too so that the givers could gloat and the people who just dropped coins in the wire baskets could envy. Man, twenty bucks. Actually in those days, it probably paid for the electric bill for an entire month.

If you were a boy, you were expected to be an altar boy. Girls were banished to the choir or the Sodality, a word whose definition had escaped me since the boys never had such a "club". Our nicknames never changed when we were listed in the bulletin to serve at mass for the following week and Sunday. Imagine waking up at 6:30 to run down the street, change into a robe that made us look like mini-priests, and then after all of this discipline, head off to school? But the names like Junie and Zimmy and Kikel and Pecker (that is no misprint) would be listed every week or two to undergo the scrutiny and discipline of the parish priest, who at that time, was allowed to smack you across your head if you goofed up.

For our efforts, we were rewarded by a once a month bus trip to Shadowland, a skating rink in Uniontown that later became a supermarket, and even later, a drug store. We traveled with the Sodality girls so that we had things to confess on Saturday evening. It was not unheard of to stand in line for up to an hour to wait to get inside that confessional only so that the others outside would hear the priest bellow "You did WHAT????" I used to live in fear that my penance would include being lashed by whips that were wielded by the nuns.

Oh, FATHER'S DAY. In church, the priest would thank all of the fathers in the crowd for not killing their offspring in the last calendar year while also reminding everyone that HE was called "father" in hopes of getting a few monetary gifts. (He wasn't crazy about being invited to dinner since he had an aversion to cooked cabbage.)

I do not have any recollection of my own father on these days, but I remember what my grandfather used to do. Like every summer Sunday, he'd come up to the area in the back alley behind our house and pitch horseshoes with the other men. And of course, they'd drink Rolling Rock in those little green "pony" bottles, spit, curse, and when the conversations got racy, they'd launch into Slovak or Polish to keep the little ears from hearing.

Father's Day was not special in Smock since we felt that every day was Father's Day. Dad was a guy that was to be respected and obeyed in every fashion or face having your hind quarters blistered by a "pit belt", the wide leather belt that the men wore while in the mine.

So that was it. Happy Father's Day, dad. And he'd look at you, belch a couple of times, tell you that "you better watch it if you know what's good for you" and go and play horseshoes.

I never got the chance to do all of those things that were reserved for dad's and grandparents. But I remember and somehow, that's good enough.

On the banks of the mighty Redstone

2008-06-02T13:07:00.000-04:00

We called it the sulphur creek. Sounds like the name of a body of water that flowed through hell.

If you travel South from Smock toward Uniontown, you will see a ridge line just East of the city. That is called Chestnut Ridge. There is a town by the same name, but for accuracy, we're talking mountain and not town. It is on the Western bank of Chestnut Ridge that the Redstone Creek originates. But before it hits Smock, the watershed takes a detour through an old mine where sulphur was found. Hence, the brilliant orange hue that one sees when viewing the creek from the bridge that separates Smock Hill from "the other side" of Smock.

It was impossible to lie and say that you didn't go swimming in the creek during the summer months since your skin and clothes matched the creek's color.

Also, it was an absolute haven for shooters who floated bottles, both plastic and glass, down the river to serve as a moving target. It was already contaminated so "what the heck" was the attitude back then.

There were several ways to cross Redstone Creek and several reasons why one would do that. In the fall, when the kids stole horse corn from a local Smock farmer, you had to cross the creek to avoid being caught carrying corn husks stuffed in every pocket, down your pants, inside your shirt and in that burlap sack that you would procure. The corn was removed from husk and cob and then a few days would pass to insure the corn was hard. VERY hard. This way, on or near Halloween, we would fill our pockets with massive quantities of this stuff to throw at houses. Wooden houses with big picture windows. We never destroyed anything, but the sound of six kids simultaneously throwing this stuff onto your porch at night could scare you right out of your chair. We called this "racking" houses. It was free, fun, and made the homeowners furious.

Another Redstone crossing was what was called the Number 4 bridge. It was a railroad bridge that crossed the creek and made a superior platform in which to shoot at moving targets. The younger folks in Smock used .22 caliber rifles, but lately, have "graduated" to any number of American and Russian assault rifles. The creek remains pretty contaminated so there is no fear of people cutting their feet on what is most probably a 6 foot thickness of broken glass in the creek bed.

What is true about this body of water in the region of Smock is that I cannot recall anyone ever having an accident near or on the shore, let alone in the water. Sure, you'd hear about the odd dead body of a deer or unwanted spouse near Uniontown, but never at Smock. Just broken glass and euthanized cats.

The environmentalists may not appreciate my musings, but every word of this is true to this very day. Some people had Disney World. We had the Redstone Creek.

This day's blog is brought to you by Nick The Barber. I didn't know Nick's last name until I was in the 7th grade. He was just Nick and he was Italian. Smock didn't have many Italians, but in order to maximize the stereotype, we had Nick. You got the haircut Nick gave you. You wanted him to leave parts of your hair long? Too bad. Offended by cigarette smoke? Too bad. Afraid of fire? Too bad. (Nick actually "singed" hair. It was an art he learned when he was young back in Ancient Rome.) So for the best buck seventy-five haircut that you didn't want, Nick was your man. And his shop overlooked the Redstone Creek. Just as it should.

Is there a Mr. Smock?

2008-05-27T08:23:00.000-04:00

In 1869, Samuel Smock, a German from New Jersey, was making his way toward California in search of gold, when he saw an opportunity to buy a small tract of land in Western Pennsylvania. He built a 2-story brick farmhouse, which is still there today, and began to sell the land and mineral rights to the Colonial Mining Company. Eventually, a railroad was built primarily to haul the mined coal and passengers to and from the area. The stop near Smock's home was called Smock Station. That's it. No battles with Indians, no heated land deals, not even a good romantic twist with someone named Shirley Smock or anything like that.

The Colonial Mining Company had several mines in the area, all with number designations. Smock had the Colonial #1 mine, and close by were Colonial #2 and Colonial #3. In the years to come, even the proper names of the towns were abbreviated. "Oh, she lives in Number 3", for example. These designations were eventually brought forth in a song that I wrote shortly after discovering girls, which was titled "I dated a girl from #3 but she treated me like #2."

When the Colonial mine needed to house workers, a blueprint for a two-story duplex home was drawn up and about 20 of these homes were built on what has been called "Smock Hill". I lived in one of those (or should I say one-half of one of those?). More homes were built on the "other side" of the Redstone Creek. Those of us who lived on the "Hill" must have spent months coming up with the name "the other side", or "new" town. Since there are five distinct architectural styles in Smock, someone from the National Registry of Historical (hysterical) Places decided to put Smock on the register. As one long time resident told me, "It doesn't put any money in our pockets."

And speaking of money, one of the more curious buildings in Smock was the store built down by the creek where you could buy anything from bacon to car tires. It was called the Union Supply Co. store. Yep, it was shorted to "the company store". My grandmother's sister, my aunt Katie, worked there and I remember visiting her when I was a child.

The miners would have their individual accounts credited with their bi-weekly wages at the company store. Then, as they purchased the items which were usually marked up between 15 and 20% higher than what you would see in neighboring Uniontown, the company store would simply debit your account. (And we think that the debit card is something new.) Miners had to pay to have their picks sharpened and shovels maintained. Even the oil in their "sunshine lamps" which were worn on their hard hats had to be bought. At the end of the two weeks, it was rare that you broke even. Many miners and their families went "into the red" which was allowed by the so-called benevolent company store. And every two weeks, the account would slide back and forth from the plus to the minus.

When vacations were planned, the company store representatives would talk to the miners and say things like "you don't have to travel on your vacation when you can stay at home and replace those old front steps on your house with new ones and OH YES, we have a sale this week on lumber." And right into the red you would go.

Some brave folk bought major appliances from the department stores in Uniontown and had them delivered in the middle of the night. If the neighbors ratted to the company store that you had bought an item elsewhere, then it was not uncommon for you to receive a letter from the mine saying that the section where you worked was flooded and that you should not report to work for a week. And in the meantime, you can enjoy that new Kenmore stove that you bought in Uniontown last week.

When Tennessee Ernie Ford popularized the song "Sixteen Tons", the words "I owe my soul to the company store" were the absolute truth for those of us who lived in Smock.

Sometimes it seemed like souls were bought and sold in that green painted store down by the creek. But they always cost more there than in Uniontown.

Memorial Day and such

2008-05-24T12:18:00.000-04:00

First, an explanation. "Slack" is shale or slate that cannot burn. It also means not tight or "loose". Moving on.

Smock was built on two hills with a valley in between cut by the Redstone Creek, a pleasant orange colored waterway, that smelled like rotten eggs in the summer.

On every holiday, I would watch the old men come out and hang their flags on poles, banisters, or from the downspout over the front porch roof. Those flags were placed there with great care and respect. Instead of thinking about my own military history, I think of theirs and remember a song written by a Scottish man named Eric Bogle after he'd move to Australia for a few years. What you need to know is that they have a sort of Memorial Day in April.

Now every April I sit on my porch and watch the parade pass before me
And I see my old comrades how proudly they march, renewing old dreams of past glory
The old men march by me all bent, stiff and sore, those proud wounded heroes of a forgotten war
And the young people ask "what are they marching for"? and I ask myself the same question
And the band played Waltzing Matilda, as the old men still answer the call
But year after year, more men disappear......soon no one will march there at all.

So when you hang your flag on the downspout this weekend, please remember and thank those who have gone before us that made the ultimate sacrifice.

Go ahead, they'll hear you.

My very first "blog"

2008-05-23T15:17:00.000-04:00

On Saturday nights, many people hear Garrison Keillor of the Prairie Home Companion talk about the fictitious Lake Wobegon, Minnesota, "...the land that time forgot...". Smock is the land that time forgot and wants to keep it that way. We are 50 miles south of Pittsburgh, the land of the Steelers and right now, the Penguins, a flightless bird and a hockey team. In the weeks ahead, I will tell some secrets that should have stayed that way, but I'll do my best to assign fake names to protect the guilty.

Being from Smock, I thought a blog was a fairly large creature made of raspberry jelly that ate people and cars. But, people from Smock do not care much whether they're right or wrong. They are a town looking for an audience, a cold beer, and a good place to plant a tree stand for this fall's deer hunting season.

This week's blog is brought to you by Mike and Mary's Store. If you can't find it at Mike and Mary's, then you probably can do without it.