Stories

by Xavier F.Aguilar

 

A Thanksgiving Story

I was twelve years old in 1960. That November began with a rush of arctic wind. I wore a green knit hat pulled down over my ears as I helped my dad shovel coal off the sidewalk into a wheelbarrow. Four tons was enough to get us through until mid-winter or April . . . depending on the weather.

We took turns pushing the heavy load to the coal chute where we would lift the red handles high and watch the lumps crash downward into the bin. Sometimes the coal would get stuck and we'd have to use a steel bar to break them loose.

Thanksgiving was soon to be and many windows in Donora were decorated with cardboard turkeys. One display had a huge bird in the foreground with cornstalks and pumpkin in the distance. It was a sure reminder of Halloween that had passed the month before.

The months of festivities. That's the way I viewed November and December. A bustling of people could be seen milling over the sidewalks as smiling faces and cheerful hearts congregated despite the world. Too many of us didn't have a lot of money and couldn't buy the glitter of store items. Our wealth was friendship.

***

Frank Robel was an average man as most would discern him. He was almost six feet tall, brown hair, eyes to match and chewed tobacco. You might see him on Saturday night at the local bar throwing back a beer and a whiskey, you might see him walking to church on Sunday morning as he did his best to hide his hangover. Frank was a regular guy.

Every time my older brother would visit Frank, I would tag along with him. As the two of them sat and talked about fishing or hunting I stayed quiet and drank the soda from the fridge. I was allowed to have as many as I wanted. My favorite was grape.

That day my brother carried a shoebox with him as we left our house. I asked, "What's in the box?"

He gazed at me without expression. "It's not for you." Say no more. I understand! I kept my mouth shut as we continued up the hill.

There was no snow but it was cold. I remember how my brother kept switching hands to carry his secret, always putting the free one in his pocket. He didn't ask me to carry it and that was OK. We reached Frank's house only to learn that he wasn't there. Brother of mine became angry at his misfortune. "We might as well go back home," he said. "This note says he'll be gone all day."

***

When John F. Kennedy won for Presidency over Richard M. Nixon my aunt cried. Beside the Thanksgiving displays were 'Democrat' signs heralding the new Roman Catholic President of the United States. Tears of joy and a new found hope filled many homes in Donora that hour.

When Mr. Tomayko, director of insurance for the United Steel Workers said that more cuts to unemployment benefits would emerge before Christmas, no one cringed. The town was full of expectancy as change brought unique leadership to light.

There in it's midst stood Frank Robel. He wore a flannel shirt of orange and white checks while he shouted his praise for the political win. As he reached for his back pocket the half-pint fell and broke to spill whiskey on the concrete. He cursed at the broken glass.

Frank had already taken a 40% cut in his checks since his job terminated. He was glad that he had purchased the small house when he did. Paid for in full, at thirty-four years old, he had no debt. The best move he ever did was listening to Ralph Voldar who explained finance to him.

"Hey, hey . . . J.F.K.", is what the crowd chanted as they stood collectively at the corner of Thompson avenue. Frank saw many familiar faces as he raised his voice.

***

The Veteran's Day parade was a sight to see. Everyone lined up at the curb to see the fire trucks and the police cruiser wherein Chief John Pykosh rode and waved from the open window. Music accompanied the VFW as they marched and people waved their miniature flags.

That's when I first saw Ralph Voldar. He was a short man with a bald head and he wore a dark green sweater vest over a long sleeved shirt of blue. I tried matching the shirt with the color of the sky; it didn't work, the November sky was gray.

He stood back from the curb, against the brick wall of a building. It appeared that his rotund body was holding the structure in place and I fancied the thought that there would be collapse if he moved away. It was a child's game.

As the siren from the fire engine screamed, I walked away from the main street to a side one. I saw two older boys talking to each other. Their presence of closeness captured my attention and the taller punched the other and knocked him to the ground.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," I said as the fighter turned and walked away.

"Are you OK?"

"Get lost, kid."

I moved back to the crowd and waved my flag.

***

Simon Morris lived two houses north of us. His yard could easily be seen from ours.

It was he who gave us a chicken the day before Thanksgiving; he said he raised them for such occasions. Coups were built within his property where he allowed us to play 'catch 'n tag' and 'cowboys 'n Indians'.

Mr. Morris was a tall man walking about his yard and tossing handful's of grain to his chicks. A large brim straw hat was a regular part of his work attire. He never used tobacco and I never heard him curse. At times when he did get angry he would shake his head from side to side and mumble to himself.

It was because of the good will of Simon Morris that Thanksgiving went so well that year. There was sweet-potatoes, home made root-beer, cranberries. As mom added a sweet glaze over the baked bread I looked through the window to see Frank.

When I opened the door their smiling faces greeted me as they chimed, "Happy Thanksgiving". Frank opened a shopping bag he had carried in and shared store-bought cookies, candies, a pumpkin pie and a gallon of wine. Ralph Voldar opened the bottle with a twist, filled glasses for adults and the rest of the day was full of song, laughter and friendship.

I gazed out the window and wondered about the shoe box?


© 2006 by Xavier F. Aguilar

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