ONWARD AND UPWARD, TORONTO, 1959
They realized gradually, from the Hungarian newspapers printed in Toronto, that while Ottawa was the capitol, Montreal and Toronto were the really significant , important cities which were developing and progressing much faster than small, provincial Ottawa. The three friends moved on to Toronto, in fact Andy had gone even further south, as he had reconnected with a childhood sweetheart in the US and married her. The jointly owned car had been sold and this was the first time they had realized that cars are not good investments in North America.
Peter had started to seriously think about going back to school, starting university. He had written to many schools, inquiring about bursaries and help but none was available in 1959, at least none that would allow him full time study. So self financing was the answer, and finding a job that would allow somehow full time schooling.
While this was complicated, finally the chance came when he had found a job in Toronto’s St.Michael’s Hospital, as an orderly. The personnel manager who was a Polish immigrant himself, was a bit skeptical about Peter’s request for permanent night-shift duty, so that he could attend regular daytime courses at the University of Toronto. It seemed as if the middle aged manager exhibited some jealousy, mixed with a degree of superiority when he questioned, probed Peter. Why on earth was any European immigrant trying to get a university degree, when he, himself, he had already graduated from the University of Warsaw, and look, all that he could “attain” was this miserable little job, with a basement office, in a nuns’ hospital? Not much sense in studying for any degree because the “big” jobs will never be given to immigrants in this country, if they are not of Anglo-Saxon background!
In the end, he obliged and gave Peter a permanent night shift that is from September on, should Peter get accepted at the University of Toronto. But this was still at the beginning of summer in 1959, so Peter was given his training on the afternoon shift, supervised by a fellow orderly, from the south of Italy, called Vito. Poor Vito had immigrated to Canada in the late thirties, and, according to many, Vito had a tough assignment speaking English, while he himself was convinced of speaking fluently! Indeed, within a few hours, Vito could convince one that he mastered English, if all gesticulations, with hands and all were allowed. So formal training did not exist, and Peter had started on the 1-A surgical ward, with Vito, learning as he went along.
The colossal hospital was run by catholic nuns, but all the personnel from doctors to nurses came from the secular part of society. Every ward was run with military precision and the greatest of conscience by a Sister Angelica or a Sister Agatha or some such.
On the 1-A ward were the most needy or uninsured patients, in multi-bed rooms. People from accidents, unconscious and of no fixed address, from barroom brawls and the like usually ended up here. But there were also patients with advanced cancer and other serious ailments, too. The daily chores were excellent for language training. Patients, nurses and student nurses, the hospital had attached to it a nurses’ college, too, with many young trainees on the job, getting experience, they all spoke English.
Student nurses, St.Michael Hospital,1959
In addition to the regular duties, he had a chance to spend time getting to know the odd patient as well. Some had no family or friends to visit them; for them the hospital personnel became occasional “family” or friend with whom they met daily, received some help and sympathy, often the only source of human contact.
A young boy suffering from inoperable cancer became Peter’s favored patient. They would play a few games of chess on quiet evenings. He recalled his younger brother whom he had left back in Hungary, how he had taught him, just before the revolution, to play chess. This sick boy in the hospital was also very grateful for the attention, but it was even more meaningful that at least he could make this boy happy even while missing his brother.
Aside from homesickness, many Hungarian immigrants, especially those who had left families behind, felt strong pangs of conscience, too, for each richer moment, for anything that may have seemed on the level of luxury for the folks back in Hungary. Each better mouthful, each piece of clothing, the freer and worriless life caused inevitable mental anguish. Many tried to help those back in the old country, according to their means available. There was already a travel agency that dealt primarily with Hungarians located in the Bloor and Spadina streets’ vicinity which then was known as the Hungarian quarter. Peter had heard that 100 forint Hungarian bank notes could be purchased there, for about $5, and smuggled in plain letters sent home to his mother and little brother.
Later on, the immigrants could send so called IKKA parcels home, legally, with the cynical acquiescence of the Hungarian government, as they took a substantial percentage from these dollar transactions. They needed that hard currency. Many helped their families, parents with such means.
Thanks to Vito, the newcomer soon learnt the trade and even got new responsibilities. The nuns asked him to go upstairs one day, to the women patients’ ward, as his help was needed. A dead patient had to be placed on a gurney and the nurses could not manage the weight. After helping with the task, the chief nun had entrusted Peter with being responsible for the morgue, also, while he was on his shift. That consisted of opening the morgue and handing out the corpses to the funeral home people, or taking cadavers up to the autopsy rooms. At the beginning he had a rather tough time getting used to the responsibility, but then this proved to be a simple and ordinary job. Many patients had given the staff much more grief at times than those who had passed away.
Orderly, St.Michael’s Hospital, Toronto, 1959
Then again, the cooled morgue was always so much more pleasant in the terrible, damp heat of the Toronto summer than the 1A ward with stuffy and hot rooms. He would not dare to tell anyone that often he would hide watermelons in the empty, refrigerated boxes that were nicely cooled during his shift.
The job in the hospital presented excellent chances for meeting various kinds of extremely interesting people. For example, one of the patients’ elevators attendants was a well read, intelligent gentleman. He read anything and everything about philosophy. He was in contrast with most of the other workers who were invariably newcomers, non Anglo-Saxon immigrants, while this man was born in Canada, spoke fluently both languages of the country, but other than that no one knew anything else about him. And particularly why on earth did he work in this simple job with his intelligence and wisdom? Peter was struck by this intriguing man’s reading habits, as he never saw him without a book, whether in his elevator, or in the hospital’s cafeteria. If they started a conversation, he had many questions about the other person but would never allow any detail about his life. He would cite long monologues from one or another of his well researched philosophers, but declined to answer specific questions about himself. He had lent Peter many obviously well read and annotated books, and while most of these had been over his head in terms of text and thought, he had started to know something about Thomas Merton, St.Thomas Acquinas,Kahlil Gibran, Cyrill Connolly.
What could have been this man’s life story? He never found out. He would only smile when questioned about his present or past life. But this smile suggested superhuman inner strength and self confidence, exerting great positive impression on those he was engaging in conversation.
Within a couple of months Peter was invited to train the next new orderly on the afternoon shift who happened to be a sympathetic young Hungarian. Miklos was an actor who had also escaped after the 1956 Revolution was crushed, who struggled with maintaining an existence and learning English. His wife was a well known actress who now worked as a waitress.
The Hungarian duo at St.Michael’s Hospital became somewhat well known for their exceptional height and humor in many situations. They worked well together and soon shared the responsibility of the morgues as well.
Peter, who came from the country, appreciated the young actor’s savvy from Budapest, particularly the many stories about the theater which still held magic for him. Neither knew at that time that they would soon be sharing the stage of the immigrant Hungarian theater in Toronto, which was to open a year or two.
The time drew near when the forms had to be filled out for university entrance. Since Peter’s high school diploma was from abroad, he had to pass the so called English proficiency exam and his diploma had to be translated into English. After two years in Canada, this did not seem insurmountable, but was nevertheless difficult. Finally, he passed the test and was admitted.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Monday, 27 February 2012
Although he has been dead for over two months, I keep searching for more Hitchens
and I find something always that was not known about him, at least to me. So, hitherto a proud one-book author, I find the following quote by Christopher Hitchens:
"Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where I think it should, in most cases, remain." OUCH! I knew it...
"Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where I think it should, in most cases, remain." OUCH! I knew it...
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Christopher Hitchens, earthly existence and heavenly writing.
"It could be that all existence is a pointless joke,but it is not in fact possible to live one's everyday life as if this were so." (Christopher Hitchens in Hitch 22)
Readers sometimes develop very close relationship with authors.Most never meet in person. Yet it often seems so real, so intense -and almost always unilateral.In the past we usually got to know the writing first, then we may have decided to search for the persona behind the work.
Today's multimedia platforms provide us with several encounters. I have "met" Christopher Hitchens on radio first, then on TV and then started to look for his writings.
I have started reading Hitch 22, his memoirs, in the middle of my chemotherapy last summer, and very shortly after, on the eve of his book tour for Hitch 22 he told the world about his cancer. A fellow sufferer, loved and revered by many, despised by some for his views on religion and God.
Word got to him and he was asked in public whether he'd mind if people would pray for his recovery. While he was obviously touched by these gestures, he doubted whether prayer would help.
That was what most of us could do for him.
Reading Hitch 22 during my illness last year, while watching for any news about him brought him intimately close to me. His last contribution for Vanity Fair, an article to appear, ironically in the January next issue was particularly personal to me, as I have gone through some of the procedures at MD Anderson in Houston just a year before. As he said often, he was in stage 4 of his cancer, there not being a stage 5.
Perhaps prayer.
But Mr.Hitchens missed the point of prayer. It helped us in our impotence
to do something, anything for him. And for ourselves, in our pain and concern, lest our existence is a pointless joke.
Readers sometimes develop very close relationship with authors.Most never meet in person. Yet it often seems so real, so intense -and almost always unilateral.In the past we usually got to know the writing first, then we may have decided to search for the persona behind the work.
Today's multimedia platforms provide us with several encounters. I have "met" Christopher Hitchens on radio first, then on TV and then started to look for his writings.
I have started reading Hitch 22, his memoirs, in the middle of my chemotherapy last summer, and very shortly after, on the eve of his book tour for Hitch 22 he told the world about his cancer. A fellow sufferer, loved and revered by many, despised by some for his views on religion and God.
Word got to him and he was asked in public whether he'd mind if people would pray for his recovery. While he was obviously touched by these gestures, he doubted whether prayer would help.
That was what most of us could do for him.
Reading Hitch 22 during my illness last year, while watching for any news about him brought him intimately close to me. His last contribution for Vanity Fair, an article to appear, ironically in the January next issue was particularly personal to me, as I have gone through some of the procedures at MD Anderson in Houston just a year before. As he said often, he was in stage 4 of his cancer, there not being a stage 5.
Perhaps prayer.
But Mr.Hitchens missed the point of prayer. It helped us in our impotence
to do something, anything for him. And for ourselves, in our pain and concern, lest our existence is a pointless joke.
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Ch.13 Getting a job, tobacco picking in Southern Ontario
On the tobacco farm, 1958 August.
By the summer, the news spread in the immigrant community that in the south part of Ontario there are huge tobacco fields, whose harvest in late summer could present a major new source of income. The terribly hard job of tobacco picking lasts for 4-6 weeks but the pay is exceptional, too.
The tobacco farmers were, for the most part, former Hungarian land cultivators, peasants who came around the turn of the century and were particularly successful growing tobacco in Canada, mostly situated in the area of Tillsonburg and Delhi, Ontario.
The three friends had given up their secure but poor paying, bleak prospect jobs and traveled to the tobacco farms area. Here, in one of the small town’s main square an informal “recruiting” center was set up on a given Saturday morning. It was a real market place for human beings! The local farmers had kept on coming and after an intensive scrutiny, where the judgment had to be made at what the naked eye saw from a physical point of view and after a brief bargaining, which was easy as almost everyone spoke Hungarian, for the daily stipend, the hiring was done.
The farmer wanted only their first names and within minutes they were on the back of a pickup truck speeding to one of the many farms in the area.
Their quarters were prepared in a part of the huge barn, furnished with simple wooden furniture and hay filled mattresses on iron beds. Shortly they were called to dinner which was served on long, covered tables, under huge chestnut trees in the farmer’s courtyard. The “gang” as they were now called consisted of 6 young men. During their short Canadian stay they have never experienced such a generous feast, vying with such a wedding feast that they had occasionally seen in the old country. Any delicacy that could be found and prepared by a well to do farmer in rural Canada with several experienced women chefs and that was steaming on the long table. The gang that to this point hadn’t worked a single hour made a valiant effort to be up to snuff and had achieved an appreciable success putting away most of the food. Tastes and aromas, reminiscent of Hungary came to be savored, almost to the point of shedding a tear or two, after long months in refugees camps and since over a year, in simple circumstances. The son of the farmer had sat with them, too, towards the end of the feast. Michael had a thick accent speaking Hungarian, he was Canadian born, but still managed to detail what was expected of the fresh farm hands.
The start of the tobacco picking season is always determined by the ripening of the so called sandy leaves, near the ground. That year the start happened to be on a Sunday. Only the sandy leaves near the ground can be picked off the plant. As the higher leaves continue ripening, the pickers move slowly higher. During the harvest there are only workdays, without any breaks, except for steady rain. So next day the wake up will be at 5 am, breakfast starts at half past five, so they are on the fields some kilometers away by 7am.
“ But in a few days the picked tobacco will be tied in bunches and placed on long sticks by the women, then wake up will be at 3 am so the tobacco laden sticks can be placed in the huge kiln-houses, for drying” continued Michael.
They didn’t really understand all that, but after the sumptuous dinner and the brief outline as to what will follow in the next few days, they knew that there would be a great need for very rich and nourishing food to cope with work demands.
Their first night on the tobacco farm, near the peaceful, ruminating farm animals, with billions of shiny stars in the August sky could not be spoiled even by the prospect of the early morning call. So close to nature, in such a quiet and peaceful place was such a change for these young men, after months of rather crowded refugee camps and then very Spartan basic city life after their arrival in Canada.
Following the generous dinner the night before, their breakfast was equally fitting and several farm matrons were asking them, one by one, whether they would like omelets from 4 or 6 eggs, with bacon, ham and cheese. By then the gang was getting just a little suspicious of all this attention and generosity ! Shortly after breakfast they hopped up on the cart, pulled by a massive tractor and soon they arrived on the tobacco field. Each green tobacco line spread for up to a kilometer in length, as far as the eye could see.
Tobacco field, Tillsonburg, Canada 1958
Michael had immediately occupied the first row in the field, bent to the ground and with a half circle of his right arm, he tore off the leaves of the tobacco plant. Then, still bent over, he stepped up to the next plant. Then the next and the next…
“You see, only the sandy leaves, the lowest ones you are allowed tear off…” he said looking at their faces for understanding, “…then as they ripen we keep on moving up on the plant. By the end of the season, it will be much less demanding on your backs…” he promised. It seemed simple and logical for these young men, reared in the city.
The six tobacco pickers had occupied their rows and began to work.
Behind them, a docile and “experienced” horse was pulling a wooden sled between the rows into which the collected, “sandy”, tobacco leaves from under their left armpits were carefully placed.
“Don’t break the leaves!” cautioned Michael.
They did not have to advance more than the picked sandy leaves of 10 tobacco plants, so that it can be stated that: they mastered tobacco picking. However, the continually bent backs had started to complain at each next plant, with each step they took towards these plants. After only a half an hour, while continually bending almost to the ground, the pickers believed they could not go on.
But Michael was there and by example he was jumping into one or another’s row, helping out, until somehow, miraculously they reached the end of their first row! At that point the six boys had just fallen to the ground, could only moan from the excruciating pain coming from their backs. Fresh water was brought by Michael and after a short rest they have started a new row.
Every step from now on was a painful maneuver, but goading each other on, the young and tenacious bodies, somehow, with many rest stops they lasted until noon, when Michael, literally picked them up one by one, and brought them back to the farmhouse. Again, a rich table was set up for them under the chestnut trees, but other than a few spoonfuls of soup, they preferred just to lie in the shade. After an hour’s rest, back to the cart and out to the fields. This struggle just to survive the day went on until 5 PM on their first day.
By the time they were back at the farm, they only had strength to wash up from the dust, sweat and the sticky sap from the broken tobacco stems, which dried and matted on their hairy arms, so much so that it simply could not be washed off by soap and water. Frankly, they could not care less about it.
Every part of their body was aching, especially their thighs and backs, so much, that none of them showed up for the evening meal. Within a short time, the whole gang was in deep slumber, awaking only for the pain caused by turning in their sleep.
If the unusual work seemed difficult and caused them pain on the first day, then the stiffness on awakening the following morning surpassed any such experience in their lives. One of the six had politely taken his leave that very morning, and the owner paid him fairly for his one day of work. The other five, overcoming the terrible pain, stubbornly began their second day of tobacco picking. They were still at the “sandy leaves” or sand lugs, as they were called by the farmer and they were still having the greatest pains with each step forward. They were encouraging each other, singing even, and also cursing all those who smoked, blaming them for this inhuman, bestial work! Where did the effort come from after each step taken forward with a back bent almost to the level of the ground, row after tobacco row? They could not explain even today perhaps.
They had overcome the greatest physical challenge of their lives then, in the first days of the tobacco leaves’ harvest. After the second Hungarian had given up and left on the third day, the rest had now stayed just out of spite and sheer bravado. In the meantime Michael had found three new pickers in the nearby town who were experienced, veteran farm hands who joined them and did their job without a word of complaint.
And as the bodies of the newly graduated farmhands adjusted to the physical demands, the muscle cramps abated and the task seemed easier. The veterans educated them on how they should shave their arms so that the sticky, gummy sap of the tobacco plant would not mat the hair on their arms.
Within days the muscles had adjusted, the body accepted and bore the daily punishment, the appetite returned. But by then the women had tied all the picked leaves on long, wooden stick which had to be racked in long, even lines in special places, called kiln- houses to dry. This was done on most mornings when they got up at 3am and emptied and refilled these kiln houses.
Tobacco drying kiln-houses, Tillsonburg,Ont.1958
These simple, wooden, under-roof drying places, with heating inside, were constructed inside of vertical and horizontal beams, resembled more monkey cages than anything else. They had no stairs, ladders inside, while two stories high, the lads, balancing on the horizontal beams, like monkeys handed each other the tobacco laden stick which were placed 3-4 feet apart on the beams, right up to the roof. Only the bravest dared to climb up to the top, one bad move could have resulted in serious injury. On most days the morning program from 3am to 6am was this acrobatic exercise, followed by a generous breakfast and out to the fields. If there was no rain they worked 7 days a week. Their wage was 25 dollars a day, with room and board included, as much as Peter’s first weekly stipend in Quebec City!
As the tobacco was ripening, so did “ease” their daily effort, since the top leaves could now be picked without bending over. It was life’s irony that the most difficult days of tobacco picking happened to be the very first days on the job.
Peter and the gang after several weeks in the country of the August summer in South Ontario were the color of chocolate, muscular and in top physical shape, had graduated possibly from the greatest physical challenge of their lives.
After a “tobacco picking ” session…
At the end of the harvest the Hungarian tobacco grower was satisfied with the boys’ work and paid them all in cash. Those who had survived the first days on the job had to be justifiably happy; their wage seemed like a small fortune. They had heard the stories about those who after many weeks of hard toil wagered all the money in horse races within hours, maybe the very day they were paid. But they had spent days deciding what to do with the money. It seemed they could always find work to look after their daily existence, but the one thing they thought was missing in their lives was the almighty automobile, which stood between happiness (girls) and frustration. Since they could not buy a reasonable car individually, even with the small “fortune” they owned, a few hundred dollars, pulling their money would get them a good used car.
On returning to Ottawa they found a car dealer who would sell them a 1954 Ford Meteor auto. The 4 year old car was in good shape and they believed the dealer that this exceptional automobile was owned by a retired lady school teacher. Since only one had a driver’s license, he taught the other two to drive.
The real purpose of the car purchase was their firm belief that the way to meet local girls was via the ownership of 4 wheels. Of course, the three way ownership resulted in alternating the days or evenings for usage. Of course, the logistics never worked out and the boys remained, for the most part, without significant relationships.
The object of their desire and the owners in their “ Sunday” best
Among the immigrants were many gloomy people who did not know, or realized perhaps only after many years, the opportunities of their new country. Which host country could have made it possible for immigrants capable only of manual labor, without language or professional skills, within a year of their arrival, to have an acceptable standard of living, that a working family could even afford the ultimate status symbol in the fifties, the purchase of a reasonable car?
The wealth from tobacco picking was not all invested in the car purchase, so Peter could realize his long held dream of owning a set of drums. His friend, Andy played on both the piano and saxophone, so their plan was to form a small band, maybe with a third countryman of theirs. However, the “drummer” was only an enthusiastic dreamer since he had no musical training whatsoever. He had practiced diligently in the basement of their flat, especially when the landlady was not at home, since she had many misgivings about the drums when they have arrived, with reason.
The student-drummer, in the basement , Ottawa, 1958
Towards the end of the fifties, when rock and roll was on its peak, light jazz music was not really a desired product. The small and intimate piano bars they had known back in Hungary were not really in vogue in those days. All they could achieve on the field of light music was the occasional Sunday afternoon entertaining the patients in old age homes, gratis.
Perley Hospital, (senior citizens’ home) Ottawa, 1958
By the summer, the news spread in the immigrant community that in the south part of Ontario there are huge tobacco fields, whose harvest in late summer could present a major new source of income. The terribly hard job of tobacco picking lasts for 4-6 weeks but the pay is exceptional, too.
The tobacco farmers were, for the most part, former Hungarian land cultivators, peasants who came around the turn of the century and were particularly successful growing tobacco in Canada, mostly situated in the area of Tillsonburg and Delhi, Ontario.
The three friends had given up their secure but poor paying, bleak prospect jobs and traveled to the tobacco farms area. Here, in one of the small town’s main square an informal “recruiting” center was set up on a given Saturday morning. It was a real market place for human beings! The local farmers had kept on coming and after an intensive scrutiny, where the judgment had to be made at what the naked eye saw from a physical point of view and after a brief bargaining, which was easy as almost everyone spoke Hungarian, for the daily stipend, the hiring was done.
The farmer wanted only their first names and within minutes they were on the back of a pickup truck speeding to one of the many farms in the area.
Their quarters were prepared in a part of the huge barn, furnished with simple wooden furniture and hay filled mattresses on iron beds. Shortly they were called to dinner which was served on long, covered tables, under huge chestnut trees in the farmer’s courtyard. The “gang” as they were now called consisted of 6 young men. During their short Canadian stay they have never experienced such a generous feast, vying with such a wedding feast that they had occasionally seen in the old country. Any delicacy that could be found and prepared by a well to do farmer in rural Canada with several experienced women chefs and that was steaming on the long table. The gang that to this point hadn’t worked a single hour made a valiant effort to be up to snuff and had achieved an appreciable success putting away most of the food. Tastes and aromas, reminiscent of Hungary came to be savored, almost to the point of shedding a tear or two, after long months in refugees camps and since over a year, in simple circumstances. The son of the farmer had sat with them, too, towards the end of the feast. Michael had a thick accent speaking Hungarian, he was Canadian born, but still managed to detail what was expected of the fresh farm hands.
The start of the tobacco picking season is always determined by the ripening of the so called sandy leaves, near the ground. That year the start happened to be on a Sunday. Only the sandy leaves near the ground can be picked off the plant. As the higher leaves continue ripening, the pickers move slowly higher. During the harvest there are only workdays, without any breaks, except for steady rain. So next day the wake up will be at 5 am, breakfast starts at half past five, so they are on the fields some kilometers away by 7am.
“ But in a few days the picked tobacco will be tied in bunches and placed on long sticks by the women, then wake up will be at 3 am so the tobacco laden sticks can be placed in the huge kiln-houses, for drying” continued Michael.
They didn’t really understand all that, but after the sumptuous dinner and the brief outline as to what will follow in the next few days, they knew that there would be a great need for very rich and nourishing food to cope with work demands.
Their first night on the tobacco farm, near the peaceful, ruminating farm animals, with billions of shiny stars in the August sky could not be spoiled even by the prospect of the early morning call. So close to nature, in such a quiet and peaceful place was such a change for these young men, after months of rather crowded refugee camps and then very Spartan basic city life after their arrival in Canada.
Following the generous dinner the night before, their breakfast was equally fitting and several farm matrons were asking them, one by one, whether they would like omelets from 4 or 6 eggs, with bacon, ham and cheese. By then the gang was getting just a little suspicious of all this attention and generosity ! Shortly after breakfast they hopped up on the cart, pulled by a massive tractor and soon they arrived on the tobacco field. Each green tobacco line spread for up to a kilometer in length, as far as the eye could see.
Tobacco field, Tillsonburg, Canada 1958
Michael had immediately occupied the first row in the field, bent to the ground and with a half circle of his right arm, he tore off the leaves of the tobacco plant. Then, still bent over, he stepped up to the next plant. Then the next and the next…
“You see, only the sandy leaves, the lowest ones you are allowed tear off…” he said looking at their faces for understanding, “…then as they ripen we keep on moving up on the plant. By the end of the season, it will be much less demanding on your backs…” he promised. It seemed simple and logical for these young men, reared in the city.
The six tobacco pickers had occupied their rows and began to work.
Behind them, a docile and “experienced” horse was pulling a wooden sled between the rows into which the collected, “sandy”, tobacco leaves from under their left armpits were carefully placed.
“Don’t break the leaves!” cautioned Michael.
They did not have to advance more than the picked sandy leaves of 10 tobacco plants, so that it can be stated that: they mastered tobacco picking. However, the continually bent backs had started to complain at each next plant, with each step they took towards these plants. After only a half an hour, while continually bending almost to the ground, the pickers believed they could not go on.
But Michael was there and by example he was jumping into one or another’s row, helping out, until somehow, miraculously they reached the end of their first row! At that point the six boys had just fallen to the ground, could only moan from the excruciating pain coming from their backs. Fresh water was brought by Michael and after a short rest they have started a new row.
Every step from now on was a painful maneuver, but goading each other on, the young and tenacious bodies, somehow, with many rest stops they lasted until noon, when Michael, literally picked them up one by one, and brought them back to the farmhouse. Again, a rich table was set up for them under the chestnut trees, but other than a few spoonfuls of soup, they preferred just to lie in the shade. After an hour’s rest, back to the cart and out to the fields. This struggle just to survive the day went on until 5 PM on their first day.
By the time they were back at the farm, they only had strength to wash up from the dust, sweat and the sticky sap from the broken tobacco stems, which dried and matted on their hairy arms, so much so that it simply could not be washed off by soap and water. Frankly, they could not care less about it.
Every part of their body was aching, especially their thighs and backs, so much, that none of them showed up for the evening meal. Within a short time, the whole gang was in deep slumber, awaking only for the pain caused by turning in their sleep.
If the unusual work seemed difficult and caused them pain on the first day, then the stiffness on awakening the following morning surpassed any such experience in their lives. One of the six had politely taken his leave that very morning, and the owner paid him fairly for his one day of work. The other five, overcoming the terrible pain, stubbornly began their second day of tobacco picking. They were still at the “sandy leaves” or sand lugs, as they were called by the farmer and they were still having the greatest pains with each step forward. They were encouraging each other, singing even, and also cursing all those who smoked, blaming them for this inhuman, bestial work! Where did the effort come from after each step taken forward with a back bent almost to the level of the ground, row after tobacco row? They could not explain even today perhaps.
They had overcome the greatest physical challenge of their lives then, in the first days of the tobacco leaves’ harvest. After the second Hungarian had given up and left on the third day, the rest had now stayed just out of spite and sheer bravado. In the meantime Michael had found three new pickers in the nearby town who were experienced, veteran farm hands who joined them and did their job without a word of complaint.
And as the bodies of the newly graduated farmhands adjusted to the physical demands, the muscle cramps abated and the task seemed easier. The veterans educated them on how they should shave their arms so that the sticky, gummy sap of the tobacco plant would not mat the hair on their arms.
Within days the muscles had adjusted, the body accepted and bore the daily punishment, the appetite returned. But by then the women had tied all the picked leaves on long, wooden stick which had to be racked in long, even lines in special places, called kiln- houses to dry. This was done on most mornings when they got up at 3am and emptied and refilled these kiln houses.
Tobacco drying kiln-houses, Tillsonburg,Ont.1958
These simple, wooden, under-roof drying places, with heating inside, were constructed inside of vertical and horizontal beams, resembled more monkey cages than anything else. They had no stairs, ladders inside, while two stories high, the lads, balancing on the horizontal beams, like monkeys handed each other the tobacco laden stick which were placed 3-4 feet apart on the beams, right up to the roof. Only the bravest dared to climb up to the top, one bad move could have resulted in serious injury. On most days the morning program from 3am to 6am was this acrobatic exercise, followed by a generous breakfast and out to the fields. If there was no rain they worked 7 days a week. Their wage was 25 dollars a day, with room and board included, as much as Peter’s first weekly stipend in Quebec City!
As the tobacco was ripening, so did “ease” their daily effort, since the top leaves could now be picked without bending over. It was life’s irony that the most difficult days of tobacco picking happened to be the very first days on the job.
Peter and the gang after several weeks in the country of the August summer in South Ontario were the color of chocolate, muscular and in top physical shape, had graduated possibly from the greatest physical challenge of their lives.
After a “tobacco picking ” session…
At the end of the harvest the Hungarian tobacco grower was satisfied with the boys’ work and paid them all in cash. Those who had survived the first days on the job had to be justifiably happy; their wage seemed like a small fortune. They had heard the stories about those who after many weeks of hard toil wagered all the money in horse races within hours, maybe the very day they were paid. But they had spent days deciding what to do with the money. It seemed they could always find work to look after their daily existence, but the one thing they thought was missing in their lives was the almighty automobile, which stood between happiness (girls) and frustration. Since they could not buy a reasonable car individually, even with the small “fortune” they owned, a few hundred dollars, pulling their money would get them a good used car.
On returning to Ottawa they found a car dealer who would sell them a 1954 Ford Meteor auto. The 4 year old car was in good shape and they believed the dealer that this exceptional automobile was owned by a retired lady school teacher. Since only one had a driver’s license, he taught the other two to drive.
The real purpose of the car purchase was their firm belief that the way to meet local girls was via the ownership of 4 wheels. Of course, the three way ownership resulted in alternating the days or evenings for usage. Of course, the logistics never worked out and the boys remained, for the most part, without significant relationships.
The object of their desire and the owners in their “ Sunday” best
Among the immigrants were many gloomy people who did not know, or realized perhaps only after many years, the opportunities of their new country. Which host country could have made it possible for immigrants capable only of manual labor, without language or professional skills, within a year of their arrival, to have an acceptable standard of living, that a working family could even afford the ultimate status symbol in the fifties, the purchase of a reasonable car?
The wealth from tobacco picking was not all invested in the car purchase, so Peter could realize his long held dream of owning a set of drums. His friend, Andy played on both the piano and saxophone, so their plan was to form a small band, maybe with a third countryman of theirs. However, the “drummer” was only an enthusiastic dreamer since he had no musical training whatsoever. He had practiced diligently in the basement of their flat, especially when the landlady was not at home, since she had many misgivings about the drums when they have arrived, with reason.
The student-drummer, in the basement , Ottawa, 1958
Towards the end of the fifties, when rock and roll was on its peak, light jazz music was not really a desired product. The small and intimate piano bars they had known back in Hungary were not really in vogue in those days. All they could achieve on the field of light music was the occasional Sunday afternoon entertaining the patients in old age homes, gratis.
Perley Hospital, (senior citizens’ home) Ottawa, 1958
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2012/01/hitchens-201201
If you have been wandering about how Christopher Hitchens is getting on in his fight against disease, you will get it here "up close and personal."
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
US military bloggers respond to Paul Krugman's shameful blog.
Paul Krugman, of the NYTIMES, published a truly gutless piece in his blog, titled 'The Shameful Years' (those post-9/11), slandering practically all of the US military. Now the many bloggers from the US military respond, like this one: www.unknownsoldiersblog.com
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
Ch.12 - May I have the next dance? Learning dance etiquette in the era of rock and roll.
Even Christmas gifts were given to each employee, a British Columbia commemorative silver dollar, the province where he was originally to be sent from the boat!
The first winter was approaching its end and Peter and his friends, young men in their most virile youth, when they had dared to entertain thoughts of making new friends, which really meant “going out” with girls.
He had a steady job, with a paycheck every two weeks that allowed him to purchase, on a 12 month credit arrangement, a brand new dark blue suit, white shirt and tie. He was happy to take home the new treasures, his first significant purchases in the new world. The new immigrants’ grapevine had suggested that the best place to meet girls is the Saturday nights dances at the local YMCA. The last dance he could recall was in his high school, oh so long ago, on another continent, in a far away land, and even farther epoch. Then the youth was going to these dances in a rather old fashioned way, according to old traditions, both in clothing and behavior. The boys in festive, dark suits, shirt and tie, and cute little dress the girls. Hungary and the other Eastern European countries were carefully shielded from the influences of the “evil” capitalist states in the West, including individual expression and style.
While in the Ottawa YMCA the young guys were comfortably rocking in their jeans and shirts, at home boys of the same age were sweating in their heavy suits and ties.
Peter and his friends were just amazed when a guy would just sidle up to a girl and casually take her by the hand and within seconds they would be furiously jiving away, a form of dance totally unknown to these immigrant boys. However, they recalled the English Dictionaries and language books, written decades before, how these were emphatically teaching the task to be performed:
“We approach the chosen lady, and with slight bow and polite demeanor, we “ask her for a dance “in a clear voice and appropriate manner, thusly: May I please?”- repeated to himself Peter, at least for the tenth time, being very careful of his accent and pronunciation, being very grateful that the verbal plea did not have a single “r” in it, which had been the downfall of so many foreigners, the sure give-away that the speaker is from “some other country”. In the best of cases one was to be a French Canadian, in the worst the foreigner was from some unknown land who was displaced due to the war: a DP!!
The friends were already nervous on this first daredevil move towards “fitting” into society, that is the company of young men and women, due to their accented English, the lack of their dance repertoire caused even more worry. An even more obvious and ominous problem was, that did not even occur to them at first, their clothing was totally out of place and painfully unique in a 1958 YMCA dance hall.
One can imagine what made-for-the-stage appearance was created by the three young immigrants, on the very peak of rock and roll, in their dark blue suits and ties, stiff and obviously awkward, when they entered at opening time, just after 8 PM in the dancehall.
Other than a couple of dozen young ladies and a few chaperons there were no others in the hall, as it turned out the local boys had started wondering in, nonchalantly little later. This time period gave an excellent chance to the girls and their mothers to observe and scrutinize the three funeral directors, standing in a corner and talking with each other. Even though they have felt uneasy at the beginning, over time they have ceased to remain the object of curiosity, while the dancing was starting to liven up. It was entirely certain to all the ladies present that none of them could possibly become the victim of any attempted terror action, emanating from either one of the other strange looking characters.
Finally it was Peter that was able to overcome the inertia they all felt, spiced up by his ever present compulsion to prove himself. He felt confident enough, so he thought, that after a thorough summing up the situation, he had ascertained by quick looks over and over that the chosen lady had absolutely no chance of being asked for a dance by any self respecting young man that evening, our hero had confidently strode up to the lonely wallflower and said:
“May I please?” sounded the expression , mainly to be found in the vocabularies of those studying British literature, but not anywhere in Canada in 1958, in the Northern region of the New World.
Perhaps it was his determined steps, the resolute expression on his face, maybe the lips that were so stubbornly resistant to full opening, that would allow the oft repeated expression to come out properly, but if not any of these then the unimaginable fact, that one of these Mars inhabitants had zeroed in on her of all people, who had not even danced once that evening, and as a result of this impertinence may not dance at all, that was more than bearable!
Since she did not believe her ears, or she did not understand the antiquated expression, struggling between anger and incredulity, she could only hiss through her teeth:
“What?”
Even though Peter had guessed that there was not much chance for the desired dance, in his last desperate moment he had to attempt just once more the well practiced phrase.
Failing to give it one more try, when his two friends have not even made their first move with which to take the first steps to fit into Canadian society, who were so attentively watching their heroic friend and those sitting around the chosen lady watching the unfolding drama, it was simply not possible.
The chance of failing, again, had flashed in his mind for a moment, but the hopes and investments that they have made to get that far, the plans made in the basement flat, the clothing they have bought were stronger. Now going for broke just then, so that the lonely nights and weekends, the movies houses with the 3 films in one show they have frequented, would again fill their free time?
Bowing just ever so deeper than before, and with a shade less volume in his voice, and a little more humility in his eye, Peter had repeated the plea:
“May I please?” and now he had nodded pointedly towards the dance floor, so that the plea would be well understood by this beauty.
It seemed like eternity until this insulted lady had found her faculties and with the look of the coldest Canadian winter, the indifference of the Canadian tundra, and the Brit colonials’ politeness, she uttered only:
“No,thanks!”
By then the sweat beads had pearled up on his face as he was creeping back to the safe sanctuary of his friends. They all knew that much more had transpired here than simply a gal’s refusal to dance on a particular evening. All reverie had become insignificant behind the more than one year that was spent away from their homes, and all things familiar. While up to now the effort was to establish a modicum of existence, this mostly restrained the testing of the boys’ feelings. Now they had to admit that the much desired melting into Canadian society and the potential rewards that this would bring will not happen for some time. The oddly dressed and accented strangers, without their own “cars”, will not easily gain the graces of young, local women.
The first winter was approaching its end and Peter and his friends, young men in their most virile youth, when they had dared to entertain thoughts of making new friends, which really meant “going out” with girls.
He had a steady job, with a paycheck every two weeks that allowed him to purchase, on a 12 month credit arrangement, a brand new dark blue suit, white shirt and tie. He was happy to take home the new treasures, his first significant purchases in the new world. The new immigrants’ grapevine had suggested that the best place to meet girls is the Saturday nights dances at the local YMCA. The last dance he could recall was in his high school, oh so long ago, on another continent, in a far away land, and even farther epoch. Then the youth was going to these dances in a rather old fashioned way, according to old traditions, both in clothing and behavior. The boys in festive, dark suits, shirt and tie, and cute little dress the girls. Hungary and the other Eastern European countries were carefully shielded from the influences of the “evil” capitalist states in the West, including individual expression and style.
While in the Ottawa YMCA the young guys were comfortably rocking in their jeans and shirts, at home boys of the same age were sweating in their heavy suits and ties.
Peter and his friends were just amazed when a guy would just sidle up to a girl and casually take her by the hand and within seconds they would be furiously jiving away, a form of dance totally unknown to these immigrant boys. However, they recalled the English Dictionaries and language books, written decades before, how these were emphatically teaching the task to be performed:
“We approach the chosen lady, and with slight bow and polite demeanor, we “ask her for a dance “in a clear voice and appropriate manner, thusly: May I please?”- repeated to himself Peter, at least for the tenth time, being very careful of his accent and pronunciation, being very grateful that the verbal plea did not have a single “r” in it, which had been the downfall of so many foreigners, the sure give-away that the speaker is from “some other country”. In the best of cases one was to be a French Canadian, in the worst the foreigner was from some unknown land who was displaced due to the war: a DP!!
The friends were already nervous on this first daredevil move towards “fitting” into society, that is the company of young men and women, due to their accented English, the lack of their dance repertoire caused even more worry. An even more obvious and ominous problem was, that did not even occur to them at first, their clothing was totally out of place and painfully unique in a 1958 YMCA dance hall.
One can imagine what made-for-the-stage appearance was created by the three young immigrants, on the very peak of rock and roll, in their dark blue suits and ties, stiff and obviously awkward, when they entered at opening time, just after 8 PM in the dancehall.
Other than a couple of dozen young ladies and a few chaperons there were no others in the hall, as it turned out the local boys had started wondering in, nonchalantly little later. This time period gave an excellent chance to the girls and their mothers to observe and scrutinize the three funeral directors, standing in a corner and talking with each other. Even though they have felt uneasy at the beginning, over time they have ceased to remain the object of curiosity, while the dancing was starting to liven up. It was entirely certain to all the ladies present that none of them could possibly become the victim of any attempted terror action, emanating from either one of the other strange looking characters.
Finally it was Peter that was able to overcome the inertia they all felt, spiced up by his ever present compulsion to prove himself. He felt confident enough, so he thought, that after a thorough summing up the situation, he had ascertained by quick looks over and over that the chosen lady had absolutely no chance of being asked for a dance by any self respecting young man that evening, our hero had confidently strode up to the lonely wallflower and said:
“May I please?” sounded the expression , mainly to be found in the vocabularies of those studying British literature, but not anywhere in Canada in 1958, in the Northern region of the New World.
Perhaps it was his determined steps, the resolute expression on his face, maybe the lips that were so stubbornly resistant to full opening, that would allow the oft repeated expression to come out properly, but if not any of these then the unimaginable fact, that one of these Mars inhabitants had zeroed in on her of all people, who had not even danced once that evening, and as a result of this impertinence may not dance at all, that was more than bearable!
Since she did not believe her ears, or she did not understand the antiquated expression, struggling between anger and incredulity, she could only hiss through her teeth:
“What?”
Even though Peter had guessed that there was not much chance for the desired dance, in his last desperate moment he had to attempt just once more the well practiced phrase.
Failing to give it one more try, when his two friends have not even made their first move with which to take the first steps to fit into Canadian society, who were so attentively watching their heroic friend and those sitting around the chosen lady watching the unfolding drama, it was simply not possible.
The chance of failing, again, had flashed in his mind for a moment, but the hopes and investments that they have made to get that far, the plans made in the basement flat, the clothing they have bought were stronger. Now going for broke just then, so that the lonely nights and weekends, the movies houses with the 3 films in one show they have frequented, would again fill their free time?
Bowing just ever so deeper than before, and with a shade less volume in his voice, and a little more humility in his eye, Peter had repeated the plea:
“May I please?” and now he had nodded pointedly towards the dance floor, so that the plea would be well understood by this beauty.
It seemed like eternity until this insulted lady had found her faculties and with the look of the coldest Canadian winter, the indifference of the Canadian tundra, and the Brit colonials’ politeness, she uttered only:
“No,thanks!”
By then the sweat beads had pearled up on his face as he was creeping back to the safe sanctuary of his friends. They all knew that much more had transpired here than simply a gal’s refusal to dance on a particular evening. All reverie had become insignificant behind the more than one year that was spent away from their homes, and all things familiar. While up to now the effort was to establish a modicum of existence, this mostly restrained the testing of the boys’ feelings. Now they had to admit that the much desired melting into Canadian society and the potential rewards that this would bring will not happen for some time. The oddly dressed and accented strangers, without their own “cars”, will not easily gain the graces of young, local women.
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