Editor’s note: To encourage aspiring writers, The News is beginning Writer’s Corner where readers are encouraged to submit their short stories for publication. The short stories should be under 700 words and their publication is left solely to the discretion of the editor. Submit your story to dsherrill@tullahomanews.com for consideration.
He was seven in 1919, the oldest of four surviving children and his immigrant father’s workhorse who did man-sized jobs. To keep the family warm, the child, not the father, walked the long, wind-whipped city blocks carrying a heavy burlap sack of coal on his back which eventually bowed his developing legs.
The never-ending chores kept the child so busy that he left school at eleven. Anyway, he knew school wasn’t necessary for survival – work was. In fact, as soon as his father could manage it, a job was found for the youngster – working on the New York City subway tracks. Soon, his young hands became covered with calluses, looking old beyond their years. In those days, hard work was a way of life for most immigrant children.
Life in the city was tough and so was he. To make an extra buck during Prohibition, he and his father delivered homemade booze from a laundry truck. He saw death often as he picked up the mutilated bodies of subway suicides. Then she entered his life. They had a common bond - both were hardworking Poles.
In poor, bleeding Poland after the Great War, she had to do her part to help the family survive. Picking up rocks out of the garden was a common job for a small child, as well as watching that the farm animals didn’t wander. School consisted of four grades, then household duties filled her days.
Alone, at fifteen in December of 1929, her father sent her to the United States; his parting words were, “You know right from wrong; now it’s up to you!”
Unafraid because her sister would be waiting on the other side of that vast watery highway, she had no idea that the December Atlantic Ocean would pitch and roll the ship around for six cold and violent days. Those six days of fear and vomiting left her young body wasted, but there was no time for recuperation; a job had been arranged with a wealthy family. This was the Great Depression – a time when a young immigrant girl, who spoke no English, was fortunate to live and work for a family, earning $6.00 a week, plus room and board. However, the money couldn’t be squandered, nor saved, because the ship’s fare of $150 had to be paid back, along with $50, loaned to start her new life.
One of her household duties was to boil dirty laundry in a large kettle over a fire stirred like a kettle of soup; there was no such thing as bleach. Her arms and hands ached from wringing out the water-soaked laundry.
Frequently, young immigrant girls were at the mercy of their employers. At the second place she worked, the man of the house brought her candy, with a note saying in Polish, “I love you!” She bolted her bedroom door, packed her bag leaving for another job, where while ironing, scorched the baby’s jumper. Harshly scolded, she left for a friend’s place but became lost and frightened on a dark subway platform somewhere in the City. Explaining her predicament to two ladies speaking Polish, one of them gave her shelter.
That kind lady was the mother of the young man, who as a child, carried coal on his back. He was twenty when he met the lost Polish teenager, and, some years later, he would ask that very special woman to be his wife.
Married in 1936, life was all about work. Inch by inch they began to see the fruitage of their labors. Moving to an unfinished house in the suburbs, he worked in the city by day, and at night hammered on the house.
Then, one unforgettable Thanksgiving night, the unbelievable happened – the family, now including two children, barely escaped the flames that destroyed the house and the dreams. Moving back to the city, without blame and whining, they began to rebuild their lives.
It’s been over a hundred years since my parents were born and nurtured by hard work and adversity. Until they died, both in their early 90’s, they were resilient, vigorous people, a living testimony that “hard work never killed anyone!”
August 23, 2020 at 11:00PM
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Living was hard work | Editorial | tullahomanews.com - Tullahoma News and Guardian
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