My Old Grandpa (A Chick Evens Story) (In English and Spanish)

My Old Grandpa (A Chick Evens Story) (In English and Spanish) Image

As I look back now, I suppose I could say, my grandpa was never cut out to look young, one of those guys that looked to me, all my life-in all the twenty-seven years of knowing him-he never got older, he just stayed old from day one, always looking the same; except a little towards the last months of his life, and then it wasn't his fault, he was tiring over those long 83-years of life and work, he worked up to about three months prior to his death. I called him the old Russian Bear; he came from Russia, in 1916 (born in 1891) and fought in WWI, in 1918, as an American Soldier.

I remember the way he'd pull on my ears as we walked down the dark gloomy streets at night to get a haircut, for seventy-five cents, at a friend's house that was a dollar cheaper than the barbershop, back in 1955.

Early on Saturday mornings, we'd rush out of the house to go downtown to the marketplace (in St. Paul, Minnesota), it was a two mile walk, and by the time we got to the market, I'd just be waking up, with the dew from the nearby Mississippi River rising and fading, and shifting north of the city, past the market place, up Jackson Street, the street we had walked down. I'd help him carry his groceries as he went from one street trader to the next, he'd buy fresh chickens usually at the open market, but only the ones he saw himself that the butcher had cut their heads off.

Come on, kid, he'd say to me, moving from one spot at the marketplace to another, let's get going, we don't have all day he'd sternly grunt with his hoarse voice, keep up, don't fool around, we got work to do. he'd tell me looking back from the corner of his eye to see what I was doing, while checking out the cauliflower, or asparagus, for his Russian stew.

Then we'd head on over to Wabasha Street, about four blocks from the Market, to a butcher shop he usually patronized this certain one, he'd be ahead of me, I'd almost have to run to keep pace with him. If he stopped for any reason, I'd walk ahead of him, and he'd catch up to me in a moment's time. after a little while he'd look in back of him to see where I was, and he'd see I was sweating heavy, and slowing up some, he'd think I was dogging it, purposely, and then he'd squint his eyes, you kids can't do nothing nowadays, he'd say, adding to that, lazy as a dead mule-keep up now

We'd keep right on walking toward the butcher shop, and old grandpa never once built up a sweat, only a grin, that is how I learned how to grin I do believe, and to every sentence, he'd swear once or twice, and repeat a half dozen times, Hey, you keep up and then we were there. I'd look back towards the market, over towards Jackson Street, say to myself 'It's going to be a long haul, walking back.'

He'd now grab my nine-year old wrist, wrapping his fingers tightly around it, squeezing my wrist, then say, Now you better stay right here, you hear me, or I'll twist that ear of yours off your head

And I'd nod my head up and down, as a gesture of obedience.

Sometimes I'd find an empty chair to sit down on it, and watch my grandpa order his meat-pointing to this and that through a glass window behind a counter, it was usually sausage and beef or large portions of pork, for the Sunday get-togethers. He'd have the butcher cut special sections out of the ham or loin, or a piece of a large section of beef, cut some fat off, and trim around the bones, if they were ribs, he'd hand pick the best part out, perhaps having the butcher cut the ends off, leaving the rest for someone else, but at the end of it all, he'd have to pay double the price.

I'd have sweat pouring off my face in the morning summer heat, especially if it got past 11:00 a.m., before we headed back.

In a way it was a treat to be with my old Grandpa, skip along in back of him, and if he looked, I'd smile and walk normal. Hauling all that meat back in our arms, and by the time we got back home, my arms were hurting as if they were tied up like steers and then untied and I needed to stretch them out. I never thought of it as a burden, or even a task, perhaps more on the line of a morning mission, an adventurous undertaking; I liked meeting the people, and being introduced as his grandson.

He'd start the stew that Saturday evening, and in the dead of night, he'd get up and cook it some more, stirring it for an hour or so; if I was awake, I'd watch him for a while, go back and forth from the kitchen into the living room, and back to the kitchen again, until I fell back to sleep. I did this from the edge of my bed, kept the door open a crack, I'd watch him smoking his cigar or pipe also, as he paced the floor waiting for the stew to get the right thickness (so he could go back to bed, wake up early and put the potatoes and tomatoes, in the stew-and noodles in the chicken soup, and put the sausage around the stew), and I always knew when he was smoking, it left a tail it seemed, that seep into the side bedroom, and more often than not it would wake me up, and I'd love to smell the aroma of the stew, and if he had a good cigar, or tobacco, I'd live the scent of that likewise. my brother and mother and I lived with him in those far-off days, kind of an extended family situation.

He sure seemed to be having fun-I'd tell myself on the edge of our bed (my brother and I both slept in the same big bed for a few years, during those days), and he done his work, and so did I that day, hard work for me with sweat, and all that leg work, and by 11:00 a.m., the next day, he'd finish, chicken and noodles, with Russian stew, and some long links of sausage. Hard burnt bread and all the family members came over to his house, perhaps fifteen or twenty, every Sunday of every week of every year that was a lot of kilos of food.

And then one day, I was then twenty-seven years old, in 1974, I stopped by to see my mother and grandpa, and he was dead my mother told me, he had died that afternoon. I sat in his sofa chair, gathering my thoughts, I was stunned, He had a stroke, they were going to take him to the hospital, but he was dead already when the ambulance came. He was lying on the floor when I got home from work. my mother explained to me.

I went outside in the backyard, tried to hold back some tears, I was angry, and he was awfully dead, and I couldn't help feeling angry.

And then a couple of family members came over, patted me on the shoulder, my aunts and uncles, and wanted to look around to see what they might find (explore), see what they wanted to take of his, personal things, items, everything. and I couldn't stop being angry, angry and more angry, sort of mad because everyone was around the house trying to get what they could get before the other person got it. and then some arguments started over how much money he had hidden in the house, and how much money one of the aunts (or sisters) was holding for him before he died. and almost everyone called everyone else a liar, and a feud started between a few of the sisters and brothers-and there were six or seven of them, and it would last for twenty-years, or more.

My brother and I went to the funeral, we parked the car outside the cemetery gates, across the street, and sat in the car, didn't join the others, as the cars seemed to chugalug in like a wagon train. I wiped my eyes, my face with a handkerchief, waiting for the last car to go through the gates.

Well, Mike what now, should we go or stay? I said.

Whatever you want, he said.

He looked at me, I at him, All right, he said, we'll go.

Old grandpa sure could swear a lot, I said as we rode down the street, away from the cemetery, I couldn't think of anything else to say, at the time, but I was thinking nonetheless, thinking: 'Boy, when someone dies, the scavengers sure come around like hounds after a pound of flesh, come around like hornets buzzing and ready to sting anyone who gets in their way, they don't miss a thing, or leave a thing behind, nothing unaccounted for, they grab it all, and they do it quickly.'

3-4-2009o ds (dedicated to Anton Siluk)

Spanish Version

Mi Viejo Abuelo

(Una historia de Chick Evens)

Por el Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

Ahora que miro al pasado, supongo que podra decir que mi abuelo no fue hecho para lucir joven, era una de esas personas que nunca envejecen-a mi me pareci, toda mi vida, durante los veintisiete aos que lo conoc-l estaba viejo desde el primer da que lo vi, siempre luciendo el mismo; excepto un poquito ms viejo en los ltimos meses de su vida; y desde luego, esto no era su culpa, l estaba cansado por esos largos ochenta y tres aos de vida y trabajo, l trabaj hasta cerca de tres meses antes de su muerte. Yo lo llamaba el Viejo Oso Ruso; l vino de Rusia a Norteamrica en 1916 (naci en 1891) y combati en la Primera Guerra Mundial en 1918, como un soldado americano.

Me acuerdo de la forma cmo l jalara mis orejas mientras caminbamos en las noches por las calles sombras y oscuras yendo a la casa de su amigo para mi corte de pelo por setenta y cinco centavos, que era un dlar ms barato que en el peluquero, all por el ao 1955.

Los sbados muy temprano, saldramos rpido de la casa para ir al mercado que estaba en el centro de la ciudad en San Pablo, Minnesota; era una caminata de ms de tres kilmetros y para el tiempo en que llegbamos al mercado, yo estara terminando de despertarme con la neblina del cercano ro Mississippi subiendo y alejndose, y movindose hacia el norte de la ciudad, pasando por el mercado hacia arriba de la calle Jackson, la calle que bajbamos. Yo lo ayudara a cargar los comestibles mientras bamos de una calle a otra haciendo las compras, l sola comprar pollo fresco generalmente en el mercado abierto, pero slo aquellos a los que l mismo vio al carnicero cortarles la cabeza.

Date prisa nio l me dira, movindonos de una punto a otro en el mercado, sigamos yendo, no tenemos todo el da l refunfuara severamente con su voz ronca, sigue, no ests tonteando, tenemos que trabajar. l me dira mirando atrs por el rabillo de sus ojos para ver qu estara yo haciendo, mientras que al mismo tiempo examinaba las coliflores o esprragos, para su guiso ruso.

Luego nos dirigiramos hacia la calle Wabasha, aproximadamente a cuatro cuadras del mercado, a una carnicera que l por lo general frecuentaba, l ira delante de m, yo casi tendra que correr para seguirlo. Si l, por algn motivo, se detena, yo avanzara delante de l pero l me alcanzara en un momento. Al cabo de un rato el mirara atrs para ver dnde yo estaba, y al ver que yo estaba sudando bastante l ira ms despacio, l pensara que yo me estaba haciendo y entonces l movera sus ojos diciendo ustedes chicos no pueden hacer nada en estos das aadiendo ociosos como una mula muerta – ahora contina

Nosotros continuaramos caminando hacia la tienda del carnicero, y mi viejo abuelo nunca sudara, slo una mueca, es as como aprend a hacer muecas, yo creo. Y a cada frase, l dira una o dos groseras, y repetira una media docena de veces eh, t contina y entonces llegaramos all. Yo mirara atrs hacia el mercado, hacia la calle Jackson, me dira a mi mismo Va a ser un largo recorrido caminar de regreso.

Ahora el cogera mi mueca de nueve aos, apretndola fuertemente con sus dedos, luego dira: Ahora es mejor que t ests aqu, me oste, o voy a sacarte esas orejas

Y yo movera mi cabeza hacia arriba y abajo, como un gesto de obediencia.

A veces encontrara una silla vaca para sentarme y ver a mi abuelo ordenar su carne-apuntando aqu y all a travs de la vitrina de vidrio, era generalmente embutido o res, o trozos grandes de cerdo para las reuniones de los domingos. l le hara cortar al carnicero partes especiales de lomo o jamn, o un trozo grande de res, sacndole algo de la grasa y cortndolo alrededor de los huesos, si eran costillas, l escogera la mejor parte talvez haciendo que el carnicero cortara las puntas dejando el resto para alguien ms; pero al final de todo esto, l tendra que pagar el doble de precio.

Antes de que regresramos yo estara sudando a chorros por el calor del verano, si eran pasadas las once de la maana.

De alguna forma era un gusto estar con mi viejo abuelo, saltar detrs de l y por su costado, y si l me miraba yo sonreira y caminara normal, jalando toda esa carne con nuestros brazos y, para el rato en que llegbamos a casa, mis brazos estaran adoloridos como si hubieran sido atados como a un novillo y luego soltados y necesitaba estirarlos. Nunca pens de esto como una carga, ni siquiera un trabajo, talvez ms como una misin en la maana, una tarea aventurera; me gustaba conocer a las personas y ser presentado como su nieto.

l empezara a cocinar el guiso el sbado por la noche y a altas horas de la madrugada l se levantara y cocinara un poco ms, movindolo como por una hora. Si yo estaba despierto, lo mirara durante un rato ir y venir de la cocina a su cuarto, y de su cuarto a la cocina de nuevo, hasta que me quedaba dormido. Yo lo miraba desde el filo de mi cama, mantena la puerta abierta, una abertura, lo mirara fumando su puro o su pipa mientras se paseaba por la cocina, esperando a que el guiso obtuviera la espesura correcta (entonces volvera a su cama, y se levantara muy temprano a poner las papas y los tomates en el guiso-y los fideos en la sopa de pollo y los embutidos alrededor del guiso). Siempre sabra cundo l estaba fumando, ste parecera que dejaba una cola que se filtraba en mi dormitorio y muy frecuentemente ste me despertara, y a mi me gustara el olor del guiso, y si l tena un buen cigarro o tabaco, me gustara el aroma tambin. Mi hermano, mi madre y yo vivamos con l en una especie de clan familiar.

l por seguro pareca que estaba divirtindose-yo me dira a mi mismo al filo de nuestra cama (mi hermano y yo dormamos en la misma cama grande por unos cuantos aos, durante esos das) que l haba terminado su trabajo y yo tambin, un trabajo duro para mi con sudor y toda esa caminata, y para las once de la maana del da siguiente, el acabara: pollo y fideos con un guiso ruso y algunos largos eslabones de chorizos. Haba pan tostado y todos los miembros familiares venan a su casa, talvez quince o veinte personas cada domingo de cada semana durante todo el ao, y eso era un montn de kilos de comida.

Entonces, un da, cuando tena veintisiete aos de edad, en 1974, me detuve para saludar a mi mam y a mi abuelo, pero l estaba muerto, mi madre me dijo que l haba muerto esa tarde. me sent en el sof, reuniendo mis pensamientos, estaba perplejo, le dio derrame cerebral, ellos lo iban a llevar al hospital, pero l estaba muerto cuando la ambulancia vino. l estaba tirado en el piso cuando volv de mi trabajo. Mi madre me explic.

Sal afuera al patio, trat de contener mis lgrimas, estaba enfadado, l estaba terriblemente muerto y yo no poda evitar sentirme enojado.

Y luego un par de los miembros familiares llegaron, me palmearon en los hombros; eran mis tas y tos, queran mirar alrededor para ver qu cosas podran encontrar (explorar), ver qu querran tomar de l, sus cosas personales, sus artculos, todo. Y yo no poda parar de estar enfadado y ms enfadado, como loco, porque todos estaban alrededor de la casa tratando de obtener lo que podran obtener antes que la otra persona lo obtuviera. Y luego algunas discusiones empezaron, sobre cunto dinero l tena escondido en la casa, y cundo dinero una de las tas (o hermanas) estaba guardndolo por l antes de que l muriera. Y casi todos llamaron a todos los dems: mentiroso, y empez una contienda entre algunas hermanas y hermanos-y eran seis o siete de ellos, y esto durara por algo de veinte aos, o ms.

Mi hermano y yo fuimos al entierro, estacionamos el carro afuera del cementerio, frente a la calle y nos sentamos en el carro, no nos unimos a los otros; mientras, los carros parecan formar un tren. me sequ mis ojos, mi cara con un pauelo, esperando a que el ltimo carro pasara las puertas.

Bien, Mike ahora qu, debemos irnos o quedarnos? dije.

Lo que quieras dijo l.

l me mir, y yo lo mir, Est bien l dijo Vmonos.

El viejo abuelo ahora si puede decir un montn de groseras dije mientras nos alejbamos del cementerio, no poda pensar en nada ms que decir en ese momento, pero estaba pensando no obstante, pensando: Cielos Cuando alguien muere, los carroeros vienen por seguro como sabuesos tras medio kilo de carne, vienen alrededor como avispones zumbando y listos para picar a cualquiera que se le cruce en el camino, no se pierden nada, ni se olvidan de alguna cosa, nada es dejado de lado, ellos lo cogen todo y lo hacen con rapidez.

Escrito el 4 de Marzo del 2009 (dedicado a Antn Siluk)

My Old Grandpa (A Chick Evens Story) (In English and Spanish)

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