FACES AND PLACES: A Norman Rockwell Ukrainian Christmas (12/26/99)

FACES AND PLACES
by Myron B. Kuropas

A Norman Rockwell Ukrainian Christmas

The holiday season is a time for memories, for recollections of precious moments never repeated, often re-lived.

Every year at this time I remember the wonderful Christmases I spent as a child growing up in Chicago during and after the Great Depression.

The American chapter of our family history begins with Tato who arrived in 1927, two years before the market collapse. After bouncing from job to job, he eventually found employment as a service station attendant for the Standard Oil Company. At the time, no one pumped their own gas. Nor did anyone check their own oil, clean their own windshield, or check their own tires. A service station provided "service" for everyone at no extra cost.

Tato prospered and eventually franchised his own two-stall service station. Mama owned and operated a beauty salon on Damen Avenue in the Ukrainian Village. Her success as an entrepreneur was a welcome addition to our family's finances.

My maternal grandmother was living with us at the time, and she is the reason I speak Ukrainian today. Babtsia never learned English so we all spoke Ukrainian at home. It was Babtsia who stayed home with me while Tato and Mama worked.

I recall that we lived rather well. Tato's first car was a 1929 Model A Ford with a "rumble seat," the joy of my childhood. In 1939, he purchased a brand-new, shiny, four-door black Pontiac sedan.

Like many Ukrainians, Tato dreamed of owning land and in 1941, his dream came true. Mama sold her business and my parents purchased a fully functional 60-acre farm in Michigan, between Three Rivers and Mendon, a mile from Highway M-60. Mama believed in fresh air and the farm was the perfect place for Vera, my sister, and me to spend our summers, far from the streets of Chicago.

Babtsia agreed to manage the farm, which in time included five milking cows, some 250 chickens, a few hogs, geese, ducks, and assorted other barnyard animals. She managed this menagerie despite the fact that she had never lived on a farm, even in Ukraine, and could not speak English. She was an incredible woman.

During the war years the Pontiac drove us the 150 miles to "Babtsia's Farm," frequently exceeding the posted nationwide speed limit of 35 miles per hour. We usually completed the trek in three and a half hours. Amazingly, I recall being stopped by the state police only once, in Indiana.

Mama, Vera and I spent our summers on the farm. Tato would arrive on Friday night and stay until late Sunday afternoon, taking care of the miscellaneous responsibilities associated with farm management.

Mama loved the movies. On Saturdays, we would walk to M-60, flag down the regularly scheduled Greyhound bus, and travel the seven miles to a theater in Three Rivers. A Greyhound bus going the other way was available about three hours later, just enough time to see the double feature.

Other school breaks and weekends were another opportunity for Mama and her kids to use the Greyhound. The bus ride from Chicago was five hours, with a rest stop in Michigan City.

During Christmas vacation one year, I was permitted to make the Greyhound trip all by myself. As always, Babtsia greeted me with hugs and kisses. We "farmed" together for about five days before Tato, Mama and Vera arrived. The two weeks spent on Babtsia's farm that particular winter are among the most memorable moments of my childhood.

There was a country general store in the village of Parkville, about a half mile from Babtsia's farm. Most, especially pork and beef, was limited during the war years. People lined up at the meat market, waiting for the meat truck. Babtsia and I would watch for the meat man to come roaring by on his way to Parkville. Once we spotted him, I would hop on my bike and follow, arriving just in time to purchase my favorite, pork chops. No one prepared "pork chops" like my grandmother. No one baked fresh apple pie the way my grandmother did, either.

The few days I spent alone with my grandmother were very, very special. Snow had fallen, guaranteeing a white Christmas throughout Michigan. The farmhouse was warm and cozy and I indulged in my favorite past-time, reading. The first novel I ever read, "Thunderbird," the story of a white stallion, was during that week with Babtsia. Reading, Babtsia's "pork chopsy" and apple pie. For a kid like me, life didn't get any better.

By the time my parents and sister arrived, I was ready for Christmas. Babtsia and Mama dived in right away to prepare dishes for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner. They also baked Christmas cookies and, of course, apple pie. The aromas that permeated the farm house that year are still with me.

A highlight of the holiday was a trip to our snow-covered woods to find a Christmas tree. Mom was especially fond of the freshly-cut variety which, when dragged into the house, contributed to the farm house fragrances. We decorated the balsam together, as a family.

On Christmas my sister watched for the first star of the evening; when she spotted it, we sat down at the table to pray. I remember the evening as tranquil and holy. Contentment filled the air. It was our special, Norman Rockwell Ukrainian Christmas.

There was only one disappointment. I had been told that farm animals speak on Christmas eve, and I wanted to go to the barn to witness this miracle myself. Mama and Tato told me animals only spoke when no humans were present.

I have been blessed with many magnificent Christmases in my lifetime. The best revolved around our Stefko and Michael when they were growing up. These days, our grandchildren, Mariana, Kathryn, Kailee and Andrew, brighten the holiday celebrations. I can't imagine Christmas without the joyous laughter of little children. Like the Christ Child, they represent innocence, peace and hope for the future.

Babtsia died in 1976 and Mom in 1995. They are no longer with us, but they live in our hearts - especially at Christmastime.

If you've already celebrated Christmas, I hope your memories will endure. If you are yet to celebrate, I wish you a blessed time and memories that will endure in the hearts and minds of your family.

Khrystos Rodyvsia! - Slavim Yoho!

Myron Kuropas' e-mail address is: [email protected]

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