The frigid weather dragged by in slow motion. Clusters of days would pass by where the sun wouldn’t show itself. I had never experienced such a cold season before. Brooklyn was by the ocean, which served to temper the weather. My skin began to get bad. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the mirage Aunt Ruta would put on my plate each day or the lack of sunshine. Sitting in Mr. Nostrand’s biology class, I became more aware of nutrition and maintaining good health. I even wrote a letter to Dad telling him to take care of his one good eye by using the right light to read by. When the sun did appear, I would sit at a window and take in its elevating rays. This seemed to help clear up my skin. The cold war continued between my uncle and aunt. There were many issues, but she would always get around to complaining about his “stinky” pipe, and he would predictably deride her for wasting time playing solitaire. I’d stay out of their way because it was easy to get sucked into an argument with them. Even walking across a room too heavily could set my uncle off. When I didn’t perform a chore right away, Aunt Ruta would refer to me as a lazy boy or a good for nothing. She never praised me except for once when I quickly learned the first part of “Fur Elise” on the piano. Even that was indirect. She bragged about the feat to Mildred Getslich, who was the daughter of the old man who would buy the muskrat furs from me and Joe. My aunt often mentioned her nephew’s children, in Detroit, who were good students and well behaved. I couldn’t understand why my uncle and aunt waged war so often. They seemed to have something on each other. The only time Uncle William looked peaceful was when he was working on deciphering words in The Old Testament or when he was clumsily exploring a piece of classical music on the piano. In spite of his lofty work, there was a smothering atmosphere that rested heavily on the house and hardly ever let up. Aunt Ruta would escape by way of long telephone conversations in Polish with her friends Mrs. Machachevski, the grocer’s wife, or with Mrs. Plaskin, who lived high on a hill at the edge of the village, or with Mrs. Pupetski, who lived on a dairy farm south of town. Sometimes, she would call her nephew, Henry, in Detroit. When I asked questions about the family in the old country, Aunt Ruta gave me vague or inaccurate answers. I learned only that her father had been a judge and that they were comfortable. When I asked her what our name was before my grandfather emigrated to America, she said it was Berkson, but I knew that to be false because my father told me that it was Biejna. I realized later that my aunt was trying to hide the fact that she and Uncle William were first cousins. I guess she feared that if she had given me the right information I would have been able to see the connection. This was unfortunate because she no doubt had a wealth of knowledge about family history and what life was like back in Poland. Spring came late and slowly as though it was being born out of the bowels of the Earth. The sun gradually melted the ice and snow and when the ground finally showed, there was mud everywhere, followed by crocuses and emerging hyacinths, irises and day lilies. Streams ran high and the grass began to grow. Budding trees gave way to blossoms. A thick lush green blanket seemed to be covering everything. I never experienced a more spectacular awakening which made my spirits soar. After school, I spent as much time outdoors as my uncle would allow. Sometimes I’d ride my bike out to Jake’s farm to help feed cows or to pound fence posts into the thawed ground as I slowly rode along in the manure spreader swinging a 12-pound sledgehammer. The long winter had left me lean but wiry. One rainy afternoon I was playing pitch on the second floor of my friend Termite’s barn. I was sure my uncle wouldn’t approve of gambling, but it was great to be out of the house and in the company of friends Joe Gravelding, Paul O’Connor, Tom Cantwell and Terry Hannigan. It had rained and the sun was beginning to break through the clouds, so we put the cards away and headed home for supper. I was nearing the house when I saw Aunt Ruta hurriedly limping across the neighbor’s yard with a large bouquet of hydrangeas she had obviously stolen. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The scene was grotesque, with her cane pumping hard to her awkward gait. It was shocking and almost comical. I thought of what she had told the judge about me growing up with no guidance. I stepped behind a big maple so that she wouldn’t spot me and know that I had seen her in the act. What nerve for an old lady to be hobbling across the neighbor’s lawn with her booty. And, the neighbor happened to be my biology teacher, Mr. Nostrand, who Uncle William had button holed at the Pick And Pay grocery telling him in his own way that Darwin’s theory was a lot of hooey. I could have blackmailed my aunt but, like when I caught Waterman stealing her kerosene, I said nothing. The warmer weather lightened the atmosphere around the house. Aunt Ruta started her vegetable garden, recruiting me to turn over the soil for her. She also had me paint the side porch, not without a lot of criticism. Uncle William would sit out in the yard and read after he had put in some hours on the typewriter. Occasionally, a daring patient would venture into his office for a “painless” extraction or a deep filling done without Novocain. School ended with a devastating report card. Because I hadn’t opened a book all year, I failed Geometry and Biology. In spite of having tortured Lionel Jacques, the French teacher, with incessant outbursts mutilating the language, I passed the course. I can still hear the little man crowing, “Berkson, I’m not talking just to move the molecules of the air!” World History went okay because Mr. Ehlers gave a good lecture and didn’t take any nonsense. At the end of the term, he told me that I needed notes in order to pass the course. So, I sat down in study hall and put to paper all I could remember – to his satisfaction. Poor Mrs. Strong, the English teacher. I had a way of making a high-pitched whistle through my teeth while looking right at her. She didn’t know where it was coming from and it would drive her crazy. Luckily for her, half the time I sneaked out of her room and hung out with the guys in the Ag class. When haying season started, Jake got me hired at the old Borden’s Farm. To be continued. Terry Berkson is a freelance writer from Richfield Springs.
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