Pass the Pierogies

By Mike Breslin

A gut-busting, only slightly exaggerated memoir of growing up in Pennsylvania’s Anthracite Coal Region in the 1950s and 1960s.
 
From flattop haircuts to football fanaticism, block parties to balsa wood models, beer to . . . more beer, this is a rollicking, nostalgic account of life in a Pennsylvania coal town. In a region where downtrodden immigrants from Italy, Ireland, and Eastern Europe poured in during the nineteenth century to find work in the mines—except for the ones who got tired and just stopped in New Jersey—a unique culture was passed down from generation to generation, and this book provides a vivid and humorous picture of what it was like to experience childhood there in the mid-twentieth century. Mike Breslin enthusiastically shares his many stories with readers, because his family is sick of hearing them.
 
And as for the pierogies of the title, no one actually passes them. When the plate comes out, it’s every man for himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781620069820

Book preview

Pass the Pierogies

By Mike Breslin

Pass the Pierogies

Copyright © 2009, 2011 by Mike Breslin

Cover copyright © 2011 by Sunbury Press, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or [e-mail].

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at [phone] or [e-mail].

To request one of our authors for speaking engagements or book signings, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Publicity Dept. at [e-mail].

FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

Printed in the United States of America

September 2011

ISBN 978-1-934597-73-6

Published by:

Sunbury Press

Camp Hill, PA

www.sunburypress.com

Camp Hill, Pennsylvania   USA

You gotta read the following:

Good!  You follow directions.  That’s a start. Now pay attention.

This is a compilation of my memories of growing up in the Anthracite Coal Region of Pennsylvania from around 1957  to 1969 or thereabout.

With the exception my immediate family all other characters in this story are composite figures, not real people.   If, however, you think that I am writing about you or a particular person you know, well….you’re wrong.

At the wise counsel of my wife and a good friend from the Coal Region named Len Shebosky, I have labored to eliminate text that they considered crass, callous, or condescending.  But if you still are offended as you read this book, I respectfully ask you to Take a Powder.

In the Coal Region that’s what’s we said…no screamed…to someone who was insanely upset about something you had just said or done to them.  So enraged that they were hosting a gooney (aka a rock) at shoulder height and were on the verge of whacking you on the noggin with it.

So in an effort to calm him down… and to literally save your life…you yelled into his face:  Hey, take a powder!

A powder, for those of you who don’t know what it means, is granulated pain reliever packaged in a tiny little envelope.  No, not coke, you moron!

But in our jargon the admonition to Take a powder! mean a lot more than to pop an early ancestor of a  Bayer.  It meant, Stop, you idiot!   Give it a break!  I was only messin’ with you!  Now put the rock down.

In the pages that follow I’m going to poke a lot of fun at things you might hold near and dear to your heart.  You might think, while searching the ground for a hefty rock to lob my way, This guy’s makin’ fun of me….or my name….my hometown…my favorite bar….or my ancestors.  

Yeah.  I am.  But if you think about it, you have to admit that in the Coal Region your name, your nationality, your favorite bar, the things you did …and even your ancestors … give rise to some really silly memories.

That’s what I’m writing about. 

As my Mother said to my brother the day he got a very gnarley haircut that made him the laughingstock of the third grade:  Laugh about it and you’ll laugh with others; cry about it and you’ll cry alone.

Come along now and laugh about it.  No harm meant.  It’s all in fun.

But if you still are offended in any way, please accept my sincere apology.  Especially you Catholic School kids.

Respectfully yours,

Mike Breslin

Fellow Coal Cracker and proud to be one.

INTRODUCTION…..or…

How’s come I wrote this book.

How’s come is a Coal Region term.  In a little while I’ll tell you what it means.

Cross my heart and hope to die.  If I lie, spit in my eye.

Those were serious words for serious times. It’s what we said when we wanted someone—usually our parents—to believe that what we were about to tell them was going to be pretty close to the truth. Something like….

No, Mom. I didn’t put the cat in the washing machine.  And with my fingers firmly crossed behind my back, I’d solemnly add, Cross my heart and hope to die.  If I lie, spit in my eye. 

Fluffy, you see, had miraculously gotten herself into the washing machine, added detergent and a double dose of bleach, decided that ice cold water and the heavy-duty cycle was the most appropriate setting for her, then gently closed the lid.

Notice, however, how quickly we gave an alternative to the hope to die offer and opted instead to suffer a hocker to the eye.

So here we go.  In that same spirit of truthfulness I will recall for you somewhat accurately what it was like growing up in the Anthracite Coal Region of Pennsylvania.   The truth and nothing but mostly the truth.

The reason I decided to write this account of what it was like growing up in Pennsylvania’s Anthracite Coal Region is because I think that you, being a highly intelligent, non-judgmental, open-minded person, might enjoy reading these heart-rending recollections. 

OK.  You don’t buy that.  You’re a little bit smarter than I thought.  Swallow the spit.  Let me try again:

In reality, you’re my last hope.   I’m out of audiences.  There you have it, the truth.  You see, the people closest to me—my wife Susan and my two kids, Erin and Michael Jr.—don’t want to hear my stories about growing up in the Coal Region.

But why don’t these people who allegedly love and adore you want to hear your heart-rending Coal Region stories?

Well, I have two explanations for that:

First, my family says they’ve heard all of these stories before and they’re sick and tired of hearing them.  In fact, they even go so far as to say that I tell the same stories over and over and over again and that I repeat myself.

This, I tell you, is not true; it just isn’t so.   I don’t say the same thing over and over again.  I just don’t.  Right?  Right?  Hello?  Are you still there?

But my family thinks that I repeat myself.  Imagine that.

This, for example, is a typical scene at our house.

Me, yelling over a blaring TV to my son:

Hey, Michael, I just thought of something.  Did I ever tell you about…

Apparently having seen my mouth move but unable to hear actual words  he reluctantly turns the TV volume down from ear-wrecking 10 to about 8.5.

Did you say something, Dad?

I was wondering if I ever told you the story about….

Yes, Dad, you did.

But, son, you don’t know what story I’m talking about.

Yes, I do. You want to tell me one of your stories about growing up in the Coal Region. Right?

But you don’t know which one.

It doesn’t matter, Dad.  I’ve heard them all.

All of them?

All of them, Dad.

Well, I reply, somewhat crestfallen. What’s so interesting on TV that you don’t want to hear my Coal Region story again?

The Simpsons.

Oh, the Simpsons, I say, wracking my brain. The Simpsons.  They’re the ones who saved all those people from the Nazis.  You’re watching the History Channel!

No…that was Schindler! he replies.

Ohhhh, yeah, right.  (A parent recovery; never admit ignorance.)  So, pal, what’s The Simpsons about?"

Michael reluctantly hits the pause button on the DVD and launches into an in-depth account of what’s happened so far in the show, what’s about to happen, along with a verbatim recitation of the dialogue that’s upcoming between every character….Bart, Homer, Marge, Lisa, Moe, and even the guy who runs the convenience store.  All of them.  He has every line committed to memory!

Sounds like you might have seen this before, son, I say, amazed at his capacity for recall.  Amazed, that is, because the boy is after all my offspring, the inheritor of my genes.

These are the same genes that often leave me standing on our second-floor landing scratching my head—as if scratching my noggin might somehow help me remember what I came upstairs for in the first place.

See, Dad, he says, holding a handful of shimmering silver discs overhead like a hand in an intergalactic poker game on the Starship Enterprise.

"I got the box set of The Simpsons on DVDs.  Every show, he adds, grinning like he won the lottery.  This episode’s great!" he