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■* ~ *iapt
Hme* s jflßp^
Being close to a generation
older than the average
UWG student and grow
ing up in a place far, far removed
from the Deep South, I had the
opportunity as a child to experi
ence Christmas in a very differ
ent way than the commercial
ized, Americanized, de-tradition
alized ones we know and love
today.
I grew up in an area of
Northeastern Pennsylvania at a
time when the styles and cus
toms of European immigrants
were just beginning to die > it
but were still very much present.
The towns in my area were
strictly segregated ethnically. I
come from Dupont, where the
Polish-American citizens called
home. My mother’s side of the
family was steeped in Catholic
Polish tradition, and these tradi
tions manifested themselves
most notably during the
Christmas season.
My Grandmother Shimkoski
was the matriarch of our family,
a simple, peasant woman but one
with indomitable will and char
acter. To her, Christmas was a
ritual -a sacred one- and she
made certain that the great tradi
tions were abided and celebrated.
Even though, as a toy-hungry
kid, I had already fallen victim to
the commercialized Christmas
that we all know today, part of
me accepted Grandma’s tradi
tional Christmas. I let it wash
over me and soak in. I never
rejected it as foolish and old
fashioned. There were levels of
depth to the way my grandmoth
er celebrated that I didn’t under
stand, but somehow that just
added to the mystery and aura of
it all.
I cannot experience any
Christmas without thinking back
to the Christmas Eves spent at
my grandmother’s tiny house.
All day, friends of my grand
mother would drop by with their
gifts, and even though Mrs.
2
Opinion & Commentary
A Christmas
Lost to the Past
By J. Pilkonis,
Managing Editor
Fliss’s gift might only be a small,
crocheted potholder, her real gift
was that this 70-year-old woman
made a half-mile walk just to
come and visit her old friend.
Even though 1 think that I had
enough maturity even then to
appreciate this, these days, when
1 look back, it shoots me right
through the heart.
When evening came, it was
time for dinner, the most ritual
ized aspect of the holiday. Even
though it’s easily been fifteen
years since I last celebrated it, I
can still tell you every detail. 1
can still smell the cuisine, still
tick off the specific order in
which items were consumed. We
started off each with a piece of
oplatki, or holy wafer, from
which, starting at the head of the
table, we would each take a
small bite, and then pass around
so that everyone shared with
everyone else. Then came a long
sequence of dishes, simple,
Polish fare, but each with signifi
cance: Mushroom soup; buck
wheat groats with milk; hallupki;
fish. The sequence never strayed
one iota. It was important. It was
tradition.
And now it’s... gone.
Dupont evolved into a town
populated by the very old and
losers who lacked the brains or
talent to escape. Necessity forced
me to leave shortly after high
school to take on the world. (The
world won.) Even by that time,
my grandmother’s health had
begun to fail, and she lacked the
strength to adhere to strict tradi
tion. Compromises had started to
creep in. Time was winning.
Tradition was dying.
There’s a strange phenome
non when one leaves home for
an extended period of time, in
that there’s a tendency to remem
ber things exactly as they are.
Memory does not factor in
change. In my case, by the time I
made it back - years and years
later - everything had vanished.
My family had disintegrated. My
Grandma Shimkoski had lost her
senses to Alzheimer's Disease,
and with that came catastrophic
change. The personal agendas of
everyone else in the family -
lesser people than my grand
mother to be sure were pushed
forth, and it ruined everything.
The jackals who had been sniff
ing the air for 25 years saw their
opportunity to descend. What’s
left is ugly, fractured, and bitter.
To me, it was proof that my
grandmother had been the only
one with the strength of charac
ter to hold things together, and I
know in my heart that if she was
aware of what has happened, she
would be filled with disgust and
disappointment. I guess it’s best
that she doesn’t know. As for me,
I’m grateful that I’m far, far
away, lest surely I would have
been drawn down into this abyss
of greed, resentment, mental ill
ness, and despair.
I can never have Grandma
Shimkoski’s Polish Christmas
back. When my memories leave
me, it will be all gone.
During my last (and final)
visit to Dupont - I can't even
bring myself to call it “home”
anymore - I visited my
Grandmother Shimkoski.
Wheelchair bound, having lost a
leg to diabetes, she sat on the
front porch and smiled as I
approached. She was so happy to
see me, even sang me a happy
little Polish song. She had
absolutely no idea who I was.
But she thanked me for coming
all the same. Even like this, liv
ing for the moment, with no con
ception of the past, she was still
a good person.
Maybe I’m the only one left
who realizes the importance of
her legacy, the importance of
those Christmases lost to time.
That’s why I’ve written this. This
one’s for Babshi.
Treasure this Christmas.
They don’t last forever.
T’he Staff...
Jody Gault - Editor-In-Chief
J. Pilkonis - Managing Editor
Karen M. Ethridge - News Editor
Anderson Bell - A&E Editor
Scott Pittman-Sports Editor
Kelley Warren - Staff Photographer
Gabe Pline - Copy Editor
Michelle Torrey - Business Manager
Brad Haralson - Graphic Artist
Kim Phillips - Ad Representative
Frank Pritchett - Advisor
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