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    "It's Not the Olden Days Anymore, Grandma!": A Memoir about "Those" Good Old Days.
    "It's Not the Olden Days Anymore, Grandma!": A Memoir about "Those" Good Old Days.
    "It's Not the Olden Days Anymore, Grandma!": A Memoir about "Those" Good Old Days.
    Ebook152 pages1 hour

    "It's Not the Olden Days Anymore, Grandma!": A Memoir about "Those" Good Old Days.

    By Angeline M. Jerz

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    About this ebook

    This book is a wonderful compilation of stories as recalled by the late Angeline Jerz, a native of the South Side of Chicago who grew up in the 30's and 40's. "Grandma Angie" was a great storyteller loved to keep the old traditions alive from the past while always looking ahead for her children and their children - after all, it's not the olden days anymore!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateApr 13, 2011
    ISBN9781257618057
    "It's Not the Olden Days Anymore, Grandma!": A Memoir about "Those" Good Old Days.

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      Book preview

      "It's Not the Olden Days Anymore, Grandma!" - Angeline M. Jerz

      It’s Not the Olden Days Anymore, Grandma!

      by

      Angeline M. Jerz

      © First Edition, 1995.

      All rights reserved.

      This book is dedicated to my family and to their dear and fond memory.

      A Special Dedication

      This is a special dedication to a special little girl, my third grandchild, Desireé Baker. Many miles separate us – she lives in Illinois. I try to take extra hugs with me when I leave after a visit, but they do not last long enough. My stories are long distance. She keeps me up to date with her tales.

      Acknowledgments

      My heartfelt gratitude goes to my daughter, Terri Rogal. Without her encouragement, this book would not have been started. Without her assistance, it would not have been completed. Terri’s computer expertise during the writing and her input in the editing and revising stages were immeasurable benefits. Her photographic skills also a component of this book, were another valued addition to this work. She was such an integral part of this effort; my appreciation is boundless.

      Foreword

      Two of my grandchildren, Kristina and Michael Rogal, enjoy my many stories. We have storytelling sessions often. Tina and Mikey have their favorites, and ask me to repeat them time and again. On one occasion when I was comparing their finances, opportunities, and even the amount of toys they have with what I had long ago, Mikey said: But Grandma, it’s not the old days anymore!

      Let Me Tell You a Story

      Russians are born storytellers. My Mother and Father told me many tales of their youth and also stories handed down from ancestors. My Mother told me of her adventures and her childhood. She went only to the fourth grade then had to remain home to help. She worked on a farm. Life was so hard and the dream of America and its opportunities overwhelming. She worked her way across Europe to earn her passage. She was seventeen! She told us that Germany was so very clean and the people so good to them. I found that to be the case in my travels there—fifty years later. I cried as I stood along the Danube and realized that I was near where my Mother had been born.

      One had to have a sponsor and a place to live in order to come to the United States. A friend of a relative had a boarding house (they were very popular at the time). She worked there upon arrival to her new home. One day as she was cleaning a gentleman’s room and was making his bed, he returned unexpectedly for something he had forgotten. He pushed her down on the bed and tried to kiss her. She would have none of that, wrestled herself free and hit him in the eye. He sheepishly sat at dinner with head bowed, becoming more and more embarrassed as the other men teased him and asked him how he got his black eye. Word had traveled around the house very quickly. They were all amused that Vasily did not know that my Mother was not to be toyed with. That she was so lovely, and had a waist that a man could span with his hands, were not reasons to trifle with her, no matter how great the temptation. This one could take care of herself.

      Pa’s Parables and Russian Folk Tales

      My Father’s stories were like parables or had a moral: There was a corrupt guard at the Czar’s palace. One day a week any citizen could come before the Czar and tell of a woe or problem, and hope for a monetary reward; or on the opposite end, hope that the punishment would not be too severe for some deed. The guard would whisper to each person as they entered, and promise them leniency if they would share with him whatever award was named. Ivan was approached by the guard and he agreed to share one half of whatever decision was made for him. When Ivan came out of the palace he had two soldiers with him. They seized the guard and took him off to be given five lashes, for you see, Ivan had asked to be given ten lashes so that the guard could share his punishment.

      Another: A wealthy land owner sent out word that he would sell to anyone, for ten rubles, all the area that a man could walk from sunrise to sunset. This was such a wonderful opportunity for a peasant to have some property of his own. Many men arrived before sunrise and eagerly awaited the time to begin. How could this man offer such a bargain—he was not of great intelligence, they thought. Boris had brought some bread and cheese in a sack, and a canteen of water. He was ready, why he had even thought to wear his most comfortable boots. He began at the first light of the day. He strode in full vigor. The morning was cool. He planned to save the water until later, knowing the day would grow warmer as the sun rose. He had paced off a goodly amount, and decided to walk until noon, rest a while, eat and then go on. If he continued at this pace, he mused, and turned around after lunch, he would have a very good sized parcel for himself. In his eagerness he postponed his mealtime gauging by the sun, thinking that it was not quite near midday. His pace began to slow as the sun rose in the sky and soon he had to stop to rest and eat. He had become so tired, and thought that a very small nap would help him walk faster when he began again. He woke with a start, not knowing how long he had slept—but the sun did not seem to have moved too much past the overhead position of midday. He walked quickly at the beginning, and then decided to moderate his stride so that he would not tire rapidly. He removed his jacket and drank the last of his water. Had he walked too long before pausing to eat?

      Why was he so tired? He threw down his jacket and canteen as they had become a burden. He glanced at the sky and saw that the sun was nearing the horizon. How much more did he have to go? Oh, why had he gone so long before making the turn to go back? How much had he measured? The sun approached to horizon and he could not yet see his destination. He began to hurry, but he stumbled and fell again and again. He was exhausted. Darkness fell and still he walked. It seemed like such a very long time before he saw the lantern and fire where the landowner sat awaiting the return of all who had set out that morning. Of course Boris forfeited his ten rubles since he had not returned at sunset. A few men got a modest piece of land—those who wisely let common sense rather than greed rule their actions. One man was given a piece of land. It measured six feet

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