Guest Columnist -- Richard S. Szymczak

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After reading “The Write Stuff” (http://goddessofallthingslovely.blogspot.com/2009/07/write-stuff.html), one of my friends asked if I might ever post one of my father’s stories. So, here I am to share one with you.

My Dad grew up in Webster, MA.

http://www.webster-ma.gov/

The Town of Webster is a medium size community located in central Massachusetts on the Connecticut border. Founded by Samuel Slater in 1812, it was primarily an industrial center due to its abundant water supply. Textiles and shoe factories flourished in Webster resulting in a population with diverse ethnic backgrounds. By far, the town's richest asset is the beautiful fresh water, spring fed Lake Chargoggagoggmanchaugagoggchaubunagungamaugg.*

*We’ll get to this baby in a minute!

When my Dad was young, Webster was largely a mill town. It had then, and I believe still does, a large Polish population. I just googled for Szymczak in Webster, and I found 8 listed. They could be related to me; however, I remember my Dad telling me once that “Szymczak” in Poland was like the surname “Smith” in the United States. I always found this REALLY ironic as my Mom went from Ruth Smith to Ruth Szymczak on November 9th, 1958.

By the way, Szymczak is pronounced “Shim-shack”. My Dad always pronounced it “Sim-check”, but when I went to Brandeis, I discovered that my Dad’s second cousin, Ralph, who worked at the library, always introduced himself as “Ralph Shim-shack.” Also, if you ever need to know how to spell it, my sister’s teacher in high school made this up:

Several Zany Yaks May Catch Zebras And Kangaroos

Got it? Good!

Lake Chargoggagoggmanchaugagoggchaubunagungamaugg is located in Webster and probably its biggest claim to fame.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Chaubunagungamaug

The Indian name means "Fishing Place at the Boundaries -- Neutral Meeting Grounds"; however, I just realized from reading the wiki page that I believed the hoax meaning all these years. This is fitting, because I still believe the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 and 2007. Whaaaat?!?! They really did? :-) (Sorry, Tom! I couldn’t resist.)

I remember being on the Brandeis van, traveling to a volleyball game at W.P.I. or Assumption, seeing the sign for the lake along the Mass Pike, and then hearing all the girls trying to pronounce the lake’s name. “Lake Chow-bun-a-gun-a-mog!”

I’d wait a few minutes and let them all have their try at trying to pronounce the lengthy beast. And, then I’d wait for a lull, and I’d pronounce it. Well, it was the way I was taught to pronounce it from Webster natives, so I figured it must be accurate. I could have been pronouncing it wrong, but the gals on the van would never know, because I sounded like such an expert in Difficult Lake Name Pronounciation!

Most of the girls on that van were a heck of a lot smarter than me, so it always made me feel a tad superior to be able to expertly pronounce the name of a lake in the teeny tiny town of Webster, Massachusetts; yeah, well, back then, it was the little academic things that counted for me!

Anyway, without further adieu, I present you with one of my Dad’s stories. (By the way, transcribing cursive fountain pen writing from 50+ years ago is a very challenging task!)

The Wake

It was a cold and rainy night in Webster, hardly a night to go to a wake. The only reason for my going was that the factory delegated me to go as their representative.

Mr. Jacob Stanislaus Kapinski, a weaver for 42 years at the Hudson Textile Works, had passed away two days before. He was survived by his widow, children, and a numerous amount of grandchildren. Visiting hours were at his home, at 567 Prospect Street, from two to four and six to nine.

I knew him about five years, ever since I had become foreman of his room. He never said much, seemed likeable, and I never had to tell him much. He always came to work promptly, put in a good days work, and left promptly.

The wind was driving the cold rain in my face. I brought the tip of my hat down over my face to protect it, but soon had to push it back up on my head to see the house numbers. Seeing the house numbers did not matter too much. One house was all lit up, having a big wreath tacked up on its front door.

I looked for a buzzer, but could not find any. This house must have been at least as old as Mr. Kapinski, and now older. I looked at the wreath, and in the middle of the green circle, found a brass door knocker. I promptly raised it and slammed it three or four times.

A little fellow dressed in a black pin stripe suit opened the door and looked at me as if he didn’t know me, which he didn’t , and his faced seemed to wonder just why I was there.

“Come in,” he said.
“I’m Paul Hansell, foreman of the room in which Mr. Kapinski worked.”
“His boss?”
“Yes, his boss.”

He led me through a little entry that led into the living room. The smell of flowers and melted wax heavily scented the air. The little fellow pointed to a coffin against the side of the room, surrounded by an enormous amount of baskets of flowers and wreaths on stands. On either side of the coffin were three lit candles, furiously burning as if they were trying to get the whole thing over with. Chairs were placed along the three other sides of the room. Nine people were sitting in the chairs; seven women dressed in black and two men. There were no children present, which surprised me, because I knew he once or twice spoke of his grandchildren.

I walked up to the coffin and knelt down in front of a white railing. I said a few prayers for the deceased, blessed myself, and started walking to the back entry.

The little man grabbed me by the arm. He introduced me to a woman, completely covered with black.
“This is Mrs. Kapinski,” he said.
“I’m sorry to have to visit you on an occasion like this.”
She inhaled deeply, saying “He was a fine man to live with. He brought seven children into this world – a fine…, a fine…”
She never did finish. She pulled out a handkerchief from the sleeve of her black dress, hiding her face in it.

The little man yelled “Stasia!”, signaling a buxom woman to come to the old woman’s side. She helped the old lady back to a chair.
“Poor old woman,” said the little man in a whisper, “She’ll be going soon.”
I’m not quite sure whether he meant she was going to another location in the building, or going to follow her late husband’s footsteps. Before I could meditate upon it, he again spoke.
“Let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”

I followed him through a hall that went around the living room into the kitchen. This is where the majority of the members of the family were gathered. There were four of them in the kitchen. They were all dressed in black suits. Three of them were built like the little man leading me. One was just a little bigger and the last must have been over six feet. They stared at me the same way the little man did when he opened the door to let me in.

“This is Pa’s boss,” said the little man. Not one of them said a word. All they did was stare.

A sobbing noise came from the living room. Mrs. Kapinski was still crying in bereavement of her late husband. Her sobs didn’t help to cheer up the place any, but at least it broke the spell of the stares.

“These are my brothers. This is Frank.”
He looked at me and grunted.
“This is John and Louis.”
They nodded their heads, shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.
“And this is Andrew.”

None of them made a motion to shake my hand, which was halfway out to find one to shake. Andrew, the youngest looking of the brothers, started to stand up and extended his hand, but when the other brothers looked at him, he stopped short, ending up shifting his position in the chair. My hand quickly withdrew to my side.

“Have a chair. I’ll get the coffee ready.”
There was only one chair empty. I sat in it.

In the middle of the table, around which all the men were seated, was an electric percolator that was new and shiny. It seemed to be a very unharmonious piece of equipment in this house – its brightness out of tone with all the dull drab colors circling it, its newness out of style with the rustic anatomy of the building. The little man reached over the shoulder of one of the mourning brothers to get at it.

“Don’t spill any on me,” he said in a monotone voice. While the little man picked up the coffee pot, fumbling for a cup hanging on a hook from an open cupboard, I pulled out a cigarette from a pack I had in my raincoat. I still had my wet raincoat on; no one had offered to take it from me. I searched for my lighter having difficulty find it. The brothers stared at my gyrations. Andrew suddenly stood up, pulling a wooden match from his pocket, striking it against the bottom of his shoe, and gave me a light.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

I probably said it twice for want of something to say. He looked at me, then at the group, saying “I’m going” as he started walking out of the room, where I don’t know.

The little man brought me the coffee, setting down the cup on the table in front of me. The fellow who was worried about getting coffee spilled on him, the one, I believe that was Louis, pushed over two antique containers that held the sugar and the cream.

“Put a lot of cream in it,” he said. “You can drink it faster.”

A [????] sounded from the living room. Mrs Kapinski was crying for her dead husband. The man with the monotone voice squirmed in his chair. He turned to the little man.

“Did she say anything yet?”

I felt that the little man, standing in back of me was eyeing me when he answered “No. Not yet.”

A man that had been in living room came in. He was wearing a suit with a yellow tie. He was good to look at. He started to sit down in the chair vacated by Andrew. Like a bolt of lightning, the little man whirled around from me and said, “I’m sitting there.”

The newcomer took a quick step back stammering “I was going to get my wife’s coat anyway”, and quickly left the kitchen.

The man with the monotone voice started rubbing his hands together as if kneading a batch of imaginary dough. He spoke.

“Didn’t she say anything?”
“No,” answered the little man.
“She went to the lawyer yesterday.”
“I don’t know.”
“She didn’t say anything?”
“No. Not yet.”
I interrupted any further conversation they might have had.
“I’d better be going. I have to catch the nine o’clock to Worcester.”

The little man jumped up and immediately led me from the kitchen, through the hall around the living room, to the front door.

I put my hand on the door knob.
“Thank you for the coffee,” I said opening the door. I’m sorry about your father. He was a fine man.”
“Yes,” said the little man. “Come again.”

He disappeared in the dark as the opening of the door closed behind me. The wind driven rain felt good as it hit my face. It was a cold and rainy night in Webster.