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In Search of St. Joseph
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Sarah says:
My paternal grandfather was a huge Hungarian man whose skin turned a deep leather red in the summer. He had a deep, bellowing laugh and was the life and fun of every party. He would yell out “Buffongoola” and called his mates “Mongolian porkchops” - whatever any of that meant. Everyone knew and loved Al, he was extremely popular in the Hungarian and eastern European communities of New Brunswick, New Jersey and was one of the boys in clubs like the Eagles and Knights of Columbus. He was an extremely hard worker, was smart with his money and provided well for his family. My grandparents had a little bungalow on the Jersey shore where I spent all my summers growing up. Their back patio was the best patio of all because the party was always happening there. Beers were always in the cooler, something was always on the grill and at the center of it all was my grandfather.
Unfortunately, he also had a mean and angry drinking problem, was an abusive father, probably a distant husband and, when there wasn’t a party going on, generally instilled a paralytic fear in me. He yelled at me once for something silly and I literally peed my pants right there on the kitchen floor. Our interactions from the time I was five mainly consisted of talking about the weather. During those summers down the shore when I was little, he would walk me to the post office once every couple weeks to mail a postcard home. Once I was old enough to walk myself, he didn’t really know what to do with me anymore and we tended to just avoid each other for most of the season.
He had quadruple bypass surgery in the fall of 1991. Though the surgery itself was a success, there was a mishap in the recovery room and he never regained consciousness. He died on December 12th of that year. I can’t say I ever missed him after he died. Some of my happiest memories are from my summers down the shore but also some of my very worst and most scary memories are of his traumatic drunken episodes. To be frightfully honest, my life was a little more peaceful after he died. For reasons too complicated to explain here, my parents and I did not attend his funeral. My grandmother moved down to Louisiana to be near us and from there on, I had no reason to visit New Jersey anymore and didn’t give thought to ever visiting his grave.
That was 16 years ago, though, and many things have changed since then. My grandmother has now passed away, my relationship with my father has grown distant and my connection to the entire rest of my father’s family has, for all intents and purposes, ceased. The disintegration of family ties began when I was a child and was out of my control but making peace for myself is totally in my control and as the years have gone by, the more I have yearned for it. When David and I began planning our road trip across America I felt a strong pull to finally make the trip to my grandfather’s cemetery, to stand where my grandmother had stood and also as a grown woman, say goodbye and let it all go.
My mom made some calls for me and was able to find the cemetery name and address and my grandfather’s plot details. I had butterflies in my stomach as we drove into the old neighborhood. First we drove past the house my grandfather built and my father was raised in. Then, as we drove on to the cemetery, I thought back to how my grandmother had described to me the grand procession that took place on the day of the funeral - hundreds of cars, mourners from all reaches of the huge Hungarian community. I expected the cemetery, then, to be beautiful, perhaps with a tree lined entrance, manicured grounds, even regal looking. In reality, the grass under the blazing sun was as parched and tired as the few oldies shuffling through the headstones. Everything, the paved paths, the grass and headstones, the chain-link fence and even the visitors that day, all looked like they had had their day and were all now a little forgotten.
We set out to find St. Joseph’s section but quickly realized that none of the sections were actually labeled, they simply blended one into the other and we’d arrived on a weekend so there was no grounds’ keeper to assist us. Determined not to have made the trip in vain, we began walking the rows, starting in the newer looking sections and making our way to the old. We spent probably two hours in the blistering sun and I grew so desperate I began saying out loud, to who I have no idea, “I’m trying to do the right thing here. Please don’t let us leave without finding this …”.
Finally, I walked over to an elderly man tending to a grave to ask if he knew where St. Joseph’s section was. He was probably in his 80’s, small in stature, a little bent over, cute in his oldness. He didn’t know where the section was but began explaining how just about everyone he knew, most of his family and friends, were buried in this cemetery and he came regularly to visit them all. It took him a couple of hours to get to each grave. He seemed a little lonely and talkative, a dangerous combination in the burning sun and as I shifted from one foot to the other wondering when it would be polite to excuse myself and consider my search sadly over, he happened to ask the name of the person I was looking for. I told him my grandfather’s name and instantly I could see something sparking in his memory. It was like I was taking him back to a better time, I could almost here the music begin to play in a dance hall from George’s past. It turned out this very nice man, George Soborvak, not only knew my grandfather but knew my great uncle, my great grandmother, my entire family. He remembered the bar that my family had owned, he was in the Eagles with my grandfather and his brother, “the boys” he called them. “Big fella, that Al”…..”what’s the name again?” Poor George remembered so much from so many years ago but had to be reminded of the name I was looking for once very 10 seconds or so. George felt terrible that he couldn’t help me, perhaps he’d not been to the funeral or maybe he’s been to too many others since then to remember where this one grave might be. He felt certain, though, that another “boy” from the group would be able to help- Greg somebody, who was actually Hungarian (George was Czech) and two years younger so was bound to remember better. Though George mentioned several times that he needed to get home or “the missus” would be angry, he insisted on driving by Greg’s place to seek help and off he went. I stood stunned by this chance meeting. George was more a connection to my family and to my past than seeing a headstone would ever have been. He had been standing next to me in the flesh, remembering and speaking names and places that I never expected to hear spoken out-loud again. He was proof, a wonderful reminder that my family had held a place in the community and that there had been good times. I smiled at the thought of George excitedly sharing at the next Eagles’ meeting that he’d met Al Lukacs’ granddaughter. “Remember Al? Man, we had good times with him. We haven’t thought about him in a while…” That the memory of my grandfather would bring a few minutes of good times for a group of old boys would make me happy if I had any confidence that George would remember our encounter long enough to tell someone about it. But what was more important to me that day was that George, in his sweet and tender way, seemed more a grandfather than my own had been. In that way, he allowed the memory of my grandfather to bring ME some good times for a few minutes.
George came back to say that Greg had not been home. I still haven’t seen my grandfather’s grave but now it doesn’t matter. The grave represents his death whereas George represents his life, a much more fitting tribute than a cold lump of granite.
posted by petal
September 29, 2008 @ 4:23 am
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My paternal grandfather was a huge Hungarian man whose skin turned a deep leather red in the summer. He had a deep, bellowing laugh and was the life and fun of every party. He would yell out “Buffongoola” and called his mates “Mongolian porkchops” - whatever any of that meant. Everyone knew and loved Al, he was extremely popular in the Hungarian and eastern European communities of New Brunswick, New Jersey and was one of the boys in clubs like the Eagles and Knights of Columbus. He was an extremely hard worker, was smart with his money and provided well for his family. My grandparents had a little bungalow on the Jersey shore where I spent all my summers growing up. Their back patio was the best patio of all because the party was always happening there. Beers were always in the cooler, something was always on the grill and at the center of it all was my grandfather.
Sarah, this brings tears to my eyes, as you would expect. It is fascinating to read your memories and perspective of your grandfather, who towered over all of us in the family in more ways than one…. the good and the bad. I’ve been feeling bad about your not being able to reach me by phone while you were looking for your grandfather’s gravesite so I could give you more of the location information I had, but now I feel better.
It’s been wonderful to see pictures of the beach house…. so many memories. Some traumatic and sad memories, but a lot of happy and delightful ones as well. Your dad and I spent a week of our honeymoon in that little cottage. I’m so glad you guys took that little side trip!
Comment by Mom/Nancy September 29, 2008 @ 8:18 pm
Sorry you haven’t heard from me lately, I haven’t been reading or posting much. I so remember the time of your grandfather’s death. I’m glad you were able to find the piece of his life, and that it is good enough…I’m also glad you are home. I know your mom is SO happy to have you back!!
Love to you both…
Comment by Roz Pack October 10, 2008 @ 12:41 pm