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Many of us take Thanksgiving as a day to relax, watch football, eat wonderful food, and spend time with the family. Family memories are built and good times are had.
I always ask folks "how was your holiday". Whenever I hear about people's experiences, I always walk away feeling empty. Thanksgiving for my family took on a whole different meaning. Let me explain...
As some of you may know, I come from a family of Hungarian immigrants. During WWII, and during the Russian occupation, my family had more then their share of hardships. During thanksgiving dinner, the whole story of how we came to be in this wonderful country was always played out for us kids. A collective effort by all of the adults was made in telling the story, with each adult adding a detail here and a detail there.
One year, after the story played out, I asked my grandfather about the one thing that he was most grateful. My grandfather looked me dead in the eye and said "a pile of horse doody that I stepped on". Puzzled, I asked him why. He then related the following story...
One night just after the closing days of the war, and during the Russian occupation of Hungary, Russian soldiers pounded on my grandfather's door in the middle of the night. The simple fact that my family spoke German was cause enough for the state to take all property and lands owned by my family.
Without a moment's notice, they were given 10 minutes to take what they could carry and vacate the farm. All property and lands were "now the property of the state". They loaded up a hand cart with what they could collect and then were made to join a forced march to a labor camp.
Of all of the things my grandfather thought to take, by far the most valuable was a small cask of brandy (grappa he made from the harvest 4 years prior).
As they marched down the road, word came down the line of new refugees that the guards at each checkpoint were stealing any item of value that they wanted. Keep in mind that these were Russian soldiers. If you even looked at them the wrong way, you could be shot.
At that moment, my grandfather stepped in a big pile of horse dung.
Thinking quickly, my grandfather scooped up some of the offensive material and rubbed it all over the cask of brandy. Needless to say, when they reached the checkpoint, one of the guards lifted up the cask, took one sniff of it, and promptly put it back onto the hand cart.
That cask had a lot of meaning later on. After it was washed off, my grandfather used it to bribe a border guard to allow him to pass into the western sector. At that time, brandy was more valuable then gold, but getting west was even more valuable to my grandfather.
He eventually made it to America through a Catholic relief program. and it was all because of that pile of horse doody.
That horse doody is the reason we are in this country..
- Where no one could take his house away,
- Where he no longer had to steal food to feed his family,
- Where he did not fear being shot just for the language he speaks,
- Where there are no work camps, where he could be worked to death,
- Where he had a job that paid for a home and put food on the table,
- Where there are doctors, real doctors so that his kids would not die,
- Where there are schools that led to scholarships for free university
- Where (if you work hard) you fully reap the rewards of your efforts.
These were just a few things that my grandfather listed. There were many, many, more. I realized that my grandfather, who could barely speak English, was by far the most loyal American I have ever met.
When his story sunk in, I realized that I too owe that pile of horse dung a bit of thanks. If it were not for that pile of dung, I very well might have spent most of my life in a communist country!
May all of you share stories this Thanksgiving, and take the time to really share that for which you are most thankful!
johnT.
I always ask folks "how was your holiday". Whenever I hear about people's experiences, I always walk away feeling empty. Thanksgiving for my family took on a whole different meaning. Let me explain...
As some of you may know, I come from a family of Hungarian immigrants. During WWII, and during the Russian occupation, my family had more then their share of hardships. During thanksgiving dinner, the whole story of how we came to be in this wonderful country was always played out for us kids. A collective effort by all of the adults was made in telling the story, with each adult adding a detail here and a detail there.
One year, after the story played out, I asked my grandfather about the one thing that he was most grateful. My grandfather looked me dead in the eye and said "a pile of horse doody that I stepped on". Puzzled, I asked him why. He then related the following story...
One night just after the closing days of the war, and during the Russian occupation of Hungary, Russian soldiers pounded on my grandfather's door in the middle of the night. The simple fact that my family spoke German was cause enough for the state to take all property and lands owned by my family.
Without a moment's notice, they were given 10 minutes to take what they could carry and vacate the farm. All property and lands were "now the property of the state". They loaded up a hand cart with what they could collect and then were made to join a forced march to a labor camp.
Of all of the things my grandfather thought to take, by far the most valuable was a small cask of brandy (grappa he made from the harvest 4 years prior).
As they marched down the road, word came down the line of new refugees that the guards at each checkpoint were stealing any item of value that they wanted. Keep in mind that these were Russian soldiers. If you even looked at them the wrong way, you could be shot.
At that moment, my grandfather stepped in a big pile of horse dung.
Thinking quickly, my grandfather scooped up some of the offensive material and rubbed it all over the cask of brandy. Needless to say, when they reached the checkpoint, one of the guards lifted up the cask, took one sniff of it, and promptly put it back onto the hand cart.
That cask had a lot of meaning later on. After it was washed off, my grandfather used it to bribe a border guard to allow him to pass into the western sector. At that time, brandy was more valuable then gold, but getting west was even more valuable to my grandfather.
He eventually made it to America through a Catholic relief program. and it was all because of that pile of horse doody.
That horse doody is the reason we are in this country..
- Where no one could take his house away,
- Where he no longer had to steal food to feed his family,
- Where he did not fear being shot just for the language he speaks,
- Where there are no work camps, where he could be worked to death,
- Where he had a job that paid for a home and put food on the table,
- Where there are doctors, real doctors so that his kids would not die,
- Where there are schools that led to scholarships for free university
- Where (if you work hard) you fully reap the rewards of your efforts.
These were just a few things that my grandfather listed. There were many, many, more. I realized that my grandfather, who could barely speak English, was by far the most loyal American I have ever met.
When his story sunk in, I realized that I too owe that pile of horse dung a bit of thanks. If it were not for that pile of dung, I very well might have spent most of my life in a communist country!
May all of you share stories this Thanksgiving, and take the time to really share that for which you are most thankful!
johnT.
Last edited:
Hard to follow that story with anything noteworthy.
