Recently in a local bookstore, I opened a copy of Jack London's collected
stories. Glancing down the list of titles, I smiled in recognition of familiar
readings from my boyhood.
Coming upon the title The Sea Wolf I stopped, as memories of my Father and
the arrogance of my youth came into my mind.
Turning to chapter 24 in this particular story, I looked for that special
word. My eyes went up and down the pages where I knew it to be. Scanning
the words as I have scanned the faces of people exiting from the arriva
l lounge at an airport, intently looking for the face of a loved one in the crowd.
And then locking on to that familiar and welcome face when it comes into view.
And there it was frozen in time on the printed page. I placed my
forefinger on this word as if to assure it that I had not lost the pleasure
of our first meeting. It was the word Macedonia
I began the habit of reading from an early age. I read the youth oriented
pulp paper books such as Edgar Rice Burroughs, Tarzan and the Lost City
and many if not all of others like it. It's strange but I carry a clear memory of
myself reading on a bench in Riverdale Park, while my brothers raced about.
"Why did you bring a book to the Zoo, you can read at home" my Mother
asked? I did not reply, kids never seem to answer questions like that. The
answer was simple; having just traded books with a friend, I had not read this
book about Dick Tracy yet. What I find strange is remembering that Dick
Tracy was lured into the loft of a barn in New Jersey, and fell through a trap
door into a pen containing a dangerous bull. Why we carry such trite
remembrances I do not know?
I became a frequenter of the Park School Library; the librarian was
delighted to select books for me. "This is good for you" she would say, but
"let's try something different next time." It was she who introduced me to
Jack London's writings.
One night, ordinary in itself but momentous to memory, I was reading Jack
London's tale of The Sea Wolf. The dull lighting in that small upstairs
bedroom did not discourage my habit or pleasure of reading. What was a dull
light bulb to young keen eyes and an inquisitive mind?
Wolf Larsen captain of the sail rigged, seal hunting Schooner Ghost and
protagonist of this tale of the Sea was aware that his nemesis was in pursuit of
him. The author circuitously but steadily leads us to the inevitable
confrontation.
On the horizon a smudge of black smoke is spotted by the lookout, the
alarm is sounded "It's her, it's the Macedonia" as he pointed in the direction
of the steadily approaching steamship, also a sealer.
The dull light in my room suddenly seemed brighter! The hair on the nape
of my neck literally stood up. My eyes were mesmerized by the nine letters of
this special name which I had never encountered in print before.
The print on the pages seemed to fade and grow smaller while the word
MACEDONIA seemed to grow bolder in type and dominated all other words
on the pages.
I was the first generation son of a Macedonian immigrant and to see this
word in print was stupendous. Macedonia! Found in an American action
novel, placed there by a famous author! The great Jack London used this
word!
Never in my ten year experience had I known such feeling of pleasure and
surprise in reading a word. My mind which had slowed for a moment now
began to race. I wanted to share this find with my Macedonian Father
.
Jumping out of bed I hurried downstairs to find him sitting in the kitchen
with my Mother.
Pushing the open pages of the book towards his face, excitedly I said "Look
look at this." Puzzled he stared intently at the left hand page and then at the
right hand side.
I noticed a gradual change come onto his face, as of someone caught off
guard. His facial expression altered perceptibly as he quickly began to sweep
his eyes over the two pages. What was it he was supposed to see, his
expression seemed to say.
I sensed that he felt I had put him to a test and he was failing that test.
What was wrong? I had often seen him bent over the newspapers, turning
each page slowly and carefully. Can he not see the word? His desperation
was evident. There was something going on here that I could not understand.
It was as if I had caught him in a lie.
An explosion of understanding burst upon me.
He can’t read!
My immigrant father can't read English! Everybody could read I thought.
My younger brothers could read, all the kids at school could read. My Mother
can read. He can't read? Every Canadian in Canada can read, and he can't
read?
This strong, generous, loving man of hundreds of stories and adventures
can't read? This man who at fourteen years of age emigrated by himself from
the Old Country, leaving parents behind and the turmoil of the Balkan Wars.
This victor of so many of life's cultural battles, who could not speak one word
of English when he came. He, who was smart and tough enough to survive
what was the every day then, but hard to understand now, of the daily events
and problems faced by immigrants of the early 1900's. Of being taken by
fellow Macedonians whom he roomed with, to their place of work, requesting
a job for this greenhorn kid. They said, he would do anything, no matter how
hard, dirty or menial, He can speak, maybe one or two words of English, but
he will work hard , pay him what you want he will take it, he is desperate.
Learning quickly as only the younger immigrants can, word by word,
experience by experience he began to speak English. Working in slaughter
houses and the associated tanneries, at jobs others did not want he began the
process of acculturation.
He went out west on the Harvest Trains in 1928 with crowds of
unemployed men of every nationality and race. They were hired by labor
agents to bring in the wheat harvest the proviso being free passage there and
back if you completed the seasons work. He mixed with men from all over the
country who wanted to work. A stint in the early, large car plants of the
late 1920's and early 30's in Detroit Michigan and Toledo Ohio. He worked
as a spinner in many of the knitting mills of Toronto and as a carpet washer
standing unknowingly and unprotected in washes of acids and various
chemicals. Uninformed unenforced ,uncared environmental criminal practices
of those times. Factories, plants mills, restaurants. Outdoor City of Toronto
make work crews, hand shoveling snow from intersection and public
walkways and on and on. Any type of work, any place, anytime, give him an
opportunity and he would take it.
As cream rises to the top, he would invariably rise to lead hand or foreman
wherever he worked. Physically strong and life experienced on the road, no
man could push him into a corner so helplessly as I had by asking him to look
and see what I saw in this book.
It was as though I was measuring my Father with a standard he could never
meet and as if I knew it. It was unfair and I could see he was disturbed at
being found wanting and that I could see this shortcoming in him. I didn't
realize that my mother did all the reading for the two of them from the day
they became one.
She had her share of this marriage partnership and did it well, she took
care of what he lacked and he for what she lacked, complimenting each other
so neither of them lacked. He was the breadwinner, she was the homemaker.
His inability to read had never been called into question before. And now a
ten year old son had exposed this fact unwittingly.
He had the immigrants feeling of inadequacy, not able to speak or read
and write in the language of their adopted countries.
To the newcomer speaking the language is of prime necessity and in those
times it was more caught than taught. Reading and writing required
instruction by an instructor as well as a place of instruction. Many
immigrants of this period never learned to read and write other than the basic
necessity of signing their name. In most cases it was lack of opportunity or
time rather than laziness or a decision not to learn.
Though only ten years old, the embarrassment of the moment did not
escape me. Before I could tell him what I had discovered, all the lines in his
face creased into a beaming smile. His eyes danced with delight. His manner
and body language changed to one who has snatched victory out of the jaws
of defeat.
Laughing delightedly, he placed his strong thick finger on the page
touching the printed word that was so familiar to him. The word Macedonia
looks similar in English and in the Cyrillic script of his language. I had
confused him in my hurry and excitement not making plain what it was I
wanted him to see.
Putting the book down he pulled me close to him in an emotional embrace
while kissing the top of my head. He said "Son you have a Macedonian soul"
He realized my excitement in rushing into his presence was not to test him, but
a desire to share this word that I associated with him. His pleasure was
evident in this special moment.
In coming to him with this printed word I acknowledged my descent from
him in a profound way. At that time neither of us knew or used the word
profound but we experienced it none the less.
Macedonia was my Father and my Father was Macedonia, that’s the way I
thought of this word at ten years of age. This word bound us together in that
instant, closer than the ordinary bond between a loving father and his child.
This feeling emanated from both father to son and son to father.
Without uttering one word we declared we were one not only in genes but in
soul.
Pulling up a chair, I sat beside him with this book open between us. There
in print written by a famous author in plain English, the word Macedonia.
I explained it was the name of a steamship that hunted for seals. So taken up
by this we never considered that this story was fiction rather than fact. We
discussed why or how this ship received its name? My father said perhaps
some rich Macedonian businessman in America named it after the land where
he was born. That's what I would do he said. Or perhaps some person who
knew of Alexander the Great honored him by naming the ship after his
country.
In retrospect I am sure this was the case.
I never said to my Father you can't read can you? It lay unspoken between
us. However, from that time on, when I brought home a book or school work
he would examine them and ask questions concerning them especially the
school work.
One day, he asked me to write out the letters of the alphabet and to sound
out each phonetically. Why ask me and not my mother? I don't know?
At first I did not suspect there was a purpose to this request.
He would ask why write two a's, a big one that was different from the smaller
one? The large letters were capitals and you couldn't write Canada with a
small c as it was against the law. In my youthful ignorance I did not realize
the accurateness of my statement. It was indeed against the law, the law of
grammar. He had an immigrants respect for the law and as a consequence he
never misspelled the name of his adopted country.
I would often see him bent over a recopied alphabet sheet sounding out the
letters quietly. He spent hours writing out these letters and copying words
from the news paper headlines.
Many times he would call me over to sound out certain words, like
obituaries. What is this word, what does it mean, how do you say it?
I am ashamed now of the many occasions that I avoided my father when I
could see a session of words and sounds coming on.
Over a period of about two years he doggedly continued in his practice of
copying words, sounding them and asking questions about them. All garnered
from the newspaper.
The biblical admonition of the acrostic word "ask" was his battering ram
in his war against ignorance. I do not mean ignorance in the sense of ignorant
meaning rude, for my Father was least rude man that I have ever met.
Rather ignorance in its primary sense meaning lack of knowledge. He did not
know how to read, but he made up his mind that he would find and gain the
knowledge of being able to read English.
He did not know the Bible verses of Matthew 7:7-8 but he was a
practitioner and recipient of its truths. Is it not a fact attested by many that
God helps those that help themselves?
Ask in acrostic is A for ask and it shall be given you, this he did constantly.
S for seek and you shall find this he did constantly. K for knock and it shall be
opened unto you. This he did constantly. The verses refer of course our
asking. seeking knocking in prayer to God. The promise being; for everyone
that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and he that knocketh it
shall be opened unto him.
I can assure you he did not know of this spiritual principle but that’s what he
used in his desire to read.
He had persistence in purpose. Like his ancient ancestors, the
Macedonians of Alexander's army were noted for their persistence.
Persistence, ask, seek and knock were the four wheels of his siege machine in
the war for knowledge.
Though he could speak English well and without a foreign inflection in his
speech, could write his name, was a husband, father ,musician, employed, a
house buyer, a productive citizen, tax payer, patriot he felt incomplete.
He must be able to read to satisfy what he saw as a shortcoming.
The radio and other people were his source of news. He wanted to read for
himself what was happening in the war. He yearned to be independent, able to
speak, read and write in the language of his adopted country.
Here a little there a little, cracks were beginning to show in his enemy
called ignorance or inability to read. He would shyly show me a word that he
had figured out by himself. He was looking for my approval, I did not realize
it then, but I do now.
Also, I now realize how very clever he was, asking me to come and read
aloud to him. With our chairs pressed close together he had me trace with my
finger the words that I was reading. That way he could see the word in print
and hear it spoken line after line.
All his working life my father had been in contact and was influenced by
clever men. Unschooled by Academia but natural, born leaders of the
laboring work force.
Men, who had gravitated to the front of groups of men, by intrinsic
intelligence, ability and experience. These men were highly prized and valued
by Company owners and managers to lead the work force, whether it was a
harvest threshing crew, a logging crew or gangs of spinners in woolen mills,
stevedores in the dockyards, construction sites, what ever.
Clever men supervised the fields the forests the factories.
They were Scots, English, Irish, Finns, German, and Jews, men of every race.
These men were the teachers of my young immigrant father; he watched
and sought to emulate them. Men who cared to do a good job and found ways
to do it best, practical, innovative the smart way the best way for men and
their equipment.
And it was pretty clever of my father to use me to trace the word and read
it aloud. He saw the letters and heard the pronunciation of each word at the
same time.
Audio-visual teaching was it not?
One evening just before bedtime, he assembled the family around the
dining room table. We wondered why, as we had never been assembled like
this before.
Solemnly he opened a folded newspaper and began to read aloud the
headlines. It was obvious that this had been rehearsed. Turning to other pages
he read us excerpts and concluded with "I won't read the death notices"
My Mother was beaming with pride "That's good Spero"
Turning to me he said "I won't be bothering you so much now"
In my senior years as I evoke that family scene gathered around a reading
father I recall a painting of another scene like it. It is a well known Scottish
scene of a Crofters cottage. A family is gathered around the father who had
been reading the scriptures and was now in prayer. The title is "From such
sacred scenes Scotland's splendor spread."
The simple scene in our home is no less sacred in my memory.
My Father could read. To him his immigrant label was now superfluous
He was a speaking, reading, writing Canadian citizen.
I don't believe my Father ever read a book. Everything that happens is
reported in the news paper before it was printed in a book was his position.
He enjoyed reading the papers. He read every word, still asking about
unfamiliar or technical words.
One benefit of his new found skill was he wrote me a letter while I was
away at camp. In it New York came out as Nuw Yrk because he wasn't copying
it from a newspaper. These were the only misspelled words in the short letter
which was written sixty five years ago. I still have it.
It is here I record the terrible arrogance of youth. I had told many people
that I had taught my Father to read. My thoughts were not on the
accomplishment of what I considered as my pupil, they were of course on me
the wonderful teacher. We whose first language is English take for granted
that to read is no big thing, every body does.
One day when in my senior years I was walking and talking to myself
(inwardly) as is my habit. I recalled the great pleasure of my father in reading
the newspaper. I was stunned into the realization that I had never taught my
Father to read! He had taught himself! He was truly self taught and had used
me as the means to achieve his ends. I was his walking talking dictionary and
audio –visual teaching tool. His teachers from "Hard Knocks College" would
be proud of him finding the best way to get a job done.
With no instructor or familiarity with a reading teaching system, he
devised his own. I remember he had me write a word for a sound such as "a"
for able and "b" for bee and so on. He became alert to the fact of phonetic
change with some letters. He understood that b in bee was b and that b in
butter was buh.
The reason being that the following letters changed the sound of the first
letter. He pointed this out to me. Me who was the brilliant teacher.
As I digested this late coming revelation a renewed pride and respect for
my Father overcame me in recalling his eagerness and spirit to learn.
I was as Mark Twain who remarked; It was amazing how smart his father
got when Mark turned twenty one. It took me some sixty five years to grasp
this fact about mine.
My Father was encouraged to learn to read by Jack London using the
word Macedonia, that so excited his son by finding it in the book The Sea
Wolf.
The word Macedonia has a particular hold on me since that night sixty five
years ago. My fondness for it has not diminished, rather increased. It acts as
a magnet to my eyes drawing me to the context in which it is written. It is as
music to my ears when I hear it spoken; it is as familiar to me as my own
name.
This word Macedonia ties my Father to me even across the great gulf of
death.