By Shirley Skufca Hickman
They wiped their feet politely,
Knocked at Ellis Island,
And came to find America
Singing the old songs in their fear.
Men packed into black trains
Like fat sausages rode
To Colorado mining towns
Singing the old songs on their way.
Soon the women came,
Clutching their tickets
Sent by lonely husbands,
Brothers, sisters, friends
Singing the old songs and dreamed.
They untied their bundles,
Unpacked small metal trunks,
Loved, married, birthed,
Put flowers on the window sills,
And turned a strange land into home
Singing the old songs in their joy.
Before the bright sun was up,
Men rode mules or walked
Into cold, damp mines to
Dig hard, bituminous coal
Singing the old songs as they worked.
The nightshift traveled home
With just the moon for light.
Men kissed their pretty wives,
Ate sauerkraut with home-made sausages,
And sang the old songs to their kids.
Each week the men stood in line
For seven dollars’ worth of scrip
And waited for their meager pay,
But no one there sang the old songs.
Men’s hands used to scattering
Seeds on brown, peasant land
Were black from handling coal
That never quite washed out.
The shrill mine whistle screamed
There’d been a cave-in in the mine.
Women and children waited in the streets
To see if their men were still alive.
The Italian mother living down the street
Lost a beloved son and buried him
Singing the old songs through her tears.
On Sundays women went to church
To pray for God’s many blessings
While wagons full of men and boys
Drove into cool, green mountains
With a lamb or goat and built
A fire for the Sunday barbeque.
A hundred people came to eat
And all brought food, or drink, or both.
Italians brought accordions and wine.
The Slavs brought polka and potica.
The Germans came with sausages and beer.
The Irish came with whiskey and the dance.
When shadows hid the mountain-side
And took away the summer’s sun,
The campfire gave both light and cheer
And everyone grew close to sing.
They sang happy American tunes.
But as the summer evening fell
The songs were in a foreign tongue.
The music, beautiful and sad,
Drew tears from women and the men.
They sang of homes they’d left behind
Of mother, fathers, friends, and home
They never hoped to see again.
They lived, endured the mines,
The crystal winters with their snows,
The feared death rattle of black lung.
And yet they stayed, increased,
And loved this big new land
They came to call Amerika.
In winter when the food was scarce,
They hunted rabbits and deer,
Grew cabbage and made sauerkraut
Stored in wooden barrels kept in
Cellars under their kitchen floors.
No one went hungry in their town.
The unions came and with them
Fear, fires, blood, and strikes.
Some fought for them, some against.
But in the end, they all belonged
And sang the old songs as they marched.
No longer was the work 12-hour shifts.
The mines were safer and the wages fair.
The money bought electric lights,
More food, cars, and better houses.
They sang the old songs with delight.
But some changes came too fast.
The young women were a shame.
They danced the racy tango,
Showed their arms and knees,
And some were even driving cars.
But still they married, worked, birthed,
And sang the old songs when they could.
The children went to school to learn,
To read, to write, to calculate.
On Saturdays they went to movies
To see Shirley Temple dance and sing.
When all of Europe went insane,
And Hitler’s Nazis massacred the Jews,
The young men volunteered to fight
To protect American democracy.
And when the evil war was done
They were not boys, but wounded men.
One young man blew his brains out
On a cold Sunday after church.
Another drank for two long years
To blind the images of death.
But most of them came home
To live, to work the mines, and
Sing the old songs of their youth.
The coal mine shut down and
Families scattered everywhere
To search for jobs of any kind
In nearby towns, or cities far away.
The children went to school to learn,
To read, to write, to calculate.
On Saturdays they went to movies
Danced and went on dates.
Now only Grandma spoke
The language of her youth.
The children didn’t understand
The words she said or sang.
They were Americans now.
I sing the old songs when I can,
But as I grow tired and old
And leave the world I know,
Those songs will die with me.
They wiped their feet politely,
Knocked at Ellis Island,
And came to find America
Singing the old songs in their fear.
Men packed into black trains
Like fat sausages rode
To Colorado mining towns
Singing the old songs on their way.
Soon the women came,
Clutching their tickets
Sent by lonely husbands,
Brothers, sisters, friends
Singing the old songs and dreamed.
They untied their bundles,
Unpacked small metal trunks,
Loved, married, birthed,
Put flowers on the window sills,
And turned a strange land into home
Singing the old songs in their joy.
Before the bright sun was up,
Men rode mules or walked
Into cold, damp mines to
Dig hard, bituminous coal
Singing the old songs as they worked.
The nightshift traveled home
With just the moon for light.
Men kissed their pretty wives,
Ate sauerkraut with home-made sausages,
And sang the old songs to their kids.
Each week the men stood in line
For seven dollars’ worth of scrip
And waited for their meager pay,
But no one there sang the old songs.
Men’s hands used to scattering
Seeds on brown, peasant land
Were black from handling coal
That never quite washed out.
The shrill mine whistle screamed
There’d been a cave-in in the mine.
Women and children waited in the streets
To see if their men were still alive.
The Italian mother living down the street
Lost a beloved son and buried him
Singing the old songs through her tears.
On Sundays women went to church
To pray for God’s many blessings
While wagons full of men and boys
Drove into cool, green mountains
With a lamb or goat and built
A fire for the Sunday barbeque.
A hundred people came to eat
And all brought food, or drink, or both.
Italians brought accordions and wine.
The Slavs brought polka and potica.
The Germans came with sausages and beer.
The Irish came with whiskey and the dance.
When shadows hid the mountain-side
And took away the summer’s sun,
The campfire gave both light and cheer
And everyone grew close to sing.
They sang happy American tunes.
But as the summer evening fell
The songs were in a foreign tongue.
The music, beautiful and sad,
Drew tears from women and the men.
They sang of homes they’d left behind
Of mother, fathers, friends, and home
They never hoped to see again.
They lived, endured the mines,
The crystal winters with their snows,
The feared death rattle of black lung.
And yet they stayed, increased,
And loved this big new land
They came to call Amerika.
In winter when the food was scarce,
They hunted rabbits and deer,
Grew cabbage and made sauerkraut
Stored in wooden barrels kept in
Cellars under their kitchen floors.
No one went hungry in their town.
The unions came and with them
Fear, fires, blood, and strikes.
Some fought for them, some against.
But in the end, they all belonged
And sang the old songs as they marched.
No longer was the work 12-hour shifts.
The mines were safer and the wages fair.
The money bought electric lights,
More food, cars, and better houses.
They sang the old songs with delight.
But some changes came too fast.
The young women were a shame.
They danced the racy tango,
Showed their arms and knees,
And some were even driving cars.
But still they married, worked, birthed,
And sang the old songs when they could.
The children went to school to learn,
To read, to write, to calculate.
On Saturdays they went to movies
To see Shirley Temple dance and sing.
When all of Europe went insane,
And Hitler’s Nazis massacred the Jews,
The young men volunteered to fight
To protect American democracy.
And when the evil war was done
They were not boys, but wounded men.
One young man blew his brains out
On a cold Sunday after church.
Another drank for two long years
To blind the images of death.
But most of them came home
To live, to work the mines, and
Sing the old songs of their youth.
The coal mine shut down and
Families scattered everywhere
To search for jobs of any kind
In nearby towns, or cities far away.
The children went to school to learn,
To read, to write, to calculate.
On Saturdays they went to movies
Danced and went on dates.
Now only Grandma spoke
The language of her youth.
The children didn’t understand
The words she said or sang.
They were Americans now.
I sing the old songs when I can,
But as I grow tired and old
And leave the world I know,
Those songs will die with me.
| Copyright © 2021 by Shirley Skufca Hickman |
Shirley, thank you for submitting this poem for publication here. I am moved to want to read your other volumes of autobiography besides Rocky Road Is More Than a Candy Bar, in which you told of teaching in the high school that Jim Rix, Bill Silveira, Chuck Smythe, and I attended.
ReplyDeleteAre these all of the others:
“DON’T BE GIVE UP.” ($15.00)
(Won second prize at the California Writer’s Conference for nonfiction. One Chapter, Billy Boy, won an honorable mention in the Writer’s Digest Short Story Contest.)
Seen through the eyes of a young girl, history and narrative merge to explore World War II on the Home Front. Everything in the lives of Shirley and her family is affected by the war, food rationing to seeing her uncles go off to war. Told with humor and pathos, this book is an important reminder of the sacrifices made on all fronts to protect America’s freedom.
IS EVERYBODY HAPPY NOW? ($15.00)
The sequel to “DON’T BE GIVE UP.” Shirley finds it difficult to adjust when her father moves the family to a new town to find work. Touching, often humorous and always filled with hope, this book rings true for anyone who has ever been the new kid in a strange town. Because politics, religion and family life are different in their new community, the family must adapt.
FAMILY IS FOREVER ($15.00)
Continuing the story of the Skufca family during the 1950’s, Shirley enjoys her teenager years until her father’s death changes her life forever. The family must call upon their courage, resilience and love for one another to cope with this tragic loss.
Your story is inspiring. Your poem got me to working on something examining immigration then and now. We shall see how it comes out. Thank you for your creativity and thank you for sharing it with us!
ReplyDeleteOh my, how enlightening. An emotional history of America to incarnate and breathe life into the dry details taught in our schools. My family came from Wales, to Arran, then Ireland, and finally New York. And no one sings more than a Welshman! Well done, moving.
ReplyDelete