SKIYI, THE GRILLED CHEESE AND THE FLY

 SKIYI, THE GRILLED CHEESE AND THE FLY

With dad running the store and mom’s affinity for immigrants from villages in Lebanon, her being one of them, mom managed to attend several of the “muhrajans” around the country (“festivals” of Arabic music, singing and dance, and?)

Mom always included me in her excursions, traveling mostly by train. The following is one excursion.

The train stopped at a small depot/diner for a break. We sat at the counter flanked on both sides by middle aged loud Lebanese women on the same excursion, all of whom were prepared for “whatever” since "Skiyi" was present. In addition, Skiyi brought along the favorite accompaniment of middle aged Leb women, a young Leb boy (mostly for his cheeks).   Affectionately squeezed on both sides of the face, combined with countless ‘habeebees’ (my love), kisses and hugs from the old ladies, my only hope for release was the arrival of my order, the burger.

The waitress delivered my burger and mom’s grilled cheese sandwich. Instantly mom called the waitress to attention: “There’s a dead fly on my plate sister”. Referring to others as “brother” or “sister” was not at all uncommon in the 50’s. There it was, a gnarly black shape smaller than a pea that could be anything, but most likely not a fried fly. Whether familiar or newly acquainted with Skiyi, no excuse could be made to ignore Skiyi’s impressive, formidable mind and thereby possibly the reason the waitress replied with some intensity: “That’s burnt cheese, not a fly!” Yikes! All heard it! The Leb women, their whispering in rhythmic unison as if to say to the waitress, "you don't know who you are dealing with" instantly became anechoic (more silent than space) in mesmerized anticipation or more likely expectation that Skiyi would swing into action.

Incidentally, not everyone was afraid of Skiyi.  She had a few admirers, most of whom were professional people and common laborers. She was outspoken, intimidating, and sometimes scary. She was an exceptional business woman, uniquely savvy, witty, very generous and an admired cook.   She was featured on a few episodes of a cooking show called Home Fare.  Children were drawn to her.  

OK, here it is! Skiyi replied once again with: “I said, it’s a fly, not burnt cheese!”. Right or wrong, about the fly, mom and dad ran a grocery store and where, guess what, the customer is ALWAYS right. Skiyi and Abe adhered to it unfailingly! Mom’s mistake was that not everyone followed that rule. To that, the waitress, stressed with mom, and a diner filled with loud Mediterranean women said: “Well, if you don’t like it you can lump it!”, and walked toward the kitchen. Oy Vey!

Mom turned to me, a 11-12 years old, and said in “broken” English: “What that mean ‘lum(b)’ it?” - the “p” sound is rarely used in Arabic it?” It means, mom, that if you don’t like it - TOO BAD! By this time the waitress was pushing the swinging door to enter the kitchen which was approximately 10 feet from us. Mom called out, “Hey young lady”. You can take your sandwich and “lumb” it. Suddenly the grilled cheese sandwich was sailing through the air with great ease, like a land to air missile, programmed as precise as any NASA rocket such that it smacked the waitress flat on the side of her face. The Leb women, expectedly elated with the show and each with her own version to relate, were armed for the rest of the trip and for many years following - I am a witness. 

 We followed mom back to the train where characteristically plenty of Lebanese food snacks brought from home awaited us. The mess we left on the train near our seats is another story.

ABE, ERNIE & A SHOTGUN

With most admirable love for her husband, Ibraheem Khalaf, my mother Zakiyat said to me back in the late 50’s.“There’s no man on the earth like your father.” 

This is one of many stories from Abraham Grocery store, renters and Church.

I call this one, Skiyi (short for Zakiyat) and the Minister

It was 7:30 when I came down from bed and found mom and the garbage collector having coffee at the kitchen table.  He wasn’t a stranger to me because I had seen him in the alley

I call this one ABE, ERNIE & A SHOTGUN

Mom (Zakiyat on the left) immigrated from Ain Arab "Arab Springs", a mountain village in Lebanon.  

Zakiyat (Skiyi) some years later.

Dad (Ibraheem - Abe) an American born Lebanese, worked at Wilsons Meatpacking plant for @ 20+ years as foreman of the hog and beef kill.

Opportunist that mom was and considering dad’s ability as a butcher, she saw a failing neighborhood bicycle shop as an opportunity.  She is likely solely credited for purchasing it and converting it into a grocery store, calling it Abraham Grocery. 

Dad had the ability to fix practically anything so Mom advanced from the bicycle shop into purchasing income property.  

One of her many purchases was a 4 unit apartment house directly across the street from the grocery store where this incident took place.  Ernie Lane and his wife Ruth rented a one bedroom upstairs apartment. 

 

One day Ruth, a tiny woman, came running into the store screaming "Abe, Abe come!  Ernie is drunk and has his shotgun!"   Dad was at the meat block.  He put down the knife.  With his apron still on he ran out the front door.  

But first, let me briefly describe Ernie and dad. Ernie was all of 6”2” or 3”, often dressed in a khaki shirt and khaki colored pants.  His shirt was often unbuttoned part of the way down, exposing his white haired chest.   Ernie had a thin mustache similar to one would see on Clark Gable in one of his movies.   As a matter of fact Ernie was as much Clark Gable as Clark Gable himself; handsome, rugged, sinewy, a man's man, magnetic.  Dad was quite good at assessing people and would allow Ernie to take me fishing; other times Ernie and I would sit next to the window in his tiny kitchen with a pellet rifle shooting at things in the coal yard behind the house.  

I loved Ernie. I wanted to be Ernie.  

Dad, on the other hand, was approximately 5’6’, stocky, with virtues distinctly recognized and felt by everyone who knew him, far too many for my young mind to absorb.

Dad got to the door before me.  Mom's pleading with me to stay in the store slowed me down for a moment but I quickly caught up to dad.  The door to Ernie’s apartment was closed.  Calmly but with irrefutable authority dad called out: “Ernie open the door”.  It scared me to death.  How could dad be so brave?   Although drunk, Ernie's affection for dad could be felt as he said:  “Step away Abe, I’ve got my shotgun and I’m going to blow the door.”  Dad immediately sent me down the hall as he stepped to the side.  Boom!   If you've ever heard a shotgun fired indoors, you know what it sounds like!  I unwisely returned as Dad entered the apartment. The door was shattered but much of it remained on the hinges. What an adventure for a grade school kid!   I wasn't ever afraid of Ernie but he was drunk, sitting with a shotgun across his lap!.  

Dad's wisdom and fearlessness was always bridled to his love of God and neighbor.   Valiantly but calmly he approached Ernie reprimanding him for drinking too much and for scaring Ruth.  Ernie slowly stood, towing like a giant over dad, he humbly handed dad the shotgun. 

Ruth was waiting with mom in the store and happy to see Ernie with dad.

ENCOUNTER: Carol's Hands

 

ENCOUNTER: Carol's Hands

God always gives us the edge

Carol was sitting on an electric shopping cart just inside the doors of a Walmart waiting for his wife. As I was about to take one of the other carts, he began speaking to me but I was quickly redirected from his face to his hands, or rather his fingerless palms and I lose connection with his words.

Carol was 82 and managed to make his living driving a truck without fingers for almost 40 years. I suppose anyone who can zip and unzip a coat with only two tiny thumbs, is capable of about anything. Straight off Carol reached to shake my hand.  Timidly my hand enveloped his.It was the hand of a child. Hand in hand, the transfer began.  Replacing fingers were a flood of feelings, emotions, anguish, images of  a lifetime of labor, of trial and endurance, of accomplishment. I wanted to weep and cheer simultaneously.

Distracted by a memory, I recalled the effects of a drug introduced in the 50's called Thalidomide* and asked if his condition was the result of his mother having taken it.  Reflecting, I realized he was born before the drug was introduced. Familiar with the Thalidomide he responded that he had not been a victim nor injured in any way, but malformed congenitally.

"Forgive me Carol", your life is penetrating to say the least. I spend much time at a computer and as a distraction, I initiate a slideshow of photographs on a monitor near me.  If you allow me to take your photograph, I will be rewarded each time your photo appears." Carol responded as though he expected the request, and, with what I can only describe as an "old friends" smile, he quite happily permitted me to take his picture. He asked if he could remove his jacket, which at first puzzled me, but amazement shadowed my curiosity as I watched him unzip it and later zip it up with thumbs only. Although done a little slowly, I could not determine how he did it. It was nonetheless amazing to see and, judging by his filial smile, enjoyable for him to show me! At my request he crossed his arms to expose his hands for the photo.

Carol's wife arrived. An oxygen tank trailed behind her. She was a heavy set woman with a child's face and a manner to go with it. Unexpectedly she interrupted Carol's story in order to express her sadness and discontent with mans inhumanity to man,  unkindness, prejudices, and people judging each other.  So often we hear the term, 'count your blessings'. Frankly, I don't feel counting them should be that difficult for anyone. Recognizing them however is another story. And I am not talking about being appreciative for possessing what others may lack, but rather simply recognizing and honoring with gratitude to God Who is the source of all good things. 

Although the three of us spoke for at least half an hour, I was more than a little overwhelmed with the child-like spirit and charity of these two people and their occasional expression of gratitude to Christ.  I left not only inspired but more aware of my self-centeredness and self-pity.

As we all know, there are countless forms of suffering in the world, suffering from our spiritual disfigurement, suffering from those who abuse, and the suffering of those being abused. Yet, we find God’s love and solace when our hearts remain close to Him, as He cures our souls through joy or through suffering. 

*Thalidomide first appeared in Germany on 1st October 1957. It was marketed as a sedative with apparently remarkably few side effects. The Drug Company that developed it believed it was so safe it was suitable for prescribing to pregnant women to help combat morning sickness. The drug was NOT thoroughly tested however and resulted in Phocomelia, the name given to the flipper-like limbs which appeared on the children of women who took thalidomide. Babies affected by this tragedy were given the name 'Thalidomide Babies'.  I purposely did not include a photo.

May God forgive us.