A Survivor

... an affectionate study

On a crowded sidewalk people
don't actually turn to watch him pass, but somehow they do notice him.
His stride has purpose. His slimness adds upwards-inches so that, at
first or second glance, the slight rounding of his shoulders from years
and years of working "over the bench," is unnoticeable. His hair is
always trimmed neatly and his cheek bones protrude more sharply nearer
his eyes than most people's do. His legs are long. His arms are long.
All the lines go upward and add to his stature. He maintains his
fashion-plate-image by choosing the subdued colors of the conservative
dresser, but everyone who spots the narrowness of his hat brim, the
smooth nap of his collar, or the subtle sparkle of the maroon thread in
his coat-weave and socks, are more inclined to describe him as "natty."

Anyone who meets him for a moment can remember him years later. His
eyes are unclouded. They sparkle out of the depths of his earned
wrinkles. Over and over they see what they've seen before and, right or
wrong, they know what they know. He sees with a purpose. When he speaks,
his accent seems to diminish as he makes the kind of common sense that
is most times profound. His words can irritate, soothe, aggravate,
cajole, and command. He talks as he walks and as he sees...with a
purpose.

He considers himself well-read and knowledgeable about our times. He
devours the newspapers...the facts of the journals and insinuations of
the rags...almost to the exclusion of all else. There is no philosophy
intruding on what he reads - no skeptics, no idealists, no artists to
confuse the issues; just writers who make their living in a world of
free-press-frustration, speaking the truth directly to him. He knows
what is going on today, remembers what happened yesterday, and he waits
until tomorrow to discover the latest in stark reality. He sifts out
what he considers "fake and phony," and quotes only the truth-sayers his
intuition selects. He reads as he does all else...with a purpose.

Music? He doesn't waste time on it but, in a pinch, he can toss out
titles like "Brahm's Lullaby" and "Blueberry Hill." He smiles in
appreciation of American cowboy twangs and claps his hands to the
self-release of Old Country up-beats. He taps his toe and executes a few
inhibited steps to the rhythms that have pulsed through the centuries
and crossed the oceans.

Hobbies and friends? These are his Family and Hard Work
respectively. As with any hobby, he devotes his spare time to giving
undivided attention to his small family and its prolongation. In
solitude, he plots his strategy to resolve each new crisis as it crops
up within his filial circle. He opens doors and clears paths. He even
moves mountains. As with all master-planners, he sometimes inadvertantly
creates chaos where none existed, but he unflinchingly plods ever
forward, supported dauntlessly by the best of intentions. With dignity,
he suggests, he demands, he wheedles, he cajoles, he parries, he
thrusts, until all the pieces fit again into the puzzle; until all the
players are disentangled and the game proceeds smoothly according to his
rules; until the brush strokes in the picture are completed again on a
canvas of harmony.

As for Friendship, he has occasionally met those in his travels with
whom he's felt a kinship. A certain one, here or there, in whom he
recognized mutual purposefulness. One who is worthy of his admiration
but they never measure up to the respect he pays his first love...hard
work. Honest toil has been his constant companion and has brought him
all he has ever sought. He met it at an early age and it has since never
ceased to satisfy and revitalize him. It has sometimes challenged and
tantalized him to the point of exhaustion, but his artistry has always
comforted him and his perserverance has often brought him the reward of
renewed hope. He has thrived and flourished on Hard Work. At times he
has sought it as an escape. His body and mind have been beaten down and
bullied by it and he has, each time, come to terms with it. Alternately,
it has conquered him and been conquered by him. He's known the anguish
of financially needing it and oftimes the joy of being needed by it.
He's survived both the serenity and turbulence of hard work and all the
shades in its spectrum. And beneath his staunch armor there lives no
martyr. Admittedly, he would be lost...he would die...if hard work were
to ever scorn him. Although it has no human form, can this not truly be
called his friend...his lover?

Organization, he has known. When life, at one point, was darkest (a
child-turned-twenty was killed) he found a glimmer of light in guiding a
band (a musical band) of eager youths. Unknowingly, they sustained him
into brighter days. He's known organization also in religion, which he
respectfully criticizes, and in politics about which he revels in his
constitutional right to ridicule.

On his journey through Life, he's sailed many a sea, weathered
powerful winds, ridden various roads and spanned numerous bridges. He's
planted more seeds, worried over them while they were still unseen,
gloried in their sproutings, and savored their blossoms and fruits. He's
crossed many paths but taken only a few. He continues...in his seventh
decade...independently toward his own mighty purpose.

Author's note: The above "piece" was written more than
three decades ago about Michael Thomson (Mikhail Yeremy Yeremenko) who
immigrated to the United States in his late teens from the Ukraine,
Russia. After a near-death experience as a logger in northern Maine, he
served in the army where he acquired citizenship and an American name.
He returned to Boston, met his future wife, Eleanor (Nellie) Rachael
Poplawski and attended classes in tailoring. He worked as fitter and
tailor for three generations of owners of Hyman Brothers Men's Clothing
in downtown Boston. In the Suffolk Square section of Malden, he raised
three sons before settling on the Granville Avenue hill. It was there,
during World War II, that the family was splintered by the tragic death
of their son and brother, Paul. A plane crashed into a hangar in England
where Paul's crew was working overtime, readying planes for
combat. Mike found solace in his volunteer work as an escort for the
high-school-age Legion Band as they performed at military camps
throughout the state.

He retired with honors from the tailoring business in his
mid-sixties, a few years after being widowed. He invited his youngest
son's family to share his home. He accepted a call to work part-time in a
local business that rented men's formal attire.

During the 50th anniversary celebration of the U.S.S.R., when the
postal communication were temporarily opened in that country, Mike
received, for the first time, the news and devotion from many of the
brothers and sisters he had left so many years before. The younger
cousins on both sides of the globe corresponded with excitement and
affection.

Michael's devotion to his children and his grandchildren knew no
bounds. Fulfilled, he died at age 79 while hospitalized during
post-arterial surgery.

previously published

March 1, 2002