Yoh…

My great grandmother was from “the old county.” What that country was has been a matter of some conjecture. Family tradition at one time said it might be Ukraine, or somewhere between there and Russia, because great grandma spoke a Russian dialect and went to a Russian Orthodox church. And many people who lived in Berwick, Pennsylvania back then had either Ukrainian or Russian ancestry. Her son, who we called Uncle John, thought the family could be Serbian, because the name, which was entered on Ellis Island as Krepich, was really Krepic. But the whole territory was once part of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

And it seems when your family lives in the borderlands it’s possible to change your “country of origin” many times without taking the trouble to move.

Contrast this with moving to another country to make a better life for yourself and your family. Great grandpa did that and brought his young wife to America. By the time I came along, she was an elderly widow. My grandmother (her daughter) brought me to visit great grandma many times. I remember a strong, independent woman with black hair and a braided bun on her head. One morning I got up early and saw her brushing her hair, which without the bun extended past her waist. She took care of her empty nest all by herself – mowing the lawn with a reel mower, cleaning, cooking, planting vegetables and flowers. Whenever the great grandchildren came, she cooked a little feast for us. I remember there were always two or three kinds of meat on the table and Grandma Krepich saying, “Eat. Eat. You’re much too tin!” There was also the time when she said, “I thought he was dead,” about an actor on TV who had died in a previous role. I also remember the outbuildings on the property. At one time there was a chicken coop and a little cabin we could play in. Then there was the outhouse. For my great grandparents, indoor plumbing was a new thing.

All of that is gone now. The house is still there, without the extra buildings, modernized and probably on its fourth or fifth owner. When great grandma died, I recall the hearse pausing in front of the place and the driver ceremoniously opening the back door to let great grandma “see” her home one last time. What remains are little snippets of memory. The meals, the bun, the reel mower I got to push a couple of times – too much for a little boy – the outhouse, the playhouse, the stairs that had a landing leading to the kitchen one way and the front room from the other. I also remember great grandma saying, “yoi, yoi, yoi…my back hurts me so,” when pulling weeds or mowing grass. Later she shortened it to a simple, “yoh…” but she never gave up the hard work until she just couldn’t do it anymore.

Great grandma didn’t know it, but she introduced me to the concept that you can mildly complain about something and still see it through. Pulling weeds hurt, but she still pulled them. I think she understood the difference between real hardship and mere inconvenience. “Yoh…” says it’s annoying or bothersome, but I still need to do it. I use “Yoh…” to express anything from great grandma’s pain in the back to “here we go again” as if all the other times weren’t enough. Sometimes I imagine her learning what’s going on in the world today and sighing, “Yoh…”