Journalist John Evanetski returns with a new, quarterly column entitled "Reflections from the Allegheny," with an initial essay on being and becoming that blends philosophy and journalism in singular fashion. --from biography, Artistry of Life @ http://www.artistryofglife.org

from the current issue: Iron Mike
Coal miner, family patriarch, ruler of the roost.

I am not my father‘s son. Nor was my father his father’s son.

His father, Michael Evanetski, my Gigi (Ukrainian for grandpa) was a persona onto himself. He was called Iron Mike by his coal miner peers for his hard-working, hard-drinking, no-nonsense life as a colliery foreman. He was in charge of the sorting crews who sifted the anthracite coal dug from the underground shafts and seams that tunneled in, around and through Scranton,Pennsylvania.

Iron Mike, with his newly-wed wife, Katherine-Katrina Ulovich, my Baba (Ukrainian for grandma), emigrated from their native Ukraine at the turn of the 19th Century to start a new life and family in America. They joined the waves of other European immigrants trying to escape the economic hardships or political and social repressions of the times. They stayed married for 65 years.

Family legend says that Iron Mike spoke four different languages, proposing that he was either a well-traveled businessman or government official. As new Americans in a country dominated by English-speaking people, Iron Mike could only master a mix of broken English and Ukrainian. The strong desire to absorb, and be absorbed, into a new culture found Iron Mike putting aside the old ways.

Iron Mikes new life brought new demands. Coal mining required 12-hour shifts on a 12-day, non-stop schedule. A short two days of R & R followed most of which was spent mostly binge drinking. A coal miners wages were meager. Spending required that a balance be kept between the raw pleasures of alcohol, providing for the family necessities of food, shelter and clothing, and other financial obligations.

When the money ran out to buy whiskey or vodka, Iron Mike was known to head for the root cellar, cup in hand, and dip a mug full of fermenting juices from the cabbage crock used to make sauerkraut. When out of the standard brand of cigarette-rolling paper, Iron Mike would roll a wad of Bugler tobacco into newsprint and light up.His was a short career of 25 years in the mines. Iron Mike retired at age 52 on a slim minerspension, personal savings and Social Security. He never held a full-time job again.

He was also in charge at home, setting the rules for his six children, John, my father, Mildred, Helen, Mary, Joseph and Edward. As family patriarch, he sat at the head of the table, leading religious and cultural rituals at family holiday celebrations.

My own childhood recollections of Gigi leave me with impression of a stern, but kindly man, who seemed to love his grandchildren, although not hesitant to scold us for some infraction or misconduct. Several of my aunts and uncles, however, also pointed to Iron Mikes ongoing abusive behavior toward them and his wife.

Consequently, he was shown little respect from his sons, daughters and other family elders. He regularly became the brunt of their practical jokes although they continued to acknowledge him as the head of the family, caring for his basic needs until he died.

No one told Iron Mike what to do or where to go. Into his late 70's, he continued to harvest edible wild mushrooms from the local woods never making a mistake in picking the safe and correct species. His drinking and smoking habits also followed him into the last phases of his life, Often my Aunt Helen would find him exiting the nearby Jack Tavern in the lateafternoon, despite her urges and warning that it was too dangerous and unhealthy to be drinking at his age.

Iron Mike also had the reputation of never being too sick to work. Family folklore tells that he was never sick a day in his life. His only hospitalization came in October 1969 where at age 87he suffered a massive stroke and died three days later.

As for my father, he spent almost half his 84 years as a driver and Teamster Union steward, working a standard 40-hour work week. Although a daily drinker, and occasional smoker, himself, my father responsibilities with my mother, Francis Sawejko Evanetski. She worked a regular job in a garment factory, while tending to home and kids before her death in 1969, which ended their 25 years of marriage. My father died in 1995, a WWII U.S. Army Sergeant buriedwith standard military honors in the Veterans of Foreign Wars section of the parish cemetery.

As for me, still alive at 59, I am a college-educated professional writer, editor, graphic designer and photographer with varying demands on time and energies. Although I did my share of drinking, smoking cigarettes, and a joint or two here and there, during my time in the U.S Navy and in college, I rarely consume alcohol now for health reasons. The smoking ended about 35 years ago. A 29-year marriage ended in divorce in 2004.

No matter who we are, what we become, or how we get there, we all look for role models--those with the qualities of character, morality, ethics, and personal bearing which we want for ourselves.

Sometimes we find just what we sought. Sometimes we find only hollow, false heroes.

Ultimately, though, we become who we are because as individuals we possess a nature and presence that is uniquely ours, neither assembled, nor contrived, from the spare parts of others.

I am neither Iron Mike, nor my father. But their lives gave me life. They are the roots that anchored me.

from the Fall 2006 issue:
A lifetime Journey to Self-realization

Very early in life, we all begin to “feel” that there is something more to us then just an everyday existence. Searching for who we are and why we are here in this time and space is as much a pilgrimage as it is a living and learning experience.

The reward, whether it comes quick, or near death, is the realization of self; that moment of clarity when we know what our duty is in life, and to life, which brings us to peace with ourselves and others.

Consider the words of the late Fr. Slavko Barbaric, a priest who lived in Medjugorje, Bosnia-Herzegovina: “Man is a being who longs for peace. That is why, one can say, without a doubt, that a persons home is where he finds 'his peace'. In order to experience this peace and to be able to remain in his "peaceful home", all segments of the person, that is his intellect, his free will, his mind and his soul, have to be satisfied. The search for peace is the main motive of every human activity, and that, for his entire life,“ Fr. Barbaric, wrote in his autobiography before he died in 2000. Inspired by the reported visions and apparitions of the Blessed Virgin Mary, he wrote and lectured extensively on the search for self, and gave talks to visiting pilgrims, and has written numerous books about the messages of Medjugorje.

At the beginning of this life-long quest the child-pilgrim is gifted with a time to wonder, to imagine, to explore, to examine and to discern. Children naturally “discover“ life’s secrets. We all know of, and may have had ourselves a moment of pure, innocent and spontaneous reflection that uncovered the truth of the events we witness. This is where we begin the journey of finding and understanding the self.

A well-developed childhood inquisitiveness can mature in adolescence into “awareness” at that everything around us has “meaning” both for its own sake and it relationship to all other living things. Paths begin to appear, choices emerge: go there for wealth and fame, that way for pleasure and happiness; this way leads to commitment, unselfishness, charity, and kindness; and, of course, there’s a road named Perdition. First, we must develop and exercise the freedom we have to make a choice, and the will to carry it out.

Carried into adulthood, the exercise of freedom and will leads to an enlightenment of self and attainment of peace. To be complete, our journey demands a recognition, as well as the practice of spirituality; that deep, inner sense of determination, fearlessness, austerity, and compassion.

At the end, satisfying the self-quest brightens the way and forwards our “knowing” as we pass to new existence. For when that bronze clapper tolls a final fugue to our requiem we will need not inquire the reasons for that who we are, for that which we lived: clarity, realization, and peace are already ours.

Welcome to Hobo Rail
You wake in the corner of a boxcar and unwind your fetal-like form from sleep. The shrill of steel wheels on iron rails rattling in your brain. Eyes dust-dry, nose tuned on the odor of dried cow dung and human urine. Welcome to Hobo Rail is chalked on the wall.

Heat rises at noon from the rusting tin roofs of storage sheds on this 90 degree July day as Santa Fe Rail Freight 1299 rolls into the cattle yard in Kansas City. Nine hours ago you heaved myself on-board in Cincinnati, a free-boarder making way cross-country. Six more hours to Omaha, eight to Salt Lake City via Denver. Final destination; Sacramento at six in the morning, where you start your return.

Time and social conventions are misplaced on this diesel-fired iron horse. The toilet is in the corner, just the corner. No food concessions here, just a solo dish of beans and bugs heated over a rusty tuna can fueled by rubbing alcohol. You will finish those day-old hard rolls you bought last week, which was also when you filled the milk jug with drinking water.

Decades ago moving cross-county as a free-boarder on rail evoked a nostalgic image of men, free and civil, enjoying a mutual camaraderie with the vagabond songs of Guthrie on their lips. In the present tense, you have to watch your back all the time. All manner of criminal, destitute runaway, the degenerate, the unstable, frequent the rail yards now.

How you got here, you do not yet quite understand. You spend my days mostly with paper and pen, a chronicle for a forgotten time, documenting this lost place in space. The sun sets just west of Grand Junction. You form yourself fetal-like again to lay the night in that same corner. The shrill of steel wheels on iron rail rattling in your brain. Welcome to Hobo Rail.


My Bean Dip As Caviar Substitute
Caviar, the pasty party jam of choice when the rich and famous gather, is in short supply, world food experts say.

So, serve my bean dip instead: Saute one medium Texas Sweet, or Vidalia onion in olive oil in a deep sauce pan at medium heat until tender.

Sturgeon, the great fish whose raw eggs are harvested to make the black jelly-like cracker spread of high culture, is now hard to find and catch, perhaps even endangered is the conclusion of the World Wide Fund for Nature..

So, serve my bean dip instead: Add one 28 ounce can of Old El Paso Refried Beans and one 3 ounce can of Old El Paso Green Chilies to the sauted onion in the sauce pan and mix thoroughly reducing heat to low

The main cause of this caviar shortage is the over fishing of sturgeon in the Caspian Sea, which provides 90 per centof the world's caviar, especially the Black Beluga. Caspian catches have dropped by 75 percent in the pastten years.

So, serve my bean dip instead: Season the onion, chili and bean mixture with oregano and cumin to taste.Transfer the seasoned bean mix to a serving dish, sprinkle grated Monterey Jack Cheese on top and serve with corn tortilla chips, or your choice of cracker.

Caviar can only be obtained by killing female sturgeon carrying unfertilized eggs. Aggressive trawling by Russian and Iranian fishing vessels is killing other mature sturgeon, depleting thesource of the mature, egg-bearing females.

So, serve my bean dip instead.


Pope Penned Dapper
Dan of the Vatican

As the saying goes, it is the clothes that make the man.

So, those stylishly expensive red Prada loafers that mark the steps Pope Benedict XVI takes may be an example of a Dapper Dan of the Vatican trying to look good whenever he can.

And how about those fashionable Gucci shadesthat protect the Holy Pontiffs eyes from the glaring Mediterranean sun. He will never be late either, keeping time with a wristwatch and reading glasses byCartier of Paris. He has also been spotted wearing baseball caps.

Well, after all, when you dress for success, you always show your best. Besides looking good those red Pradas better taste good, too, now that he has put his foot in his mouth. The leader of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, recently urged the faithful to reject the commercial and material aspects of the holiday season all to putthe Christ back into Christmas.

In his own words: In today's consumer society, this time of the year unfortunately suffers from a sort ofcommercial 'pollution' that threatens to alter its real spirit," the Pope told a crowd in St. Peter's Square. Sober celebrations should be the rule, simple signs like a nativity crib display is the way Christians s ould show their faith, Il Papa parli.

Let us recall here the Vow of Holy Orders taken by all Catholic priests: a solemn pledge to celibacy, povertyand obedience. His defenders this words vs. deeds is not a hypocritical contradiction saying that much of the Popes civilian wardrobe came as gifts, not coveted through the vanityof personal indulgence on his part.

United Press International reported recently the Popeis developing a reputation as a clotheshorse with histaste in shoes and designer sunglasses. The pope has also reportedly turned to another tailor for his vestments,dropping Annabelle Gammarelli, whose firm has been serving the Vatican since 1792.


Uncertain Future Follows Katrina

Hurricane Katrina crashed into the Louisiana Gulf Coast with force never before felt. Registered at the highest rank, Category 5, Katrina shredded, uprooted and, ripped everything in her path.

New Orleans became the anguished witness that man and his creations are no match for the full fury nature can unleash. Federal, state, and local government officials were left stunned and hapless, pointing the finger of blame, while so many needed a hand of help.

Aid came far too slow to the suffering people stranded hungry, thirsty and dirty in the Superdome. The whole world watched in horror and astonishment.

Katrina raged on forhours taking, raking and scattering like none before. Left was the carnage of man and beast, bodies floating bloated in fetid waters. Many of the cities poor left abandoned to forageby any means available. Most of those who could evacuate were shuttled to unfamiliar places, homes gone, jobs lost forever.

Government officials talked full of promise and bravado, ready to spend billions, urging all to return,rebuild the great historic places stronger and better than before. No real plans put forward to increase the fortified walls to withstand another Katrina. The whole world watched puzzled and confused.

A 15-20-foot storm surge sped through the once-protective Mississippi River delta marshlands eroding rapidly over the past decades by the dams and levies that redirected river flow that prevented the rich silt from replenishing and extending the wave-absorbing marsh barriers.

Surge water roared down drainage canals unable to take the volume and into the vast Lake Ponchetrain which by its natural course would unburden its excess through weakened levies to flood large residential wards.The officials began to beat "mea culpa" acknowledging engineering insuffiencies and management oversights, looking toward the future now with hindsight, but no better foresight than before.

The only sure result is voiced by engineers and meteorologists who advise that in time another Hurricane equal to or greater than Katrina will lay waste again to the Gulf Coast. Only time will tell whether all those effected have learned a lesson. In the meantime, the whole world will be watching.


Close Encounters Leave
Memories, Affirm Connection

Those close encounters of a spontaneous kind with Nature and its creatures form satisfying and lasting memories, lift the spirit, and affirm a connection between man and animal. Coming unexpectedly upon wildlife and their life in the wild is an intimate experience.

Rounding a turn on a forest trail and meeting a fawn deer eye-to-eye is an exercise in mutual trust. Many yearling deer have had no contact with man; likewise for many hikers, hunters and other outdoor enthusiasts. So, that first sighting for both man and animal is a time of curious wonder requiring an unspoken assurance from both that this meeting is without malicious intent. The parting is done with a sense of respect and acknowledgement that man and animal can co-exist without threat or worry, if they choose.

Spotting ‘possum feeding on the leaves of a sapling tree under the lush green canopy of an Eastern hardwood forest is a study in eating efficiency. Slowly they turn, leaf by leaf , meticulously examining each specimen with near clinical precision. Slowly they dine, taking small bites, chewing, re-examining, chewing, re-examining. Meal ends, slowly they descend, one hand-hold at a time, calmly sliding through the groundcover, unfettered in their conquest.

Listening to coyotes call to each other as they run almost reckless along the rocky ridge tops of the Western mountains, or observing a Bull Elk unabashedly splash through an alpine meadow while bellowing his distinctive bugle, is a study of contrasts.

At times the coyote sounds what seems a lonesome cry, a hungry howl, waling the woes of a solitary existence. At other times, this wild dog sings with joy for the camaraderie of life with the pack, content with being himself, wild and free.

The massive bull elk is a family man. Enjoying as much the social companionship of the female as obedience to the instinctive drive for continuance that is bourn from the need, and hugh desire, to procreate the species. But it is the breathe and scope of his size that belies the near-hollow whistle of the bull’s bugled note.

For the human, it’s a matter of awareness, that of being attuned to the sounds of nature, widening the eye to catch that faint shadow, flaring the nostrils for a telltale scent, which reveals the wonders of the woods and its inhabitants.