My earliest memory of Leo comes from the early eighties - it was morning. A rather tall naked man was making his way from my mother’s bedroom to the kitchen. Here was a dark haired man, olive skinned, who sported quite the flimsy, stringy, long haired goatee coming out of no where. He said nothing and purposefully went to pour himself a glass of milk making sure that the door to the refrigerator was closed afterwards. He had come over the night before, indulged in small pleasantries, and brought with him a gallon of farmer's fresh. I didn’t even know his name, or at least forgot it, but to my horror he had stayed the night. I did not know what to think of this as I had just met the man and didn’t know what his presence meant. Who could have fathomed that a simple glass of milk and the domineering nature with which this man poured it would leave such an everlasting impression on me.
I was ten when Leo and my mother married. It had only been 4 or 5 years since my biological father left yet there I was, ring bearer for my mother and New Father. The ceremony was tedious, being Catholic and all, with lots of standing and kneeling, some bells and smells, and a choir singing in a Slavic language, all very foreign to a white Episcopalian boy with little commitment to the faith. My Mother’s side of the family dutifully maintained their composure even though they were proud White Anglo Saxon Protestants (WASPs) something Leo was sure to point out every chance he got. I was at least young and didn’t really know any better, but they were emotionless WASP’s, able to stare down that most heinous of monsters, Catholicism; never producing a sweat. What struck me most was the hoard of Evanoskis’ who had turned out for the ceremony. One new person in my life was enough but an army to fight the Moores? What was I in for?
Hundreds of them, at least it seemed like that at the time, swarming over the house that we had been living in for some time. I still have trouble remembering all of their names. Little Leo, who isn’t Little Leo any more, Dan and his wild hair, Chris and red haired Terry, brother Ray who fought with big Leo even on the day of matrimony, and uncle "whatchacall it" Bill. They were everywhere. An old European style family straight off of the farm, though Leo had worked hard to put himself through school so that he and his family wouldn’t live the farm life. I think the youngest of Leo’s kids was 19, but she and the rest of Leo’s children had all moved out, going to school, working, or living a monastic life. In the years that I would live with him it was just my mother, brother, and Leo. The two separate and distinct but now conjoined families would mingle intermittently but really, there was them and us.
Little Leo, and sometimes Dan, would baby-sit Ryan and me when my mother and Leo would travel. Baby-sitting and traveling was how I came to know most of my new family and always proved to be interesting. I had been big brother, and yet here were two new, older men whose purpose was to relate to and watch over their new stepbrothers. Indifference and resentment marred our first few encounters. I was young and didn’t know these guys. Who were they to tell me what to do? My father hadn’t bothered, so why should I care what these two new relations were presenting? Besides, they didn’t seem to care either. All they did was show up, bark orders, and hide their bags of “oregano”. Funny, but as much as we tried we couldn’t retain the hostile feelings we had towards each other. Sure there was the age, 70’s style big hair stadium rock and roll verses 80’s new age punk Just Say No Reaganomics; sure there was the gulf that all step families encounter based on surviving and living through dysfunctional pasts; but a kinship developed non the less. Not by association. Not through the similarities that outweighed the cultural differences. There was a rallying point that we all had in common, an axis by which all of our lives turned. It was not the axis of Evil; it was the axis of Leo.
The man was a Juggernaut. One of those huge, arrogant, thunderously loud influences that made his presence known even if he wasn’t moving. But when he was, when he was moving with conviction or wanton desire, watch out. There was no stopping his advancement. Alexander the Great could learn a thing or two. Leo the Greater conquered all. Something as simple as eating a strawberry pie turned into a conquest for Leo.
Hamtramck, Michigan has the largest concentration of Poles outside of Poland. There are some 300 Catholic churches with their 300 summer strawberry, Polish festivals. The poles are a proud people steeped in tradition, family, religion, and solidarity. Look at their flag; a crowned medieval eagle against a background of white and red (used outside of Poland). What better way to display this unity than by selling thousands of strawberry pies at St. Florian’s church. And let me tell you, Leo was proud of his heritage, proud of being Polish. He wanted to participate in his culture so much that he must have bought all of the strawberry pies sold in Hamtramck. Our sojourns into the city were very purposeful; however, the meaning of Mass, perogi, and Big Daddy Lackowski Roll out the Barrel Polka music was almost lost amidst Leo’s consuming addiction to acquire all those strawberry pies.
Not all of our trips were without meaning. Most of them held a deeper purpose even if I could not see it at the time. It’s just that it is hard to take in the glory of the world when you are traveling in the back of a Mark IV, windows down and cold air rushing in increasing the pressure felt in my lower abdomen by a swelling bladder. We couldn’t stop, no we couldn’t stop. Time was of the essence. Travel time had to be minimal, straight through if possible. On the rare occasion that we would stop to eat, we found ourselves picnicking in some woebegone park eating cold hamburgers. All of which were prepared the way Leo liked them, greasy with catsup and mustard. When we would continue on our way the never ending need to refill Leo’s University of Michigan coffee mug with still steaming stale coffee form an old Stanley Thermos would resume along with a milky white blue haze coming off of his cigarettes.
Mores - long and dark brown cigarettes sealed in an emerald green package, disgusting yet glorious. They were disgusting because they smelled acridly sweet, nose hair burning so. How anyone could ingest something so foul was beyond me. And in the car, these rank cancer sticks would emit feather like amber ashes that attempted to cauterize my eyes as they flew back in the frigid cold air steaming in through the fully open windows. Adding insult to injury, I had chronic asthma. Cigarettes and asthma just didn’t mix. What was glorious about the Mores was the way in which Leo handled them, caressed them really. I can see it now, the cigarette dangling from Leo’s mouth. Up comes the right hand, slowly, methodically, arm angled slightly at the elbow, with the thump pointed upwards, almost victoriously. His pointy finger curved just so and separated a mere centimeter from his remaining three fingers forming a V on its side. It was so deliberate, a prelude to the dance of inhalation. Remember those classical musicals in which Fred Aster and Ginger Rogers would dance as one. Each movie would culminate in a waltz where the two of them performed the most beautiful of biblical verses testifying to the truth that “The two shall become one.” This is what happened when Leo’s victory shaped hand encapsulated his mouth and the swaying More cigarette. It was poetry. It was a fusion of body and manufacture. Leo would rest his hand over his whole mouth with the More perched just so between his fingers. He would deeply inhale as if drawing life’s essence from the tobacco leaf and then, dipping his partner in the climax of a Tango, would pull his hand away to the side of his face while gripping both the cigarette and his lips, a gentle and distinct draw. My God what drama! Epic!
