Welcome to my first web page, a real grab bag of goodies for the intellectual, the creative, the romantic and the child in all of us. I'm 47 years old but as yet, haven't grown up. I gaze upon the world with childlike wonder and amazement and ponder the insignificance of each of us while at the same time holding dear the uniqueness of every soul that has ever inhabited this speck of dust we call earth.
Lets see now, where to start...., I was born in Budapest, Hungary, christened Laszlo Mihi, to a middle classed family. My father was a foundry worker and my mother a homemaker. We lived in the heart of Hungary's capital, a sprawling metropolis of historically rich architecture, culturally diverse people and a beauty matching any of the ancient cities of old. Budapest was in fact two cities, Buda and Pest, which were separated by the Danube River. Bridges were built joining the two sides and eventually Budapest was born. We lived in an apartment overlooking a huge central park, just off one of the main streets. At the age of two I became ill and was shipped off to a sanitarium, the equivalent of a major medical facility. Apparently they discovered some spots on my lungs and they feared it might have been TB ( Tuberculosis ). I spent 6 months there and after some treatment and close observation, I was allowed to return home with a clean bill of health.
Everything was going along great until October of 1955, when the Russians, in their zeal for world domination, invaded Hungary. As a child of 4 years, it was all a game to me. Flying bullets, fire fights and explosions at night looked like fire works, something to watch and enjoy, or so I thought. Even sneaking across main roads at night to visit the grand parents, was an adventure. All that changed one afternoon while visiting the grand parents who lived on a narrow cobblestone street.
I was out on their balcony watching the goings on, watching as a Hungarian Policeman flee from some Russian soldiers. I thought they were playing tag or something but right before my young eyes I saw that Policeman gunned down. That along with other horrors of war were indelibly etched into my brain. It was then I realized it was no game. According to history, the first attack was beaten back by the Hungarian Freedom Fighters, as they were to be later called but in November of 1956, all hell broke loose. The Russians came back and this time, they came prepared. As the stories go, there was an awful lot of massacring going on. As luck would have it, my father and a friend had to flee the country because he was on a death list, my mother and I followed shortly after. Imagine if you will, what it must have been like for my mother, all of 25 and me 4, literally walking out of the country. Traveling mostly at night, we walked about 250 miles to the Austrian border, all the while, under the threat of being shot on sight. Well, we made it to the border in one piece and crossed into Austria and wound up in a refugee camp where we met up with my father. From there we were shipped off to Italy where we were placed on a boat bound for Canada.
You might well wonder why Canada, well it wasn't the first choice, nor even the second according to dad. Apparently during the crisis, numerous countries had set up immigration booths and were screening applicants for admission. The first choice was the US however by the time we got there, they had closed their borders. The second choice was Sweden and they too had reached their quota. The remaining countries included Belgium, France and Canada. Funny how fate works, a few people in line in front of you and one ends up in a totally different country. As it turned out, I have neither complaints nor regrets about how things turned out.
To me the ship we boarded for the ocean crossing seemed massive. It was like
a moving landmass, totally self contained and yet compared to the ocean it was
insignificant. There are few things I remember about the trip but one was the
enormous waves that this sleek ship sliced through. The beauty of the evening
and the deep blue of the expanse, left an indelible mark on me. Oh ya, the other
thing I remember is that as large as the ship was, it was no match for mother
nature. When the seas got rough, even this huge ship tossed and turned in the
foaming seas. The ship was of Italian registry so of course we ate Italian the
whole trip, well the truth is all I recall is the spaghetti, the canned variety.
You can well imagine what I felt like about the second day out. The tranquil
waters of the Mediterranean were quickly replaced with the turbulent waters of
the open Atlantic Ocean and the wonder of it all was replaced with constant sea
sickness. Without going into too much detail, suffice to say that it took me
near 20 years to get over my dread of spaghetti and the associated sea sickness
that accompanied the thought whenever I smelt canned tomato sauce of any
description.
After 8 days, ( seemed like 8 years ) we finally landed in
Halifax, Nova Scotia, a beautiful
coastal community on the eastern seaboard of Canada.
Upon arriving, we were processed, given refugee status and new names. I was no longer Laszlo but Leslie, a name I have never been overly fond of, ( sounds like a girls name to me ) Within hours my dad was shipped off to the Yukon, to work in the gold fields while my mother and I were placed on a train bound for Alberta. It took five days to make the near 4,000 mile trip and once there were assigned quarters in an old army barracks. Due to the large influx of refugees, a camp had been set up to accommodate people. My mother worked in the kitchens while I was off playing and it was there that I had a near catastrophic accident. We all used a communal washroom for not only washing, bathing and such, but also for our drinking water. My mother asked me to get some water and instructed me to fill a large glass bottle for future use. Whoever it was that washed the floor had left it wet and slippery and me not being overly observant, didn't notice the potential danger till it was too late. I recall slipping and trying to cushion the glass bottle with my hand and as you can well imagine, the bottle shattered on impact near severing my middle finger on the right hand. The cut was so severe that doctors commented later that if not for the knuckle joint, the finger would have been completely severed. Well after nine operations and six months in a cast I was near back to normal, ( ok no wise cracks ).
I don't really recall too much about that time other than seeing far more of a hospital than anyone should have to. The doctors had done a great job in reconstructing my finger muscles and nerves but even to this day, I can not flex the middle finger by itself. If either adjacent finger is in contact, then everything works fine, but on its own, the finger refuses to flex properly. I figure they had to graft and cross link muscles in their efforts to give my hands and fingers normal functioning. To accomplish this they had to operate along the finger itself, across my palm and half way up my forearm.
In total we spent a better part of 9 months there before we got a relocation call. Immigration had been busy trying to find fellow Hungarians who were already settled and obtained citizen status to help in settling us and others like us. We were extremely fortunate to have such a gentleman come forward and offer us a home till we could ourselves become independent. So back on a train we got, bound for Oshawa, Ontario , a small city of about 35,000, just and hour east of Toronto. It is there that I spent the balance of my childhood.
My mother and I lived with our sponser for about 6 months, keep in mind my dad was still up in the Yukon. One day I came home and my mother told me to go to the bedroom for a suprise. Well I entered the room and sitting on my dresser was a shiny new harmonica. As mom watched me beaming with joy at my new toy, the door slowly started to close, revealing my dad who had hidden behind it. Words can't describe the feeling I had, I wept as did we all kissing and hugging, we were a family again.
School for me was extremely difficult as you can well imagine. I didn't speak the langauge and althought I don't have specific memories, I'm sure the whole thing was quite traumatic for me. Looking back, the idea of it scares me even now. I know I was teased a lot, not only for my inability to communicate but even the clothes I wore drew unwelcomed attention. I do recall how I hated, and I mean HATED!!!!!!!!! getting up in class and being forced to read out loud. It was torture stumbling along, trying to read and verbalize stories. Some how I got through first grade but then we moved and it started all over again with a new house, new people and a new school. Good ole South Simcoe Public School, the place where I finished out my elementary schooling. I didn't fair so well in the second grade and was forced to repeat. Maybe the changes along with greater academic expectations, put me at yet another disadvantage with my fellow classmates. You have to understand that aside from everything else, my parents were very slow in acclimating themselves to the new culture and around the house, only Hungarian was spoken. Both my parents worked hard, taking in boarders, doing laundry for others, and other odd jobs too numerous to mention. The short of it being, not only was I expected to help but it left little or no time for them to help me with my schooling. My worst subjects included literature and grammar which ofcourse neither of my parents could help me with. I perservered, plodding along as best I could and slowly started to get into the flow of things.
Not much happened after that until grade 5. That was the year that I learned a few valuable lessons. I had reached a stage in my life where, either through lack of caring or simply being tired of trying to fit in, I gave up. I remember getting back a midterm langauge test and getting 0 out of 50 and thinking it was a big joke. Needless to say, I failed yet another year but the reality and embarassment of having to repeat was worth it. I never again gave in or took schooling lightly. That same year, I developed a crush on my teacher, Miss Hobbs.....:))))), I still smile when I think of her. She as a tall, attractive woman who had a soft and caring way about her. Not only that but she awoke in me, my first stirrings of sexual desires. She would read to us every day after lunch, sitting at the front of the classroom, usually on the front edge of her desk. The story was " The Silver Pine Cone " and it was such a wonderous fairy tale that I found myself laying my head on my folded arms and day dreaming. Well on one such occassion I looked ahead and found myself staring up the dress of my shapely teacher.
At first, I was totally embarassed and I found myself trying desperately to avoid looking in her direction but ofcourse being unfamiliar with these feelings stirring within me, I couldn't help myself. After that the daily readings became even more important, not only for the richness and enjoyment of the story but also yet another opportunity to let my eyes wander, leaving me wondering what lay hidden deep in the shadows, neath her dress. To this day I find the inner thigh to possess an alluring quality that spurs my imagination and causes my heart to race.
It appears that my long gazes did not go unnoticed because one day, to my dismay, the story got interrupted and Miss Hobbs had had enough. Both myself and another were called up on the carpet in front of the entire class. If memory serves me right, the phrase, dirty little boys was used in a rather scathing attack on our character. Ofcourse she was absolutely correct, however in my defence, it was not I who sat at eye level with my legs slightly ajar oblivious to at least two young fellows with their eyes bugging out and a pool of drool on the floor.