It was in 1851 that the first railroad, the New York and Erie, reached Dunkirk, NY. The tracks began twenty five miles upriver from Manhattan and reached its terminus in what was then a village of 800 souls. While the town never became a major hub of any kind, the railroad did bring commerce and industry and immigrants seeking work. The Germans, Italians, and Polish developed their own little communities and churches on the lake side of the tracks. By 1902, Polish arrivals began building in the less populated region on the other side of the tracks called Górki, the hills, and by the time we arrived in 1954 another rail line called the Nickle Plate was running through that neighborhood. A lot of yards ran alongside these double tracks or backed up to it and to undeveloped land that lay further on. These homes had a little bit more property and seemed more rural, tucked in as they were back away from the main streets. One such pocket of homes in the neighborhood was called Goose Shit Alley. For the longest time I thought it was called "Goshen" alley, which is how I heard the older Polish women pronounce it. It was said that during the rough times of the Depression, when there were no jobs and money was scarce, the Polish women kept their families going by raising and selling geese. Coal for the winter was expensive, but they kept their families warm by making feather pillows and feather covers, what we call a pierzyna. People said there were so many geese in this neighborhood in those days you could hardly walk by without getting a shoe full. My mother connected with these older women of Poland. They looked like the photos of my grandmother - sturdy, aproned women with wrinkled faces framed by colorful kerchiefs tied beneath their chins. Their feet were firmly planted on American soil but many were still rooted in the way of life they had known in Poland. A small town girl herself, my mother understood geese; fattening and killing them; using the blood and gizzards to make soup; rendering the fat to make goose grease to rub on chests for bad coughs; stripping feathers to make your own pillows; making your own homemade baster from the feathers to brush an egg wash on top of baked goods; using it all up, every bit, every time. I suspect it was when she was homesick that my mother went to the alley, when she longed to talk to someone whose ears, like hers, still heard the wind rustling through the grains of rye, who knew what it was to cut wheat at harvest time with scythes and sickles, and to gather mushrooms in the forest after a rainy spell. We'd arrive unannounced, like they did in the old country, mostly because we didn't have a phone for a long time but also because it wasn't necessary. They were always home, always working- gardening, hanging out the wash, ironing, stirring a pot of soup. We'd sit at the kitchen table and they would talk about Poland, about pickle recipes, illness, birth and death and once, rolled down their thick flesh colored stockings to examine one another's varicose veins. No one cared that I was bored to tears but something of those talks, of those visits, must have stuck, must have silently crept in and rooted within me, too, when I wasn't looking. When someone in our parish died, the funeral director hung out a basket of gladiolas at the front of the funeral parlor. In those days, before everyone had phones, it was a way of announcing that someone had died, that the deceased was ready for viewing and friends and family were welcome to visit. The first to see it were the guys having a beer at the bar across the street. It had these huge windows that gave them a great view of the neighborhood. Then it was word of mouth over fences or at the corner store that generally spread the news. Sometimes when we kids were pedaling through the neighborhood on our bikes and saw the basket of flowers hanging outside the parlor we'd holler out to each other "Hey, who die?" Hey, who die?" and someone would scream, "Hey, I dunno!" and we'd laugh hilariously, high on the sound of our own voices. Sometimes, from the safe distance of the street, we'd pedal by really fast and scream it out while looking at the men at the bar but they never reacted to our crazy antics. If my mother had gotten wind of this behavior she would've pulled out the strap, for sure. The deceased deserve our respect, she'd say, as we walked to the funeral parlor to say our final goodbyes. Well, who died was one of the women from Goshen alley and I remember feeling badly about the who die business. She was a nice lady who had given me tea and always asked me how I was doing in school. When it was my turn at the kneeler in front of the coffin to pray for the deceased it wasn't the pink gown and ballet slippers that caught me off guard. I'm sure she had left instructions or even picked out which outfit she wanted to be buried in. It's what practical Polish people do, so I understood the wanting to look your very best and she did look lovely. What surprised me was the little satin pillow behind her head: so small, so smooth, so stuffed her head didn't even make a dent in it. Instead of saying my Eternal Rests like I should have been doing, I mentally removed the satin pillow and replaced it with one of her own making, of the softest down, covered in a white cotton pillowcase, something you could gratefully sink your head into at end of day. And then I'd turn her head into the pillow so she could smell the sun and the wind that came off Lake Erie as the pillowcase dried on her clothes line and so she could hear the honking of the geese still trapped within the fluffy feathers to help keep her company on her next big journey. Photo taken in Poland by Sophie Hodorowicz Knab
16 Comments
Barbara Lehnen,l
11/13/2017 10:58:29 pm
GSA, St. Hedwig's, Mackowiak Funeral Home, Strychalski's Tavern....all so familiar to me as I spent the first eight years of my life gowing up in the Fourth Ward. Your description of entering school not knowing a bit of English took me back to third grade when I went from public to parochial school, not knowing a bit of Polish and had to be tutored in the language after school. This was at a time when Polish, not English, was the spoken language at the school.
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Sophie Hodorowicz Knab
11/14/2017 11:10:59 am
Hi Barbara! I so often reflect on how rich an environment we grew up in - not in terms of money but people and places and the culture of our neighborhoods. Thanks for reading and commenting!
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Rebecca
4/8/2020 08:28:12 am
I love it I live on kosciuszko ave and I remember ppl calling it that and I'm just trying to figure out how them days can come back
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Sophie Hodorowicz Knab
4/10/2020 04:26:30 pm
Hi Rebecca! Thanks for reading and writing in. How fortunate you are to live on Kosciuszko. When I think about how we kids ran through the neighborhood, over and around the tracks, running wild, really, I long to be back to those times, too. Sophie
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Gary Worosz
4/8/2020 07:31:30 pm
My paternal great grandparents’ (Rudolph and Apolonia Worosz) grocery store at 7 St. Hedwig Ave. GSA!
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Sophie Hodorowicz Knab
4/10/2020 04:35:22 pm
Hi Gary! Thanks for reading. The Worosz name really rings a bell for me but help me remember. The store I recall on St. Hedwig's belonged to my elementary school friend Christine Kucharski's grandmother. I remember her dad in the white butcher's apron. It was between Roberts Road and Sobieski. Was there another store?
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Bill Bamonto
4/8/2020 10:24:35 pm
Sophie you're a wonderful story teller! You capture the essence of a period of life long gone in such a way, I can visualize the Polish people in how they lived their lives as they did in their homeland, keeping with the same traditions & manner of Life!
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Sophie Hodorowicz knab
4/10/2020 04:44:49 pm
Bill, so kind of you to write and make such lovely comments. Not that it didn't have it's difficult times, but when I look back, I'm happy for how I grew up. They say that childhood experiences forever shape you. Grew up very Polish and have stayed so. Hugs to Donna. She was one of the sweet ones.
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Sophie Hodorowicz Knab
4/10/2020 04:50:56 pm
Hi Dan! Who can forget the blood soup of our childhood? It marks us like some tribal rite that other people (not so fortunate as us) cannot fathom.
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Kathy Szopinski
4/10/2020 02:39:44 pm
I enjoyed reading about GSA.I know a lot of people that lived there. They were hard working people , friendly and true to their culture.We were proud to be Polish.I still make a lot of the polish recipies and my kids enjoy a lot of the Polish traditions.It was great growing up in the 4th ward.A lot of great people and memories.
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Sophie Hodorowicz Knab
4/10/2020 04:58:42 pm
Hi Kathy! 4th ward was great. The neighborhoods, the people, the train tracks! I like trying new recipes but I always revert back to the Polish dishes I learned from my mother. Like you, I feel the need to keep Polish traditions alive, teaching the nieces and nephews how to make pierogi and their own butter lamb for Easter.
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4/10/2020 04:38:40 pm
My sister Linda and I thoroughly enjoy all posts and the article, bringing back memories of our Polish grandparents who lived on Nevins. When Grandpa John died, we remember his casket being carried up and down the curved staircases of the old St. Hedwig's. We still laugh that his body must have been on his head from the slanting. Sacrilegious!
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Sophie Hodorowicz Knab
4/10/2020 05:05:15 pm
Hi Leslie! Thanks for reading and writing in. You made me laugh.
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Nancy Krzyzanowicz
4/11/2020 05:35:24 pm
I lived on 56 Kosciuszko Ave as a kid, then I bought my house at 16 Kosciuszko Ave as adult so I didn't move to far from my parents. GSA was awesome as a kid, unfortuanately not as great as it use to be but thats the sign of the times. My older sister & husband built thier house in GSA 40+ yrs ago so they love GSA as thier 3 children did to. Many great memories.Alley kids all played together fromsun-up till street lights came on. Typical back in the good old days. GSA will always BE.
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Kelly Kirst
4/11/2020 07:39:44 pm
My grandparents Ben and Irene Poweski lived in GSA so many great memories and close friendships grew from there.
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One of the biggest moments in my life was being able to sign for my very own library card. When I'm not reading, researching and writing I'm riding my bike, sewing or gardening. I love flea markets, folk art, and traveling to Poland.
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