“Work hard, then garden.”
“Dad was a coal miner. When he’d come home from the mine, he’d spend the rest of his time in the garden. Oh, he’d never let me help him. I couldn’t spade or even water good enough to sooth him. If a dog got in the garden, well…we wouldn’t have that dog for long. My sister’s cat always shit in his garden. Dad would drop it off in Acme, but the damn cat kept coming home. When the coal mine shut down, he worked for some of the rich ranchers in Big Horn as a gardener.
“Dad was about five foot eight. Well-built and stocky. Dark complected. He turned grey at about twenty-five, but before that his hair was almost black. He was a typical old-European father. I knew Dad liked me, but I never heard him say “I love you”—not even to Mom. He provided for me, even played with me, but we didn’t have long talks. He wasn’t a companion father.
“Where he learned to swim, I got no idea, but he was good. Dad came over when he was sixteen, to get away from being drafted into the army. Turkey and Bulgaria were at war. Dad’s brother, Alexander, came over, too, then went back. The only Bulgarian I learned was from my Aunt Velika. Dad would never speak it around us. You would think he would try to teach his son some words, but that was the mind-set then. Become an American. He had no desire to keep his culture, like they do now. He wanted his kids to be American kids.
“He didn’t have a middle name, but he had to have one when he signed up for his social security number, so he picked R. Got no idea why. Dad only had a 6th grade education. Taught himself English. He was passionate about detective stories and magazines. It would take him two weeks to read one front to back.
“There wasn’t anything around the house Dad couldn’t do. He’d be a plumber, electrician, cabinet maker. I remember when Dad was building the back room, the one with the washing machine. He had nails sticking out of the joists, and I fell and cut my leg real bad. He swatted me for that. (laughs)
“Once, Uncle Pete caught some kids stealing watermelons, and they ran off without their bike, so he and Dad let me have it. We worked on the breaks, and I bought some new fenders. Well, I can’t remember, but somehow I screwed up the bike. Maybe wrecked it. It was the only time Dad ever whipped me with kindling wood. (pause) When I think about it, it was more about him being mad at Mom than at me. I could always tell when they’d had a fight. Dad would clean house from one end to another.
“Never did see Dad drunk. But I had a shot gun that kicked like a mule, and one time, after him and Mom had come home from being out on the town, he got the gun, went to the back porch, and shot it off. Damn near kicked him off the porch.
“Dad like to play cards. I could always tell when he won because there would be a candy bar under my pillow, and Mom’s. I used to go to watch him. They’d gamble at Mission Pool, ten cents a hand. He could win five or six dollars a night.
“He was orthodox, but he wasn’t religious. I never heard him speak about God and all. He believed in Christmas and Easter. I was always very fortunate at Christmas. One year I got a tractor and wind-up train. I know my sister Reda always resented Dad because she thought he favored Christina, his eldest. I can’t ever say I saw him treat one kid different from another.
“I actually wasn’t around Dad that much when I got older. I played sports, and sometimes he’d get home past the midnight shift. I remember him being at my wedding. Mom wouldn’t go to weddings. Hell, if the girlfriend I had in high school hadn’t driven her, she wouldn’t had gone to my graduation. Mom was funny. Maybe she was self-conscience about her teeth. But Dad was there when I married your mother. I was on crutches—sprang an ankle playing softball. I got your mom’s ring at Jorgison’s Jewelry, and when Oakley, my best man, handed it to me, I tried to put it on her middle finger. (laughs) I’ll never forget that.
“Dad died in ’54. Reda and I went to the hospital, but when we got to the room he was dead. Uncle Pete was there. Mom was home. He had black lung from breathing coal dust. Mom got a pension out of that. His funeral was at the Catholic church. Six old miners carried his casket. That’s all I remember.
“He never told me he loved me, you know, and I doubt I ever told him. He did little things for me, and at the time they didn’t mean anything, but when you look back…Dad must have really liked me.”
James Jay Racheff, Sr.
The Racheffs cerca 1941
Joseph R. Racheff, 1891-1954
James Jay Racheff, Sr. Born 1933 and still kicking