December 5, 2019
The author Ed Boyko (right) with his father Michael Boyko at their home on Evans Street in McKeesport in 1958.
Boyko with his mother Mary Stecz Boyko on his graduation day from the former St Peter’s High School in 1962.
Perspiration was rolling off me, the day was so warm.
"We could not afford an air conditioner," instructed my mother, "and what would the neighbors think?" I hated like anything to be working on a paper for school in the middle of July, but circumstances being what they were, here I was, up in my second floor room, with my "free form" twenty-word-a-minute, two-finger typing pace, working diligently in between my thoughts and perspiration drops on a theme for English class.
With a fire station on Evans Street at the top of our hill and McKeesport Hospital ER at the bottom near Fifth Avenue, cars, trucks - including police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks - at various times of the day and or night zoomed up and down Evans Street.
The neighbor on our left, Mr. Toth, was helping a carpenter remodel his porch. The widowed Mr. Hajduk, our lonely and elderly neighbor on our right was occupying his porch swing and chatting with every passerby who came up or down our street. He would also wave to the riders on the trolley going up or down Evans Street and they usually waved back.
Birds were chirping, dogs were barking, and the neighbors were occupied. This was the background in which I had to concentrate on my theme.
Every sound carried in the muggy afternoon and was the “quiet” background in which I had to concentrate on my work. Very shortly, another sound chimed in with the others.
Literally almost, for it was a bell. It was something like a waiter's bell announcing, "Dinner is served.”
Not a harsh bell, nor a shrill one, like the altar bell in church.
No! It wasn't a bell as on a tot's tricycle either.
It was just a steady ring, and it wasn't stationary; its carrier was moving, at a fixed pace.
Then just as suddenly it stopped, somewhere near the house.
I started down the stairs to see what the ringing was all about. I could hear my mother from the kitchen saying, "Oh, my! It's the Umbrella Man," as I reached the bottom and was going out the door.
“Sure enough," she said, "he's a man who goes around fixing umbrellas and sharpening knives and scissors. One hasn't been around for a couple years."
I didn't know how to make her out. I had never as far as I could remember actually seen an umbrella man.
So, determining to see for myself, I went out to the porch and this elderly gentleman was next door at Mrs. Toth's house already working on some of her kitchen knives.
Two young neighbor girls, Janey, who was about 8 and her sister, Tammy, who was about 10, were following him down the street. Their mom heard the bell also and she sent them to fetch the man to come their house next. The girls sat on our steps in the shade and were also watching the man as he was engaging in his work.
While he was still in the front yard next door, I thought I'd better go get our old lawn mower. My dad and I tried to fix it ourselves, but it just wouldn't cut. Maybe this fellow could do something we could not. I brought the mower out to the front steps and waited for him to come over to our house.
Presently he did. He was a little man, about as tall as my father, who was only 5'6". His white hair and mustache seemed a contrast to the deeply tanned skin underneath the hair and his work shirt. I'd say he was pretty close to sixty-three or four, if not older. The dark cap perched on his head was soiled, probably from many years of perspiration and work, as he traveled on foot during the summers in the neighborhoods.
From a quick glance I could see that the rest of his attire matched: from the wrinkled boots to the graying vestee sweater he wore despite the humidity. A rag stuck out of his right back pocket in his many times-washed blue jeans and he probably wore his glasses only for close work.
My mother brought out 3 kitchen knives and 2 old pairs of scissors. She wanted to get her money's worth. She was thinking that he might not be around for another two or three years.
He sharpened these items quickly and then moved on to the old lawn mower.
After taking the lawn mower apart, he took the bottom plate, which the rotating blades strike when they cut, and held it to the grindstone. He had to lean forward slightly to work his tool. This move inclined his head and shoulders a little and indicated the concentration he applied to his work.
Sparks flew in every direction as he began to work the pedal with his right foot. The shrill noise of the grindstone was piercing enough to make one cover his or her ears, as young Janey and Tammy did.
But every few seconds he would examine his work, smoothing his hand over the warm steel that was slowly becoming sharper. Finally, after five minutes of grinding, he was satisfied that the task was accomplished.
While they were sitting there observing his actions, I couldn't help comparing the young girls with the aged gentleman in front of us. They had never seen an umbrella man either. To them and to me, he was someone out of a past which still had claim on him.
This man bucked the idea of automation, and the modern world concept of advanced machinery and fast cars, button-down shirt collars, and sneakers and jeans that was growing around me and into which these two girls had been born and raised.
His hands seemed unusually heavy, although he himself was not a heavyset person. They were smooth and tanned and the skin was taunt and aged. He carried on his back the machine that was his trade. It was a little smaller than what a hobo carries to earn a meal by advertising for some local second-class restaurant. The only difference was that the sides were permanently braced apart. On top was a small grindstone, the key to his trade. This was made to revolve by a pedal at the bottom, like an old sewing machine.
On the sides were leather straps, which contained other tools: a small wrench, a screwdriver and an oil can, as well as some other necessary gadgets. He also had a bundle of umbrella sticks and innards from which he derived his name, tied with a cord. His skills were just as good at repairing "bumbershoots" as at sharpening dull cutting instruments.
I asked him how much it would cost to sharpen the mower blades. He replied only a dollar. A dollar for each pair of scissors he sharpened and a dollar for each of the mower blades he replied. "Make it only two dollars for all the mower blades.”
He also repaired an old umbrella for my mom, with a new set of metal frameworks.
This fellow was independent in the world and was nondependent on anyone else to secure his future, although in a sense he was tied to a machine. His hands were his work and his feet were his transportation.
I still wondered about the bell and gazed around in search of it. I didn't find it, so I was content to sit and watch him at his tasks.
In the meantime, my mother had gone into the house to get her change purse and returned with her purse and a bottle of cold ginger ale. She gave the drink to this craftsman and five dollars for the excellent work he did.
The elderly gentleman thanked us for the work and for the cold drink.
I asked him where he had parked his car or truck. He recoiled his head and said emphatically, "I don't have a car. I live close by in Wilmerding.” Wilmerding was about eight miles away; he would pick any one of the about 12 nearby towns or neighborhoods and walk there. Though I would be able to walk, I just would take our old Chevy to Wilmerding or anywhere else for that matter.
Then I asked when he would be back again. He indicated not until the next April or May when the weather turns pleasant.
“When you hear the bell, you’ll know it's me!"
He slung his grinding apparatus on his shoulder, took the bell out of his pocket and went up Evans street, so young Janey and Tammy could lead him to their house, and then in search of other customers, getting their attention by ringing the bell as he journeyed up and down the streets.
With the bell ringing and my glimpse of yesteryear fading up the street, I returned to my paper still musing about the umbrella man.