You Can Go Home Again

Last Dec. 17, I wrote a column about Mary Korkie, 80, who grew up in Pennsylvania and has moved to Iowa to live with her son, John. That column revolved around the fact that Mary had won a $1,200 slot machine jackpot in Bettendorf, but didn't have the proper identification to claim it. John helped her acquire the necessary documents to claim her winnings, which she gave to him.

During my visit with Mary, I learned about her tough life in Pennsylvania, how she grew up without a lot of the luxuries we take for granted like push button telephones and microwave ovens. And while she enjoys living in Iowa, she misses some parts of home.

John sends occasional e-mail updates about his mother including one last week titled "Mary's First and Possibly Final Flight" about her return home. Here are excerpts:

"The trip went well, a fearful old woman, head wrapped tightly in a babushka, was pushed through the Cedar Rapids Airport on a wheelchair. Unfamiliar with things like check-in procedures, security checks and passenger screenings, she managed to stretch a few wrinkles towards her ears to smile for a 'thumbs up' photo.

"Her knees wobbled below her faded housedress as she stepped from the chair. On the plane, she closed her eyes, praying.

"Once airborne, she began to speak softly, 'this is like a bus,' she said, as the color of sickly gray began to replace the ill, white pallor. Her toothless chin moved quickly as she shredded a fresh stick of gum. Her cheeks regained a little rose blush.

"She was able to return 'home' which was somewhere between Allentown, heaven, good memories and hell. The schedule was hectic yet refreshingly comfortable. At her brother's home, we shared stories from the Pennsylvania coal regions and unearthed forgotten feelings along with faded black and white photos of long gone and forgotten smiles. She was able to fulfill her wishes to visit her parent's and sibling's graves, the tenement row homes of a long gone past are now filled with new families behind the shingled walls; with bicycles and rusted grills out front as if to testify that times have always been rough, and that nothing ever stays new.

"Mary's a third generation coal miner's daughter, having lost both her father and grandfather to the swallowing black holes. In the afternoon darkness of a foggy hillside cemetery, she held her brother George's hand tightly with her left hand while making the sign of the cross on her chest. They both stared intently at the well kept tombstone that George has maintained since he was a schoolboy on a bus with a bucket and a scrub brush. Fresh flowers brightened the ground hugging mist.

"We passed the closed clothing factory that mom swears crippled her fingers with the chrome fabric scissors that are still in her drawer. Then, on Sunday, we went back to Pottstown to the cold, dark house that was as full as we left it. We had pizza from Little Italy, cheese steaks, and Tastykakes. Neighbors, family, long lost and forgotten relatives filled the rooms with anxiety and chaos,  asking questions like 'what's new?' and 'what have you been up to for the last forty years?'

"At the Pottstown Senior Center, we shared smiles with Nancy and left a memento of Mary's Story to remember, smile and share. On Franklin Street, we visited Anna Mae and Stan, friends for over forty five years, opening their hearts and home with soft drinks, snacks and a banana. We warmed the cold day with love.

"Mary was reluctant to visit the old man's grave until the office attendant offered to escort us and comforted Mary with her own story of being from Austria. There were smiles, quivers, prayers and very few tears. Deep breaths followed.

"The Bronze ground marker, bearing my father's name,  also reads, 'Mary 1927-'"