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National Geographic : 1977 Feb
Contents
wide-eyed, into the maw of the river mills. "It used to be that 'mill Hunkies' like me didn't go past Sixth Street in Midland," re membered Sylvester "Sonny" Vranes, now a Crucible supervisor. "That was where the 'Americans' lived. But it's changed-a name doesn't mean a thing anymore." Photographer Martin Rogers and I came to Midland for Serbian Christmas, celebrated on January 7. Snow covered the hillside where Stanley Holava, a retired millworker, barbe cued two suckling pigs for the pecenica, the holiday roast. An old refrigerator motor turned the spit over wood coals (below). "American ingenuity," chuckled Stanley, pleased with the operation. That morning he and his steelworker sons, Ted and "Skeets," had butchered the traditional Christmas dinner. On a stump sat a bottle of untradi tional bourbon, for traditional toasting. "I'll tell you what," said Ted, pointing to the pig, "this here's our soul food." At the Serbian club on Christmas Eve, after religious ceremonies, an exuberant trio, home from college, plucked tamburitzas, and every body sang Serbian folk songs of heartbreak, courtship, and village fun. Martin and I stum bled happily along, arms over shoulders, in the Serbian circle dances. The revelers left shortly before midnight and reassembled solemnly in the choir loft of St. George Serbian Orthodox Church for Christmas vigil service. Outside, a light snowfall soothed the stained buildings of the little town as we sang an Austrian carol, "Si lent Night," first in Serbian, then in English. Next day we joined the Holavas for Christ mas dinner. Straw to recall the manger was spread beneath the table where Stanley lit the Christmas candle. Between the sweet bread and the homemade noodle soup sat the head of the pecenica, an apple in its mouth. Stan ley doused the candle with wine, and then, in a moving ritual, four generations of Hola vas kissed one another, repeating the words: "Hristos se rodi. Vaistinu se rodi-Christis born. Indeed He is born." M ile 43 Five-thirty a.m. James Philpott, a deckhand on the other shift, barrels up the stairs grinning and clanging a bell. At breakfast we load up on biscuits, gravy, bacon, sausage, and eggs. "Any cook that I have knows she's gotta feed the boys," Captain Himes boasts, "on account-a I won't let 'em slouch on their work. When they come to that table, they want to eat just like hogs, on-account-a they worked hard, and, by golly, you can't make it on a bowl of cornflakes." The riverbank smolders with glass facto ries, brickyards, and potteries as the Ohio The backyard's a factory in small towns like Mingo Junction, Ohio (right), where steel mills line the river. Many such en claves of industry sprouted in the 1800's, when mining of enormous coal seams boosted iron- and steelmaking, and sup plies of clay and natural gas gave rise to pottery, glass, and brick industries. Later, deposits of salt and limestone led to chem ical manufacturing. By 1920 thousands of European immi grants had been recruited to work the Ohio River mills. Many came to Midland, Pennsylvania, a steel town, where retired millworker Stanley Holava (left) barbe cues pigs for his family's traditional Ser bian Christmas dinner. 250
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