Writing to My Cousin

We had our swimming holes in this river to which we had given those strange names: Greenies, Foamies, Big Six. The last one was my favorite and on those extremely hot days when the wind was finally dead and fully spent, for the wind in our town usually blew most powerfully during summer days, setting the nerves on edge, I would hie myself to that spot. Often on a week day I found no one there, which suited me, since I was never a very good swimmer as were most of my friends, and preferred to choose when and how I would take my dips in the cool water. And so I would be there alone. Except for Boonger. Boonger Tokarsyk would almost always be there, lying on the grass, somber without much to say beyond an indifferent greeting. He was not much older than we were but he appeared much, much older because he had such a worn and weary face. He had dropped out of high school, left the football team, which was worse, and gone to labor in the coal mines. Where else could he go? There were times when he looked pensive and even wistful as though he were meditating or thinking deep thoughts. But “Polacks” were not supposed to be capable of such things; they were too dumb. Otherwise why were there so many “Polack” jokes? In truth I did not really know that Boonger was Polish, but it was of little consequence. Almost half of all mine workers were from Eastern Europe, and probably the other half were mostly “WOPS” like ourselves.