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Serbian-Austrian Christmas at Highland Boy
Serbian-Austrian Christmas at Highland Boy
BY CLAIRE NOALL
The house of Pete and Milka Loverich was warm from more than the flame on the hearth and the glass in the hand when Dr. Paul Snelgrove Richards first paid his friends a Christmas visit. That snowy day in 1923 he called on nine different families at Highland Boy, a Utah mining camp in the right-hand fork of Bingham Canyon. As in the other homes of the settlement of between 3,000 and 4,000 people, at the Loveriches he was greeted with the joyous expression, "MzV Boze, Kristos se Rodi!"
Pete slapped this new friend on the back and gave him a kiss on both cheeks.
Young Milka, Sophie, and the boys in the family echoed their parents' greeting in English, "God's peace, Christ is born!"
The whole large dining room of people, miners who were boarding at this house and some of their friends from other homes, spoke up, offering the traditional greeting. "You honor us," said one. Another man gave the doctor a friendly slap. Genuine hospitality would be extended to everyone who entered this door during the three days of the festivities.
Some of the women were dressed in their native costumes. And as it slowly burned, the large end of the Badnyak, the sacred log — an oak in Serbia, a juniper in Highland Boy — scented the room. Mrs. Loverich passed Dr. Paul the wine, bobbing an old-world curtsy as she held the tray. He reached for a glass of red wine. She deftly turned and with a smile indicated the choicer but also homemade white beverage.
Like Christmas bells the doctor's characteristic laugh rang through the room. He smelted the bouquet. For the first time he toasted these patients, these friends, at the beginning of the three-day festival. On the last Christmas before his death, he again toasted those who were still living, but now in young Milka's home. She was then Mrs. George Smilanich — a widow, with some of her children quite grown. Her parents no longer kept the boardinghouse. Like young Milka's husband, they too had gone. In 1958 Dr. Paul's face was as white as the snow through which he had ridden horseback to the feast in 1923. Yet, as with all but very few Christmases after that first year, nothing could have kept him from his friends.
Lost for a moment in the crowd while all were still toasting each other on this January 7th, 1923, he noticed the Serbs lifting the glass to the Austrians, and the other way about. Having already visited many homes this day, he realized that the Austrians — who, as a nation, were strictly Roman Catholic — had joined the Serbs in observing the day set aside for the Nativity according to the Gregorian Calendar. In their religion the Serbs at the camp were Eastern Orthodox. The doctor fell in with the spirit and atmosphere, but he could hardly believe the pattern of these toasts. Two men known to be fiercely at odds were raising the glass to each other. He looked, he gulped and cracked a joke hardly fit for a nun but which was undoubtedly aimed at cementing still further this amazing act of friendship.
As the day passed he learned that this offering was no more than typical. All enmity was now banished from the homes. The doctor may have recalled the tree which he had placed at the door of the building down the canyon, which housed both hospital and medical clinic. The tree still stood on the porch in the center of the town of Bingham, glittering with tinsel and colored baubles. His new friends, the miners and their families, had been so impressed by this first public display for Christmas in Bingham that several of them immediately urged Dr. Paul to attend their January 7th celebration. "You would honor us," said a man with a crushed finger. "We would like to have you come, Doc," said his wife. "Please, do." At the Loveriches, as an undertone to the merriment, Dr. Paul studied the spirit which seemed so very different from the Christmas rites among his own beloved people. He watched, he waited, he had to understand the nature of this distinction.
With another ringing laugh, he accepted a second glass of wine. Once more he toasted both men, the Austrian and the Serb. He toasted this house. The boarders stood around. They had all chipped in for the feast ; they were now ready to receive their reward. The ruddy faces reflected the light from the embers of the log. Everyone was keen for the meal. The actual preparations had begun months ago, in late September and early October, with the vintage of the grapes imported to Bingham, almost by the carload. Each year it was the same. The day that the children showed up on the schoolgrounds with their feet stained purple, the whole town knew they had been crushing the fruit in the great vats at Highland Boy.
The immediate beginning of the feast had occurred with the roasting of the suckling pig in the dooryard of the boardinghouse, only yesterday. The tantalizing odor of the meat had risen with the steam. As it wafted down canyon, up the hill trailed the youngsters. Nearing the spit, they broke into a lively gait, tramping down the snow, rushing forward with great chunks of bread in their hands. Breathlessly, each waited his turn to scoop up some of the drippings from the pan beneath the spit. With this act, Christmas had really begun for the camp. Pete Loverich had never turned down a single youngster. Though their mischief could at times rise to the sky, at this moment the kids were his gang. The meat would taste all the better at the table because they would have had their taste of the drippings.
Milka, Pete's wife, had commenced her preparations at sink, stove, and counter weeks ago. A great storeroom ran directly into the mountain, connected with the kitchen by a narrow passage. This underground cooler, or "refrigerator," had been heaped with smoked hams and other meats, such as beef, bologna, sausage; with salted fish, pickled cucumbers, and preserved fruits; with cheeses, butter, and large pans of sarma; almost anything one could put away ahead of time.
At each place at the long table, to be occupied mostly by men and served by women, a soup plate now stood waiting. Once the guests were seated, Milka brought in a huge tureen of her delicious broth. It was simply floating with homemade noodles, cut as fine as the blades of rosemary she had dropped into the pot. Here she had also simmered the tender part of a head of cabbage. At the same time she had parboiled some outside leaves for the sarma. Sniffing the aromatic odor, Dr. Paul, as guest of honor, was the first to pass his dish forward.
After the soup the cold meats were served, and now came the sarma, piping hot. For this typically Eastern dish, Milka had held on the palm of her left hand, one at a time, the parboiled leaves. With exactly the right turn, she had folded in the edges of the cabbage leaf around a tablespoonful of wonderfully seasoned, ground pork. After filling several large pans with the meatballs, she put them aside in the underground room. The sarma now came to the table straight from the oven. What a tantalizing note it added to the cold meats and the sauerkraut, and even to the pickles, preserves, and fancy breads that Milka had made! One of these was the pevitza, mixed with honey and crushed walnuts.
Barbecuing the traditional pig for the Serbian-Austrian Christmas. Bottom: The head of the barbecued pig being displayed. The head is placed upright in the center of the table with a glass of wine in its mouth as the symbol of the Serbian Boar's Head and the blood of Christ.
Steve Smilanich
Still, no man's appetite was dimmed. The real highlight of the feast was yet to come. Milka, followed by the girls with dishes of hot vegetables, brought from the huge iron stove the suckling pig. She placed the great platter, smoking hot, before her husband. Cheers and sighs went up from the men. Pete took his sharp knife and severed the head. He arranged it upright on a special plate. Before transferring the plate to the center of the table he removed the apple that was resting on the top of a glass of red wine. He sipped the wine and offered the glass to Dr. Paul, who also took one sip and then asked the blessing of the Lord upon this house and all the friends therein. Pete placed the glass in the mouth of the pig as the symbol of the Serbian Boar's Head and the blood of Christ. Near the center of the table a can tied with a small bow of ribbon held a cluster of sprouted wheat which Milka had planted on December 19th, St. Nicholas' Day. Its fresh and charming green complemented the ceremonial wine as the sign of the resurrection after the Cross.
When the meat was served, the guests fell to, singing their praises and again cracking their jokes. The laughter rang from end to end of the table. Milka, the daughter, clapped her hands when Dr. Paul found a coin in his piece of the round flat loaves baked for the occasion. The children had washed and polished several pieces of money until they shone brighter than any little old bauble on a fir tree. The mother had hidden them in the dough as a token of the giving of one's means as well as his heart.
Finally, with appetites still quite competent, the guests were ready for the dessert. Over a rich dough, beaten, kneaded and rolled thin upon a cloth that covered the top of the kitchen table, Milka, the mother, had spread a bounteous layer of freshly sliced apples. After sprinkling them with cinnamon and other spices, she picked up the corner of the cloth to roll the strudel. As the concoction took shape, she peeled the cloth away and then folded the roll, tripling it from end to end so that it just fit into her largest roasting pan. At the table she cut the strudel crosswise and served it hot with another taste of wine.
At last the doctor sat his good horse for the homeward journey. In those days he made all his calls on horseback. With his family he lived just across the street from the hospital in downtown Bingham. His mount knew the way by starlight. Dr. Paul pondered the essence of the meaning of this day as he again heard the folk songs of the young people who had dressed in costume. Again he saw the intricate steps of the peasant dances. At times the group had made a wide circle and had then broken up for a measure or two, as in a square dance. What was this wonderful, different matrix of the East? Dr. Paul asked himself. Some day he was sure to understand. Another year would come and, with it, other invitations. At this camp a man's word was his promise.
During the years Dr. Paul had a rich experience as company physician and surgeon for the "United States Mines." Actually, these works were part of the United States Mining, Smelting, and Refining Company at Copperfield, which was one of many groups to work the underground tunnels in the mountains high above the open pit of the famous copper mine. The doctor's fame as a mender of broken backs spread until patients were flown to him from all over the United States.
In time he leased the Bingham Hospital and Clinic. Psychologically, he did a remarkable job with his patients. In his dark brown eyes there was a special gleam, a light that served as both lure and goad. When watching a man attempt his first wobbly steps in an effort to come back to the world after some terrible injury, Dr. Paul would stand by. If he did not actually speak the words, his glance formed the command, "Try, man, try. I know you can do it." The magnetic voice might then boom out, "Go on, go on. Of course you can walk!" The joyous laugh would follow the successful effort.
Every Christmas after he had leased the hospital, Dr. Paul assembled his staff at six o'clock in the morning. Doctors, nurses, and maintenance workers would stand around the piano in the corridor of the second floor. Down the hall and into the rooms would travel the sounds of the traditional carols, the ancient songs from many countries that honor the birth of Christ. Some of the patients might find their eyes moist with tears over the thought of still being alive, or even of missing the fun at the camp.
Among the staff was a couple who had met in Bingham, John and Lucile Ewart Hutchings. They fell in love and married, and became proteges of the doctor. John had commenced his work at the hospital in order to settle an account charged to his brother, who was very ill. Lucile was a splendid nurse. John felt happy to see her accept the invitations for the Christmas festivities at the camp as the doctor's companion for the day.
After Pete and Milka Loverich had both died, their daughter Milka carried on in their place. She had long since married George Smilanich. Friends and relatives now gathered at their home in the camp. Later, after his own father had died, it was young Steve Smilanich who gave Dr. Paul a slap on the back and offered the kiss of affection.
Just 35 years after the doctor's first Christmas at Highland Boy, he again shared the holiday with the Smilanich family. Steve had become a writer for the United Press International. Since 1923 the only celebrations Dr. Paul had missed among his friends in the canyon were when he had gone East for surgery on his hands, and following this incident, when he was at his ranch near West Yellowstone. Like Bingham itself, he had to face a new way of life. His protection against the X-ray machine which had enabled him to study his patients' injuries had been a little less than perfect. He had spared nothing known in his defense against the powerful ray, but in the long run he paid the full price for this usage.
As happy as he was to be at the Smilanich home in 1958, says Lucile Hutchings, Dr. Paul looked surprised, even a bit hurt over such tidbits as olives, potato chips, and store-bought dill pickles. Even the can of sprouted wheat was tied with a bow of red, white, and blue ribbon. Yet the eyes of Milka Smilanich shone with tenderness while she and her children observed the old ways. Milka had attended the local school. She was American ; still she was devoted to the symbols of the East.
Today, Highland Boy is a ghost town. The underground mines are closed, while the work of the Kennecott Copper Company has been amazingly extended. Milka now lives at the mouth of the canyon in Lead Mine. Until 1962 she held the Christmas celebration at her home. In 1963 the party was moved to Tooele, where her sister Sophie lives.
Mrs. Hutchings tells how Dr. Paul called for her early on that morning for his last "Bohonk" Christmas. He often used this term in speaking of the celebration at the camp. For him this was a pet name, employed only in deep affection and respect. Although he then drove an excellent car, he wanted an early start. The road was slippery, the steep-walled mountains were white with snow. The narrow, winding road was still subject to many a hazard.
At the Smilaniches the doctor had always offered his hand to help Lucile over the snow and up the icy path. But that day the nurse, who had worked at Bingham until the hospital itself was forced to close its doors because of the change in mining conditions, wanted very much to help Dr. Paul. "But this," she says, picturing that last Christmas with a somewhat wistful glance, "was something one would not dream of suggesting. And once within the house the doctor found warmth enough to offset the weather."
In that narrow fork with its deep snow, Dr. Paul's last visit to the Smilanich home might have been tempered by his own pain had he not retained his courage. For some years he had been practicing at the Memorial Medical Center in Salt Lake City, an organization for whose governing spirit he had been responsible. Now, however, it could have been his turn to be wheedled or goaded into action. He required no such treatment. His laugh was not denied. Like Christmas bells it rang through the room.
In his own words we may read of his admiration for the "Bohonk Christmas." He had long since come to understand its essential meaning: This was a time when judgment against another for some individual trespass simply could not be held by anyone. The doctor understood this sense of forgiveness and love in the radiant faces of the women, and in the clasp of brotherhood when hand met hand among the men.
In answer to the urging of two of his sisters he finally dictated his memoirs. In reference to the Christmas celebration at Highland Boy, he said:
Strangely, Dr. Paul still referred to the customs he so much loved as the Austrian Christmas. He must have known that it was the Serbian tradition that had shaped the festivities. In any case he now understood its meaning. He finally left the house on this, his last day in Highland Boy, knowing well where he himself stood with the world. In farewell he said, "Mir Boze, Kristos se Rodi!" And the laugh rang out.
Bingham, despite its mere 37 voters, is still legally a thirdclass city. Once populated by thousands of persons, Bingham is being cleared out as Kennecott Copper Corporation buys up privately owned land in the canyon and moves ahead swiftly in expanding operations at its Bingham open-pit mine.
Only two business houses remain in operation. So does the City Hall. Everything else, except a few homes, has either been removed or is in the process of being removed.
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