Miletich Family Reunion

Miletich Family Reunion
Five Generations of Cousins
August 9-11, 2013
Moravia, Iowa

This is the end of my reunion photos, but I'd like to include the following commentary about the 1987 Miletich reunion, written by Aunt Phyllis, writer, columnist, educator, wife of Fred, mother of Phyllis, Susan, Theresa, John and Ann. It says a lot about who we are as a famiily and how we came to be where we are today, 26 years after it was written.

  THE PAYOFF: Family Reunion - 1987
                    Albia, Iowa
        by Phyllis Miletich
        Approx. 750 words

    So then it was over--and it was our time to leave. Five thirty A.M. we left the motel to pick up our kids at Aunt Ann's and take them to the airport. We'd planned to leave town at six, and didn't want to wake the sleeping house, so as we neared the Square, the gleaming face of the courthouse clock shown against a black sky; the straight figure of the Union soldier at attention in silhouette. It was still a little too early.
     Only the corner donut shop was open, ready for action. A farmer in a pickup passed us, going like Los Angeles traffic. Turned out he was headed for the same place, so we followed him into the shop. Three other farmers in feed lot caps sat in a huddle at the round table on the right. And our young farmer-in-a-hurry sat by himself, hunched over coffee, bracing for the day.
    A gentle, white haired lady behind the counter smiled that she'd been there since 2:A.M. "...doing the baking for the day" she explained. So we looked at the fresh goodies, took two to the table and bought another half-dozen for whoever might be up at the house.
    Slowly, Albia was winking awake. Another ordinary day in the life of the town. Ann's 3-story brick house was dark. Only a glow around back shot through the trees. The kitchen was alive already. Our kids were ready, but others were up too--our Aunt Ann in a blue bathrobe, manning the worry tower: "...honey, have some of that melon"...and Bob Hazzard Sr. with his special coffee service (he claims to be an expert)... "lots of coffee and I'11 make more" ...Bob Jr. with the last clever quip and hug to cheer us on our way. A11 of us babbling something to bury the pain of goodbyes. At the door, I kissed Bob Sr. and said, improbably, "We'll see you next year, we're coming back..." and he, answering, "Good, But don't wait too long." At 90 years old, at least he said exactly the right thing.

Then, beginnings came up. We talked, watching the clock. Somebody said, "Too bad Grandma and Grandpa couldn't have seen all this" and somebody else mentioned Hocking and the coal mines. And then, Ann--the Keeper of the Flame--eased around the corner and said, "Come here, honey,--I want to show you something."
    She slid out the kitchen door, opened a metal cupboard to the left, and pulled out a small box with a crisp scramble of curled brown papers, laying there. Passing them carefully around, we peered at them, as you would some precious ancient document in an archive.
    We squinted, concentrated, touched this powerful, memory laden evidence. "I'd like to zerox some of these, Ann," I said. "Here, honey, take whatever you want," so I took the two she pressed into my hand. I could hardly believe she'd give them up. "Each one of these pay vouchers is for 2 weeks," Ann said. She looked up at the circle of us, standing there. "Some of these are paychecks where Dad ended up owing the company money..."
    And there it was--come to life again, Steve, a young man, and in 1937 still the keeper of a dream. Snapping black eyes, a shock of strong black hair with streaks of grey. A man with enough discontent, imagination and defiance to know that--somewhere--it could be better. So he left Yugoslavia in 1903 with what seemed to be scant advantage. Except perhaps the surest one: Kathryn, the girl he loved, who "promised" she'd come when he sent for her.
    Years and years ago I listened to Grandma, tell about that. "They didn't want me to leave, honey," she said. They wanted me there for the work. But I told them, "No. I have to go. I promised Steve." And she kept her word.
    Yes, they were a couple of risk-takers. But risk-takers who knew how to hold steady to keep commitments, to dream dreams and work to make them true.
    "I remember that little white pay envelope," Fred said on our Long drive home. He would come in and give it to mom. He'd be black with coal dust, you know, and tired, she'd put it in an old overcoat behind the door." Theirs was by then a family of 10 children.
    Yes, he went down into the mines in the dim light of early morning and came out in the growing dark of night. For piece-work by the hundred-weight CWT or ton--$55. this time--two week's work. Fifty five dollars--less powder, dynamite, fuses, b1acksmithing, shot-fire and 1%...

                                       * * * *

    So now, in 1987, the Steve and Kathryn Miletich Family comes together. Over 60 strong, they come: the high achievers of the second generation: engineers, teachers, business executives. Administrators and mothers-grandmothers emeritus. An army general and the revered sister-who-moved-across-the tracks to the most elegant house in town. Then, the third generation, their confident joyful children now in their 30's and beyond: artists and high-tech brains; teachers, professional athletes and young mothers; a design contractor, a neurosurgeon, a social worker. Good fathers, a woman attorney and competent students on their way. All of them easy with each other as though meeting old friends, though for many of them it was the first time they'd met. The master-communicators, touching each other easily now in a common understanding.
    And last--yet not the last: their children. Shining, handsome kids with no shadows behind their eyes, no fears. Articulate and beloved--clear, open children, casting their own long shadows of opportunity, confidence and hope.
    Finally, those in the Miletich family by selection and consent. The husbands and wives who get high marks for good judgment and endurance. Those who, each by a separate route, hooked into this dark immigrant bloodline, for better or for worse, but surely for the ride of our lives.
    A yeasty gene pool. Black sheep; shining sheep; all. Let's for a moment cast their achievements aside. Perhaps the best legacy is this: through time, we join hands now in a strangely common ethic of endurance and work; integrity and love. Differences allowed, we try to understand. Mistakes made, we try to make up. Through doubt and even despair, daily we bring to each other that white "pay envelope"--and into it we tuck whatever we have to give. Deductions endured.
    Reunion - 1987. The Payoff. Yes, Grandma and Grandpa were there. In fine weavings that they first strung with uncertain hands on a long loom. It is that same loom that each of us, in his own way, tries to complete. From Payoff 1937 to Payoff 1987:

                        ••• Yessir, Boss Man:
                            You took your part
                            And you took most of mine,
                            And you proclaimed that the spoils are to the strong.
                                And you were right, Boss Man:
                                    It took a long time,
                                        But the victory--
                                        The Victory--
                                            is mine.
                                            * * * *