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all formality. "OK, Oleh," I said. "What are you selling?" This is America, I thought; let's tell it like it is. But poor Oleh was quoting again from his translation of the script. "There is absolutely no obligation to buy. We just have a wonderful presentation for you and your husband. Please give us a few minutes of your time." I am too old for this, I thought. The items that I had bought before were the result of a youthful idealism when I really believed that I could actually have the knowledge of the world at my fingertips or that the Kirby would alwavs ensure that my house would be clean or that borshch would cook itself to perfection in my stainless steel pots. But Oleh was Ukrainian and that made all the difference. I thought of my father and how forty years ago his college friend came around selling the Electrolux. Father borrowed money to buy it because he felt the fellow needed a helping hand. "Свій до свого”. Could I do less? "OK, Oleh. Tuesday at seven." I gave him my home address, automatically asking where he was coming from so that I could give him directions on how to get from thereto here. "No, no," he replied, satisfied with getting an appointment. "I have a good map. Don't worry." He avoided, again, my questions about what he was selling. I returned to my tea, took a sip. The book, the second chapter. Meeting a new character. The cool breeze from the window. The phone again. "Hallo! Yes, Oleh, no you're not disturbing me." Reentering the every day world of salesmen and things. "Do I live in Philadelphia? No." I repeated the name of the town and offered again to give him directions. He gave me a minor excuse for not needing the directions which I interpreted as the basic psychology of the Ukrainian male, any male. Since God has given men maps, they have to show that they are literate, to read the map and find the their own way. So be it. "OK, Oleh. See you Tuesday at seven." I replaced the receiver and turned to a new page. Concentrating was an effort, my conversation with Oleh mingling with the author's words. Still not knowing what Oleh was selling. Thinking that it only takes a minute to write down directions and that most of my delivery men and repairmen don't think it's a challenge to find me on the map. My conscience kicking me not to judge the man. He's from over there and they are a little different. I finished the page, took another sip of tea. The phone rang. "Hallo, oh it's you Oleh. A landmark you want? Now let's start from the beginning. If you cannot find my town on the map then how will you know its landmarks?" I could feel my tongue getting sharper in my mouth. I made a note to pray over this matter in church come Sunday, but my patience indicator was down to zero. Oleh finally told me where he was coming from, but not what he was bringing. I mentioned a major highway near his house and then gave detailed instructions. "Ah, Ясно." "Tuesday at seven." I signed off. By now I had given up on my book and turned to the tube. The phone rang. It was Oleh. "My zip code?" Maybe he was coming by mail? I gave him the zip code and then pleaded. "Tell me what it is you're selling. I know I don't have to buy it. I just don't like the suspense." The script must have told him not to, even though we had spent so much time on the phone, even though formality had long given way to familiarity. But he at last gave in. "Have you ever heard of the RAINBOW?" I am not sure, but then next Tuesday at seven, I just might buy one. WHAT ARE CHRISTMAS EGGS WORTH? by MARTHA BOHACHEVSKY CHOMIAK Those of you who are not aficionados of "ER", NBC's popular prime time drama about a Chicago hospital's Emergency Room, probably missed the episode that aired during the recent holiday season. As non-viewers, you are probably unfamiliar with the character of Nurse Hathaway, one of the most positive and interesting characters in this popular, and as these shows go, intelligent evening soap. The Carol Hathaway character is increasingly visible in the weekly episodes, each of which is written by a different author. She is intelligent, sympathetic and human. She tried to commit suicide before she joined the ER team, but realized the value of life and that made her empathize with the troubled and downtrodden. She broke off with a wealthy doctor because he was too materialistic, dated an ambulance driver, and renovated an inner-city house. In the holiday season episode, Nurse Hathaway's mother visits her at Christmas to make a traditional Ukrainian Christmas Eve supper. There had been no previous inkling of Hathaway's Ukrainian origins, but then "ER" is full of surprises. In the Ukrainain scene, a group of Chicago characters dressed in colorful Ukrainian costumes, all ethnically correct, sit around the table and befriend a homeless teenager brought to Hathaway by the heartthrob pediatrician played by George Clooney. To defuse the saccharine sloppiness lurking in the idyllic table scene with its embroidery and pleasant banter, Hathaway makes a few understated comments about her eight sword-dancer uncles. And this is when the mother Видання C оюзу Українок A мерики - перевидано в електронному форматі в 2012 році . A рхів C У A - Ню Йорк , Н . Й . C Ш A.
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