Waiting for the Hungarians

My old neighborhood in Toledo was called Kuschwantz, although nobody's quite sure what that means anymore, or who first called it that. Everyone who lived there was from the old country. Polish. Catholic. English-optional. We killed chickens in the backyard for dinner. My dad owned the garage. My uncle was the baker. My godfather was the milkman. Our dramas fit within the small of God's hand. After I was born, my godfather made sure that the milk he delivered to our house had the thickest layer of cream floating on the top. We had more than anyone had, even the nuns.