Mr. and Mrs. Prebeg

As I was going through another old photo album of my mother's this evening, I stumbled upon this absolute treasure of a photo.

This is a picture of our neighbor, Mr. Prebeg, with my mother. They were at another neighbors house, Mr. and Mrs. Fritze, my best friend Patty's parents, for a surprise anniversary party. Do you see the look on their faces? That is the look of two people that really like one another. This is the perfect picture representing the neighborhood I grew up in. We were a family. All of us. Because there was deep love, respect and care for one another. I'm not saying there was never any drama because, of course there was. The more important part of our neighborhood was everyone felt they belonged. Not just to Virginia Ave but to one another. I loved growing up there with these people.

This is from the same party. Mrs. Prebeg is on the left, another neighbor from across the street, Sylvia, is next to her and then Mr. Prebeg is in the background. 

Mr. and Mrs. Prebeg were wonderful. I spent a lot of time at their house, playing with their son, Johnny and my sister Kelly was the same age as their daughter, Francine. They lived two doors down from our house and it was a constant back and forth between the two houses. Our house had the swimming pool and the best tuna salad sandwiches in the universe, made by my mother. Johnny's house had ice cream with real cones in their garage freezer. All of us kids would line up outside the garage as Mr. Prebeg scooped the deliciousness into a cone for each kid and off we'd go to the next adventure, cone in hand.

I may get this part a bit muddled but I believe the Prebegs were Croatian and Yugoslavian. Mr. Prebeg had a very thick accent and I loved to listen to him speak. I remember him yelling at his own children just like my mother yelled at us, but he always treated Kelly and I like we were the best thing since sliced cheese. This was pretty typical of all the Virginia Ave parents. It wasn't unusual to hear a kid getting yelled at by their parent but other peoples kids were treated like the little angels they weren't. Of course, if you got caught doing something wrong, all parents were interchangeable and you might possibly find yourself making a run for it before justice was served. Either way, by the time you got home you would have been reported and the yelling would start. 

Mr. Prebeg had escaped from his country during the war and could never go back without the risk of being killed. His mother was still alive and I think I remember hearing my parents talk about him sneaking back into the country to see her once or twice. It was quite the event in our household although it was discussed in hushed tones to keep details from nosy children. I remember Mr. Prebeg as one of the nicest, warmest men in our neighborhood. He was known to give great hugs and kisses to us when we did something good. I loved him.

Mrs. Prebeg was quieter than her husband but always kind to us. She was a wonderful cook and taught my mother to make stuffed cabbage. Probably because every time I smelled it cooking at their house, I stayed until I was invited to dinner. I still remember their little dinette in the kitchen. It was warm and cozy and they used kleenex for napkins. 

The Prebegs took in families migrating to the USA from Croatia and Yugoslavia. Just like our house, they had a little bungalow in their backyard where they would let these folks stay to get on their feet. I remember one couple especially. They were young and the girl was pregnant. When she had the baby, my mother let me make jello to take to them. I was so excited at ten or eleven to make jello all by myself and then proudly walk it to the backhouse at the Prebegs. The new mother didn't speak English and I didn't speak Croatian but that didn't seem to matter. She accepted my jello and let me sit and hold her baby. It was heaven. 

Once a year there was a Croatian festival that the Prebegs attended and our family was always invited. I loved going. We had the best time, and in the evening, there would be a dance. It was such a blast! You were never asked to dance, you were grabbed by the hand and pulled in. I could be a bit awkward and shy as a kid around people I didn't know but I never felt awkward there. I felt a part of something amazing.

Looking at these two photos tonight, I can hear Mr. Prebeg's accent as he would talk and laugh with my parents. I see myself in the backseat of their car being driven to St. Helen's Elementary School by Mrs. Prebeg as she and my mother carpooled. I can still hear the music from their backyard and see them at my parents Christmas parties. I remember them at my wedding and Mr. Prebeg crying when he hugged me. 

Even after the Prebegs and my parents moved from Virginia Ave, they stayed in touch, visiting one another. I remember when my mom called to tell me she and my dad had gone to visit the Prebegs. Mr. Prebeg was not well and my mom thought I should think about flying out to visit. As life does sometimes, I felt overwhelmed with kids and responsibilities and thought I had time. I didn't. I cried when my dad called to tell me Mr. Prebeg had passed away. It was losing a family member in every sense of the word family.

I will forever be grateful for the childhood I was given and the people who gave it to me including Mr. and Mrs. Prebeg.