The small town of Jaludak [sic], then a part of Lithuania, wasn't very
busy and noisy except on the grand market day that came on a Monday.
One can just imagine how the people, thick a flies, were running here and
there with
their baskets, shouting, laughing, and arguing. A colorful picture
was presented with their gay colored dresses. Along the wide, stony
street, the merchants presented their wares. Among these merchants
was my father's father, Philip Yotvitzky, who established his trade of
selling pottery.
After the day was over and all his arguments were finished, he would
start for the long road that seemed to get smaller, narrower, and muddier.
Upon reaching the outskirts of Jaludak, his small wooden house with a thatched
roof, near a well-used farm land would appear. The days that
he wasn't in the market he would toil on the land.
In this crude three room house, my father, Louis Yotvitsky, was born. The rooms consisted of two bedrooms with beds that had hay as a mattress and a piece of cloth to keep the hay out of the face and mouth. In the other room, there were Philip's workshop and the kitchen. An old worn out table and three benches and stools were all in one room. The floors were just plain dirt that was flattened.
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