Mike’s parents and mine agreed one summer weekend that I could have a sleepover at his house. We were seven or eight. Our farms were two miles apart. It would be our first sleepover, and our last. 

Mike’s mother was a warm, kind-hearted soul who spoke little English. No need. The smiles that danced in her sparkling blue-green eyes spoke volumes. She and Mike’s dad had moved here from Ukraine many years earlier.     

Over supper, she encouraged me to learn a few words of Ukrainian. The words coincided with the English words for common expressions like ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’, ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’, and items like ‘knife’, ‘fork’ and ‘spoon’. 

It was interesting and fun to learn a wee bit about another language. I concentrated hard, trying to remember how to pronounce words that came awkward to my tongue. It was challenging but I wanted very much to please my friend’s Mom.

Later that evening, after we were sent upstairs to bed, Mike encouraged me to learn more Ukrainian words. He was like that. I agreed eagerly, looking forward to impressing his mother in the morning. We worked at it until she called sternly for us to quiet down for the night.

The next morning, I got my first opportunity to show off my newly learned Ukrainian words. I was drawn to the kindly nature of Mike’s mother and wanted to please her. So, when Mike and I walked into the kitchen I greeted her, as best as I could remember, with one of the phrases she’d taught me during supper.

Before coming downstairs, Mike had rehearsed me again how to say, “Good Morning!” in Ukrainian. As soon as I said it, her face lit up with a beaming smile. I was so proud! She warmly replied with some words I’d not yet learned. But it confirmed for me she was pleased with my efforts and was impressed. I was delighted.

Mike and I then joined the rest of the family at the kitchen table for breakfast. It was Sunday morning, and everyone was there: Mike’s parents, his two sisters, one brother…and both of us. It was obvious where Mike had come by his engaging smile—his Dad also sported a massive beaming smile. His Dad’s perpetually happy face lit up a room wherever he went.

Encouraged by Mike and his mom and eager to please everyone with my newfound grasp of Ukrainian, I proceeded to show off even more. 

I picked up the glass of fresh milk where I was sitting and promptly rhymed off the words for the milk and the glass that Mike had carefully schooled me on the night before and coached me again in the morning.

Mike’s mom was holding a huge cast iron frying pan filled with scrambled eggs. It crashed down onto the cook stove. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, speechless. A stern expression came over Mike’s father’s face, but he couldn’t hide the laughter in his eyes. His brother made no such effort. He burst out laughing. Mike’s sisters seemed undecided whether to laugh or feign shock. They turned away.

Mike’s mother pointed her finger sternly at Mike and then toward the door from the kitchen leading upstairs. Mike slinked out, presumably up to his room, where his dastardly plot had been hatched the night before.

Within minutes, I was heading down the gravel road toward my home two miles away…without breakfast. 

Eventually, I learned the Ukrainian that Mike had taught me. When translated into English they included words rarely uttered in polite company. 

Oops.

Happily, we’ve remained friends to this day and like most boys growing up as friends, we chalked up many another adventure, happily less offensive ones.