The Pilot News - Sharing memories of Harry Bechaka

PLYMOUTH — Harry Bechaka died in 1996, at the age of 86.
Even after he got sick, he didn’t want to die, of course. He never wanted to retire, even after 55 years in the restaurant business.
He always though he’d be back, on the corner of Michigan and Walnut streets, where the Women’s Care Center is now, talking with friends over a cup of coffee, maybe cooking up the burgers for which he was so famous.
When customers didn’t demand his attention, he’d still be there, still clad in his full-length white apron, relaxing in one of the back booths, reading the paper. He’d usually read about the stock market, but was always ready to charge into any subject about family, business or current affairs.
Solidly built, he had massive arms covered with dark hair. His booming voice could be heard from anywhere in the restaurant. His teeth were strong and white, and you’d see them when he threw his head back in a full-throated laugh, the sounds of joy bubbling up through that tree-trunk chest.
Harry loved people and he loved Plymouth and he let everyone know it.
His first hometown was Siatista, Greece. He was born there, one of nine children, in 1910. At the age of 10, the great adventure of his life began as he, all alone, crossed the big pond of the Atlantic Ocean to join a brother in New York City.
He must have been scared. He spoke little English and understood even less. Standing by the rail as the big ship entered New York Harbor, he saw the welcoming lady so many have seen and understood.
“I saw the Statue of Liberty,” he’d tell his friends for years afterward, “and I adopted her for my mother. I didn’t feel quite so alone anymore.”
Harry sped through his teen years with his brother, learning the restaurant trade in a city full of eateries, educated as an apprentice to his life’s work.
He wasn’t enraptured by the Big Apple. A sister had moved to Warsaw, Ind. He visited. On a side trip, he discovered Plymouth.
He was home.
“I picked Plymouth… or maybe God sent me here,” he’d say. “It — short of coming to America — was the best move I ever made in my life.”
It was 1939. Harry was 29. It was time to make the right move.
First though, a trip to his homeland, to Greece, to claim a bride. Harry was a celebrity, a hometown boy who had made good in America and who now would share the joy and the wealth in his life. Siatista welcomed him with open arms. The finest families vied for him to spend an evening with them.
Harry met many young ladies. To him, the most beautiful, most intelligent and the most charming of them all was Dimitria Barbour. He courted her in the old way, with flowers and gifts.
He won her heart and her hand.
Dimitria and Harry were married Feb. 12, 1939. Then it was home to America and Plymouth.
In Plymouth, folks still remember the sensation Dimitria made upon her arrival. Part of it was Harry, of course. There were two movie theaters then, the Rialto and The Glenn. The couple would attend a show, sit in the back row and Harry would translate for Dimitria in the booming voice which became his trademark.
Dimitria learned English in the movie theaters.
The restaurant prospered and so did Harry and Dimitria. First came the twins, a boy and a girl, announced via a sign in the eatery’s window.
When Dimitria became pregnant again, Harry made wagers all over town that there would be twins again. In the days before the fertility pills (or the reality shows) the odds were against it.
Then a new sign went up: “Twins Again!” — and came two baby daughters. Soon all the little ones were helping in the restaurant.
Harry added a soda fountain and a candy shop. The Candy Kitchen was the place to be if you were a teenager in Plymouth in the 1940s.
The after-school crowd would crush into the leather booths. Homework would be done (sort of) on the marble-topped tables. No rowdiness was allowed.
The juke box blazed with a rainbow of colored bubbles. Big Band sounds floated in the air: The Ink Spots, the Dorsey Brothers, Glenn Miller. It cost a nickel to hear a song, just 5 cents for the memory of a life time.
Tin Roof Sundaes, Green Rivers drinks and chocolate or cherry Cokes were dispensed. The house rule was: “Spend at least a nickel an hour or clear the way for someone who would.” It was not strictly enforced.
Harry made his own candy. Only the finest ingredients went into these special confections. Some of his loyal customers still swear that he concocted the first Turtle, combing caramel, pecans and sweet chocolate.
His candy business outlasted the era. Harry made candy until — as he said — “people became weight-conscious and didn’t want to spend money on fattening things.”
The Big War came. Harry watched the young men go off to fight. He prayed and worried over all of them. When a soldier came home on leave, decked out in a sparkling uniform, the stroll through Plymouth started at the Candy Kitchen.
He was as proud of each young man as if he were a son of his own. He’d insist on taking a picture of them in front of the store. Those snapshots traveled many miles and to many beachheads and bunkers, a piece of home in dangerous lands far away.
Inevitably, telegrams came back to tell the town that some son would not.
Harry grieved with the families.
After the war, he said that it seemed that kids were growing up faster. Fast food and drive-ins took over. Harry changed. No longer a teen hangout, his was the family restaurant of choice.
His place was now “ The Good and Plenty.”
Somehow, 54 years had snuck past Harry. In 1992, his health had begun to wane. He termed his retirement “temporary.”
It wasn’t.
The doors were locked forever. The front glass was covered over with paper. Inside, captured by time and memory, the red leather booths and the wire-backed chairs awaited the next party. One that never came.
Listen carefully. A Glenn Miller tunes softly plays:
“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places...
“That this heart of mine embraces all day through...
“In that small café... I’ll be seeing you.”
Ida Chipman is a five-time winner of the prestigious Honey-comb Award from the Women’s Press Club of Indiana, she has been writing feature articles for more than 30 years. She and her husband, Eugene, have four children and 11 grandchildren and live in West Twp. To contact: ichipman@thenetanywhere or call: 574-936-1125.