Kálvinista Róma

István B. Orosz's first publication is closely linked to art and his place of residence, Debrecen. Calvinist Rome, published in 2009, embodies the outstanding buildings and personalities of the city of Debrecen, past and present, in pictures.

Extract :

Homokba vésett vallomás

His first book of poems was published in 2016: Confession Engraved in Sand. He dedicates his volume to his homeland, the Nyírség. Where the Meadow meets the sand of Nyírség, the two are intertwined with the sustaining roots, the tenacity of the acacia tree, the people of Nyírbogdány clinging to the space of their lives, sometimes trampling in mud, sometimes burning their soles with the hot sand.

Extract :

Lélekhangok 

His second collection of poems was published in 2018, titled Soul Sounds. Both collections of poems are decorated with numerous paintings and drawings by the artist.

Extract:

Álomkergető

In 2020, another collection of his poems, Álomkergető, was published. It was presented in October 2020.

Kincskereső

His first collection of short stories, Treasure Hunter, was published in 2020, illustrated with numerous photos and drawings.

Extract :

Történetek két kerékre (Stories on two wheels)

I can say this now, since it is a historical perspective, that in the early seventies of the last century there were only three
cars in our village. Two Skodas and a Trabant. The district doctor, the veterinarian and the agricultural cooperative's president.
The party secretery whose position corresponds to the current clerk, only got a motorcycle, a Java. My brother, who was a deep driller
by profession, worked in the well drilling brigade and earned very well compared to the wages of that time. His dream was also a
motorcycle, a T-5 Pannónia.
This motorcycle had straight handlebars, which he didn't really like and he had a high, curved handlebar made. It was nickel-plated
and no one would have said that it wasn't a factory handlebar. With rearview mirrors on both sides. A crash protection made of a
bent tube at the front, with a transparent plexiglass cover. This was the Harley-Davidson of Nyírség.
The village was amazed, especially the young men looked at him with envy. My brother, however, had a big heart and, down on the
pasture, on the grassy track, to the horror of the cows, he allowed several people to try it. It wouldn't have been nice if I hadn't
been the first to go for a ride. I could sit alone on the custom-made, slimmed-down leatherette seat, which was a very uplifting
feeling after the bike. I couldn't even hear his voice from under the helmet, it was as if I had been flying. On weekends, I felt
honored when I could glide around the yard to a gleam. We even got our share of bad words from our neighbors: "There's no proper
fence around the house, but they need a new motorbike!" - Which was true, because my mother made a fence out of sunflower stalks
every year, which we burned in the spring, as it wasn't that durable. In today's modern terms, I would say that we updated the
fence every year. By the way, the strange vehicle was not new, only the careful hands made it so. The engine did not sleep outside
in the yard, its garage became my brother's small repair shop, where he mostly tinkered with electrical things. He was the unofficial
radio and TV technician of the village and its surroundings. Whatever they could not fix in Gelka, Jóska fixed, but he also went to
houses to bring the devices back to life. Music was everything for him. At that time, the beat era was in full swing and there were
few villages where musical instruments did not rumble in the community center. Every village that was good at something had a beat band.
I learned to play the guitar in a self-taught way, so to speak, at the pub level. My brother played the drums. We rehearsed regularly
in the factory culture, and we also made friends and got to know English lyrics. Beatles, Deep Purple lyrics were already going well,
because an old lady who was visiting from Canada, who was not Hungarian and did not speak our language, praised it.
Once she heard us playing and remarked:
— I never thought that the Hungarian language was so similar to English!
We traveled on our amazing motorbikes every time. The road to the station was quite winding. Many times, not respecting the speed
limit on the bends, we fell so much that sometimes it felt like my knees were touching the ground. I was afraid at first, but then
when I felt that I was safe behind my brother, I enjoyed riding my motorbike more and more. I don't know the reason anymore, but my
musical career was cut short, the band broke up.
One summer afternoon we brought the equipment and of course on the motorbike. A complete drum kit, my guitar and two amplifiers.
We attached the bass drum to the rear trunk, the two kettle drums were tied together with a string and hung around my neck,
and there they were slung over my side. I carried my guitar on my back like soldiers carry their weapons. We tied the stands to
the side of the motorcycle, which made it possible to sit on the motorcycle in a rather strange position. The snare drum was
squeezed between the two of us. We looked like a drummer's sandwich while riding. One amplifier was placed on top of the tank, and
the other, which resembled a suitcase and had a small handle on top, I held in my hand.
The phenomenon must have been like a mechanized circus clown, to whom all sorts of musical instruments were hung. The distance
between the factory site and the village is two kilometers, but my brother said that we shouldn't go through the village, because
if the district police saw us, it could be a big problem. And so it happened. We planned to go home through the pasture at the edge
of the village, under the gardens. At the far house, a deep ditch ran between the road and my lane, which had been carefully cleaned
out at the time, and the bottom was cut into a nice square shape. The only way across the ditch was a small, narrow wooden passageway,
not a bridge, which could not have been a meter wide. The stone railing next to the road ended at the edge of the descent.
We slowly turned onto the passageway, but the tom-tom drum on my left side touched the stone railing and knocked us off balance.
The motorcycle was already in a downward swing, my brother tried to correct it, but in vain. I managed to land in the ditch, almost
brushing the edge of the small passageway. The front wheel got stuck in the nice square ditch. Since I had such momentum, I, like a
stuntman, landed on the far bank above my brother's head. With such presence of mind that while falling, I managed to put the amplifier
in my hand on the lawn, like when you come home from a trip and put down your suitcase. This was done so precisely that it remained
standing. My brother was able to hold on to the steering wheel very tightly when he reached the ditch, because the wonderfully shiny
steering wheel, with the two mirrors, remained in his hand. Both of the fastening lugs broke.
Apart from that, no damage was done to either us or our equipment. Nevertheless, the crossing attempt was a sound. The cymbals rolled
away with a clang, accompanied by the sound of drums, the end could be compared to a real orchestral battle. It was also very lucky
that no one saw us. The village did not take the funny incident seriously. After a few hours of waiting, since the cooperative machine
shop was about a kilometer away, and they welded it there with relative speed, we arrived home with a considerable delay, but
fortunately. The strange-looking vehicle was also admired by the authorities once, when my brother Jóska and I went to the Hortobágy
bridge fair. A firm police signal forced us to stop in front of Nyíregyháza. The policeman didn’t even ask for the documents, he just
looked at the strange structure. But when we saw the uncertainty in him, he still wanted to look at the documents. After a long review,
he said:
— According to your papers, this should be a T-5 Pannónia, but it’s not! Do you know that unauthorized modification is a
punishable act? – he said with superior firmness to my brother, who didn’t hesitate and replied:
— This is similar to the appearance of the P-10 motorcycles that are currently being produced. The steering wheel, the seat,
were made with a new design. Only a few of these were produced as an experiment to scare the Japanese manufacturers at the
international motorcycle exhibition that took place in Budapest last year. I bought this sample. The sergeant, who was alone, was a
little unsure, and his determined action turned into interest. He walked around it once more, praising it, because it was still a
masterpiece of Hungarian industry. A few questions were asked, such as how much fuel it consumed, how many cubic centimeters of
engine it had. But when my brother announced the engine's performance in horsepower, he seemed a little confused by what he had
heard and now he resolutely returned the documents. He praised his intelligence for wishing us a safe and accident-free trip.
In fact, there had never been a motorcycle exhibition like this in the capital. Arriving at the famous venue of Hajdúság, Hortobágy,
I was quite surprised, because I had never seen so many people in one place. All those tents, all kinds of vendors. You could buy
everything "from needles to rockets".
My brother was looking in front of a tent selling shoes. He had always wanted a pair of black pointed-toe flats with a slightly
raised heel. And lo and behold, there was a whole row of them. After the test, he didn't even take them off his feet, it suited
the strange vehicle, which the fairgoers also admired. The weather was quite gloomy, and we suspected that we would get caught in
the rain on the way home. We bought the then fashionable hurricane jacket from a vendor, which we really needed on the way.
It rained almost the whole time. But the raincoat didn't protect anything below the knees, and our feet, along with the new shoes,
were really wet. When we got home, it didn't rain anymore. My brother tried very hard to get the motorcycle to start, which
required a firm pedaling motion.
As a result of the forceful movement, the high heel of the brand new black patent leather shoes simply fell off. It started to tear
at the shoelace on the other foot. Then the other heel also came off the sole. It soon turned out that the long-coveted footwear was
made of cardboard, and it was even more annoying that it wasn't a cheap bargain. But the engine worked flawlessly the whole time
and at least they could admire the Harley-Davidson from Nyírség in Hajdúság.