"S Novym Godom!"

Shhh! Don't tell anyone, but I sneaked five men into the United States from Russia last week in my suitcase.  With their flowing robes, exquisitely decorated in rich regal colors, furry hats, pointed staffs, overstuffed bags of goodies for eager girls and boys, snowy-white beards reaching from chins to  stomachs, and rosy-cheeked faces complete with twinkling eyes and kindly smiles, these guys were no ordinary stowaways.  And talk about jolly personalities!  Their deep baritone voices sounded through the suitcase with vibrations that shook the air like bowlfuls of jiggling jelly.

Sound vaguely familiar?

In Russia, these characters are called Ded Moroz (pronounced "Dead Morose" in English).  Not quite a fitting name for such jovial gents, to our western way of thinking, but the actual translation means "Grandfather Frost," more commonly called "Father Frost."  He performs a job very similar to his more rotund, "Ho, Ho, Ho-ing" counterpart, delivering gifts to "good" little boys and girls on New Year's rather than Christmas Eve.  Much like Santa Claus, a sleigh (troika) is his favorite means of getting from house to house, but three horses rather than a team of reindeer with a red-nosed leader, speed him to the far corners of Russia.  Not crazy about sooty chimneys, Ded Moroz prefers to make more dignified entrances, through doors, and he's always accompanied by a beautiful partner. Whereas Santa Claus leaves Mrs. Claus at the North Pole during his night of gift-giving, Ded Moroz travels with his granddaughter, the Snow Maiden, or Snegurochka.  Dressed in an ice-blue robe, trimmed with white fur and a matching hat, she and Father Frost make a striking pair, often accepting invitations to children's parties during the holiday season.

Opening my bag after the long flight from Moscow to Little Rock, I wonder if my collection of Father Frosts has survived.  Did their jovial jabberings alert the customs officials who whisked them away to a dark detention room for questioning?  Did they discover how to unzip the bag and hop out at the  Houston airport, having always dreamed of exploring Texas?  Removing layers of socks, scarves, and sweaters, I find them sleeping quietly at the bottom of my black roller bag, jet lag already setting in.  After a few days of acclimating to their new Arkansas home, each Ded Moroz seems content to stand, staff in hand, adding a touch of Russian beauty and tradition to the table in our foyer.  In the middle of the night, though, I think I hear baritone voices in unison saying, "S Novym Godom!" or "Happy New Year!"

I add my greetings and best wishes to theirs for a Happy 2011!

  

            











                                                                                                                                                                    

Haikus Written in Russia but not in Russian (Winter)

The park across the street from our Moscow apartment is my haven, a place of solitude and natural beauty in the midst of one of the largest cities in the world.  I described it in a posting called Natural Magic last May, then again in photos and poetry in "Haikus Written in Russia but not in Russian (Autumn)."
The yellow, autumn leaves are now brown and hidden under snow, the ducks have changed their address to "Somewhere Warm," and the blue waters have transformed into glistening whiteness.  Please come along with me for another walk in the woods.

     dimpled waters dance

      upon twinkled toes to an

   orchestra of wind

merry berries hang

from barren winter branches

red cheeks all aglow

 

yellow richness, you

call temptingly to me in 

joyful stickiness.

(Note - the letters on the yellow barrel, MED, spell "honey" in Russian)

icy shoreline now

deserted by fishermen

breathes in solitude

alight and refresh

in the fullness of morning

sunshine on feathers

                                                chalky Russian birch

                                                sentinel of the forest

                                               point my path towards home

Haikus © Twylla Alexander 2010

Blending In at a Russian Rynok

There are places in Moscow where I blend in, usually big places like Red Square, the Kremlin or the Bolshoi, which literally means big.  I'm one of the crowd, a mix of nationalities.  I don't stand out any more than the next non-Russian with guidebook in one hand and camera in the other.  I take pictures, scribble thoughts in my notebook, and wander freely, usually never needing to open my mouth, read a sign or understand what a Russian says to me, because they ignore me.


But when I descend the escalator to the rynok (reenok), or local market, near Tushinskaya metro, I enter "real" Russia.  I'm on my own and feeling more like a sore thumb the closer I get to the ground floor.  I look different from the other, mostly women, shoppers.  Not in a scary, alien kind of way, where everyone in the place freezes the second I appear, gaping at me in stunned silence.  They keep doing what they're doing, but I catch one of the lady vendors following me intently with her eyes, then two others looking in my direction, quickly turning to each other with hands covering their mouths, as if I could understand what  they were saying, anyway.  Maybe it's the attire - winter coat, without fur.   Maybe it's the white hair that I'm, unbelievably, not coloring.  Maybe it's my reputation, "The Lady Who Doesn't Speak Russian." Or maybe it's my tote bag.  READ GREEN, written in yellow, displaying Barbara Kingsolver's book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle."


Today I want to take a few pictures for my blog, but feel more like a spy with a secret camera in her pocket than a mild-mannered housewife with vegetables on her mind.  Actually, I do have a camera in my pocket, but am afraid to use it.  I've learned to take pictures with caution and only in those big, open touristy places.  I made the mistake of snapping a photo of the above-ground entrance to a metro station a couple of years ago, just to show the folks back home where I catch the nearest train.  Before I could put the camera in my purse and walk to the bottom of the stairs, I was surrounded by 3 uniformed individuals, two men and a woman, whose only and most frequent word in Russian I could understand was "Nyet!"  Where had they come from? I got the message quickly that taking pictures anywhere close to a metro is NOT ALLOWED, which makes perfect sense, especially with the subsequent bombings last year.


Think about it.  If you were standing behind piles of potatoes, turnips, purple onions and beets, and a white-haired lady wearing a puffy down jacket which made her look like a black marshmallow with a head, pulled a camera out of her cryptic bag and started taking pictures of you and your veggies, wouldn't you be skeptical?  I'm not a total stranger to the rynok, having frequented it at least 10 times before, but it's a big place, about half the size of a football field.  There are the dairy counters with the "cheese ladies," as I describe them, the nut cases with the "nut guys," the leafy greens with the "greens ladies," the honey, meat, fruits, vegetables, bread, dried fish, biscuits, flowers, and more I've never explored.


I decide to take a chance with four vendors with whom I have a "relationship," ones I return to each time, appreciating their patience with my gestures and limited "rynok Russian." Holding up my camera and asking, "Can I take a picture?" as I point toward their wares, I smile and try to look the least like Angelina Jolie (Salt) as possible.  Not a hard task.  Each one nods, kindly but slowly, trying to be accommodating to this American lady, but not quite sure why she wants to take pictures of food.  None wants to be in the picture, though.  The "bread lady" scoots under the counter to get totally out of the way; the "fruit lady" moves to the side; the "nut guy" ducks behind the almonds, and the "greens lady" gets involved with another customer.  (I sneak her into the picture, however, as I fake aiming only at the lettuce.) Maybe there's a little spy in me, after all.

 

I walk the half hour route back to our apartment, camera safely nestled in my bag among the walnuts, bread and basil.  I download the pictures as I unload the groceries, then sit back for a cup of tea and exhale. "Mission accomplished!"  

Happy Birthday, Abigail!

It's a total stretch to find a link between Abigail Adams and Arkansas or Russia.  Her oldest son, John Quincy, did serve as the United States' Minister to Russia from 1809-1814, and I'm sure that she learned about the country from his letters and personal narratives.  But that's as close as it gets.  There are some stories just waiting to be told, though, remaining dormant in the writer's storehouse of possibilities, until the right moment.  When I read today's online edition of The Writer's Almanac and learned that it is Abigail's birthday (New Style calendar), I knew that the time had come.  (I will post a Russian story later in the week, but for now, indulge me.)

I walk in the front door of the Massachusetts Historical Society in February, 2010 looking for a connection, a real, hands-on connection to Abigail.  I had recently watched the HBO miniseries, "John Adams," listened to David McCullough's book on which it is based, and read My Dearest Friend Letters of Abigail and John Adams, containing the most recently published collection of  letters between the second U.S. president and his wife. The entire collection contains over one thousand letters, and I learned that the originals are housed in this building, this very building, only a 6 block walk from our hotel!  To see an actual letter, the handwriting of this woman I have grown to admire so much, leaves me breathless, not to mention the brisk walk on a cold Boston morning.

Why?  Why Abigail?

Portrait of Abigail Adams, shortly after marriage to John, 1766
Massachusetts Historical Society

"Good question," as persons being interviewed often say, when they have pondered the same issue and not arrived at a firm conclusion.   Is she that different from thousands, perhaps millions, of other women who have held their families together while the husband has been away much of the time, managing, in her case, a farm, the meager finances, raising and often educating 4 children, and grieving the death of two others?  Devoted to her husband, as many wives/partners are, she supported him with a listening ear and astute advice based on reading and study.  Wife and mother, yet still remaining Abigail, with strong opinions and beliefs that transcended day to day life.  Proponent of  equal education for girls and rights for women and opponent of slavery, she advocated for these causes in her letters to John and in her actions. All qualities much to be admired, indeed.

Still, there's something more that draws me to her.  She was a writer.  She needed to write.  It's how she coped, how she expressed what was gnawing at her from the inside.  The pen was her connection to her "self," her husband and the friends and family with whom she corresponded throughout her life.  Joseph Ellis, in his introduction to My Dearest Friend Letters of Abigail and John Adams, shares a quote from a letter that Abigail wrote to John in 1776 shortly after her mother, Elizabeth Quincy Smith, had died and Abigail had delivered a stillborn daughter, Elizabeth.  "There are particular times when I feel such an uneasiness such a rest less ness, as neither company Books family Cares or any other thing will remove. My pen is my only pleasure, and writing to you the composure of my mind." (original spelling)

Approaching the desk at the MHS, I ask if I can view some of the letters and am told, kindly but firmly, that they are not on public display, that I can see them on microfilm.  Disappointed, I adhere to the rules, secretly hoping that somehow, by some stroke of luck, I will still get to see one.  After 2 hours of less-than-satisfing microfilm viewing, I gather my hat, coat and gloves.  Seeing a lady sitting at a desk in the reading room, I take a risk.  "Excuse me, is there any chance that I could see just one of Abigail's original letters?" I ask in my kindest, most pitiful sounding voice.  "Weeell," she says scanning the room, which only contains one other person, "since there aren't many people here today, I guess I could run upstairs and get one for you."  On the inside, I'm jumping for joy, but simply say, "Oh, how nice of you!  I really appreciate it."

The letter is housed in a box, in a single manila folder.  She lays it flat on a table. I look upon a piece of paper that has a parchment-like quality, covered with a full page of swirling letters, written in brown ink, or perhaps the color reflects the passage of time.  Abigail's own hand. Abigail writing to John on March 31, 1776,
       "I long to hear that you have declared an independency.  And, by the way, in the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors."


As tears begin to flood my vision, I thank the lady again, and walk into a gust of strong wind.  

        

"Back in the USSR!"

Every time I've traveled from Arkansas to Russia, I've been tempted to title a posting, "Back in the USSR," but have resisted.  "Too corny, too trite, too politically incorrect," I've reasoned and opted for something more . . . literary. Call it coincidence, the work of cosmic forces, or an Apple executive with knowledge of my travel plans, but the very day I returned to Moscow, the company changed its "start page," and using the taboo title instead felt fated.  Trying to stay awake the afternoon of my arrival, I opened my computer expecting to find the screen filled with the same Apple ads, new products, list of tutorials, and picture of Steve Jobs delivering his latest keynote address.  Instead, staring directly at me, from left to right, were George, Paul, John and Ringo.  "The Beatles. Now on iTunes."

It's a sign.  Forget the fact that there's no longer a "USSR," to get back to, but rather a "Russian Federation."  Try fitting those 6 syllables into the song.  Even the genius of Lennon and McCartney at their song-writing best, couldn't have pulled that one off.   I was destined to connect this week's writing to these heartthrobs of my almost-adolescent youth; the only question remains, "What's the connection to my recent transition back to Moscow besides the obvious?"  The answer lies within the question itself.

Transition or T-Word, as I not so lovingly named it in an earlier blog entry.

I was 12 when the Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan show.  I somehow convinced (more like begged) my parents to skip Sunday night church,"just once" so I could watch.  Considering that my father called them the "Mop Heads," it's obvious that God must have been a Beatles' fan and had a hand in Daddy's decision to say "yes."  The following week when I bought their LP, without a record player in the house on which to play it, God again came through.  Perhaps he whispered in Daddy's ear, "Go buy a record player," over and over until my father could no longer withstand the pressure from the Divine and his daughter who kept whining, "Please, please, please get a record player."

Looking back on the album's cover,

 I realize that it was the Beatles who pushed me over the edge from childhood to adolescence.  I was in love for the first time, with Paul, along with a horde of millions.  The way he shook his head as he sang, "Oooooo," the way his "long" hair fell just shy of his dark eyebrows, and those penetrating chocolate brown eyes.  I sat staring at his picture for hours, dreaming that he secretly knew about me and would find a way for us to meet.  To prepare myself for that event, I took up dancing (not sure why I thought that would impress him) in my friend's attic bedroom.  Her big sister taught us a made-up version of line dancing, and we traveled from one end of her room to the other to the beat of "I Want to Hold Your Hand," until the rug showed signs of a nervous breakdown.

Adolescence is the first transition (major upheaval) I can recall, but it took another 40 years or so before I learned the terminology and strategies to cope with such changes. Having transitioned through marriage, childbirth (3 times), death of a parent and 2 grandparents, moves to Alaska, Singapore, Cairo, Arkansas and Moscow, marriage of 2 children and another in February, birth of 4 grandchildren, to name roughly the Top Ten, being "Back in the USSR" seems like "another day at the office."

"Gee, it's good to be home," is a literal lyric I'm learning to apply to Arkansas, Moscow or wherever my family is.  As a metaphor, it speaks to the woman I've become, the one I'm "at home" with, and the one who, thank goodness, is no longer an adolescent.

As for Paul,  he's still around at 68.  Perhaps there's yet a chance. . . that he, Drew and I could meet for a cup of tea.



      

 

A Tree Party!

"Grandmom, why do you like trees so much?" Luke asked.

Good question, I thought, considering that the Writer's Trees in our yard have been pestering me so much lately.  Just this morning, they asked to see the revisions to the first chapter of my memoir, as promised at the close of last week's posting.  "You'll have it by the end of the day," I assured them, as I briskly headed out the door for my morning walk.  Passing by a black plastic pot containing the soon-to-be newest member of their community, I remembered my conversation with our four-year-old grandson.

"Trees are pretty with all their colorful leaves.  They give us shade when it's hot and. . ."

"They're really big!" Luke added to the beginning of my Arbor Day Speech for Pre-Schoolers.

He and his two-year-old brother, Nate, were spending the day with me, and our first stop was at Laurel Park in Conway, where blue and green balloons, a couple of bouncy castles, hot dog stands and pots of tree saplings ready for adoption filled the green space.  We picked up my mother on the way, an active member of the Faulkner County Master Gardeners, so these little guys were getting a double dose of Nature Appreciation from women who'd rather be digging in the dirt than shopping.  (Perhaps a slight exaggeration since my mother can still out-shop, out-last and out-bargain hunt women 60 years her junior.)

Telling Luke and Nate that we were going to a Tree Party, instead of an Arbor Day event,* we checked out the bouncy castles, which were too scary, the Arbor artwork, which was too boring, and the selection of baby trees, which was "just right."  Luke handed the lady in charge of adoptions our pink ticket; she stamped both boys' hands with green smiley faces, and said, "Pick any tree you want and be sure to take good care of it."

Being typical male shoppers, and in no way resembling their great-grandmother's disposition to spend an hour selecting just the right item, these young men found the perfect tree in 3 seconds flat.  "That one, that one!" they shouted pointing to a young oak patiently waiting for the right owner to take him home.  "I can pick it up," Luke announced, bending over, grabbing the pot, and immediately turning to me and saying, in a slightly strained voice, "Here, Grandmom, you can carry it."

Luke returned today to help me plant it.  Last night's rain softened the ground enough for my spade and Luke's more stylish purple shovel to carve out a sufficiently deep hole in the rocky, dusty soil.

 I mixed a gallon of water with root stimulator and poured it in the hole, creating a soupy brown spa for the tree, who was eager to break free of his plastic home.  Luke gently picked up the skinny trunk and placed the roots in the muddy water. We scooped in handfuls of rich potting soil and smoothed over the surface.  We had both planted our first tree!

The Writer's Trees have already taken charge of their young friend's orientation to the yard, giving him way too much information about the history of the place, offering advice that probably goes in one leaf and out the other, yet calmly whispering bedtime stories to calm his homesickness as the sun disappears, taking the comforting light with it.

Why do I like trees so much, Luke?  They teach me lessons, lessons I hope to pass on to you, Nate, your sister, Anna, and cousin, Ruby.  Trees are wise, if we take time to listen, and giving advice is one of their favorite pastimes.

Here are a few lines from one of my favorite poems, "Advice From a Tree," by Ilan Shamir. . .

Stand Tall and Proud

Sink your roots deeply into the Earth

Reflect the light of your true nature

Remember your place among all living things

Drink plenty of water

Enjoy the view!

                                                             Grow well, little tree!

*"Conway Arkansas Celebrates Arbor Day in Fall:  Best Time to Plant Trees," by Paula Myers.

Dusting Off the Memoir

The weather has finally changed in Greenbrier.  Up until three days ago, I was still watering the droopy-leaved plants in our flowerbeds, patches of grass around the yard, and frail dogwoods and redbuds dying of thirst in the summer's Drought, which had obviously forgotten to look at the calendar.  Rain clouds finally accepted the invitation to "set a spell" and were rewarded by an outpouring of "Thank Yous!" from grateful survivors.  The morning paper announced that the burn ban for Faulkner county has been lifted.  As I shared the news with the oaks congregated around the front porch, I heard a rustling sigh of relief, an exhale of worries that they had stoically been carrying for months.

These trees have become my friends.  I've named them "Writer's Trees."  From the first morning I sat  with legs criss-crossed on the front porch swing, laptop perched on my lap (where else?) and wrote the beginning sentence of my memoir, the trees have been my companions.  Gathered around with arms stretching towards me, inching ever closer as breezes propelled them forward, they have given me their total attention.

 "Tell us a story," they urged, as I sat in front of a blank screen, with no clue where to begin. "We've been waiting for a story for such a long time."  Please tell us a story."  And that's how my story began.

Three years later, the story is in a manila folder lying on the desk of our upstairs study.  The morning is chilly so I sit on the couch opposite the desk, laptop open, staring out the window.  Reflecting the sun peeking around the eastern edge of the house, the trees shine with a healthy cheerfulness.  They chatter away with renewed energy.  But they are nosey.  The most vocal of the group pokes her head close to the window and asks, "So what are you writing today?  Read it to us."

"My weekly blog," I answer matter-of-factly, not wanting to get into a long conversation.

"Whatever happened to your story?" asks a quieter voice from below.  Getting up to check the source, I recognize the dogwood, brown now, but with a self-assured air that her delicate pink blossoms will be the height of the fashion scene in May.  The oaks towering above her stop, suddenly quiet, waiting for my answer, as the wind takes a break from her morning exercise.

"I don't know what to do with it.  I don't know if it's good enough. Maybe I should rewrite it. I could take up writing poetry instead, or perhaps a story for a children's magazine, or a biography of Drew's uncle who played for the New York Yankees, or. . ."

"Focus, Twylla!"  the chorus outside the window exclaims in a tone that can only be described as bossy.  "We like your story, but we're not the only ones who need to hear it. What about the women you wanted to share it with, who might be walking similar paths to yours?  We have confidence in you, but you must believe in yourself, in your writing and in your message."

It turns out that my Writer's Trees are, also, wise.

"I will try," I tell them.

"We'll expect to see the revisions of your first chapter next week," they say.  Did I mention that they're  bossy?

Note to readers:  As I pick up my memoir and look at it with fresh eyes, I invite you to share the titles of memoirs you've read which have been meaningful to you.  How did the writer connect with you? 
I'll start.  One of my favorites is The Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd, who also wrote The Secret Life of Bees.   I underlined and underlined on almost every page of this book because so much of what the author shares seems to be my own story.  So much of her search is my search.  She writes in such a way that shows her vulnerability, yet the strength needed to move forward, knowing that she can no longer be who she has been.  Her journey inspires me to continue my own.        

            

Voting on the Shoulders of Strong Women

"Are you planning to vote?" my mother asks.
"Vote?  When?" I answer.
"Next Tuesday.  Nov. 2nd.  Election Day," she continues until she sees a glimmer of recognition on my face.
"Oh, right.  I forgot all about it," I lamely reply. "Who's running?'
She hands me a sample ballot.
I could use the excuse, "I've been out of the country," to plead my unpatriotic response, but we do get CNN in Moscow plus every online newspaper in the world at our fingertips.
I glance over the names on the ballot, recognize only one, then skim the indecipherable amendments to the Arkansas constitution at the bottom. 
"Maybe I just won't vote this time," I hear myself mutter.
"Just won't vote??!!" "What are you saying?" my socially aware, do-the-right-thing conscience asks its lazy, apathetic, poor-excuse-for-a-citizen alter ego.
I slap myself around a couple of times and say, "Whew!  That was close. Thanks."  
I stuff the sample ballot in my purse and head home to google a few names.


It's only been three short years since I watched the Ken Burns' documentary, "Not for Ourselves Alone," about Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and vowed I would vote in every election for the rest of my life.  And now, look at me.  Please forgive me Susan and Elizabeth.  
                                   

                                       Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony
                                            Courtesy of the Library of Congress


The video ended up on my Netflix queue as an afterthought, something that looked interesting as I was clicking through the PBS offerings.  I had vaguely heard of the two women  in connection with women's rights.  Wasn't Susan B. Anthony on a coin a few years back? Any knowledge beyond that, however, was dismally deficient, which could only mean that I was absent, or absent-minded, for the minute or so in American History class when their names might have been mentioned. But within the first three minutes of the video, I was mesmerized.   

"In the middle of the 19th century," a woman's voice narrated, "women were, by custom, barred from the pulpit and the professions, prevented from attending college, and those who dared speak in public were thought indecent.  By law, married women were prohibited from owning or inheriting property.  In fact, wives were the property of their husbands, entitled by law to her earnings and her body."

The idea of women voting - unthinkable!  Yet, Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, among a handful of other women, not only dared think it, but acted.  And they acted for over 50 years. . .  

     Beginning with the First Women's Rights Convention in 1848, where  Elizabeth and anti-slavery activist,  Lucretia Mott, penned the "Declaration of Sentiments," a modified version of Mr. Jefferson's famous words:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights. . ."

   to Susan's famous quote, "Failure is impossible!" during her final speech in 1906, 

                                                 these friends persevered.

Writing, speaking, making public appearances throughout the United States and abroad, organizing, publishing a newspaper -The Revolution, strategizing, fund-raising, leading, and constantly problem solving "how?" and "what next?" Susan personally appeared before Congress every year from 1869-1906 to advocate for women's suffrage.  The pair, along with their fellow reformers, were often harassed, laughed at, shouted down, called names, and in Susan's case, even arrested, as she attempted to vote under the umbrella of the 14th Amendment.  It states that, "all persons born and naturalized in the United States...are citizens of the United States," and as citizens are entitled to the "privileges"  of citizens of the United States. Susan interpreted privileges to include voting. The court did not agree, in the case of women.   

Elizabeth died in 1902; Susan in 1906.  Neither lived to see Congress pass and states ratify the 19th Amendment:


"The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex."

Twenty-eight words sum up 72 years of struggle, "the only non-violent revolution in our country's history."*  What else would you expect emanating from such intelligent and thoughtful women, dedicated to equality for all women, no matter how long and excruciatingly frustrating the process?

On November 2, 1920, 8 million women voted for the first time.  On November 2, 2010, I will follow in their footsteps.     

Please join me!

                                                    Courtesy of the Library of Congress

*"Women In History"http://www.lkwdpl.org/wihohio/anth-sus.htm
Susan B. Anthony House (http://susanbanthonyhouse.org/her-story/biography.php#camp)
The Susan B. Anthony Center for Women's Leadership http://www.rochester.edu/SBA/suffrage_sba_ecs.html

Atop Mt. Magazine

Serious mountaineers, who check 14,000+ foot peaks off their "To Climb" lists, might call a 2753 foot elevation "puny, pipsqueak or even peewee."  Such men and women who scale dizzying heights and don't even get dizzy, might flick such a lowly "incline" off a list of true mountains like a fly off a sandwich.  "Don't waste our time on such trifles," they might exclaim, if asked to don a pair of L.L. Bean hikers, grab a picnic lunch, bottle of water and follow an "ordinary" trail upwards to what they might mockingly refer to as a  summit. But they would be missing the point.

I scaled one of those so-called pipsqueak peaks this week.  The highest point in Arkansas - Signal Hill - atop Mt. Magazine.  Well, granted I drove the gently curving, scenic state highway 309 for all but the last .6 mile, but the climb was not "the thing."  It's what surrounded me, or more accurately, what enveloped me for the 20 hours of my stay.  A cocoon of white clouds caused the Arkansas River Valley below to vanish, intensifying the world of the mountain top, forcing me to pay attention.

My friend, Marian, and I arrived late in the afternoon, checked into The Lodge, and were content to relax for the evening.  But the sun edged over the top of the cocoon at dawn inviting us, hurrying us outside, lest we miss the morning's glory.   

Mist followed us, or perhaps we followed it, as we walked the loop around the base of Signal Hill and Cameron Bluff Overlook Drive, the damp air frizzing our hair and glittering the spiders' webs.  We breathed deeply of damp leaves, cedar branches, pine needles and air cleaner than a morning shower, keeping a steady pace, until we were stopped by the sight of. . . 

retreating clouds revealing vistas of solitude

craggy rock faces yawning, "Good morning"

                                           

 camouflaged pair of deer posing in grayness 

(look closely in the lower, center     

foreground)

                                        show-stopping trees performing the Can-Can

                                               and blinding light bursting the cocoon

Nature led the way to the mountain's top while reminding us that a destination, regardless of its size, is of little consequence. . . if the trail leading to it is ignored in the rush to advance.  

   

                                                     We couldn't agree more.       

10 hours 53 minutes and counting

The right engine's on fire!  The left engine's on fire!  The plane is losing altitude - faster and faster, hurtling towards the ocean.  "Prepare for a crash landing!" the pilot yells over the intercom.

Sitting calmly in my aisle seat 34, 000 feet above the Atlantic, I take a deep breath and say to myself, "Now, there's a serious problem."

Allowing my imagination to run wild for 10 seconds, I catch it before it has a chance to get totally out of control, and drag it back to reality. No flaming engines, no frenzied voice, other than perhaps my own, searching for a way to put minor irritations into perspective.  On my way back to Arkansas, I'm into hour five of the 10 hour and 53 minute flight from Moscow to Atlanta. . . and I need an attitude adjustment.

The beverage carts have squeezed up and down the economy aisles a couple of times, the pasta or chicken dinners have been passed out, two of the four movies have aired, and people are beginning to get restless.  The lines to the toilets in the midsection seem particularly long, about 7-8 people deep on both sides of the center aisle, but I decide to stretch my legs and wait it out.  Fifteen minutes later, I discover the reason for the slow-down, a yellow rectangular sign hanging from the knob of toilet #2 stating, quite matter-of-factly, "defective."  Defective?  You mean for the next 5 hours and 53 minutes, all these people in all these fully booked seats, have to share 3 tiny toilets?  Is there no plumber on board?  I take my turn, then stop drinking for the rest of the flight.

Adding to the toilet traffic are the drinkers in the back. A frazzled flight attendant, with fading make-up and strands of hair escaping from her once perfect bun, confides to me, "Several men are having an issue with their alcohol."  By their alcohol, I wonder if she means that  they are consuming duty free purchases, the ones I saw 4 or 5 of them toting on board in the clear, plastic, suppose-to-stay sealed packages.  By the boisterous laughter and unfettered voices that bellow from row 40ish to where I sit in row 25, it's obvious they're taking the pilot's advice seriously to "sit back, relax and enjoy" their flights.

Popping up out of their seats, three children a couple of rows ahead of me decide that it's "Exercise Time!"  Running up and down the aisles, waving their arms and screaming is great fun.  The leader, a  boy who looks to be around eight years old, turns to face the crowd and blasts out a song, then another, then another.  Perhaps he's taking requests. The noise awakens the peacefully sleeping baby in the center bulkhead row, who harmonizes, with gusto.

Minor irritations. Minor irritations. Minor irritations.

I picked up the mantra several years ago when I heard Michael J. Fox interviewed on one of the late night talk shows.  The host asked if he were afraid of being typecast in the Alex P. Keaton/Mike Flaherty kind of  character he portrayed in the t.v. series, "Family Ties" and "Spin City."  Fox replied something to the effect that every day thousands of people around the world starve to death, die of treatable diseases, and are killed as innocent bystanders of war.  The possibility of being type-cast? "A minor irritation," he said. Today he has Parkinson's Disease.

But still, even minor irritations can be so IRR-I-TA-TING! Like the lady sitting behind me whose swifts kicks to the back of my seat feel like a massage chair who's out to get me.

Deep breaths. Think of 5 things you're grateful for.  More deep breaths.  Now pop those earphones in, turn the volume to high and watch "Crazy Heart," for the third time.

Minor irritations.  Thanks for the reminder, Michael.


  



  

Levitan's Lesson

Continuation of "A Picture Perfect Day in Plyos, Russia"


The tea has simmered, the walk has ended; it’s time to open the envelope in my pocket and discover what the perfect day has to teach me. . .  
  
It involves a man I've never met and will never meet.  A man who spent time in Plyos, 120 years before I arrived. A man whose work touched me before I even knew his name.


When I visited the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow for the first time, I bought only one item in the gift shop, a 5 X 7 print of Golden Autumn.  Of all the paintings I had seen that day, it was the one that I wished I could enter, to sit on the grassy river bank, to hear the jostling of the yellow and orange leaves as the breeze played hide and seek among their branches, to feel the sun on my face, to be warmed by Nature. A perfect day.


I wondered about the man who created it.  Issac Levitan, a painter of landscapes.      

"Self portrait," Issac Levitan
State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

I encountered him again in Plyos, as I wandered from room to room in his museum, seeing a re-creation of his apartment/studio, a small collection of his paintings, and learning about his journeys to the town to paint.  I imagined him climbing up a wooded hillside, strolling along the Volga's embankment, balancing on a precarious log across a meandering stream, searching for landscapes that "spoke" to him.   

My lesson does not lie in the telling of Levitan's story, except for three facts.  He experienced extreme poverty in his early life; he died 3 weeks shy of his 40th birthday, and he left "more than 1000 oil paintings, water colors, and other works on paper." 1000! (Issac Levitan)

When he was hungry and homeless in Moscow, why didn't he get a "real job," something, anything, to pay the bills?  Why not delay his passion for painting for a few years, when his life was more stable?  Put it off a while.  He was young.  There would be time for such an indulgence when he was older.  What made him think he could be a successful painter anyway? 


Doubts. Reality. Choices. For Levitan, the drive, the necessity to create, must have outweighed all the "cons" on his "What To Do With My Life" decision-making list.  The force of nature and his deep connection to it, must have propelled him forward, leaving little choice but to act.  Nine hundred and ninety-nine or so pieces of his art depict nature, devoid of any human forms.  Only one, Autumn Day Sokolniki, shows a woman walking on a path, dwarfed by the blowing trees and swirling clouds. Yet his own words reflect his feelings of inadequacy in doing justice to what he sees around him or feels in his heart.


"What can be more tragic than to feel the grandeur of the surrounding beauty and to be able to see in it its underlying mystery. . . and yet to be aware of your own inability to express these large feelings." 
-Issac Levitan

Still, he persevered.


 Levitan's lesson to me as a writer is to forge ahead, to honor the words that need to be voiced, valuing my uniqueness to express them. As his short life reveals in the gifts of art that he left us, life may not wait for the perfect day to get started or to keep going.


And what about you? Is there an envelope hidden in your pocket?

"Golden Autumn," Issac Levitan
State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

To view more of Levitan's work, check this website:
http://www.artistsandart.org/2010/08/russian-landscape-painter-isaak-levitan.html






      







          

A Picture Perfect Day in Plyos, Russia

Tucked into every perfect day, there's a lesson, like a tiny cream-colored envelope with a hidden message inside.  You may not discover it until days later when you absent-mindedly stick your hand in your pocket and feel its pointed corners, pull it out and wonder, "Where did this come from?

I had a perfect, or as near-perfect day as I could imagine, last Saturday.  Try as I might to find one piece of it that I would change, I'm at a loss. Pictures of the perfect pieces fill my camera.  The lesson is still being processed.

Drew and I took a weekend trip to Plyos, Russia with our friends, Ann, John, Zhenya and Matvey.  Rumor has it that travel time between Moscow and Plyos is a mere 5 hours by car.  We decided that an over-zealous worker at the  Plyos "tourist commission," started the 5-hour fabrication in order to lure travelers to come and spend money.  Friday afternoon traffic out of Moscow, which accompanied us miles past the city, added another 4 hours, making our arrival time in Plyos at 1:30 am.  No, this was not the perfect day. It started the next morning with homemade blinis filled with blueberry jam and sour cream.

Maya, our hostess at "The Volga" hotel, sent us off with a cheery, "Have a lovely walk," after filling us with plenty of coffee and tea to keep us warm.

  Zhenya and Matvey, who own property in Plyos, guided us up a hill past homes with gingerbread-house window frames.

  Turning around as we reached the top, the view was beyond the words, "picturesque, breathtaking, beautiful, wow" we used to describe it.  Silence among beauty is sometimes the only worthy response.  I snapped a picture of the Volga River, framed by the autumn hillside dotted with rooftops, and took a deep breath.

Trees, proud of their new fall frocks,                                              
posed for pictures.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        



                    






              

                            

                                                             Black and white birches brightened the dense woods like prancing zebras.                         

                                                                                                                                

Churches pointed their candle-wick domes skyward.

Flowers, unaware of the change in season, continued to bloom. . .
,                                             joyfully.

Watering holes waited for (real) feathered friends to sip and chat.








Returning to afternoon cups of ginger-lemon-honey tea and sweets, followed later by plates of pelmeni, we ended the day with warming sips of Plyos' Cranberry Tincture and more tea in front of a crackling fire.
                                               Quite the perfect day with. . .                                                                                                                                                                                  

and Drew!

Matvey, Zhenya, Ann, John

                

But what of the lesson?  What did I find in my pocket?  Lessons need time, time to steep like my cup of chamomile, before they can be fully understood and appreciated.  I will write about it in a day or so.  Check back. Now. . . for that tea and a walk in the woods.  

Fishing for the Right Words

Circling the lake on my morning walk through the Moscow park, I pass by his spot.  By 7:30, he's re-created his space just like it was yesterday and the day before, in such a perfect way that I wonder if he ever goes home.  His two-legged folding stool, with shiny silver legs and green canvas seat is situated at a comfortable distance from the water, so that the pole stretches out to the precise location where fish gather for a quick bite before heading off to work.  Similar to Starbucks, but with a catch.
A white plastic, recycled grocery sack sits to his right, flanked by a stainless steel thermos - his breakfast, I presume.  An identical bag sits to his left - his bait, I presume; hopefully, never the two shall be confused.

The fisherman is not alone.  Every few feet along the bank is another, sitting on or standing beside a similar, if not identical stool, plastic bags and knapsacks at his feet, pole precisely postioned, staring at the water's surface.  One morning, I counted 14 members of the community ringing the perimeter of the lake  watching, waiting.  Paying closer attention during a week's worth of walking, I noticed that the same fishermen occupied the same territories.  Could it be that there is an unspoken agreement, much like with church pews?  Heaven help the first-time church goer or weekend fisherman who stumbles upon a presumed vacancy, later to discover an invisible "Reserved" sign as he's nudged further along by its rightful occupant.

So, what's different about "my" fisherman?  He speaks to me, or did for the first time this week.  He happened to turn in my direction as I was fast-walking past.  His eyes met mine from under the brim on his gray, floppy hat.  He said something in Russian; I shrugged indicately that sadly, after being in his country for going-on seven years, I can count my Russian vocabulary on the combined fingers of my hands plus a couple of toes.  Not giving up, he moved his right index finger in a circle over his left palm, and I understood. 

"How many times do you circle the lake?" he wanted to know.

"Dva," I answered, at least trying to say something, anything in Russian.

"Two," he replied, trying to do the same in English.  

He nodded and smiled.  I nodded and smiled.   I walked on.

Early the next morning, there he sat on his stool, reading glasses perched half-way down his nose, opening a ziploc bag.  His bushy gray beard reminded me of Santa Claus (or Ded Moroz, in Russian), along with his round cheeks and bowl-full-of-jelly belly, camoflauged under his fishing vest.  

"Dobraye utra" (Good morning), I said.

"Hello," he answered.

"Two," he continued, holding up two fingers, smiling, remembering our conversation from the day before.

I nodded and smiled, which I've gotten quite proficient at, I might add.

Walking on, I waved and offered my farewell in Russian, "Dasvidaniya."

Hesitating slightly, as if to make sure he was formulating the correct response, he replied in a resounding, baritone voice, "Good af-ter-noon!"

I smiled and nodded.  Yes, it was indeed "good," no matter what the time of day.