Arkansas/Russian Reflections: 12/1/10

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!

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.