Let's Walk to the Mall. . . in Moscow

Join me on a trip from our apartment to Metropolis Mall, a big, glitzy shopping mecca, close to where we live in Moscow. Rather than taking the car, I enjoy walking through the park, seeing the neighborhood sights along the way.  To make this posting more interesting to me, as a writer, and hopefully to you, as a reader, I'm writing about our excursion in verse.  I'm fashioning the poem after "Over the River and Through the Woods," which is traditionally set to music during American Thanksgiving.  If you are not familiar with the song, you can click on this link to hear a simple rendition of it.

Please get on your walking shoes and join me. . .

Over the sidewalk and through the park
to Metropolis Mall we go.
Our feet know the way
So we'll walk there today,
Giving thanks there's no more snow - oh!
                               
First come the twin lakes, a haven for ducks.
They quack as we pass by.

The men catch fish,

Or so they wish. 

At least they love to try.

                


Where are the children?
There's none to be seen.
The playground wonders, "Why?"

They must be in school
For that is the rule.
There's a neighborhood one nearby.

                                                                                                

Oh, look at the veggies and fresh fruit for sale.
Maybe we'll stop and shop.

The beets look great.
Please give us eight
And a bunch of red onions to chop.
                                                             
                                           
Flowers are blooming; so tempting to pick
A lovely spring bouquet.

A florist is better,
Except for each letter
In Russian, is hard to say.

(The sign on the shop says "flowers" in Russian,
pronounced, 'tsvety.') 




            


Toilets are handy, mere minutes away,
In case you just can't wait.

A lady in green
Makes sure that they're clean.
(A job I'd honestly hate.)







                                        


Under the highway, a *perekhod,
leads to the other side.

The mall is near.
Its sign is clear.

It's been fun to be your guide!

*Russian word meaning an underground walkway

Open an Egg Carton and Read

It's 1:00 am.  I'm wide awake with jet lag, having returned to Moscow a couple of days ago.  I sit in our living room looking out at the panoramic view of night lights.  Sipping a cup of (decaffeinated) tea, I open my laptop and begin mulling over ideas for my next blog.  Since I'm back in Russia, it's time to write something. . . Russian.   But, not quite yet.  In the transition between there and here, I have one more story to tell.  It's a story of another Connecticut writer, not as widely known as Mark Twain (April 13 post); in fact, you can't find a single piece of his writing in Amazon's extensive listings or a bookstore anywhere.  There was a time, though, when all you had to do was open an egg carton. . .

Bud Doyle owned Doyle's Eggs in Prospect, Connecticut, as did his father before him, as does his son after him.  His daughter, Marian, has been my friend for 25 years, but I only met Bud once, briefly, about 8 years ago.  At the time, I vaguely knew of his egg business, and nothing of his writing.  At the time, I knew nothing about my own writing.  The need to write had not yet squirmed to the level of my consciousness, but was waiting for me to begin searching for Her, to ask, "What is it that I truly love to do?"  The more I learn of Bud, I wonder, "When did he know that he needed to write?"  Sadly, he died last year, so it's not a question I will be able to ask him.

Two weeks ago, I spent a few days with Marian and husband, Jim, at their home in Middlebury, Connecticut.  On a  chilly, misty morning,  Marian suggested that we visit her mother a 20-minute drive away. I asked if I could have a tour of Doyle's Eggs, housed in a long, white building on a sloping hill behind Rosie's house, where she and Bud lived for 62 years, raising their 5 children.

 In a story book kind of way, I was hoping to see actual chickens, lots and lots of clucking, contented chickens, proudly laying eggs that would be enjoyed far and wide by an adoring public.  The place is quiet now, though, without a single cluck within earshot.  Bud made the change from a chicken-laying farm to a wholesale egg distribution business a few years back.  The eggs arrive early in the morning on trucks from Esbenshade Farms in Pennsylvania, then Doyle's Eggs distributes them locally.  

But Farmer Doyle's colorful egg cartons still appear on grocery store shelves, displaying the picture of a  cracked egg with feathered quill, smiling "Good Morning Sunshine" face, and slogan stretched across the side, "Our eggs are fresher than your neighbors' kids."

Imagine opening the lid one morning, ready to fry your favorite over-easy egg and finding a quote, a poem, a paragraph, tucked in the carton, perhaps writing or sentiments that Bud particularly liked, or words of his very own.  Would you read it right away or savor it over a cup of coffee, toast and your Grade A, Fresh, All Natural Egg?

In the upstairs office at Doyle's, Marian and her brother Pete, who now runs the company, pull out Doyle's Eggs memorabilia, spanning the years back to when Marian was the "face" of the business.

Then, there they are, in a cardboard box at my feet, left-over copies of Bud's egg carton inserts.  I reach in, select a few and sit reading, sit marveling at another writer's passion. . . the love of language, the joy of words, the longing to create, share thoughts, compose what is uniquely one's own.  I  linger over a poem, wondering if it is one of Bud's originals.  Rosie thinks it is, but stops short of certainty.  The lovely handwriting and illustration are hers.

As a writer searching for ways to get my work published, Bud is an inspiration to me.  He used what he had at hand, his egg cartons, to send writing out to others.  He was creative, not only as a writer of words, but a marketer of them, as well.  Today he might be a blogger, but anyone with a computer can do that.  Who would have thought of combining an egg business with writing, symbolized by the cracked egg and quill on his carton?  Had I been one of Bud's customers, I would have surely bought more eggs than I needed just to read his inserts.  Maybe that's "eggs-actly" what he had in mind.  (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)      

        



        
            

Wise Words from Mark Twain, Realized Anew

Mark Twain has been on my mind lately, since April 5th, to be exact. Before heading to New York to look for apartments, I visited Mr. Twain's Hartford, Connecticut home along with my friend, Marian, a Connecticut native.  I pictured a Tom Sawyer kind of place surrounded by a fence, whitewashed of course, nothing fancy, just like all the other wood frame houses along the street.  A place where Sam Clemens might have hung out as a boy, getting into trouble and running away from chores.  Had I been in Hannibal, Missouri at the Boyhood Home and Museum of Mark Twain, my imagination and the home that greeted me would have been a close match.

But the 25-room mansion on the hill was a shock!

I'll leave you to take your own virtual tour of the Mark Twain House and Museum and learn, as I did, about the man who lived 17 years of his life here.

What I took away from my visit was a quote, engraved on the wall of the museum, located beside the house.  Words that I knew to be true, but didn't know that I would learn their meaning all over again in New York City. . .

"Travel is fatal to prejudice."

                                                     --Mark Twain

I sometimes blindly congratulate myself on my "lack" of prejudice, being the world traveler that I am.  After all, I left Arkansas to work in an Inupiat village in Alaska, then lived in Singapore, Egypt and Russia, and my passport boasts pages and pages of cool-looking stamps.  I appreciate differences in people, look for commonalities, and value cultural diversity.  But it seems that when it comes to anything above the Mason-Dixon line, I might as well be living in Civil War America, as quickly as I fall back into the "us" and "them" mentality.  Why else would I, a genteel Southern belle, come to New York City, expecting "those Northerners" to be fast-talking, rude, loud, impolite, and lacking in what "us Southerners" have a monopoly on. . . hospitality?

I've stayed in downtown Manhattan for a week now and have yet to encounter that stereotypical personality, lurking near some shadowed sidewalk on Wall Street, poised to bump into me, never pausing to say, "I'm sorry,"  "How rude of me," or  "Won't you please forgive me?"  

Instead I'm met. . .
*a woman, smartly dressed in a yellow jacket trimmed in black, who stopped on a misty, windy afternoon to ask if she could help with directions, observing Marian and me huddled and confused over a city map
*a taxi driver who, without a grumble or grunt, made two U turns to position us exactly at our hotel entrance, then unloaded our heavy bags, smiled and said, "Have a good day."
*a hotel desk clerk, exuding more patience than Job on the best of days, who changed our room from a lower to higher floor, from a brick wall to water view, and from a 3:00 o'clock to noon check-in
*a young man, head totally covered with a black-hooded sweatshirt, who opened two doors for us at Grand Central Station, then stood holding them open while we pulled our bags through

The list goes on, highlighted with "Please," "Thank you," "Excuse me," "You go first,"  "Can I help you?" "No problem" niceties which I had relegated to the realm of mint juleps and magnolias.

My world expands once again.  Why am I surprised?  Did I not learn lessons of kindness, graciousness and generosity from Wafaa and Mohammad in Egypt, from Natasha and Zhenya in Russia, from people in every country I've visited?  Why should my country be any different?

The answer, of course, is that it's not.  It is in my pre-judgement that opinions remain static, that generalizations become truths.  I can hear Mr. Twain saying to me, in a wise grandfatherly tone, cigar smoke swirling between us, "You know, Twylla,

'All generalizations are false, including this one.' "

    







      

            

Transitioning Through the Everyday

Time to stop the newspaper, put a "hold" on the mail, clean out the fridge of everything that will expire before mid-June, schedule the lawn guy to cut the grass every couple of weeks, find plant-sitters for the African violets, Norfolk pine, peperomia, fern and Christmas cactus, pack my bags, make a final sweep through the house, set the alarm, close the door.  Whew!  Transition time again.

From Arkansas to Russia, one last time.

After 7 years of living and working in Russia, Drew and I will be leaving when this school year comes to a close at the Anglo American School of Moscow.  Drew has served as director of the school and its St. Petersburg branch since August 2004.  I worked at the Moscow school as a 2nd grade teacher and speech-language pathologist for 3 years before starting my back and forth lifestyle, a "jet-setting grandmother," as Drew nick-named me.  As tempting as it is to start reminiscing, I'll save that for a few months, trying to remain focused on the present moment, one transition at a time.  I wrote about the T-word in one of my previous postings, calling it my least favorite word in the English language.  A bit harsh, probably, failing to acknowledge the opportunities for growth, challenging though they may be, which each one has offered me.

When I close the door, pulling two overflowing suitcases behind me, from our home in Moscow or Greenbrier, I feel an acute sadness, a nostalgia for the family, friends and way of life I'm leaving. Part of me wants to stay, part wants to go.  I blink back the tears, gather my wits and go through the motions of commute to the airport, check-in, security, and passport control (Moscow).  Going through the 
motions. . . mundane, mindless, routine tasks which help me begin inching my way from one place to the other.

When I open the door, hopefully pulling both accounted-for suitcases behind me, to our Moscow or Greenbrier home, the same sadness catches up with me, in the stillness, as the door quietly shuts.  The tears come again.  Part of me wants to be here, part wants to be 5000 miles away.  Reaching for a tissue,  I unpack, fix a cup of tea, wash a load of clothes, water a plant, take a walk.  The simplicity, the familiarity of the actions soothe my spirit, awaken me to the present, rekindle the joy of this home, and remind me that "all will be well," my transition mantra, borrowed from Julian of Norwich.  Transitioning may not have prompted this medieval mystic to pen such a reassuring message, but her words echo through the 600 years hence, touching my heart with a calming peacefulness.

Another woman contemplative, a poet and writer, to whom I turn for inspiration is Kathleen Norris.  Her slim volume titled, The Quotidian Mysteries, Laundry, Liturgy and "Women's Work," written in 1998, reinforces what I've learned about the deep and abiding value of the "sanctity of the everyday," as she nobly refers to the so-called commonplace in our lives.  She writes, . . . "it is in the routine and the everyday that we find possibilities for the greatest transformation."  As I move through the daily tasks, my mind and body begin to transform, to adapt, to bridge the transition gap.

Drew and I will have a new opportunity to transition, a New York City one, as he assumes the position as Headmaster at Claremont Preparatory School in July.  I arrive in Manhattan tomorrow to begin the process of looking for an apartment.  An exciting adventure awaits, where unique experiences will fill our lives.  Yet I've come to know that it is in the Everyday where I will find my path, leading to a day when "all will be well," again.