Ash Settles

As the ash from Iceland’s volcano floated through the atmosphere, some of the microscopic particles drifted down to earth and settled.  Settled, stayed for a while, came to a rest, stopped moving.  Exactly what more than a million travelers were forced to do last week.  Fortunately, Drew and I were not among them, even though we were traveling back from the U.S. to Russia one day after it erupted.

When our Delta flight left JFK for Moscow’s Sheremetovo airport, the pilot told us that our route would be altered, longer by 3 hours, so we could bypass the ash on a southerly route via Spain and Ukraine.  A three hour delay – another movie, perhaps, time to finish that book, or try again to fall asleep.  No inconvenience at all, compared to the 65 teachers, their families and 40% of the Anglo American School students who were days, even a week, delayed in returning from their spring vacations.

My story, (since this is my blog) is about where I settled during the Week of the Ash.  I re-entered an elementary school classroom at AAS and stayed for a week, taking over the duties of a 4^th grade teacher stranded in Paris.  As students like to put it, “Hey, are you. .  The Sub?”   Three years of retirement had blurred my memories of how it feels in your muscles, your joints, even your eyelids to be a teacher.  At the end of the first day, I was exhausted!  By mid-afternoon, I realized that I hadn’t been to the bathroom and had eaten my yogurt and cracker lunch while typing out a template for a research report.  This kind of dedicated, though rather obsessive, behavior characterizes most teachers I know.

 Interacting with sixteen 9 and 10-year-olds for a week reaffirmed an even more glaring Truth about teaching than the fact that it’s hard work.  It is a humbling responsibility.  Who doesn’t have a good teacher/bad teacher story that comes to mind immediately when asked for a memory of both?  My 8^th grade algebra classroom flashes to mind as my teacher is handing back an exam.  Passing by my desk, she tosses the paper to me with a bright, red D plastered across its top as she says, LOUDLY, “Twylla, I just don’t know what happened to you on this test.”  I wanted to race out the door, chasing my self-esteem down the stairs.  Contrast that with my 6^th grade teacher who greeted me every morning with a literal twinkle in her eye, kindly smile on her face and the words, “Twylla, I’m so glad to see you this morning!”  My self-esteem hurried to catch up with me every day as I climbed the stairs to my classroom.

A teacher’s influence is seen in the subtleties, the choices he makes hundreds of times during a day.  Choices to resist the sigh, eye roll, shake of the head, and words that deflate Self Confidence in a slow, often imperceptible leak.  Choices to embrace the smile, respectful tone, empathetic ear, and words that infuse the Spirit with inexhaustible energy. Choices that last a lifetime.

Staying put for a week as the ash swirled and clouded the lives of many, I experienced renewed clarity and gratitude.  Clarity of the incredibly influential role a teacher plays in individual lives and ultimately the world, as these individuals interact in the larger community.  And gratitude for Mrs. Hardman, Mrs. Shope and Dr. Anderson, whose choices to teach with dignity and respect, are still being felt in this individual life.   

Metro Bombings

The subject line on my husband’s email on March 29^th read, “Metro Bombings.”   This was the first news I’d heard of the deadly suicide bombings in the Moscow metro stations. Grateful for his safety, my thoughts turned to our friends, the students, staff, and parents of the Anglo American School of Moscow, where Drew is the director, and especially of the Russian staff whose extended families could have been involved.  I hastily opened the email and scanned to the bottom, “Everyone in our community is safe.”  I exhaled.  Typing in CNN, I read the grim details and watched a video of ambulances, stretchers, puddles of blood and people wandering, sitting, staring, in shock.

Park Kultury metro station, the site of the second explosion. . . I was there a couple of days before I left Moscow in December to return to Arkansas, just passing through, changing trains from the brown to red line, on my way to Sportivnaya stop, taking a friend to Novodevinchy convent.  One of thousands who enter and exit that station successfully every day.  But on the morning of the 29^th, some, tragically, did not.

When I rode the metro for the first time 6 years ago, I was petrified.  I gripped the black handrails as I eased onto the escalator step and looked below for the bottom, which was nowhere in sight, only a line of people, single file, ahead of me.   The brown line is the deepest, as far down into the earth as 126 meters, or about 414 feet. Claustrophobic, I wanted out!  My friend reassured me that I could to this.  “Keep talking,” I said.  Reaching the platform, I pressed on, opting not to do a U-turn and head back up the escalator. I squeezed inside the waiting car, grabbed an overhead strap and watched the doors slam shut. My mind swirled with worst case scenarios. . . an electrical failure trapping us in cars that wouldn’t open, an earthquake burying us with concrete from above, or a bomb blowing us in every direction.  

Interesting how my fears lessened over time, with familiarity, predictability and being in the company of other metro riders who look so calm, so comfortable they could fall asleep.  And some do, as the shaking of  the metro car on its rails, lull them into a quick nap. Others pull out books, magazines, crosswords and sukudos.  Eyes are glued to  phone screens; ears are plugged into ipods.  Most sit, looking straight ahead, with an inconspicuous glance left or right, playing a cat and mouse game of “no eye contact.” I now travel among them, from station to station, car to car, reassured by the faces of daily life…

A stoop-shouldered babushka in her black coat, black fur hat, carrying a recycled grocery bag

Three giggling teen-aged girls wearing Hanna Montana T-shirts

A graying, middle-aged man protecting his bouquet of red roses from the press of the crowd

A young couple gazing into the face of their sleeping baby

 We become a community for minutes only, a chance collection of people, inhabiting a common space.  The women bombers stepped into such a gathering of travelers and detonated their explosives, not knowing any of their victims.  As I hopelessly try to understand this senseless violence, I can’t help but wonder whether the bombers, even briefly, glanced at the person sitting or standing beside them.  Did they notice the face of the baby, the grandmother, the man by the door who might have reminded them of someone at home?

 For the sake of a hopeful world, I like to think that the humanity of one person connecting with the humanity in another, would spark something, at least a momentary hesitation or questioning. The results of their deadly actions, however, perpetuate the harsh reality that history has taught us. . . it’s easier to kill strangers, whom we hate unseen.  

Spring Surprises

I'm usually in Russia this time of the year, and although it's officially spring in both places, the greening in Arkansas has a considerable head start on its Russian counterparts, still hiding under coverings of snow.  Since buying our house in Greenbrier three years ago, I've never seen our five acres change from a landscape of spikey gray branches and crunchy brown leaves to a palette of brightness, as if Van Gogh were adding new colors with strokes of his brush each day.
 My usual end-of-May arrival finds a yard well on its way to summer, and I've never realized what I've missed!  As I watch the daffodils, tulips and irises turn their yellow, red, purple and white heads to face one another in the flower beds, I wonder if they are catching up after a winter's worth of solitude, waiting for their familiar friends to pop up and greet them.  And the trees. . . who knew that we have a redbud with the deepest purple blooms, making amethysts look pale in comparison, four dogwoods just leafing out, keeping their colors hidden for a few days more - white or pink, and a mystery (fruit tree?) with delicate, lime green leaves and fuschia pink blossoms, reminding me of one of my grandmother's Easter hats?  I gasped yesterday to, joyfully, find new life in plants that I thought I had killed last year.  How did the hostas around the bird bath survive the lawnmower or the hydrangea find the strength to grow new leaves after having been cut back to mere matchstick stubs, not to mention the azaleas showing tiny buds after being whacked within an inch of their lives last July, by a gardener wanna-be?
I check on these wonders of nature each morning, sipping a cup of tea as I walk among them.  I even find myself talking to them with an occasional compliment ("Wow, what an amazing pink blossom!") or encouraging word ("Look at how much you've grown in just one day!").  The nice thing about being on 5 acres is that I'm too far away from my nearest neighbor, who might wonder why I'm walking around the yard talking to myself.   But then. . who cares?
I pulled out my copy of Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Nature" essays the other day. The quote on the front, written in fern green letters, reads, "In the woods is perpetual youth."  The youth in my yard this spring fills me with delight and deep gratitude.

Boris, Natasha and I

Originally published in the Log Cabin Democrat (Conway, Arkansas). . . dated Feb. 25, 2010.)

I exit the stuffy air of the Moscow Krasnopresnenskaya metro station into a blast of winter coldness. I suck in a few snowflakes along with the freshness, adjust the black knitted hat over my ears, and head towards the nearest sidewalk.  The red brick walls of the U. S. Embassy come into view a couple of blocks away, and I quicken my pace. Bumper to bumper cars, mostly black, start and stop in three lanes to my left, edging their way up and down Konushkovskaya Shosse (street).  Drivers, with nothing better to do, honk their horns while carrying on urgent cell phone conversations.  People pass me. I pay little attention.  I feel insulated in my own world of goose down cinched at the neck with a heavy scarf.  Almost to the stoplight, I hear someone running behind me.  He yells something in Russian.  I keep walking. He yells again.  I keep walking.  Fast approaching me is a young woman dressed in a long black coat, stepping firmly in boots with 3-inch heels.  She raises her right palm, signaling me to stop. Glancing up at the changing green-to-red light on the corner, I realize that I have no choice. The man’s hurried footsteps slow behind me. He repeats the same Russian words. . . .words that weren’t covered in my five classes of “Survival Russian.”  The woman puts her hand on my shoulder as her pointed-toe designer boots meet my practical, but decidedly more comfortable, L.L. Bean hikers.  I pause, sandwiched between them. The same paralyzing fear that overtakes me when I’m on the top of a tall building peeking nervously over the edge grabs me, as I stand waiting for. . . the worst.  Where is the oversized SUV, with black-tinted windows, that will surely drive up, open its door, hesitate for seconds as the couple stuff me inside, then speed off?  Passport, money, cell phone, iPod, stash of Snickers bars in the top zippered section of my backpack. . .  what are they after?

Just about now would be the perfect time for a rescue. Images of James Bond on a motorcycle jumping over multiple cars in one graceful arc, or even Spiderman sweeping off the roof of the Stalin Sister down the street, cause my eyes to dart fleetingly, hopefully, in all directions. No such luck. I’m on my own. The fur of the woman’s hat flutters as the wind catches its black edges, and I notice her face for the first time.  Expecting harsh features, pointed chin, black piercing eyes topped by eyebrows that need to be plucked, (much like the villianess Natasha, of “Boris and Natasha” cartoon fame), I’m surprised to see a soft, rounded face, warm brown eyes and perfectly arched brows.  She stares.  I stare.  Pushing on my right shoulder, ever so gently, she nods toward her accomplice to my rear.  Allowing myself to be pivoted in his direction, I come face to face with the man who has been chasing me.  Instead of a squatty-bodied Boris with a black mustache, I meet a graying, middle-aged, slightly out-of-breath gentleman.  In his right hand, he holds something red.  He lifts it up to me like a peace offering, unsure I will accept his token.  But, wait, this looks familiar.  Fishing around in my pocket, I come up empty.  My gloves. . .gone!  Seeing my startled expression, he lifts the renegade pair closer to my hands, nodding for me to take them. Reaching gingerly, I look back and forth between Boris and Natasha’s quizzical faces.  “Spasiba bolshoi,” I say, grateful that I, at least, know how to say, “Thank you very much” in Russian. They leave, walking in opposite directions, strangers.  I stay, motionless, struck by an unexpected act of kindness . . .amidst the swirl of fresh snowflakes and my own thoughts. 

A Day in the Country

(Originally appeared in the Log Cabin Democrat (Conway, Arkansas) in November, 2008.

A Day in the Country

With more than a hint of fall in the air, we head to Grandma’s house for a visit.  “You better come before it gets too cold and everything in my garden has died!” she warns.  What she’s really saying is, “What’s taking you so long to come visit me?”  Finally finding a date that works for everyone, we bake a batch of Grandma’s favorite extra chewy, double-fudge brownies, pick up a pot of her favorite yellow chrysanthemums at the nursery, and began the two-hour drive to the country. Traffic is heavy as we funnel into the line of cars whose drivers have the same idea of one foray in the outdoors before the onset of cold weather.

Turning off the main highway onto the road leading to Grandma’s house is like entering what some might call “the good old days” when life seemed simpler, more filled with the rhythm of nature than the frenzy of urbanization.  A mile of unfilled potholes gives our seatbelts some unfamiliar practice and makes us wonder whether tax dollars are taking a vacation. Hearing the car near her gate, Grandma is out on the porch to wave us on.  After hugs all around, assurances that we’re fine, and offerings of something to drink, we putz around the place, soothed by the notion that some things never change. Aside from overgrown morning glories hanging over the porch roof and scraggly holly bushes obstructing the two front windows, the house looks much as it did 20 years ago.  Its ground floor kitchen, parlor and Grandma’s  bedroom, topped by a cozy attic study reached by an almost vertical staircase, are filled with furniture, pictures and memorabilia of a remembered life, now content with the joy and predictability of routine.  The graying wooden frame could use a coat of paint, and a crumbling corner of the cement foundation needs patching, but the house and Grandma are growing older as partners, each trying its best to take care of the other.

Lunch is on the table with the last pickings of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and dill from Grandma’s garden added to plates of turkey, cheese and fresh bread.  “Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?’ she asks as she fusses around refilling our glasses.  The conversation leads to “Do you remember when?” stories as Grandma leads off with her favorite anecdote about when a hard-of-hearing store clerk mistook her request for a double light fixture with a double-D bra!  “ ‘I think you are in the wrong department,’ he shouted at me,” laughs Grandma, then repeats the line a couple of more times, holding her side and throwing back her head as the laughter overtakes her.

We spend the afternoon driving around the countryside, stopping to buy pumpkins at roadside stands and pottery at the local factory.  A neighbor invites us into her backyard to handpick our own bouquets of late-blooming flowers.  “And don’t you need some fresh eggs?” she asks, already leading us to the chicken coop.

Ending the day with homemade ice cream, brownies and cups of Grandma’s brewed tea, we leave amidst hugs, kisses on the cheeks and promises to return soon for another day in the country.

The question is which country?  As familiar as this outing sounds to us here in America, especially in rural Arkansas, this experience actually happened in Russia.  Dividing our time between Greenbrier and Moscow, my husband, Drew, and I have had the opportunity to develop friendships with several Russians.  Zhenya and her husband, Matvey, invited us to spend the day at their dacha (country house), 75 miles east of Moscow, where Zhenya’s mother, Faina, lives during the summer months. All the events happened as I described them, with a touch of storytelling to glue them together. As my real grandma used to say, “We’re more alike than different.”