The Recovering TV-Holics Confessional

Don't Get So Full of Yourself Auntie

2010-01-27T14:36:00.005-05:00

I'm not much into jewelry. However, I do own a few pieces I treasure. A couple of them are pins and pendants with hand-painted designs by Russian artisans. There's a bouquet of flowers, a portrait of a young girl, a troika galloping through snow and a firebird in flight.

On the rare occasions that I wear them, I do so proudly, not only because they are truly beautiful but also because they ground me to my past, my origins. Nor does it hurt to hear all the nice comments I get about them.

Today I wore my firebird pendant. It's a tear drop shape with the firebird worked in vibrant oranges, reds and shimmering gold on a black lacquer background. I was curious if my 2 year old niece would ask me about it. But she made no mention of it as we played at playgroup. Even when other adults asked me about it, Missy didn't say a word.

I shouldn't have worried or even been too curious. After a couple of hours she finally made her comment - "What's that? A Chicken?"

There's nothing like a 2 year old to keep one truly grounded.

Immigration 9: Lost and Found

2009-01-01T18:51:00.001-05:00

    I love the holiday season. Though the winter chill and I aren't friends, for a few weeks during its grasp there's a warmth that spreads through me from within. I love seeing wreaths decorating the doors in my neighborhood, Christmas trees strapped to car roofs on their way to their respective homes and catching the classic "Miracle on 34th Street" or the more recent "Season of Miracles" on television.

    This sensibility isn't unusual and I won't claim to be the only person out there who cherishes the season from the corniest carol to the sappiest TV special. What I will claim for myself is a memory, a memory that goes back many years, one which above all the trappings of the season provides me with the most inner warmth. And as most of my stories do this one begins in Russia.

    New Years is and was quite an affair in Russia even when I lived there back in the 70's. I grew up anticipating the arrival of January 1st with the same ardour as my American kids anticipate the arrival of December 25th.   Growing up, I never even heard of Christmas for although pre-revolutionary Russia was a Christian state the arrival of Communism and the principles of Karl 'religion is the opiate of the people' Marx put a quick and decisive end to any celebrations that had religious origins.

    However as with most cultures that are trampled neath the boots of supposed progress certain, more tolerable, aspects of said culture permeate into the progressive one. And as the pagan Winter Solstice was absorbed by Christmas so it was that in Soviet Russia Christmas was absorbed by New Years.

    Every Soviet home continued to be decorated with evergreen trees. And with the exile of St. Nicholas, the kindly, white bearded Grandfather Frost came into prominence along with his grand daughter, the Snow Maiden.   Children would go to bed on December 31st and awake the following morning with gifts that were magically delivered by the chilly duo at midnight.

    Neither exile nor trampling boots of progress mattered to me. I loved New Years and in 1976 was shivering with as much anticipation as ever. I welcomed 1977 with my usual enthusiasm never suspecting that life as I knew it was soon to end. But it did and in May of that year my parents and I emigrated from the USSR leaving behind all that was near, dear and familiar to us.

    By September of 1977 I had crossed an ocean and many borders to finally alite in New York City, New York. But even then my travels weren't over as we moved again and again until finally a couple of months later a modicum of stability was reached in a Section 8 apartment in Jersey City, New Jersey.

    The cold and snow soon arrived heralding my beloved holiday. But although there was a hint of familiarity all was wrong. There were images of a kindly old man who brought presents but he was fat instead of slender and he wore bright red instead of classy ice blue. This jolly old man traveled alone whereas I ached to catch a glimpse of the lovely, flaxen haired Snow Maiden. And the crescendo came too early, by December 26th many decorations were being taken down and spent evergreens were already being piled on trash heaps.

    Even though it was all wrong my parents tried to make it alright. Our apartment was decorated for the season and on December 31st we dressed up and went out to celebrate New Years with other Russian immigrants. But for as much fun as I had, it was with a touch of sadness that I walked back into our apartment and made my way to bed.

    My room was dark, illuminated only by the hallway light behind me so all I could see were shapes. There was my dresser and my night table and there was my bed. But what were those funny shapes on it? My heart leapt to my throat - it couldn't be - could it? Were those packages - packages that weren't there before I left - packages that could only have been brought by a magical old man with a white beard clad in ice blue robes accompanied by his grand-daughter?

    I have no true memory of what happened next. Perhaps I sat in shocked amazement on my bed as my fingers caressed the presents or maybe I squealed in delight and jumped around my room, the gifts clutched in my hands. What I do remember though were the words I spoke when I realized what those odd shapes were : On Nashol Menya - He Found Me.

    What a beautiful thing it is to be found. For to be found one must have been lost and I had been; traveling for months in foreign lands unsure of what the next moment could bring, the ground constantly shifting beneath my feet. To be found one must also have been sought and I had been; although this was the domain of the jolly old elf, Grandfather Frost made his way across many borders and an ocean to make sure that my transition was less painful, that at least for a moment all was right.

    It took me a few years to realize who Grandfather Frost really was (were) and many more years to be able to adequately express my memories of that night and to say thanks. It is said that one of a parents many jobs is to help their child through the tough patches. Many are successful but few accomplish it with such a deft and gentle hand.

    In that magical instance, for the first time in a very long while, all was right and I was happy . Though the packages on my bed were presents, my true gift that night was the return of such joyous feelings. It's a gift that has remained with me all these years. Since then the arrival of the holiday season brings with it not only the cold and snow but also this precious memory and all the warmth and happiness that goes with it.

Let's Dance

2008-07-06T14:20:00.001-04:00

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Fun in the Snow

2008-01-15T20:49:00.001-05:00

I've often dreamt of having a convertible, however, the thought of having only canvas between me and the frigid temperatures and heavy snows that come with living and driving in the snow belt of North East Ohio make it a fairly unpalatable proposition so as a compromise I set my sights on getting a car with a moon-roof. And a few years back my husband surprised me with just such a car. But occasionally, I still pine for the experience of driving with the top down.

I am however totally in love with my car and in the spring, summer and fall, if the weather is nice, the first thing I do when I get in is hit the button that automatically removes the barrier between me and the sky. During winter, however, the same said moon-roof remains closed. That changed yesterday.

The past few days have been mildly snowy with the temperatures hovering right around freezing, sometimes a little above, sometimes a little below. All these temperature fluctuations have caused, as anybody who's lived in such a climate knows, a thin layer of ice to build up between the slowly accumulating snow and my car.

Yesterday, as is my habit, I turned the car on first and then began brushing it off, paying close attention to all the glass and much less to all the hard surfaces (hood, roof, trunk) leaving a little snow and all the ice still covering them. Satisfied with my job, I climbed in and turned around to put my purse in the back seat and as I was turning back to get settled in my seat, I felt my elbow hit something. All of a sudden there was a quiet, continuous whine that I was familiar with but hadn't heard for a while. I turned my gaze upwards to be met with the sight of, not the regular tan upholstery, but with white, a solid "roof" of white.

The ice-roof remained solid though my composure at this point was not. I was not having a full on "freak-out" but I was not thinking all that clearly and instead of reaching for the button to immediately close the moon-roof my hands went up to grab the sliding apparatus. Not surprisingly my bumbling created enough disturbance that the entire crust of white collapsed into my lap and passenger seat.

At this point my daughter came out, ready for me to take her to practice. And that's when this whole fiasco became fun! Her face, at first, contorted with confusion slowly developed a huge grin as she realized just how much of a "duh" her mother had just perpetrated. Her laughter ricocheted around the neighborhood as she started brushing snow and chunks of ice out of her seat. Her laughter has always been infections, and this time was no exception, my sour mood melted almost as fast as the snow in my lap and I too began to laugh.

More so now than ever, I wouldn't exchange my moon-roof for any silly full blown convertible!

Immigration 8: The Letting Go

2008-01-13T09:30:00.000-05:00

It's a cool morning for mid May, the sky is a little overcast and the breeze a little biting. I make my way through the familiar courtyard, almost as familiar as my own and pause at the entry way to the apartment building and truly let sink in that this will be the last time I will walk up to their door. I've had several months to prepare myself but somehow I still don't feel ready to say goodbye.

I just stand there for a moment and let the thought develop. Tomorrow they're leaving Russia, emigrating. Misha, Marina and their little Anechka are packing up their meager belongings and flying to Austria then somehow on to Italy and then, hopefully to America, leaving everything they know behind, severing all bonds in an effort to find a better life. A cold shiver runs up and down my spine as the enormity of what they're undertaking hits me for what seems like the hundredth time - and I still can't fathom it.

I take slow steps into the building and as my eyes adjust to the dark, I catch the form of the elevator repairman in his pristine uniform standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette. He's been around for a few weeks, "working" but his uniform is still perfectly white. I smirk as I walk past him. We all know that he has probably never held a wrench in his life - his expertise lies in identifying and noting the comings and goings of people. He's not ever trying to be covert - intimidation is another one of his objectives. We know that you know and we want you to know : we're watching you.

I grab the railing of the old staircase and start jogging up the steps up to the fifth floor but by the time I reach the first landing I slow down as memories start invading my thoughts. I tuck my hands into my pockets and allow the slower gait to trigger more detailed recollections.

I remember that when I first met Misha he was still on his own, living on coffee and cigarettes, a literal starving college student. His apartment was bare of food but never of people for his door was always open. I remember how Marina would come over and bring sandwiches that he would immediately turn around and feed to all his friends, also starving college students. And then, when they married and had Anya how their door remained open.

Through the years, along with countless others, I have come here, to this apartment, almost nightly. Memories flood my mind in the forms of images : Watching hockey games in winter, screaming at the tops of our lungs while Marina brought more food to the table. In the summer, leaning out their window trying to catch Voice of America on their tiny radio, gingerly manipulating the dial in an attempt to catch the elusive station. Gathering here, to read banned books such as Bugakov's Master and Margarita that were typed on what seemed like cigarette paper and then spending hours discussing them.

We weren't just visitors, we weren't simple friends, we were part of theirs lives, part of their family and as such were witness to many aspects of their lives. I laugh quietly to myself as I climb another flight and remember the first time Marina left two year old Anya with Misha for the evening. We were all there, playing cards, drinking a few beers watching a game on their tiny black and white TV and there was little Anechka bouncing around from one knee to another. At one point she toddled over to where the guys were playing cards and in a blink of an eye swiped a mug of beer and downed it before anybody could stop her. I suppress a snort as I recall how amazed Marina was, the following day, at how well her little girl slept that night! The "brotherhood of the beer incident" kept the secret of that good sleep for 3 years until finally, fairly sure of his safety, Misha confessed.

I reach the fifth floor with a smile on my face, though still lost in thought, my feet take me automatically along the well worn path to their door. I hear sounds from within and realize I'm not the first to arrive, to bid farewell and to help. I enter the commune apartment and am immediately hit by the smell of acrylic paint and acetone. The neighbors workroom door is open where she has been hand painting Olympic rings on souvenirs in preparation for when The Games come to Moscow three years from now. I peek in and see that in addition to the paint paraphernalia and normal furnishings, a cot and four suitcases are tucked in the small room, their suitcases.

Vera, Marinas mom and Anna, Misha's mom are in the kitchen cooking. Their faces are drawn and though they smile at me as they give me a kiss, I can tell that there's already been a lot of crying and that a lot more is to come. A few other friends are here, figuring out the logistics of getting the furniture and other things that are being left behind to their new owners. I join in and the day seems to fly.

There's a constant flow of visitors some staying for minutes, some for hours and yet others who just stay. Watching this stream of people, I consider the spy downstairs and smile to myself when I realize that none of us give a damn about him, our friends are so much more important to us that the consequences of having our names in his file.

As day turns to night only family and the core group of friends are left. We have dinner, we talk, we take final pictures and little Anechka is sent to the cot in the workroom to sleep at least a little. It's going to be an early morning tomorrow. However, the nervous energy permeating the apartment won't let anybody else sleep a wink and as I take a walk down the corridor from Misha and Marinas room to the commune kitchen I overhear "It's gold, in the worst case, you can sell it." It's Oleg, Marinas brother, talking to Misha and I notice, Oleg's no longer wearing a wedding band.

Marina and Oleg never had a great relationship, it's been more adversarial than fraternal; he's never been one for doing the right thing by his family but this test of his character he passes. My eyes tear up a bit as I consider all the different and sometimes surprising forms gold takes.

The poignant moment shakes me a bit and to take my mind off it I check the clock to see how much time we have before we must leave for the airport and realize that it's none. Three thirty in the morning came too quickly.

Anya is woken, dressed and fed. The suitcases are taken down to the cars and we hustle downstairs. I hold back a little and walk back to the door, place my hand upon it and offer up a simple thanks and goodbye.

The drive to the airport is quiet except for Zorkas sniffling in the back seat. She's one of Misha and Marinas closest friends and has experience with leaving. Year's ago she came to Russia to be with her husband, leaving her home in Bulgaria, so she knows the pain of homesickness, the feel of isolation that our friends are going to suffer and so she weeps.

When we finally arrive at the airport and unload the four measly suitcases that are supposed to support three people for an unknown period of time in foreign lands, I wonder at my friends' sanity. However, as I peer around I see other families getting ready to do the same thing. As my eyes continues to study the milling crowd I see that the emigres share a look that is a mixture of exhaustion, hope, fear and determination.

Misha disappears into the sea of people to deal with paperwork before the three of them can head into customs and then .... well ..... and then to the skies. Little Anechka is pale and doesn't seem to be actually awake, she's sleep-walking more than anything else. She's passed around from grandmother to grandmother to uncle and finally to me and as I take hold of her little hand, her grip surprises me. I kneel down to talk to her and realize that her eyes are not only tired but scared as well.
"What's the matter, sweetie?" I ask.
"There are too many people, I don't wanna go there." Her weak voice answers, pointing in the general direction of the tarmac.
"It's OK." I say thinking that she's afraid of flying "It's safe, those are great planes, look at all these people, they aren't afraid!"
But she shakes her head "I'm not afraid, I just don't want to be naked in front of all these people" she says, her eyes filling with tears.
Totally confused, I ask "Why in the world do you think you're going to be naked?"
"Dad said that I might have to take my clothes off before I get on the plane" she answers between sniffs.
My breath hitches in my throat as I realize that Misha must have warned her that there may be a strip search at customs - we have all heard the stories of cavity searches being performed on young and old as a final indignity. The poor little girl must think that it will happen in the open, on the tarmac, right before boarding the plane! So I ease her worries and explain that if it comes to a search it would be done in private. That seems to ease her a bit and I can see her shoulders relax a little and a smile come more easily to her face as her grandfather comes over and takes her hand.

Freed from babysitting duties I go in search of Marina to tell her about Anyas concerns, I catch her face in the crowd and start moving in that direction. As I push through the swarm I overhear Misha's mom talking to another friend saying "Marina's not doing too well, she asked me for a sedative to help keep her calm". This gives me pause and I think that maybe Marina doesn't need to hear about her daughters fears, she's got enough of her own. But I keep going and hope that in one way or another I can be of some help.

When I reach her she's standing with her back to me, facing her mother whose eyes are brimming with tears and as I get closer, I hear Marinas shaky voice repeat the same phrase over and over again "Please, Mommy, don't cry, just don't cry."

Realizing that I'm not wanted at that particular moment I veer off and go in search of something to do and for a little while stay busy with the suitcases, standing with them here, carrying them over there but when I'm free again I make another attempt and spending some time with Marina.

I find her, still with her mother, still uttering the same words and I figure that in a way, it's her mantra. She's completely focused on the separation, the goodbye is all she sees and all she fears. So I say a silent prayer that her mom will be able to keep it together. Vera is a very strong willed woman and I have faith that, for her daughter, she'll be able to keep her tears in check and her private agonies private.

Finally, it's time for customs and after all the final hugs and tearful kisses are done those of us left behind, hold on to each other and watch our beloved trio make their way into the corded off area. We continue watching them as the line slowly makes its way to the tables where customs agents will scrutinize their luggage.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and all of a sudden I see some sort of commotion and then we all catch sight of Misha making his way back with a suitcase. Anna, breaks from our group and expertly greasing the right palms appears in the customs area and stops Misha in his tracks - he tries to give her the suitcase but she shoves it back at him, they exchange some words and finally Misha, suitcase still in hand, walks back to the customs table.

Anna returns, a little shaken up, saying that the customs agent was refusing to let that suitcase out, but it was the one with Anyas medications and other basic survival necessities, so when Misha tried to give it to her she yelled at him that "blood through the nose" it had to go with them and sent her son back into the fray.

She's in tears now and I hug her tight as she wails "Oh my God, I yelled at my Mishenka, oh my God, my last words ..." I try to soothe her with soft mutterings but there's nothing I can say to ease this mothers pain, I can only hope that time will find a way to heal her and at the same time I think all of us hope against hope that we won't see Misha or that suitcase again.

Thirty, forty minutes pass and there are no more attempts to return luggage and all of us breathe a sigh of relief. Our threesome is now invisible, lost in the customs crowd, so we move to a different spot hoping to catch a glimpse of them as they make their way upstairs where they will board the plane. It takes time and I worry that they might have been detained or put through that horrid search but finally we see them. The three of them turn when they get high enough and seek us out - they grin and wave and I hear Marina yell "Till we meet again!" I know she's being hopeful but the way Misha looks at her and the way I feel my own heart skip a beat, I know we are thinking the same thing - If things don't go right, we could be meeting sooner than you think! So I chant my own mantra - May it all go well, May it all go right.

Thankfully it does and with a stabbing realization my mind forms the words they are gone.

Slowly the energy of the airport changes, returns to normal. I stand there, still a bit shell-shocked, not sure if I can get my head around what I just lost. And as we make our way back to the cars I look down at my hands and think I just hugged them; I touch my lips and think I just kissed their cheeks - for the last time.

This time I sit in the back of the car. I lean back, letting my head rest and close my eyes. Again I think back to the elevator repair man and the consequences of being seen as a supporter of my friends' emigration. If anything happens it'll be pretty minor - perhaps a loss of a vacation stipend or a verbal dress-down at work or maybe I'll be brought before some board or other to be humiliated before peers for not turning my back on the people who turned theirs on Mother Russia. None of that would surprise me.

I sigh, thinking Nothing will change, it'll all stay the same - except they won't be here. It's then that the tears finally spill from under my lashes, though I'm not sure if they're tears of joy for them or tears of grief for me and all of us left behind. Tired of holding myself together, I let the tears come and just cry ...

Balance

2007-12-31T16:53:00.001-05:00

What does it mean to be "Hard on yourself" and is it a bad thing?

The other day I wrote a blog post about having difficulty making decisions. I received a bunch of supportive comments ranging from "I know exactly what you mean" to "relax" and "don't be too hard on yourself". And as I was going to sleep that night, pacified with the knowledge that I wasn't alone, a thought struck me - was I being "hard on myself" and was it wrong?

First things first, I needed to define the concept.

What I found was basically the same everywhere: Being hard on myself meant that I was holding myself up to a higher standard than anyone else. OK, that did sound pretty foolish but was that really what I was doing?

My post talked of two things : Indecisiveness and Perfectionism.

Indecisiveness is not a pretty thing but I can't say I'm harder on myself than anybody else where it's concerned. I don't like the characteristic in anyone: stranger, friend or self. So that doesn't fall into the "Being Hard on Myself" category. Score one for me!

On to the next - Perfectionism. The American Heritage Dictionary defines perfectionism as "A propensity for being displeased with anything that is not perfect or does not meet extremely high standards." That sounds pretty bad too but a part of me wondered if it's truly that bad. Without a desire to do things well wouldn't we all be stuck in mediocrity? If I didn't set a high standard for my writing there'd be nothing driving me to practice and I'd never improve. The same goes for anything I do: Knitting, swimming, parenting etc. The more I thought on the matter the surer I became that there's nothing wrong with Perfectionism, if anything, it's a desirable quality. Those of you who disagree, answer me this: Would the Mona Lisa be in the least bit memorable if Leonardo had not worked on it for almost 17 years - perfecting it?

Yet determining if Perfectionism is good or bad doesn't answer the main question : do I expect more of myself than of others where it's concerned? The honest answer : Sometimes, but not in this case. Score two for me!

Now that the definition of "being hard on yourself" has been addressed it's time to see if the behavior is wrong. The answer is yes, if one goes by general perception but I'm not one to do so. Therefore I decided to look to myself for the answer.

My parenting skills is the area where I can honestly say I'm hard on myself. Specifically in trying to keep my temper in check. The results of this self imposed pressure have been two-fold. On the one hand I'm a lot gentler and more tolerant of my kids' occasional feistiness yet on the other hand when I fail, and throw a temper tantrum, I carry around a lot of guilt. For me, however, this is an acceptable side effect.

I also put a lot of pressure on myself when it comes to social situations. Here the side effects have been disastrous. My phobia of doing something "wrong" in public has shut me off from people and made me a prisoner of my own fears. My perfectionism and the pressure I put myself under have worked hand in hand to isolate me from the very people I want to get to know.

One person, one attitude and yet, two completely different outcomes. Why?

In the former the self generated internal pressure makes me a better parent although a bit hampered by guilt but in the latter the same attitude incarcerates me in a private prison. The only difference between the two is that the objective of the former is to fix an existing problem (bad temper) whereas in the latter, no problem exists - just an irrational fear (embarrassment).

Based on this I say that "being hard on yourself" is not inherently bad. It is so only when the desired outcome is outweighed by the undesirable side effects. And so it seems, as with all things in life - balance is key.

Now I wonder what would happen if I began being hard on myself about being hard on myself in social situations? Finding the balance in that one should be fun!

Twenty Two

2007-12-29T15:58:00.001-05:00

I like to do a lot of things. There are people out there who're primarily into one thing, they're crafty, sporty, techie, booky or writey. My problem is that I can't choose ... I like to do it all. I like to swim, read, knit, write and keep updated with technology. I have another problem - I like to do things well. And my major difficulty lies in that to do something well practice is a must, meaning it should be done on a regular basis sometimes to the exclusion of other things.

So what happens when I have a free moment to pursue one of my hobbies? Oh joy, I get to make a choice! So I sit there wondering - should I sit down and read more "Dune" which has sat untouched for weeks on my nightstand or should I get back to writing the "Immigration" piece I've been working on for over a month or better yet should I finish up knitting that sweater etc, etc, etc.

And this is where I become my worst enemy. My perfectionism tells me that I knit better than I write, so I should knit. But my mind tells me that if I want to write well I need to practice, so I should write. Then my perfectionism tells me that I've not finished anything I've started in the past few months so I should finish my knitting because that's the closest to being done but my mind tells me that I should read because "Dune" has been ignored for the longest time and is the most likely to be abandoned. And I end up doing nothing, having wasted my precious free time arguing with myself.

I hate Catch 22s.

I guess the best way out of them is to avoid getting into them. In other words I should heed the words of Nike commercials .....

Just Do It!

Presents

2007-11-19T13:32:00.001-05:00

After dinner chats with my husband are my favorite. After having caught up with the kids' school and extracurricular activities and sent them off to do their homework, he and I sit at the now quiet dinner table and catch up with each other.

The other day our conversation, as it often does this time of year, turned to what the kids want or need for their birthdays and holidays. As the talk turned to our daughter a slightly mystified expression appeared on my dear husbands face.

"What's this thing she's asking for? For her hair..." His forehead wrinkled a bit and he developed a slight crease between his eyes. Obviously he was a little confused.

"Oh, that" I'd known about her wish for a while now "She just wants a hair straightener, a flat iron."

"But" said my husband, his face becoming even more perplexed, the crease between his eyes growing deeper and an adorable hint of a slack-jaw appearing "her hair already is straight. Isn't it?"

And that's when I lost it, I'd not laughed that hard for a while and in that moment I'd gotten my Christmas present. Moments such as these are the gifts he gives me and they are all I need.

Learning Russian

2007-11-14T09:14:00.001-05:00

"Die Mommy"

Not an expression often heard on a quiet Sunday afternoon in an average suburban neighborhood. But it happened, about 9 years ago, in my back yard.

Teaching my daughter Russian was exciting - I started from the day she was born, everything I addressed to her was in my native tongue. As she grew from baby to toddler it was a joy to hear her respond in Russian, even with a simple "da" - I was encouraged and worked even harder to strengthen her vocabulary.

One day when she was around two, we were playing with a ball in the back yard. I used the opportunity to practice with her the verb "to give". I would roll the ball to her, she would fumble around till she got it and then I'd call to her "give it to Mom", of course in Russian.

After a few of the back and forths with the ball and the "give it to Mom"s something in my brain clicked and I heard what my Russian sounded like in English. You see, in Russian "give it to Mom" sounds like "Daiy Mamme" or ... "Die Mommy".

Our game with the ball of course quickly ended and we moved on to other verbs but that memory still give me quite a good chuckle.

Soup

2007-11-09T16:31:00.001-05:00

Home lives in a bowl of soup.

Actually home lives in a countless number of small things and they are all individual. Perhaps the smell of a perfume or the texture of a blanket, for me, though, it's the taste of my mothers Borsh.

As if by magic a pot filled with the luscious soup appeared at my house the other day. My mom must be part house elf, appearing and disappearing just as quickly, leaving behind the fruits of her labor without a word.

That night, hungry and tired after a busy day, my family gathered in the kitchen, drawn there by the incredible smell of the warming soup. All smiled, drooled and paced in anticipation and, as soon as the Borsh was ready, raced to our seats.

The steaming bowls of the reddish liquid loaded with cabbage, carrots, potatoes, beets and pieces of chicken didn't need much accompaniment other than bread and butter and so the table remained fairly bare. But not the senses. As another spoonful made its way down, the feeling of home, warmth and peace spread through me and for that short dinner hour all was right with the world. There was no where to rush, no supplies needing to be picked up, no phone calls to make and no failed tests to discuss. There was just peace and happiness and as I looked about the table I knew that my family felt the same as I ... thankful.

Thanks Mom.

Grave Thoughts

2007-10-27T15:31:00.001-04:00

Death isn't a popular topic. Dealing with it even less so. It seems that when somebody dies it's expected for loved ones to move on after an acceptable grieving period. But how do people move on? How can loved ones let go the pain and be truly happy with the memories of the person who's gone from their lives forever?

It seems strange to be asking this question seeing as I have lost several members of my family and should know the answer. But the death of my grandmother, four years ago, has brought these thoughts to the forefront. And although I have experience with loss, I don't think I've ever consciously tried to move on; it always just happened.

Take my grandfather for instance. He died when I was two and although I have no "real" memories of him, he's often in my thoughts. His presence has been instilled there by the multitude of stories planted there by my mother, grandmother and various other family members. These tales of his peculiarities, talents and personal experiences keep him alive for me in the best way possible. And although I never really knew him, I feel happy to know that I have his nose, his love of dance and a bit of his preference for doing things "the right way". I never lived with his death only his life, moving on was never an issue.

My great-grandfather, on the other hand, died when I was a teenager. I barely knew him before I left Russia and by the time he came to the States, he was a confused, old man and I was a self-absorbed teen. So when he passed away, I didn't feel deep loss just the sense that someone I knew had died. I was sad but that pain was quickly forgotten as well as any underlying connection I had with him. There were few stories about him at family gatherings and we didn't visit his grave all too often. He left this world and, sad as it is to say, his memory left me as well.

There were other family members who've died but those deaths occurred overseas, back in Russia. And although, I may have loved these people and felt their loss deeply, the distance made for an easy bridge from grief-stricken to happy in the privilege of having known them.

And then my grandmother died. The woman whom I knew and loved in Russia and the States left this world and for a while I was frozen by grief. But time refused to stop and my world and life moved again. I began doing my thing, living my life but something was wrong, because whenever she came up in conversation, which was rare, a hush fell over the room and the mood turned somber. This wasn't the kind of moving on I wanted. I didn't want to forget her like I did my great-grandfather, not for the world! I wanted her memory alive and well just like my grandfathers; to be able to talk about her like we talk about him, as if he just stepped out of the room.

Talking, I realized, was the problem. I couldn't do it, not about her. Whenever I tried, I felt stabs of pain that time, even four years of it, didn't ease. So I tried to remember in more detail how my family dealt with my grandfathers death. And the one things that really stood out for me were the visits to his cemetery.

It was an immense place and I remember hot summer days walking the dirt road for quite a while before we reached his spot. The cemeteries in Russia are not just big expanses of land filled with 3' X 8' plots with headstones, they are filled with small rectangular lots with room enough for a grave, a place to sit, maybe even a tree. Each of these lots being separated by low fences. I clearly remember grandpa's being black wrought iron that we painted or touched up on our visits. We'd pull weeds, plant flowers and do general clean-up. There were many trips to the old fashioned water pump which was located at a main intersection of the dirt roads that made access to the multitude of graves possible. My sandled feet kicking up the yellow dust of the road and the pail banging against my leg, I made my way back and forth doing at least a small part in the upkeep of my grandfather's resting place.

When the work was done we'd gather around his grave to have a picnic. The conversation would flow freely from topic to topic but never too far from him. My grandma would mentioned how the two of them loved to dance and Mom would talk about how particular he was about his tea, mixing several loose leaf varieties to make his own special blend. I learned about how their cat, Pushka, adored him and my Mother was jealous. Pictures were painted for me of how, after his stroke, partially paralyzed, he would agonizingly shave his face so that I, then only a one year old, would not cry when he kissed me. It was as if in the physical labor of painting, weeding, planting and carrying water back and forth the grief left us with our sweat and we were left with the beautiful, funny and often heart-warming memories. And throughout the years, when we would gather for celebrations or simple dinners he was right there with us; the empty place in our hearts that was his dominion was not empty, it was filled with those wonderful thoughts and images.

But, I thought, when my kids and I stand at the foot of my grandmother's grave, surrounded by gravestones and a perfectly manicured landscape with no fences to paint, no weeds to pull and no plants to plant all we can do is feel her loss and ache for something to fill the void. There isn't that same sense of communion that I had when I was carrying that pail of water back and forth or sitting there with my family hearing all my grandfather's stories. And so our grief stays and our tongues remain still.

This is what I believed until a few weeks ago when my son and I were in the kitchen and he voiced his love of pickles and without thinking I piped up "You know, my grandma used to make great pickles herself." My son was surprised and asked "How?" The pain I felt at that moment was a revelation. In that instant I knew that no amount of weeding or painting around my grandmothers resting place would relieve the ache I felt. The problem, you see, was guilt. My grief over her death and my guilt over things I did and didn't do we inexorably tied together and to let go of one I'd need to let go the other. You see, the answer to my sons "How?" was an "I don't know." I had forgotten the recipe she gave me and I felt guilty.

I realize now that all this time her place in my heart hasn't been empty at all, it's been almost entirely consumed by my guilt for not visiting often enough, for not asking her about her history when I had the chance and for forgetting things she told or taught me.

The way to move on it seems is to look inward not outward, I now know it is I who stand in my own way, I who cause my own pain and only I who can forgive myself because grandma has long ago done so, she was that kind of woman. And so I release my guilt and with it my tongue.

My children will know the woman for whom I'm named. This amazing person who, as a child, survived World War II and as a young woman, an abusive marriage to become a single mother as well as a successful photographer. One who raised a strong and independent son and when her boy became my Mother's man moved on to find a good man of her own and become a mother again. For some this would have been quite a full life but not her, for when her son picked up and moved his family beyond the iron curtain, she not only made the process less painful by partially financing it but also set the wheels in motion to do the same and started a second life overseas.

These stories of courage, kindness, perseverance and laughter will not be buried along with their originator because this storyteller will not stay silent any longer.

I love you, Grandma.

Good Things

2007-10-22T15:03:00.001-04:00

Here are some things that make me happy about this time of year.

Sound of fallen leaves chasing my car as I drive along with the window down.
More sun bursting through the canopy of trees over the windows of my living room creating new and vibrant patterns on the floor and walls.
The smell of leaves after a good fall rain.
Seeing my kids' imaginations going full tilt with the planning of Halloween costumes.
Catching sight of a perfect red oak leaf being gently teased from a tree and released to the lawn below.
Getting up from under a warm blanket and feeling a refreshing chill in the air.
School being in full swing and finally being fully acclimated to the hectic schedule.
Changing the wardrobe. Putting away the shorts and tank-tops and pulling out the warm socks and long sleeved shirts.
The sheer beauty of the plethora of colors mother nature lets loose at this time of year.
Sunshine that doesn't scald the skin.

There are a bunch more but these are the ones that have been on my mind. Got some of your own? Put them in the comments.

Commentary 1 : Perfect Strangers

2007-10-13T18:12:00.001-04:00

I read a lot of blogs and sometimes the sheer number of things to go through overwhelm me. So when the onslaught of new entries is too much, I read just the titles and maybe the first sentence or two of each to see which ones I'll read fully. A few days ago I was doing just that and ran across this : Title : I Speak Jive First Line : "Oh, stewardess ... "

I felt a warm glow spread through me as I realized that the writer was at least in some way a kindred spirit, another fan of the movie Airplane. This type of thing has happened to me countless times on-line; reading a blog entry or a post in a forum that reveals to me a person who shares my tastes, attitudes or philosophies.

I have made quite a few friends this way. In the 5 or so years that I've been on-line socially I've made connections that are in many ways deeper and closer than those I have made with the people I've met face-to-face in the same time period. However, when I tell people about my on-line friends I get strange looks. And am asked, incredulously: "On-line? You are so close with people you met on-line?"

Every time I hear this or its equivalent I feel like howling with frustration. No matter what I say the reaction always seems to be the same : relationships that start on-line are somehow inferior.

I try to explain that these connections are predisposed to be more successful and lasting than those that begin face-to-face. Consider, the pool of potential friends; on-line everybody who's there socially, whether blogging or frequenting forums and message boards, are there to interact, to make a connection with other people whereas in the real world this pool is seriously limited by proximity; people at work, at the gym, at the library, at the coffee shop around the corner or those living in the neighborhood. There's also the added disadvantage that none of them are wearing a badge saying "I want to get to know you".

Another aspect of on-line superiority as an environment for making friends is the communities. Knitting, technology, soap operas, Leonardo DaVinci's inventions and the latest episode of Lost all have at least one community devoted to them, each having members from all over the world, in some cases numbering in the thousands. The real world simply can't compete!

Yet incredulity remains but I have to ask people to wonder : where is it more likely that an interaction turn into a connection that then turns into a friendship? On-line, where the folks involved already share common interests as well as the fact that all are looking to meet people and have people get to know them or face-to-face where the only thing the people have in common is their zip code and no one knows who's looking for what in an interaction?

Yes, I have made and will continue to make friends on-line and for those that still continue to say : "Surely, you can't be serious." I have only one answer : "Don't call me Shirley!"

Week 23 : Breakfast

2007-10-08T11:49:00.001-04:00

She stands in the kitchen, her hair's a mess and she's still in her pajamas. The ingredients for pancakes are on the counter and she's pulling out bowls and utensils, also there's a pan with sizzling sausages on the range. And I wonder how did I make a child that really likes to cook?

Don't get me wrong there are good cooks in our family it's just that there have been only a scant few who've loved to cook. So it surprises me to see both my kids, especially the youngest, display a love of cooking. But there she is, happily cracking an egg into a bowl, turning sausages and flipping pancakes.

The sausages are delicious and as I munch another pancake I thank Mother Nature for going back all those generations to dig up the genes that make my daughter remind me so much of my grandmother. I also wonder what other surprises are in store for me to discover about both my children.

Life is never dull when there are kids in the house!

Immigration 7: Profanity

2007-09-21T22:08:00.001-04:00

Being a Russian immigrant in 1977 was tricky. With the cold war raging, any reference to The Soviet Union carried with it the stench of the "evil empire" that needed to be nuked. Overall, however, people looked upon us, the immigrants, kindly. We were "good" Russians, we escaped, we clawed our way out from under a horrible, oppressive regime.

Youngsters, however, didn't appreciate the daring escape my family made from the USSR, they only saw commies. As such, I quickly learned the word and its relationship to me, at least in my schoolmates eyes. Other than that, however, I was blissfully ignorant of any and all venomous comments.

By 1979, two years of assimilation into the American culture left me with a decent grasp of the English language. However, I still lacked the nuances, idioms, double meanings and colorful expressions that would have marked me as truly proficient. For two years I was fairly unaware as pre-teen girls and boys practiced their developing vocabularies on me. I say "fairly" because although I didn't understand the words, their body language, tone and facial expressions filled in the gaps; I didn't need to be told when kids were saying something nasty, but it was nice to miss out on the deeper meanings of the words. Of course this made me a boring target and in time I was simply ignored as the girl who didn't understand. As you can guess, that was bound to change.

At the end of 1979 two things happened. First was something my Mother calls "Quantity into Quality". The quantity of the profanities I heard heralded the quality of my understanding. The other was another move. My Dad found a good job which was out of state so my family had to pack up and leave again. This meant I was to switch schools, this time mid-year, but not only that, I was also to become a thickly accented new kid from "the evil empire" ill equipped at verbal self-defense. And so my nightmarish existence from 9am to 3pm Mondays through Fridays began.

It was hell. I don't think I've ever experience that level of internal agony before or since and I hope I never will again. This time I understood every vicious comment, every vulgar innuendo, every profane word in the book. I understood everything and couldn't say a word in response. Anyone who has ever witnessed a verbal duel knows that the finesse and speed of the attack, perry and counter attack makes for an impressive display of language skills. And although I could converse easily and understood most "colorful metaphors" I was no Errol Flynn of the verbal hallway battles. I was more the clumsy Friar Tuck. By the time a classmate had attacked, hit her mark and walked away, I was just figuring out what was said.

This time I wasn't boring. Whatever my attackers saw in my face, after every successful stab and slash, they liked, for their attacks became more severe and more regular. Their taunts and vulgar references to my family, my origins and my self have left scars upon my memory and my being. Each school day at every opportunity, for three years, they took words and linked them together into chains and lashed me with them because they could, because I was weak, because it was fun.

No, I do not like profanity. To me foul language is just that, foul. It takes me back to a place I'd rather not be. I do realize, however, that such expression has its place. Without vulgar words and phrases "Catcher in the Rye" would not be nor would "American Idiot" rivet us to our speakers. Great books, great films and great music just would not be the same without the exclamation point that is the profane word.

"The pen is mightier than the sword". It is true, the word is a weapon, a powerful one and as any weapon, a lot depends on those who wield it. From the mouths of those sadists in training, profanity was used to demean and in some ways destroy me, in the hands of J.D. Salinger such language made me think and Eddie Murphys use of profanity had me laughing until it hurt.

There's little out there that carries with it as much power as the words we speak, and as Spider-Man's Uncle Ben put it : "With great power comes great responsibility."

Week 19: Frustration

2007-09-12T16:34:00.001-04:00

When I came up with this idea of Immigration Stories for the month of September I thought I'd space a few out over the month, maybe one a week, and that would be that. But then, in a mad rush, the stories spilled out and within a couple of weeks I had 5 or 6 stories up. I guess I needed to get them out for years and once the opportunity presented itself the words just came, flowing smoothly from my memory, to my conscious mind, down and out through my fingers.

But now I feel stuck. There are more stories clamoring for attention up in my skull but the words, when they come, are trite and don't feel right. I long to share more of my metamorphosis but I don't think I'm ready to do so. I've been trying but upon rereading some of the things I've written I'm assured that I should just walk away before I do some real damage to my own history. So for now, folks, I'm pausing this Immigration thing until the words start coming again and they actually sound and feel right!

Immigration 6: Lasting Effects

2007-09-08T17:47:00.001-04:00

The first phrase every foreigner learns when they come to America is "I don’t speak English." It is imperative. Whenever someone starts talking to you, all you have to do is utter those words and boom, as if by magic, the situation changes. The locals either smile understandingly and walk away or they try other ways of communicating using simple words and gestures.

There are also those who think that speaking loudly helps. In the time since my English has improved I’ve often wanted to find those folks and tell them that yelling doesn’t work and that they just need to slow down and enunciate. Of course I’d do it very, very loudly. I’m a little evil that way.

Well, anyway, the phrase gets drilled into your head because it’s used almost daily. After a while, however, the vocabulary gets built and there’s no need for it anymore. So it dies away or just lies dormant in a forgotten cobwebbed corner of your brain. Unless of course you’re me.

"I don’t speak English" I squeaked at the woman by the cash register, grabbed my purchase and bolted out of the store. My heart racing and ears ringing, I stopped right outside the door and leaned on the cool side of the building trying to get a grip on my panic. So I took stock of the situation. I was 24, I was on my honeymoon and I was in Ulm, Germany. Oh, and I spoke English very well; German, not so much.

What the hell was that?

I had to laugh! It was as if the last 14 years hadn’t happened at all. In that instant of panic the catch-all phrase appeared on my lips without thinking at all. Too bad, thinking would have been a good thing!

Shortly after my escape, my husband walked out, grinning at my sheepish red face and held up a paper bag.

"She only asked if you wanted a bag for that" he said pointing at the just purchased journal in my hands.

The Two Mishas

2007-09-07T09:08:00.001-04:00

Here they are. The one on the left is my Russian Misha and on the right is the American one.

Now I know that they don't look that much alike but to my 10 year old eyes they did. Of course my adult eyes saw the differences clearly. I had completely forgotten about Misha's suspenders and the size of his enormous head. I couldn't remember any of his scars or when he lost his nose. All of those memories are gone, just the love for his somewhat mangled form remains.

Immigration 5: Leaving Misha

2007-09-06T17:30:00.001-04:00

Part I : Leaving

There’s always a pain that is associated with any sort of leaving. Going to a new school means saying goodbye to long established friendships. Moving to a new town means saying goodbye to loved ones and leaving behind favorite haunts. But immigration from behind the iron curtain takes leaving to a whole new level.

We left everything and everyone forever. Remember, in 1977, there was no hint of the collapse of the Berlin Wall or Perestroika nor the dissolution of the USSR into Russia. In 1977 we knew with absolute certainty that we would never see the faces of lifelong friends, parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles or aunts ever again.

The decision having been made, the consequences were simply to be borne. So we prepared ourselves and our loved ones did the same. The one thing, however, I was not prepared for was the loss of not only my real family but also my imaginary one. All my toys, all my anthropomorphized stuffed animals, were to be left behind.

When survival depends on the contents of your suitcase you’d better believe teddy bears aren’t going to make it in.

So as we waved our goodbyes to all the tear stained faces of friends and family, I also waved goodbye to the inanimate forms of my daily companions. Elephants and bears, big and small were distributed among family and friends.

Part II : Misha

Mutual pain tends to bring people closer together and so it was with our, now tiny, family. The three of us clung to each other as if our lives depended on it .. which in all reality they probably did. Such intimacy allowed my parents to be very aware of my mental and emotional state and they were able to support me when I most needed it. And so it was that a few months after arriving in the states my parents knew that I needed a toy.

One day, walking the streets of New York, looking in all the colorful window displays we came across a toy shop. The display was loaded with teddy bears of all shapes, colors and sizes. But I didn’t see them, I saw only one. It was as if Misha, a blue and white teddy bear that my uncle had given me back in the Soviet Union, had crossed the ocean just to land in that window display for me to see.

To hear my Mother tell it, I let out a sound that carried with it the miles of separation from the toys I loved and had to leave behind. And so my parents took the precious, little spending money they had and bought their little girl a companion. And that is exactly what he has been. These thirty years have seen him absorb my tears, hear my laughter and suffer my wrath. He is that childhood toy that all of us have had and in some cases still have.

These thirty years have also seen walls demolished, Perestroikas flourish and The USSR become Russia. And so, distraught tear stained faces were seen again, now older, still tear stained but now adorned with ear to ear grins. Friends and family visited here and my parents visited there.

My Grandmother has made the trip on more than one occasion and a few years back, when she came, she brought someone along. I knew something was up as soon as I saw her. Her eyes held a secret and her expression was a bit mischievous as she pulled a blue and white teddy bear from his hiding place. I knew who it was at once! My beloved Misha, the thirty plus year ago gift from my uncle, one of the characters from my imaginary family that I, at one point, knew I would never see again.

It was truly a wonderful moment.

But there’s something no one knows, well not until now. I didn’t recognize him. Nothing about that lovely teddy bear was familiar! All I had left of him was the memory of my affection, nothing more. Time, it is said, heals all wounds. Somehow, though, in this particular instance, I wish it hadn’t done such an excellent job.

So now, my Russian and American Mishas share a shelf in my room, keeping an eye on me and mine. And I imagine that in the quiet of the night the bears exchange stories of the girl and woman who loved and loves them.

Immigration 4: Cappuccino in the Blue

2007-09-04T19:22:00.001-04:00

Visualize a warm summer day. You are on the island of Capri in the Mediterranean. The sky, blue with a few light clouds flitting about here and there. The wind, strong enough to be noticed but warm and in a strange way comforting. The sea air is not as refreshing as the Pacific nor as potent as the Atlantic, but it is soothing. You feel at peace.

Looking about, you realize you are standing on a cliff with the sea spread out in front of you, its color, the blue of brochures that you never believed possible, but it is. Behind you is a grassy field and off to the right there’s a little cafe. The establishment is non-descript but it does have a little patio with tables and chairs.

You focus on a table. Seated there is a man, across from him a little girl. He’s fairly young, late twenties, early thirties. She’s about 10 with shoulder length brown hair that is being messed about by the wind. They’re smiling and seem to be having a nice time. A waiter approaches, the man says something and hold up two fingers, the waiter nods and walks away as the man and girl continue their talk.

The waiter returns with two cappuccinos. One is placed in front of the man and the other in front of the girl. You smile because you realize that this is the girls first cappuccino. What’s the give away? She’s acting way too nonchalant, it’s funny, because for all her relaxed demeanor, her eyes are lit up like a couple of stars. She reaches for her drink with two cautious little hands, bringing it to her lips. It’s obvious she doesn’t know what to expect. Her first sip is experimental. She’s not sure if she likes it. She takes another sip and then she drinks and you know somewhere in her mind this moment is being imprinted in her memory. And you reflect on some of your own firsts.

Returning your attention to the pair you realize the table is now empty and the man with the girl who, you assume is, his daughter are nowhere in sight. Disappointed, your mind wonders. Perhaps they decided to go on an excursion. Perhaps to the Blue Grotto, somewhere beneath these cliffs?

Maybe, they’re getting into a small boat and begin moving along the warm waters of the Mediterranean. The girl’s nervous, the boat is small and a bit bouncy, her arm muscles are flexed as she keeps a vice-like grip on her seat. It’s likely that her heart is beating fast as the tiny boat approaches the ancient rock face with the gaping maw of the Grotto’s entrance. She’s probably a little afraid though her Father’s presence abates her fear a little. As they enter the cave, the temperature drops and she shivers and quivers in the dark. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes adjust. She blinks a couple of times as if giving her eyes the opportunity to remove the magical kingdom they decided to display, not believing that her vision was that of reality. The blue is a wonder. And her face breaks into a smile as she looks over at her Father whose face reflects her own joy.

Of course this is all your imagination, your mind creating stories out of a simple vision. It’s simply a perhaps. Or maybe it is not and the little girl, it is me.

Immigration 3: Squirrel

2007-09-03T13:18:00.001-04:00

Language. Learning one is always an experience. Whether in school, at home or in a foreign country, the process is basically the same. Study the words, practice the words, stick the words together to form basic sentences and move on from there. Emphasis is rarely placed on the order in which you study based on your need. If you have all the time in the world, well hey, study whatever you want, whenever you want. However, if you need to communicate in a few months ... it’s all about the verbs. You must have the verbs and basic expressions. You can always point and say "What is that" or "I need those". Pronouns pretty much take care of your missing vocabulary.

No one told us that.

As I mentioned earlier, it took us about 4 months to get to the states. We left the homeland in mid May and arrived here in mid/late September. We spent a few weeks in Austria and the rest of the time in Italy waiting for permission to come to America. They were pretty lazy months for me (no so much for my parents, but this isn’t about them, yet ;)). I had a bunch of free time and my folks wanted to make sure that I used some of it to learn English. So they got me a book and every day for at least a little bit I studied.

The Book was a simple picture book. You know the type. A big picture of whatever on one page and on the other, in big, block letters, the word identifying the whatever. There may be a few sentences using the word, maybe a few more pictures, not much more.

I would open The Book, look at the picture and do my best to read the word. Boy, was easy enough, Dog too; Cat was a bit tougher. A C sounding like a K was a little strange but Dad helped and I got it ... sometimes in English Cs sounded like Ks. Weird, but I could handle that. And so on, I would randomly pick a page, recognize the picture, try and read the word and then keep repeating it over and over until I felt I got it.

One day I flipped open The Book and saw an animal. One that I knew from home, it was a cute little creature with it’s dark eyes, short reddish brown fur and an enormous fuzzy tail extending up and over its head, in its tiny paws it held a nut. It sat there on the page looking all sweet and innocent. It was a belka or belochka in the childish diminutive. A simple word, couldn’t be anything tough to pronounce. My eyes moved over to the word and immediately crossed. If I had known any profanity back then, I would have used it. S.Q.U.I.R.R.E.L. You have got to be kidding me!

I sat there, mouth agape for a little while, my eyes moving back and forth over the series of letters, trying to get at least my brain to grasp how their sounds would flow from one into the other seamlesly. It looked impossible. So I started slow. I tried the S and Q. That was doable so I added the U. A bit tougher, the jaw complained but I kind of got it. I felt that maybe this was actually going to work, maybe my parents were right. Just break it down, take it slow and I'll get it. So, brazenly, I threw in the I. HA! My jaw refused to cooperate. I tried again and again and again. My face had never gone through such contortions even when I was TRYING to make faces! If YouTube had existed back then my hillarious attempts at pronouncing the word may have made quite amuzing little videos ... I may have become a star. After a while I gave up and brought "The Book" to Mom for help, then to Dad ... we were all stumped.

I moved on to other words but I still occasionally flipped back to the page with the rodent. I mean, honestly, YOU try it. Really try to say the word as it is written ... can you honestly tell me that you can get your jaw to move from the U to the I without complaint? Now, of course, I know that SQUIRREL is actually pronounced SKWERL. I also know that the word has Greek and Anglo-French roots and in my heart of hearts I know that it must have been some sort of sadistic psychopath living in 1327 who took that innocuous U and followed it up by that ridiculous I!

To this day seeing the word "squirrel" sends small little shivers down my spine and my jaw spasms a bit just at the memory of those contortions. And the cute little belochka with its innocent black eyes and adorable tiny paws? It has a new name in my household. It's a Rat with a Fuzzy Tail.

A couple of links about those rodent things ;) Russian Squirrel pack "kills dog" ... Yeah, right LOL Pics ... if you don't see enough of those things in your neck of the woods :) Wikipedia

Immigration 2: Tom & Jerry

2007-09-02T19:40:00.001-04:00

I was going to write about, well it doesn't matter. I sat down in front of my laptop to write and turned on the tube and what did I see? Cartoon Network showing old eps of Tom and Jerry Cartoons. That sent my mind on a completely different track. So now it's a post about Tom and Jerry.

After a few difficult months in the states, my Dad found a steady job, we found a decent apartment in a neighborhood with a lot of other immigrants, and life seemed to start settling. It was still difficult but there were others around who could help or at least sympathize in our own tongue. There were kids to play with and the language was starting to come so there was even the ability to play with American kids.

But what did I do in those first few difficult months? Did I play games? Umm, no, there was no one to play with, I couldn't communicate. Did I play outside? Are you kidding? What kind of Mother would send her 10 year old little girl out when she didn't even know how ask for help, didn't know the neighborhood and the neighborhood, well, that wasn't all that nice either. Of course Mom took me out but she didn't speak any English either. Did I play with my toys? Did I mention that we came only with a few suitcases? What toys?

My world revolved around my Mom and Dad, our radio, which we brought with us, and our first major purchase, a $20.00 (a lot of money for us back then) used, black and white portable Zenith television set. I remember it had a gray plastic case and a whitish plastic handle on top, the screen was pretty small but it still worked and that was what mattered. The thing none of us, I think, were prepared for was that living in a foreign country didn't permit us to relax, ever. Want to listen to music? Can't understand a word ... gotta concentrate. (I should mention that I clearly remember hearing Hotel California on the radio, not understanding a word and loving it none the less!) Check the mail? Need a dictionary. My Dad did that every night, took every piece of mail (most of it junk) grabbed the dictionary and sat there half the night translating. He worked so incredibly hard to learn English! Go outside? All signs and sounds are foreign ... gotta think about everything, gotta concentrate. Read a book? You're kidding, right? Watch TV? Hah! Unless of course the program doesn't have any spoken words.

Hello Tom and Jerry! What a joy it was to find that show! Simple, brainless and so wonderfully relaxing. What's funny is that I think that show helped me with my English a bit. Even though there isn't much spoken language, there's a fair amount of written, in big, block letters. Great for little kids as well as foreigners trying to learn English. I watched The Electric Company as well and loved it but still, it was Tom and Jerry that was truly pure entertainment and what ten year old doesn't need that every once in a while?

Immigration 1: Bubble Gum

2007-09-01T12:16:00.001-04:00

It took my family about 4 months to get to the states. And a year or two to get completely settled. That time for me was marked by primarily 2 emotions : confusion and anxiety. I experienced others as well: awe, joy, fear, excitement. Those, however were in the minority.

I started school in America ~3 weeks after arriving here. As you can guess, I didn't speak the language other than a few words here and there. The first days of school were confusion and I honestly don't remember them. As school started becoming routine memories start surfacing ... most of them, not so good but there's one, one that I truly cherish. It's the one with the bubble gum.

We were living in the city and my school didn't really have a playground, just the "black top" in front of the building. We lived in an apartment right across the street so I walked to school and gathered, with the rest of the "walkers", on the "black top" before classes started. I stood alone, not being able to talk to anyone, watching the rest of the kids play, chat, point at me and laugh. I can't say it was all that fun but there was nothing (I felt) I could do about it.

One day, a boy approached me. He was about my age, a little chubby and he was chewing gum. He said something. I had no clue what. He said something more and held out his hand palm up. On his palm was a small rectangular shape wrapped in white paper with colorful writing on it. I looked from it, to him. He smiled and stretched his arm out toward me as if to tell me to take the wrapped item. I smiled back but shook my head "no". I wasn't sure what was the appropriate behavior for such a situation in America. So many things here were done differently from what I was used to.

The next couple of days, the same thing happened until finally I figured out that he was offering me bubble gum. I really liked Bubble Gum. The next day I accepted. He tried talking to me and I tried talking to him and he continued every once in a while to come over and offer me Bubble Gum and always with that very kind smile. After a few months, things changed, and we were separated. I never saw him again ... but I will never forget his kindness to a lonely, scared little girl.

Looking back at that memory what strikes me the most is how scared I must have been. I actually don't remember the fear but I must have been terrified. The picture I have in my head of his approach, slow and gentle, his face in a very non-threatening smile, his arm stretched out, palm up ... as if feeding a wild animal. I must have been quite the site, might explain all the other kids pointing and laughing. But not him.

By the way, I still love Bubble Gum :)

Week 18c : Preface

2007-09-01T11:06:00.001-04:00

Thirty years is a long time. And it has been 30 years. It's hard for me to believe that September of 1977 marked our arrival in the states with basically nothing more than a couple of suitcases. My parents must have been insane, and I thank them daily for it.

This time of year is when I actively reminisce about the immigration. I remember snapshots, not the day to day events, my brain just isn't wired that way for some reason. And since the immigration is on my mind anyway I've decided to post about it as well. So be prepared, this month will be the month of posts about teddy bears, marbles, bicycles, bubble gum, impossible to pronounce words, the Pioneers, first crushes and all such silly stuff that a 9/10 year old would remember.

Stay tuned :)

Week 18: The Blues

2007-08-27T09:52:00.001-04:00

This post isn't about fandoms/comics/x-men or anything along those lines. I chose the icon 'cause I love "Beast a.k.a. Dr. Hank McCoy" and well, he's ... blue ;) This is more of a gratitude post.

I want to thank all those people who put music on their sites for download. I get so much out of all that music! Some I like, some not so much. It's all exposure though and I love it because there are times when I fall in love! *sigh*

A while back someone made Peggy Lee's "Black Coffee" available. I listened, and although I enjoy The Blues/Slow Burn type singing it didn't strike me as great. A few weeks later I listened to it again, then again a few months down the road. And love developed. I really loved that song.

The iTunes store beckoned and "The Best of Miss Peggy Lee" is in my "Blues/Vocal" play list keeping company with Nina Simone, Billie Holliday, Ella Fitzgerald, Michael Buble, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Etta James and Natalie Cole.

I'm grateful for the introduction to a new songstress as well as for reinvigorating my admiration of that genre of music which resulted in moving that play list into heavy rotation on the 'puter and iPod.

So thank you, very much. *smooch*