Yuliya's Father's Cottage Part 1

The ride to the country is uneventful Except that I feel a little like A man riding inside a cannon ball. Yuliya's father Igor drives I'm also up front (the honored guest) While Yuliya, her mom, and brother Fill the back of the small station wagon As we hurtle along roads unfamiliar to me. There are fewer potholes than in Leningrad And no pedestrians to be afraid for Though Russian drivers seem not to care (As if car ownership sets one apart) . Spring is a lush green here as we leave Flatter open spaces and fields near town And enter a more rolling terrain Forested by trees planted for lumber With patches that are clear cut, Like a crowd chopped down by machine guns. The war relics and memorials that mark our passage Remind us that this is a road won by Russian blood And not man's sweat alone. We leave the main road And the pavement narrows, then disappears. The car vibrates to the familiar corrugations Of soft dirt sculpted by rubber tires. We cross the bumpy trestle of a train In a country village with a rustic platform That signals a return to a simpler life For commuters or holiday travelers. The pavement returns briefly And we stop at a small shop. Bread, I discover, tastes better in the country. Soon we leave even the dirt road for a trail More passable to people than to cars. Small cottages pass on both sides, Some are tightly shuttered as if asleep, Others sport a wisp of smoke from their chimneys Or a colorful smile of clothing Hung on a string between trees. But one must drive slowly For the road is not maintained Except by the hands of those who live here, This rural community it seems Has no Public Works Department. Before I'm ready, we have stopped And I realize we are 'home.' I like the little house at once, It has no desire to be what it is not. I imagine that it is winter - How quickly would its rooms be warmed By the simple wood burning range. In a scene from a favorite Russian film - Yuliya and I step from the troika Alone like Zhivago and Laura. The house is piled high with snow, The horses' breath surrounds us like a cloud. The little stove lights quickly and Our bodies absorb its heat like a sponge. Content, we pour the excess on each other... And dream that we will be safe till Spring. A picket fence surrounds the house, Adds value to the yard it shields. I've always liked a picket fence, They have unique integrity - A stranger always can look through And can, of course, also be seen. Still, such a fence handles the task Of telling others where they stand. Igor unlocks the gate And as we open up the house He moves the car inside. The cottage has been newly purchased. Igor is happy to have found it, Proud that it belongs to him. Yuliya and her brother Sergei Are less excited, their friends are far away. The building looks sound and has two heated rooms - A kitchen and a living / sleeping room. A glassed in porch affords some extra space Especially for our spring time trip. It has electric power and lights And yet, conveniences are few. The only water is an outside spigot (Located near the door) With a bench where dishes can be washed. Water is stored indoors in milk cans As water only flows during certain hours. A wood burning stove is the only heat Though a propane burner helps with the cooking. The yard slopes down to a corner Where Igor has parked the car. This is also where the outhouse And a small shed for storage are located. A lean-to in back of the house Holds split wood for the stove. An orchard and a terraced yard reveal Another gardener has loved this place Though many of the plants, Fruit trees, and shrubs need care, A weeded patch of strawberries, New flowers, and some cultivated shrubs Suggest the family will be good stewards. In speaking of the previous owner Yuliya tells me in passing that His children do not live in Russia, And somehow this explains his absence. Still I think kindly of the man And hope another garden knows his touch. Brian Johnston Part 1 of 2: A trip to the Russian countryside in 1990