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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
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