View from the Russian Front

By happenstance, we found ourselves in St Petersburg,  Russia shortly before Thursday, May 9, 2013, in the celebration for Russians for the end of the Great Patriotic War and what we call the “Siege” of Leningrad" and the Russians called “the blockade”, carried out by the Nazis during World War II.  Over a million people died, in the town designated then as Leningrad.  Hitler, determined to starve the Russians, did not succeed, and the city survived and marched on. And, with the l989 revolution, retrieved its original name. 

It was a time of ceremony, marches by the various military branches, including the veterans of World War II, and a time of the gathering of thousands on the streets.

We were there too, a day before, trying to find an entrance to the Hermitage among yellow barricades, set up to allow the military to practice in the magnificent square where a statue of Peter the Great towers from above. Young and old , military personnel in uniform stood in groups, waiting to march to designated positions.

And on the day of the parade on May 9th, we joined the ceremony and at first were a little apprehensive, many “what if’s” going through our heads, but then seeing families, children hoisted on shoulders to see over the crowds, couples, and an unobtrusive police presence, we relaxed in the event. Everyone likes a parade.  Lots of music, lots of noise, and lots of good will.  We too saluted those who fought, and were aware from a reprinted article in the St. Petersburg Times, that over 500,000 Jews served in the Russian Army during World War II.  Who would have known that?  We felt privileged to be able to honor all of those who served.

And when it was over, we walked with a huge crowd through a very narrow fence entrance into the park to leave, and again we felt hemmed in  and thought “what if, so close to all these people,” but we all shuffled forward through the narrow opening, and out, and everyone as the Brits would say, behaved splendidly.

Fireworks at night over the river, at l0 pm, barely getting dark as white nights approached, crowned the evening.  Men in their twenties feeling no pain, drank their way through the evening cheering each set of fireworks, with a loud hurrah, and made it even more fun for us.  We were two of very few Americans in a crowd of thousands. 

The fireworks over, we headed back to the Petro Palace, our hotel  on Nevsky Prospect, enjoying the night air, and the feeling that we were a part of an important memory about the evils of the past, the loss of soldiers and those who died in the blockade, and the recognition of the survivors  and the possibilities of goodness and good will in the present and future.

A Letter from Panama City July 9, 1965

                              A LETTER FROM PANAMA CITY
                                                    July 9, l965

Dear Shirley,

You won't believe the turn
Our vacation has taken.
              
Out in the middle of nowhere,
Your sister Janet was her usual self.

Five-- Janet and I plus three men,
Rubbed sweaty shoulders,
Swayed and bounced on cracked leather
Across tree roots and over muddy hollows,
Hearing sloshing against the wheels
Feeling the car, leaving the road
(Such that it was).

Juan (who spoke Spanish) unshaven,
In a white t-shirt, old brown corduroys,
Drove us into the dark forest.

Around a tight turn was a Quonset hut,
Battered automobiles, vintage l950's
Parked.  Not in rows.
Scattered over a clearing
With piles of debris shoved
Toward the edges.

I checked my gold watch. 
Expedition time so far: Two hours.            
The men (one of them also knew Spanish)
Handed Juan money. 
Another paid more.

The cab sidled in next to other rusted heaps.
The driver led us inside.  .  
There, silhouettes, silent for seconds in the smoke
Hunched over a long bar.
             
Shirley, you know how Janet argues
About every little thing.
She's not known for sailing
Through the rough and tough times of traveling
Without a to-do about something. 



So Janet decides she wants to sit "way over there,"
Way past all the men at the bar who then
Had the chance to give us
The once and twice over.
              
We crossed the squeaky wooden floor slowly.
Men, white teeth, high cheekbones, dark skin,
Older, maybe in their thirties, good-looking.
(You know how some Spanish men are).
But there were others--
Not the kind you'd want to come home to.

The three businessmen came after us.

We sat down at the first knife-gouged table.
Chairs swayed too easily.  I am not that heavy,.
But before I knew it, I was on the floor
Being helped up by the three men
Who came with us and Juan.

My white linen suit was smudged with dirt
And when I sat in a different chair--
(I sat on the edge of the seat)
My sleeves picked up dirt from the table.             

Ron, the Spanish-speaking Canadian, in our group,
Ordered five beers.  The beer came in bottles,
Wet, with labels coming off, 
Opened at the table.  No glasses. 
They were used to Americans.
              
The taxi cab driver hunched over,
Whispering to Billy Bob,
A thirty-five year old man from Texas cattle country.
Billy Bob laughed, pulled out a fifty dollar bill,
and said, "Let's go to the back."

The men pushed back their chairs.  More squeaks.
An empty chair fell over.  They weren't made that well.
              
Being agreeable, to the men I said, "OK," and Janet,
Being Janet, said,  "I like it here.  That's nice music."
It wasn't nice music.  A scratchy record
Over a loudspeaker.  You could hardly
Make out the words of "Mr. Sandman."
Not stereo.  Hadn’t reached the jungle yet.
              
I dragged Janet, and we followed
The three men, (the other man was Sheldon
From New York, fabric business)
Down a long passageway.
Bits of dusty plaster covered a stained red carpet.
Walls had holes with chicken wire showing through.
From old fights, maybe.

          
Perfume floated through the hallway.
We walked past shut doors without doorknobs.


The three men stooped, then disappeared
Through a low doorway.  Janet and I were
Close behind.  One light, I mean light bulb,
Hung from a cord in the center of the room.

We sat down, up against a wall.                   
The words of Mr. Sandman muffled behind thin walls.
We were gathered together in a row.
Facing pink. 

Pink walls met a pink carpeted floor.
The chairs, upholstered but soiled,
Had pink flowers embroidered over holes.
The door on the other side of the room
Glowed bright pink.  

The most obvious and important pink
Was the round bed in the middle.
Pink sheets, pink pillowcases,
Pink satin blanket, (looked hot to me),
Ruffle pink.  Overpinked.
                                                           
Janet wasn't speaking.  She had settled
Into a wobbly card table chair.
The men weren't making any conversation.
They sat. Quiet.  We all sat. Quiet.
Mr. Sandman scratched on and on
I played with the zipper on my purse,
Running it back and forth.

A woman's voice laughed from behind a closed door.
That made me jump..
Janet still hadn't said anything to me.
She seemed content.                        
              
I whispered to Ron, sitting on my other side,
"What's going on?"

“We have about a few minutes to wait,
Then it will start,” he said.

I turned to Janet and whispered,.
"Don't you think we ought to wait in the bar?"

She sat there, ignoring me..
I leaned closer and touched her arm..

"Janet, I think we ought to wait in the bar."

              
"No, let's just stay here for a few more  minutes," she said.
 (Is Janet dense or what?  She's your sister, Shirley.)

I said, "Janet, I'm going back to the bar,
And I think you should come with me."

Reluctantly, she began to listen to me.
Behind the door, the woman's voice
Was joined by a man's.            
              
I pulled Janet up, mumbling to the men,
About hunting for a bathroom.  I hauled Janet
Out.  I heard the other door open.
Two voices, male and female, entered the pink room.

But we were down the hallway.
Janet, being Janet, yelled at me
For pulling her away from the show. 
               
Back in the bar, we sat at the same table.
A man came up and pinched my arm.
Janet didn't see it.  She was looking at a man
At the bar who was looking at her.

"The music is romantic, " Janet said.

"Janet, we're leaving,"  I said.
"Not without the men," she said.
“We can`t leave them out here
 In the middle of nowhere."
              
Juan appeared from the passageway
And leaned over us. Obviously,
Having drunk more than beers.                                                                                      
He led us to the cab, put us in the back seat,
And, in very clear English, said,
"Stay put. Not safe."

The windows were open.
He locked the doors.
              
Expedition time: Four hours.

The men came out.
They didn't say anything
About anything.  They made small talk
And joked about women always having
To go to the bathroom.
 
Janet said she wouldn't speak to me
For the rest of the cruise.
She said I ruined her
Trip.  She's just not used to traveling,
Being ready for whatever happens.
Like I am.           

If Janet doesn't talk to me
There are plenty of other people
To talk to.  We have about six days
And three hours left on our cruise.
With or without Janet talking.                
     
See you when I get back.
              
Love from south of many borders,

Eve
              
                          

JULY

Eleventh is a poem called "July," which first appeared in Mirabelle's Country Club for Cats & Other Poems (1986) through my Riverstone Press imprint.

                                                           JULY

In July,
Fireworks!
Independence Day
For the U.S.A.
Also Bastille Day.

We picnic beside the
Old, funny-shaped  tree.
The shade keeping us cool.
The dog out-of-breath
From chasing a bumble bee.

And me,
With my fishing pole,
Wondering if
The fish
Are on holiday too.

CHASING THE PAST

                                                 

                                                      
         She knelt among the hillside flowers
         And touched the bachelor buttons.
         Quiet blues that stretched
         To the mountains before her.

         Above the mountains,
         Low clouds hung
         Out of balance
         With the sky,
         And drifted
         Over pine forests,
         To the camouflaged past 
         Of deer, elk, mountain lion and bear,

         Where hunters, dressed in skins,
         Crouched, waiting for the hunt to begin.

KEEPING BEES: THE GOOD NEWS AND THE BAD NEWS IN IDAHO

                               

    I have always been afraid of bees.  When my sister was younger, she was stung by a bee. Highly allergic, she developed a huge paw for a hand.  It took days for the swelling to go down. The next year, I was stung on my arm, an unfortunate, unplanned rite of passage.  I too had a swollen area around the stinger.  So when my husband decided that bees would be a fine addition to our back to the land of five acres and no independence in Idaho, I was skeptical of being around hundreds of bees.  But if you love honey and you make a commitment to the land, then you try things that maybe you ought to have left alone.

    “You’ll have to do all work with the bees yourself,” I said.

    “What’s to do,” he said.  “All you do is put the hives out there.  The worker bees do all the work, and then you get honey.”

    Five books later, three hives later, and with puffs from our smoker, a safari hat with a bee veil over it, long-sleeved shirts, Levis, and boots, we harvested our own honey.  We were full-fledged bee keepers.

    “Oh look,” I said,  as we drove around Idaho. “There’s ten hives, look there’s twenty.”

    We noticed the white hive boxes set in farmers’ fields. Our perception of what was important had changed, with bees becoming part of our back to the land and beyond dreams.  But it was not always easy.

    During the heat of one summer, when we were gone from what my father called the Lazy S Ranch,  some of the bees decided, for whatever reason, to get out of their own private Dodge, and head to a new home.

    A call came to us in Los Angeles from our neighbor, who was taking care of our home.

    “I have some good news and some bad news, “ he said
.
             Ah, I wanted the good news first.

    “You have another swarm of bees for a hive,” he said.

    “Excellent,” I said.

    Our neighbor didn’t say anything.

    “What’s the bad news?” I asked.

    “Well,” he said, then paused for the longest time.  “They’re in your fire place wall and inside your living room.”

      Uh-oh.

    When we returned home, we slowly approached the outside wall of the fireplace.  We could hear a humming behind the brick.  We didn’t want to go inside, but then, well, you can’t let bees be in control of your life, so we opened the door.  Those bees that had managed to forage out into the living room were lost and lonely, wandering around looking for flowers, thunking against windows.  Or dead on the floor.

    We couldn’t get that hive out without taking the fireplace apart, so we had to kill those bees with pesticides, and  the ones inside perished by our hand with a fly swatter.   As a city dweller, I didn’t do well with this survival motif of the ranch, and the killer of bees mentality that we had to adopt.

     The fourth hive arrived shortly after that incident.  My husband became the “go-to” man that the fire department or police called “ to come and get this swarm of bees.” He would arrive dressed in a suit and tie, from an office job and took off his coat. One Saturday, kids circled around.

    “Hey, he’s going after those bees without any protection,” one of boys said.  They nudged each other, getting close, but not too close to all those bees.

    From the trunk of our old l976 car, my husband pulled a hive body, walked over to the tractor seat where the bees had gathered in a swarm and gently, oh so gently, I am sure, gathered the bees into the box, and put the lid on.  We had hive number four.

    Other bee adventures defined their place in our universe.  Once a truck loaded with bees overturned on a major highway in Idaho.  Bees filled the air, but not as a swarm comfortably flying together.  With windows up, we passed that scene as fast as we could.

    The  next bee event was the task of getting the honey and comb from the hives.  We wheel-barrowed the honey and comb the seven hundred feet back to our house.  Our hair, our arms, and clothes were touched by honey.  And finally the kitchen, where we ended up, was sticky as well. It was the best honey.

    The final encounter with bees was one we never anticipated.  The humming hives went through a nice fall--the bees coming and going every day.  We’d left enough honey for their winter, but we had no clue about the impact of the heavy snow on the hives or the toll it would take on the bees. Ten inches of wet snow covered the hives and the snow blew up against their entrance and exit ramp. They were sealed in.  Gone, they were.  Nothing to be done.  You can’t go through having live beings die around you and not feel something.  So no more bees.
 
    We began buying our honey from beekeepers in rural Kuna – delicious clover honey first, then honey from sage.  Mmmmm.  Tasted important to us then, after knowing that bees had spent their lives making it.