STUCK IN BEOGRAD (Belgrade)

In 2005/06 I was part of a University of Kentucky team teaching Community Development in Rural Serbia. My most precious extension memories were created during the time I spent in Serbia. This shares some of those memories. I have lots of others.

            I looked out the window of the taxi and wondered if I would 
ever see the Beograd Fortress again. Built in the third century B.C. Kalemegdan, guardian of the city, sits high on a hill overlooking the confluence of the mighty Danube and Sava rivers.  My co-worker, Ron, and I left the Belgrade Hyatt Regency at 4:00 am Sunday morning to board a plane home after teaching community development workshops in Eastern Serbia, a land where the English language is spoken by few.

           On the motion of the attendant I stepped to the check in counter reaching her my passport and tickets. “Liquids?” she asked. I traded liquids for my boarding pass.

 I asked for my passport and tickets. “I gave them to you. You cannot leave the country without passport” she said and called for the next passenger.

Ron and I frantically removed every item, one at a time, from my bag. The passport was not there. We dug through trash cans and around the desk with no success.

“I think they fell on the luggage conveyor” I said to her.

“Not possible” was her reply “search your bags; I gave them to Mister. You cannot leave Serbia without your passport”.

          Over and over again airport personnel asked us to look one more time in our bags. With each search I asked them to follow the baggage and see if they were on or beside the conveyor belt. They refused.

          A uniformed officer approached us “look in your bag” he said.

          “I’ve looked. It isn’t there. You look” I told him trying to stay calm.

          Airport security brought my checked luggage to a secure place to be searched. Ron was not allowed to accompany me inside the area.

          “It isn’t here” I said, “I know it must have fallen off the counter onto the conveyor belt, will you please look”. My body was trembling from head to toe. I certainly did not want anyone else to tell me “you cannot leave the country without your passport”.

          My guide escorted me back to the large empty waiting room. I looked for Ron but he wasn’t there. The pounding of my heart echoed off the blank walls. There were no

 windows. The stench of yesterday’s cigarette smoke filled the cool air. I felt trapped. “Your friend got on the plane to America”, She said.

          Tears wanted to spill out of my eyes but I held them back. How could he leave me here alone? A cold shiver captured my body and held on tight. “No” I said.

“Yes, the plane has left”, She said. “there is nothing else I can do; I must return to my post”.

Silently I spoke to myself. “Stay calm, Gwenda. You have to depend on her. Be nice. Don’t break down now. Eyes please hold the tears. Mind, stay strong choose your words wisely”. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and asked for God’s guidance. It seemed someone else was speaking the slow calculated words coming from me. “I had my passport when I got to the airport. I gave it to the attendant otherwise she wouldn’t have given me my boarding pass. My passport has to be in the airport”.

She pivoted several times on her red spiked heel as if she was looking for someone. “Come with me”.

My legs were rubber as I followed her through a maze of long halls with blank cold walls, turning corner after corner. An elevator took us to another floor. It seamed as if we walked miles through hallways, up and down stairs, round and round. Then we entered a room with only a desk, two chairs and a telephone, no flowers, no pictures. She dialed the phone and spoke in her native language. All I could understand was American and passport. Soon she guided me through security doors, past guards and down more hallways until we got to another office.

A man with unruly hair and three days stubble slouched in a chair behind a desk. “Anyone in America can FAX your passport” He growled in broken English.

It was midnight at home. I felt myself sinking into the chair hugging my backpack as if it were a long lost friend.

My mind was held captive in a dark locked room. I couldn’t think. I had no money, no where to stay and no way to contact my Serbian friends on a Sunday. Home was so far away.

At the moment my tears were ready to flood my face, a tall slender man in a security uniform came into the office. He was smiling as if he had won the lottery. Stress had seized my ability to control my emotions. Tension inside me wanted to lash out at someone, anyone. I wanted to scream at him for laughing at me. The three of them talked in Serbian and laughed. I thought he was going to take me away. To jail maybe? Then he smiled at me and pulled an envelope from his pocket; he had found my pass port and tickets!!!

My fear turned to relief. I crashed. My head thumped the desk like an apple falling from the top of the tree to the ground. Uncontrollable tears likened to a flash flood on a mountain stream poured across my face. My hands trembled. I remember babbling some forms of “thank you” and eternal gratitude.  The man behind the desk said “you need drink?  I think so? I think you need drink. I think Vodka?” he said holding a bottle in his hand. They drank the vodka, I accepted a bottle of Voda Voda, a Serbian brand of bottled water.

          The airport arranged for next day flights, a room at the Hyatt (at my expense) and gave me a ride to the hotel. It’s a good thing charge cards are universal. The next morning, the hotel furnished transportation to the airport. Everyone, from the bell boy to the flight attendant, made sure the American had her passport.

          I won’t let the passport experience cloud the beautiful memories of my work in the Stara Planina region of Eastern Serbia. I went there a stranger from a foreign land to teach them what small towns and communities in America are doing to help the economy. Many years ago Belgrade needed people to work in the factories. The government encouraged young people to move from the villages to the city. They offered good jobs and good education. The villages are dying now. Some have as few as nine people living in them. Young professionals want to revive their homes. We talked. Now the people are my friends. I’m one of them. Our languages were strange to each other, but as a person, they understood me. I’ve climbed their mountains and walked along their rivers. I’ve experienced Mother Nature’s endless beauty.

I shared their laughter and felt their sorrow. I heard them cry from deep within their soul “our villages are dying, we have to save them; we have to keep what is old.

We must save them to honor our mothers and fathers; so our children will be safe as they grow.

          My friends have a vision and a passion to build a future laced with gold. That gold is a culture—a way of life for people who love to live and live to love. It’s a world filled with wildflowers, butterflies, birds and free spirits; of children laughing and learning; growing and sharing.

          From Stara Planina in Eastern Serbia to the Appalachian Foothills of Eastern Kentucky, we share a dream – a dream for a better and happier tomorrow.

          These people, my friends, my comrades they stand strong and determined with a will that won’t be shattered. This will, this power, this dedication will make their dreams come true. And I, I am a better person for knowing them. For learning from them.

          . 

MOM'S QUILTS

           Spinning motors are the only sound in the house. No one here but me and my memories, some precious some haunting. Outside thousands of white crystals fall without making a sound. Like a child running around with mouth open and tongue out,  the limbs of the walnut, sycamore and poplars reach out to catch the fluffy snow flakes. They pile up on winter's cold ground turning the yard into a Christmas Card Scene.

            The stillness takes me back to a small four roomed shack off a dirt road where a mom and dad raised nine children. Mom's winter chores included stitching remnants of worn out jeans and denim shirts together to make quilts. You won't find tiny stitches or a pattern in those cozy quilts she made. Their purpose was function only, they were made to keep us warm. Time and energy didn't allow her to create a work of art with tiny pieces and perfect little stitches. Most of her time was given to the needs of the family and the farm. She chose the best of the worn out threads and sewed them together by hand. The squares and rectangles and triangles were matched by weight and color, all of them, shades of blue

            Her quilt frame was another tool of necessity, made by her father. It  hung from the ceiling between two beds in the "front" room. The edges of the beds became benches for those who worked on the quilt. At night it was rolled to the ceiling for storage. There wasn't much space in that tiny house. She layered her work of love just like the works of art others made and entered into the county fair. The materials she used to put the quilts together were different than today and probably different from that used by most people back then. She first fastened the lining to the frame, "outing" or flannel, she purchased with money from selling eggs. To replace expensive padding, she used a second hand army blanket for warmth. The top was that conglomerate of recycled shades of worn blue jeans, memories of the family's clothes they once wore with pride even though they were handed down by family and friends.

            Making the quilt, like most things, was a family project. Mom would make the stitches using a darning needle.  With heavy tacking thread she made a large stitch then a small one then another large one. The large stitches were cut in the center and tied into a knot over the small stitch, a process called tacking. My older sisters, Garnett, Linda, and Loretta would tie the knots. Mom made me feel important by letting me sit under the quilt and push the needle back through to the top when she was making the stitches. "Make sure you hold it straight" she would say to me. Underneath the hanging quilt, well, that was a hide out for the younger ones, a place to keep them busy and safe while everyone else worked.

            Mom's quilts were to keep us warm in that tiny house where the cracks were stuffed with rags before the walls were papered. Old Man Winter welcomed himself inside. Mr. North Wind would find cracks around windows and accompany Old Man Winter into our home. They brought Freezing Ice with them. He lined the edge of the windows and made them glisten like diamonds in the morning sun. Fluffy feather beds and piles of mom's quilts kept us warm. The enticing aroma of perking coffee and baking biscuits woke us in the mornings. We weren't cold. The wood burning cook-stove in the kitchen and the cast iron pot bellied stove in the "front" room had roaring crackling fires. We gathered around them and got dressed for the day.

            After Papaw Burkes died, Granny came to live with us. Mom had a bit more time because most of her children were grown with homes of their own. Granny's age and health kept mom close to the house. The old shack with stuffed cracks and holes in he floor had been replaced with a new home, much warmer, much bigger, and much more comfortable. Mom had more time to do what she wanted to. She wanted to piece a Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt. Linda and I made sure she had the fabric she wanted. Yellow for the center of the flower, tiny prints of pink, blue, lilac, and purple to surround the yellow for the petals of the flower and grass green for its leaves. It was the most beautiful quilt top I had ever seen, and still is today. The corners were perfectly matched and each tiny piece exactly the same size. Years after she pieced it, mom gave me that flower garden top. A very special person, Della Adkins hand quilted it. Now, It hangs in my home as a precious piece of art.

            Last year Mom created a pattern and made a quilt for her son-in-law who was very ill. She pieced it by hand. There wasn't a room full of children working on this one. Instead it was Mom and Dad, side by side, working together. Mom, as always, made the stitches, Dad cut the large stitches and tied the knots.  I felt as if I was part of a New York Best Seller as I stood silent and watched them work on this very special gift of love. I told mom how much I admired the quilt. The next time I went to visit she was working on another one just like it. "This one is for you" she said.

            Mom and Dad tacked my quilt. The pride in her eyes when she gave it to me was brighter than any star in the midnight sky. It hangs on a rail in the cabin. I touch it every day knowing the two people who worked so hard to raise their children, also worked hard to create this family treasure for me. Bold pink, yellow, and purple threads hang from a background of flowered triangles, each one a  precious memory of my mom. Right in the middle of the quilt she placed a square with birds on it. "I knew you would like that", she said. "It was the only fabric I had with birds on it. I saved a piece for you".

MY FOREST      

           I followed a log truck loaded with tiny logs for what seemed like forever. My mind wondered why anyone would cut such tiny trees. As I drove, my mind wandered to a small farm off a dirt road in Eastern Kentucky, my childhood home. Although I don't live there anymore, I try to visit my aging parents every week-end.

            ‘Dad, what’s that equipment doing in the barnyard”, I asked when .

            “We sold the timber”, my dad told me.

            “Oh no! Why would you do that” I said without thinking of my tone or how my father would hear the question.

            “Because, my father said in his ‘I’m the Dad’ voice, “I don’t want you to have to pay for me to be buried when I die”.

            My heart sank. I had no reply.

            I have lots of special childhood memories in those trees that grow tall on those steep slopes of my father’s farm.

            The steep hillside came down directly behind the barn leaving barely enough room for the mules and cows to walk through to get to the front of the barn. Far upon the hillside stood a giant pine tree; the guardian of the forest.  It would shed so many needles in the fall the whole side of the hill would be covered in golden brown. My brother and I would take burlap feed sacks up to the tree. We would get inside the sacks just like we were going to run a sack race. Instead we would sit down and slide down the hill in a trench filled with needles.

He would say “you go first”

“No You go first”

Paper rock and scissors didn’t work either so we counted together, “one, two, three and off we would go. Sometimes we would go so fast that I thought surely I would take flight and slap into the side of the barn. Just when we got the barbed wire fence we would lay on our backs and sail into the barn yard. Then it was back up the hill to do it all again.

It wasn’t a really smooth ride but it wasn’t bad; I suppose the rocks and sticks were covered deep enough with needles from that big tree that we  didn’t feel a thing; at least they didn’t hurt enough to keep us from doing it time after time.

I remember when Dad cut that big tree. It left a hole in the forest. It was like the guardian was removed from the fortress entrance and the play ground was gobbled up. Even though the other trees have grown and filled in the space where the giant pine stood, there’s still a hole in the forest. I stand in the yard of my childhood home and look up the hill and remember exactly where that giant tree stood. The hill is still steep and often times I hear the excitement of a brother and sister daring each other to go first down the hill until they decide to race and start at the same time.

            I think about that truck and those small logs and wonder will I ever see another guardian of the fortress; a giant tree; an oak or pine or hickory…. one that is large enough to leave a hole in the forest….. forever. And I wonder…If I had a forest what would I do….how would I manage it. But for now I can only wish and imagine.

            I wish I had a forest; one with tall trees and a clear cool stream.

            I wish I had a forest; a steep hillside or a river bottom filled with trees that would take three, no four, no five. Yes five people to reach around it.

            I wish I had a forest with tall skinny trees growing toward the sun; a place for birds to come in the spring.

            Deer would make trails for me to follow in my forest.

            My forest would be a special place to relax and escape the stresses of life. I would have a huge rock beside a riffle in the stream. As I sat on my rock, the stream and gentle breeze would make music so the birds could sing. My forest would be a place to take my pen and paper and write about all the things that happen there.

            I wish I had a forest to watch bloom in the spring; to explore during the summer; to walk through the colorful autumn leaves as they fall like rain upon the forest floor; and in winter gaze in wonderment at the many snowflakes that fall without making a sound yet demand the tree limbs be strong enough to hold them as they gather to make my forest a magical place. A place for me, and you, if you want to visit.

This is in memory of my friend, Vivian Brown. If  I could use a brush and paint a picture for her, I would. I fear the only picutes I can paint are with words. I will never forget her smile nor her love for her beloved home land. Go Rest High on that Mountain, Miss Vivian. I will forever miss you.

THE POND

            Everyone needs a special spot, a place to go for comfort and solitude, a place where the soul is free and the mind is relieved of tension and stress, a safe haven. Everyone needs a confident, someone or something to listen without judgment.

            Sometimes saying nothing at all speaks volumes. Sometimes just allowing freedom to speak is enough. Sometimes, if you listen closely, even though no words are exchanged, voices are heard and answers are found.

            You are my special place.

            The path I walk to get to you was blazed by my father and me when I was very young. It winds through tall grasses, across small clear streams and amongst tiny wetlands alive with tadpoles and salamanders. It’s a journey that takes me up a hill through wild blackberry and raspberry briers. I follow a deer trail around the ridge where giant oak trees share their acorns for critters to eat. I’ve walked to the head of a holler on my family farm. Here, I am welcomed by old mountain peaks and Mother Nature’s art work.

             When my father was a young man he dammed the tiny stream to form a secluded pond. For years you were his sanctuary but no more. His presence is here, I can feel it. His health keeps his physical being isolated from his love, the land, his farm. He brought me here in the spring of my life. He saw the connection. We came here together, my father and me, throughout the seasons of his life. We watched nature’s seasons come and go.

            My roots run deep in these hills and what my father loves, I love.

            I come here to unwind with you, to stay in touch with my inner-self to be reminded of what is important. My soul is called to you by a force I cannot deny. I cannot explain. I follow the call as if it comes from heaven rather than you, a holler filled with water. Perhaps you are my voice from heaven.

            You beckon me in spring when new life is all around. When red and yellow and blue and green fill your home, I come to adore you. Sun rays glisten on your surface and warm the liquid that fills your body. You’re alive. I lie back on the ground and hear the energy of your voice yet you speak soft as butterfly wings. My eyes are closed but my heart is open to enjoy Mother Nature’s chorus. Blue birds and doves and chickadees and all their friends, they sing to you. They come to celebrate earth’s rebirth. Tiny spring peepers have awakened to join the song. You smile and splash about sending waves of joy throughout the forest. 

Redbud and dogwood, sourwood and service berry display their spring attire more beautiful than any design man could ever imagine. They carry the sweet fragrance of your surroundings on a breeze sent across the land.

            You call to me in summer when your world is quiet. Birds flit though the giant oaks and maples, poplars and hickories but their song is hushed. Forest giants show their love for you by stretching their arms to shade your body, to cool it from the sun’s radiant glow. In turn, you allow a fresh trickle to enter parched soil to moisten their roots and quench their thirst. You’re calm now. I climb a familiar path to my spot on the hill beside you. I look deep into the waters you hold captive. There I see life. Critters dart back and forth playing in the warm summer pool grasping for food with each flip and turn. You’re generous with your bounty. You share freely with those who live within and about you. Possums, coyotes, rabbits, deer, and all that is wild visit you, they depend on your kindness. I do too. You destroy tension and soothe a troubled soul. I’ve come to expect it. I sit closer and dangle my feet in your refreshing coolness

            I’m drawn to you in autumn when change is all around. A still quietness invades your holler. The forest is ablaze with vivid red, brilliant yellow and fiery orange. The breeze feels different. It isn't bringing life, its taking it away. Leaves that gave you much needed shade now float softly to the ground. Some fall gently against your surface but you don’t mind, you just hold them close. I sit beside you in my special place. You’re peaceful but never do you refuse to comfort me. Your door is always open. Your voice is quieter now, almost a whisper, there’s a change about.

            Its winter and I’m here. There’s no movement. Deer tracks say there’s still life that comes to visit you, to drink your liquid of life.  A cool sun creeps over the mountain top at this late morning hour. Golden rays glow through bare frost coated tree limbs that glisten like silver. I listen but hear not a sound. White crystals from last week’s snow remain on your ice trimmed edges. Your beauty has not faded and you still listen to my tales of life. I will go now for winter’s days are short and cold but know I will return in the spring when Mother Nature awakes you from your slumber.