A Day in Rural Serbia with my friend Biba, 

I’ve written about some of  my Serbian friends and how they work to make their homeland and villages a better place to live. They want to preserve and revitalize the villages of their ancestors. It is much like it is here; outward migration has taken the young people from the villages to cities where they can find work.

            My friend, Biba, drove us through “the village of my mother” as she referred to it. In her broken English, Biba explained, “My mother came to the city when she got older so she could be near doctors. She lives with me and my husband so we can help her.” She drove us around a narrow mountain road close to the Bulgarian border. The one lane dirt road hung to the cliff edge. With no guard rails to block the view we look out the car window straight to the river basin.  It must be at least a mile to the bottom. The view was spectacular. Stara Planina, or Old Mountain, is rich with breathtaking panoramic views. Pure water gushed from the mountain and followed a familiar path to the river below. Green fertile valleys with remnants of farms where once sheep grazed under the watchful eye of the farmer and his dogs dotted the landscape. A peaceful relaxed feeling swept over me. I felt at home in this distant land.

            It was Biba’s day to teach Ron and me about Rural Serbia. She decided to drive us to a small country church, one that isn’t used much any more. “Most of the young people have left the village and the old people can not make it so far to go to church there”, Biba told us. “There is a woman who lives by the church, she lives all alone. I love her, she is my friend. I must take her a gift”. Biba said.

            As we drove through the village Biba saw friends and distant relatives that she knew as a child. Her emotions took control and tears fell from her eyes. “I must stop, I must speak, they will not understand if I don’t speak to them”, she said as if to ask permission for a few seconds of time. She stopped her car and backed up. There, beside an old house with a rock roof stood an elderly woman, Biba rolled down her window, and with a quivering voice called her name. “Do you remember me” she asked the old woman. When she spoke her mother’s name a smile spread across the old woman’s face and a gleam came into her eye, she and Biba embraced and held hands out the window.  They spoke in their native language. Silence over ruled the conversation as we drove away. From the corner of my eye, I saw Biba wipe away her tears.             

Biba explained that her friend at the church was getting old and not in good health. She expressed her concern about her living alone so far from people

            We arrived at the church welcomed by a woman in a long black habit. She had a huge brown long-haired dog walking with her. Biba translated her native language so Ron and I could understand. “He just came here”, she said, I don’t know if he has an owner but he has been a great friend to me” she said as she extended her hand to Ron and me. Emotion was once again Biba’s companion. they greeted each other with a heartfelt embrace. Then she smiled into Biba’s eyes and said, “My dear, you look tired, you should slow down, live life, enjoy while you are young, you work too much, you should have a baby”. Biba smiled.

            Dim light filtered into the church through vibrant stained glass windows. Ron, Biba and I lit candles and stood them in containers filled with sand. One soft flickering glow was in memory of someone we had lost, another in honor of someone living.

Biba and her friend spoke their farewells in their native dialect that I couldn’t understand but a hug and a smile and a tear, they’re a language all by themselves. Ron and I thanked our hostess for her time and wished her well. I noticed the dog, her companion, stayed right by her side. While we were in the church, he lay beside the door and stood to greet her when she met him on the outside. She explained that he leads her to her front door but won’t go inside the house. He lies beside the door until she comes outside, then, once again, he accompanies his new master on her journeys to and from the church. With a soft hand, she patted him on the head as we walked down a narrow path to the car.

As we drove away, I looked back at that small church sitting under huge trees  that would take five people to reach around. They must be more than a hundred years old. My mental snapshot recalls a wooden footbridge that greets visitors and leads them across a clear babbling stream to a well-worn path that guides them through tall grass until they reach the tiny one roomed church.  A swing, much like the ones on porches in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, welcomes company to sit under those giant trees and talk a spell. How peaceful it is here where there are no car horns, no loud noise, no phones, and no electricity. How noble of someone to accept a life of solitude dedicated to the study of Jesus and the bible.  I wish I could remember her name. She is a guardian angel  for a tiny one room church that has been standing more years than our country is old; the church of Biba’s childhood and her mother’s village. I think about that big brown dog and wonder if her surprise companion really has a worldly owner.

MY JOURNEY THROUGH A STORYTELLING APPRENTICESHIP

             Thanks to a grant from the Kentucky Arts Council I started on a journey in July. A mission that has taken me to worlds I had never before visited. it's a journey through storytelling. Although I've just traveled a short way down the first trail, I'm amazed at what I've learned. I'm enjoying this expedition with a friend, my guide, Appalachian Storyteller, Pam Holcomb. She has shown me the way to places I never would have visited on my own.  Worlds such as fables, imagination, and creativity are all ready to come into your life if you open your mind. With Pam's guidance, I have learned that through stories, anything is possible. Teaching youth the truth about difficult topics, talking to an audience about complicated issues, or getting the attention of those you never thought would listen to you, they're all possible through storytelling.

            A spur off our main trail has taken me into an unlit land I never realized was so amazing and misunderstood. Sometimes dark places appear evil and  forbidden, but if you conquer your fears and enter the passage, there may be a bright spot waiting for someone to find it. This life event has opened my eyes and my world  to a condition that approximately 10,000 babies born in the United States each year will develop. It's name, Cerebral palsy (CP),  a group of disorders that can involve brain and nervous system functions, such as movement, learning, hearing, seeing, and thinking.

            Why did Pam lead me to CP? it wasn't just the condition that took us to this place, it was the person. She was born in January 1972 and weighed just a bit more than two pounds. She tried to come before Christmas but the doctors talked her into waiting a bit so she was born two months early.  She, as Pam, is a native of Harlan County Kentucky. Her name, Kristy "Bee" Barrett, one of Pam's very special High School students.   

            Kristy's mom felt her daughter's growth and development wasn't on time with other babies, but the doctors kept saying "its because she was a preemie, she just has to catch up". Kristy didn't catch up, she was diagnosed with CP at eighteen months old. She and her family also began an amazing life journey. Although she didn't catch up with age developmental expectations, Kristy has flown past most people her age when it comes to life long achievements.

         
  Kristy is now forty-one years old. She and Pam are very close friends. Kristy refers to her CP as "my Gift from God. I am the way He wanted me to be"

            Pam tells a story titled "Three Steps". Through emotional words and expressions, she explains how excited Kristy was when she took three steps without the assistance of a walker, wheel chair or other device. She couldn't wait to tell Pam and all her other friends at school. Just three steps, that's all she has ever taken. But the races she has won are countless. It's those races and Kristy's attitude toward life, people, and her gift, that encouraged Pam to ask me to join her in telling Kristy's story as the culminating project for my storytelling apprenticeship.

            So this unknown land called Cerebral Palsy is more than something to pass through. Its a place to pause and reflect, a place to learn and share, a place to listen and grow. I have learned about CP, but my short time with Kristy taught me about life and how to live it to the fullest. From her I learned you have to conquer your fears and take chances. Kristy has done both. She can show the world that a person is not defined by a condition, the person defines the condition. Kristy has chosen "Bee Still, Embrace My Gift" as the title for her Life Story.

            I have written four short stories about Kristy and have a couple others in my mind. I fear there's way too many great things to tell than 90 minutes will allow. What I hope is that Pam and I can wrap our arms around Kristy's many accomplishments and relay them to the public as an inspirational production that makes her proud and celebrates her life and her gift.

            The CP spur is only one pause in my journey, it certainly didn't stop it. February 23, I joined my mentor and other Kentucky storytellers for a program in Harlan, KY. Harlan County Extension Agents, Jeremy and Theresa, understand the importance of storytelling, so they host events for the public and invite storytellers to participate. I helped with "Storytelling in the Mountains, Spring Event" and also told a story for the first time to a public audience. Learning by doing is wonderful but learning by watching Kentucky's great storytellers perform...priceless.

            Only half of my storytelling apprenticeship journey remains. Where will it take me...I dare not imagine because my guide is creative and doesn't care to enter untamed territory. Perhaps you and I will bump into each other on the trail. Thank you Kentucky Arts Council for the oppotunity to blaze a new life trail.

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.