Photo: Ileana Johnson 2015 |
The steady
rain for the past two days could have easily turned into feet of snow had the
temperature not been above the forties. Hard rain drenched the woods into
deeper shades of winter browns and greens and turned the trails into soggy miniature
swamps so close to the river. It was a long overdue rain as both summer and
winter have been quite dry.
Even in its
dormant state, nature smelled alive and dense trees looked majestically strong.
Without its coat of leaves, the woods allowed the river to peek and shine
through its thick boughs. In the full moonlight, each tree appeared like a phantasmagorical
giant with human features, casting long shadows in the drenched soil.
As a child, I’ve
loved rain and its soothing thumping on the metal roof. Sheltered under Tataia’s
shop awning, I was mesmerized by the rivers of fast water running in the muddy
yard; everything in nature came alive. Tataia would answer any questions about the
earth bursting with life, how clouds formed, why it rained, and how water nourished
life.
I learned how
to garden, how to water plants with carefully dug ditches that pulled the rain
water away from direct contact with the fragile roots. He taught me first how
to grow wheat and bean sprouts in a moist glass dish on the window sill in
winter. He was truly my first biology and science teacher.
Lightning
did not frighten me; the zig-zags of light were God’s hand drawing on the sky’s
canvas. Rainbows were God’s palette, the colors that tinted nature and life.
And thunder was God snapping his whip to make unseen heavenly horses run faster
through the clouds.
When it
rained, Mamaia had a reprieve from the farm chores. But she did not rest; she
washed clothes by hand in a wooden tub carved from a tree. It was the same tub
she used to bathe me in as a toddler. Her hands would turn red from scrubbing
one item at a time in hot water and harsh, unpleasant smelling soap which was
made with lye. And there was no lotion to soothe the redness of her small hands.
Layers of skin would peel off painfully. Finding unscented lanolin to treat the
cracked and burning skin was difficult.
On my wash
day, the modern “chore” is to sort the laundry, pour a pre-measured cup of
detergent into the washing machine, adjust the water setting and temperature,
and let it do the scrubbing and washing for me. And the dryer replaces hours of
hanging clothes on the line, bringing in off the line dry clothes stiff as a
board in winter and smelling like wet dog. We never stop to think how much
easier our lives are today and how many varieties of cheap lotions we have to
soften our hands. I don’t think most people appreciate what a wonderful and
easy existence they live.
Mamaia’s
hands were magical. They raised six children, fed them, bathed them, and
cloth-diapered them. Mamaia cooked and washed everything for six children, milked
the cows, slopped the pig, and fed numerous chicken, ducks, and rabbits that Tataia
bought from other farmers.
In her spare
time, Mamaia was the village seamstress who made beautiful wedding dresses,
church dresses, and practical every day clothes for her own children. She
mended their clothes and pressed them with a heavy iron which could be filled
with hot coals or placed on the stove to get hot. Sometimes there were slight brown
lines left from the iron burning a favorite shirt but children still wore it.
Mamaia’s
chores included putting away the vegetables from the garden that Tataia
planted, weeded, and watered. She would stir a huge cast iron pot outside on a fire
stoked with wood, turning pounds of tomatoes into a sauce preserved in jars for
winter time. She pickled cucumbers, cauliflower, green peppers, red peppers,
green tomatoes and preserved green beans in jars sealed with wax or corks
covered in tar. Everything was stored in the cellar for winter.
Her prune
marmalade and tart cherry preserves were delicious. Using sugar made from
beets, she made sweet preserves from green plum tomatoes stuffed with walnuts. Regrettably,
her recipes were never recorded before she passed away. We were too busy trying
to survive or escape the communist harsh life to think about writing these
recipes down for posterity.
To this day,
when I want to cook something that my mom used to cook for us, it is impossible
to replicate the recipe because she did everything from memory, just like
Mamaia, a pinch of this, a pinch of that, no measuring cups in mom’s kitchen.
Now that her memory is scrambled, I regret not having written her ingredients
down and the number of pinches.
My mom
smiles in her moments of clarity and tells me how hard she and her five
siblings had to work to help their parents on the farm, how they had to give up
too much education, and how they practically raised each other. Aunt Nicuta was
Mamaia’s first child; Nicuta helped raise her brother, and then each child
helped raise the next. They learned to grow up fast this way. Few of the girls
actually extended their education past eighth grade or high school but the two
boys went much further.
Rain is
still coming down hard, drumming on the shingles; my eyes are taking in the
soaked nature and bubbling mud but my mind is still wandering through my
childhood years, flashing memories and images of my past, times when we, as children
didn’t understand the vicissitudes of life, we were happy and felt loved no
matter how poor our families were. It was another life, another world, long
time ago.
Thank you for sharing your story. Your early experiences are so different, yet much as the same as my early years. Your writings are a treasure.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Bill Muckler! We belong to the same generations who experienced more hardship in life than today's generations.
DeleteLove the story. It reminds me so much of my favorites growing up by Laura Ingalls Wilder, "The Little House on the Prairie" and the entire set of her books.
ReplyDeleteMarijane,
DeleteThe Little House on the Prairie book and the TV series were our favorite when my children were growing up.
Thank you for so skillfully putting into words your precious memories, dear Ileana ! I could see my own grandmother in your story ...so much resonates with my own time spent with her as a child ...she brought up 5 children in the same harsh conditions and yet, never complained ...just carried on with a smile on her face ...a smile that I'll hold dear, deep inside my heart forever !
ReplyDeleteThank you, Gabriela. What lovely memories!
Delete