Matters of the Heart

Above Ira, Luba in center, Luda. Right, another
Luba and another Ira, and me, all good friends.

Learning the Russian language has been my greatest challenge. At times this is the most frustrating thing imaginable. Mostly when we long to have a conversation on a deeper level than лривет и как дела, или добри день и сбасибо или что ты делала сегодня.

Luba's been going through a hard time for six months now. It's about her 40-something son being in trouble. It started in April and hasn’t let up. As usual I don't know the whole story. I only know Sergei is away and Luba is distraught. I hear her cry. I hear her pray. I see her aging under the burden.

I understand because I am a mom, too. I know how mother's worry about their kids, no matter what age. Mothers want what is best for them, what makes them happy. We pray they stay safe and healthy, and their kids, our grandkids, do too. But kids make mistakes. We all make mistakes. Some worse than others. And then we have to live with them.

So Luba is going through a hard time, a sad time. We are grieving together, she for her son, I for my brother, but we can't talk about it. I am stuck with a modest level of Russian. понялаюю зто оцень пецальноюю я чотела ты помоцью мне грустно зха васюю That's why I am glad she has so many friends, and that they have stuck by her. She is an extrovert and loves being around people. Her two best friends, Luda and Ira, come often. Luda is serious, Ira funny, and Luba keeps them going! Her friends Luba and Ira 2 are also stalwarts, here when Luba needs them. I enjoy being with them, even though I get only about 50% of what they are saying. They laugh, and gesture, and sometimes speak slowly in case I might get it.

I console myself that I may not know the language very well, but I understand the feelings. They are universal. They involve children, families and friends. They are matters of the heart.

Picking Apples

I joined Asya and Sasha for a bike ride on the day of the autumnal equinox. It was a nice day, with a crisp breeze blowing in from the north, from Russia, signaling the start of fall. This ride was longer than the one to Korychevka so I guess you could say I was prepared for it. It took us in another direction, out of town, over the railroad tracks, and way out into the country, through the steppes, the flat farm lands and prairies of Ukraine. The farmers had tilled the rich black soil for the winter. Flat all the way.

Our destination: an old collective farm, now privately owned but still available, at certain times in the season, for everyone to pick apples. On the way we passed several elderly couples returning to town with large bags of apples, those huge white produce or storage bags. They were obviously old hands at this process. “Probably going to sell them in the market,” Asya said. We were reliving some Soviet survival traditions. Pick them for nothing, sell them for what you can get. A touch of capitalism there, too.

Sasha, a brilliant and highly respected retired doctor, knows Starobilsk and this part of the country like the back of his hand, having lived here all his life. He knows the land and the history. He tells many stories. Asya, a retired English teacher and tutor, translates. We passed an interesting memorial to Ukrainians who had been rounded up, tortured and killed by the Nazis in 1941-3. The dead, he said, were buried there, on the land, no marked graves. "We just know they are there." I would never had known this, however, if I hadn't been with Sasha and Asya. I had never even heard of this event or this statue commemorating it, so far out in the country.I learn new stories every day, and want to know more.

We peddled on, and on and on. We finally came to the very large apple orchard. Sasha knew just where to go to find good trees, and different varieties of apples. We got busy and picked apples for almost three hours, Sasha climbing the trees, Asya and I gathering the fallen fruit. Adam and Eve peered over our shoulders, I think.

Then Sasha expertly packed up the apples and we biked home, stopping along the way to pick what looked like blueberries but are something else. Dark blue berries with pits, like cherries. They are bitter, not sweet, but Asya said they are great in vareneky, a wonderful Ukrainian ravioli. The bushes were full, and we picked a lot of berries, filled our bags, and peddled home. We felt lucky for the bounties of nature, for all the fresh produce we had collected to see us through the long winter. A kind of Rocky mountain high, but on the Ukrainian steppes, not in the Colorado mountains. John Denver would feel connected.

I’m beginning to understand, to grasp fully in the deepest sense, what Chief Seneca meant when he said “All things are connected.” This was Loren's mantra, too.

Neon and Pop Art: And Then Philip Appeared!

I've been having neon thoughts lately. Maybe it's the autumn equinox, what I call the "neon season." The last burst of color before the dying of the light. I don't think of myself in neon very often, if at all, but it happened the other day. It's a "one thing led to another" story, with a happy ending.

Sergei, our neighbor on Panfelova and dear friend from the computer store came over to help me add ink to my Epson printer. He helps me with everything technical. I had a Canon printer but the cartridges were outrageously expensive, so I bought an Epson for the price of a color cartridge. Now I'm having trouble filling the ink cartridges myself. So Sergei, bless his heart, helps me. He patiently fills the yellow, the blue, the magenta, the black. My color is back!

My digital camera wasn't working either. I had let Dima use it when the English Club went on a stroll to take photos of Starobilsk buildings. That Heritage calendar idea is still floating around. But he must have clicked something I usually don't. I handed the camera to Sergei, he turned it around in his hands a bit, and then he snapped this photo. "What did you do?" I asked in mock exasperation. I had played with it for an hour and couldn't get it to work. "Magic hands," he said with a grin.

So that's the trick. Magic hands. I'll try it. After Sergei left, I played with the camera and the printer, the color and the effects. I'm usually hesitant to experiment because I get lost in the technology and can't find my way back. But I persisted. Spun some magic. Went to the extreme, into neon. Extreme for me. Bending light and color. Trying for an autumnal look to celebrate the equinox, an Andy Warhol effect.

And what do you know! Lo, and behold, Philip appeared! My beautiful 3-year-old great-grandson whooshing down a NEON slide. He popped right in there. Pop Art! Neon magic!

this one's for Gran-E!

Autumnal Equinox 2010

Full moon. Golden leaves. Red berries. The last roses of summer in Luba’s garden. The Autumnal Equinox came to Ukraine from America today, 23 September, 2010, at 6:49 a.m.

Loren loved this time of year, and he always honored it with his own special rituals: The transition of the seasons around the world, the moment when day is equal to night, light to dark, and there is balance between them.

Does this balance auger harmony on the planet? It doesn’t look that way now. But we know the nights will be longer than the days; the trees, the flowers, the ground will rest. But first comes that glorious burst of color, that burst of energy that sees us through the winter, before the dying of the light.

Some of my most vivid memories are of fall in New England, the Pennsylvania mountains, southwest Colorado, North Carolina, Skyline drive in Virginia, and now Ukraine. Such unforgettable images, etched in neon in the mind’s eye. The neon season! The trees and flowers in their autumn finery. Yes, that's the way to go.

Biking to Koryevcheka

I went on a bike ride with Olga to visit our friend Tonya in Korychevka, the little village about a 45-minutes bike ride from Starobilsk. I must admit I wondered if I could make a long bike ride, but decided, in best PC mode, to ‘just do it,’ and worry about that later, if I had to.

It turned out I didn't have to. It was a great bike ride on a beautiful day. I had no problems with endurance or energy. Getting old with strength, grace and dignity, Loren would say! We biked out of town over the Aydar river on a very rickety bridge (worse than the ones Loren and I went over in Costa Rica, holding our breaths), over an old cobblestone road, one of the earliest roads in Starobilsk, and past the ancient part of town. We biked through meadows of wild flowers and corn fields surrounded by gentle mountains, more like golden hills; past small villages and large farms; past little stores and houses with large barns; past cows and goats munching on wild grass. They were scenes right out of Currier and Ives, or Norman Rockwell. Sunny and pastel, serene and pristine, warmly glowing and wholesome.

I peddled along behind Olga without a care in the world, absorbing the beauty of rural Ukraine. A rare feeling for a city girl. And so much better than driving through the country in a bus or car,or on a train. The 23rd Psalm started running through my head: "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul..." It was as if biking through the countryside accessed a part of my mind I rarely use, and dug up thoughts and memories I rarely remember.

Tonya, who teaches English at the village school, where I had a lovely visit last winter(2 March 2010 blog) greeted us warmly. She lives in a big house, built by her husband and his father, and they have a huge garden, really a small farm I guess you could say. It’s a working farm, and it’s a lot of work. They have 4 big pigs and 8 little pigs, many chickens, an old dog, and a cat who just had kittens, and huge fields of berries, melons, herbs, and vegetables, now mostly past harvest, except for some heads of cabbage, squash and pumpkins in the pumpkin patch. They have huge mounds of grasses ready to feed their pigs in winter. Tonya and her family live off the land and their animals, in survival mode. They have many cares, two grown sons with trouble finding work, and always work to do around the house and gardens. It's not an easy life.

Tonya is an inspiration to me. She works hard and is generous. She loves to sing. It frees her soul, she says. I can imagine her singing at her farm tasks. She teaches because she has to work. Anything to help the household economy. She was born in Kiev but has come to love country life. I love watching her and Olga working on language together, helping each other out in French or Russian or English. They are always careful to involve me in the conversation. It's reassuring, I can tell you.

Tonya prepared a great meal, fit for queens, with an apple pie and delicious 8-egg layered cake with a nut filling for dessert, and home-made wine and tea. Well, everything is home-made, direct from the garden to the table. Then we walked around the farm, admired the animals, watched the cute little pigs running around in circles, admired an ancient tree and the pumpkin patch, and flopped against the huge mounds of of wheat and grass.

What a wonder filled day. Olga and I biked back to town happy as larks, breathing in the fresh air of the countryside, and picking apples and plums along the way.

We are looking forward to our big trip to Lviv and the Carpathian mountains at the end of the month. Someday both Olga and Tonya want to visit America. I dearly hope their dream comes true. For now, we are happy to explore Ukraine together, friends sharing life, love and laughter.

Details

Above, Elaborately carved entrance Khan's palace, Bakchysaray; Opulent gilded and painted ceilings with sparkling crystal lights, Khan's palace and Odessa Opera House. Collage: Budapest's Grand bazaar tower and a wrought iron gate; Krakow windows; tile work, Uspensky church, Bakchysaray; Budapest Opera house; Tatar Biblioteca, Simferople, Crimea; entrance to the harem, Khan's palace, Bakchysaray. Mosaic with elegant surround, Uspensky church.

I used to dislike details. Now I feel just the opposite. I wish I knew then what I know now. It would have saved a lot of grief: those "sharps and flats" of past remembrances, as Mary Oliver calls them. But that was then, this is now, and it's all we have, the Erich Tolle mantra. Today I'm thinking about details.

Details engulf us. There are the details of daily life: What to wear or eat. Who to see or meet. What to do that's neat. There are the details of work life: How to write that grant, where to shelve those books, how to lead that seminar. There are the details of decision-making: Should we cancel the meeting? Add new members to the book team? Ask school teachers to help with that Democracy grant?

And then there are the kinds of details I have come especially to love: architectural details. I am usually overwhelmed by the larger picture. By the grand opera house. The beautiful cathedral. The magnificent legislative hall. The elegant presidential palace. The palaces of Kings and Queens, Khans and Shahs, Emperors and Tsars. I have hundreds of great photos to prove this.

But when I stop and look at the details, then I become engrossed. Not overwhelmed, but engaged. The devil is in the details, they say. I think that's true, and I’ve been bitten hard when ignoring that maxim. Beauty is in the details, too. In everyday details, yes, and most of all in those architectural details. I’m thinking about the craftsmanship, the talent, the patient devotion, the work ethic, the artisanal traditions, the pride.

Take the blue mosaic of a Monk above right. It is from the little Uspensky Cathedral with the glistening golden dome built in the mountain caves of Bakchysaray, Crimea. At the ends of the earth, almost. Who will see it? But some craftsman didn't care about that. Instead he put a lot of work into this lovely mosaic in this far-away place, tile by tile, piece by piece. A master stonecarver chisled the frame around it, also a beautiful piece of artwork. They emerged from contemplation, these details, and they invite contemplation.

Wherever I travel now, I marvel at windows and doors, many intricately tiled, painted, or carved, many surrounded by gargoyles, nympths and angels, birds and leaves, and bas reliefs. And beyond the details of the windows, those in and around buildings; be they homes or palaces, cathedrals or theaters, sacred or profane, the details fascinate.

And it's no wonder. The crafts people of old stayed with their tasks for years. It took ten or 20 or more years for Italian stonecarvers to carve the gargoyles around the National Cathedral in Washington, DC, for instance, chipping away, little by little, day after day,month after month, until a form emerged from stone, from marble, from alabaster. Devils and angels, animals and birds, human and inhuman, symbolic or imaginative, mad, sad, or happy. An award-winning documentary, The Stonecarvers, tells the story (funded by the DC Humanities Council, an NEH affiliate).

It's the same with the stained glass windows of churches, cathedrals, temples and mosques, in the Blue Mosque and in St. Sophia's in Istanbul, St. Andrews church in Kiev, the Kainite Jewish temple and St. Nicolas Cathedral in Yevpatoria. The light that streams through these beautiful windows cast a heavenly glow onto grand spaces. And on top of these, literally and figuratively, hang the ornate and ornamental glass work of crystal lights and chandeliers. Like those lights illuminating beautifully painted ceilings in the photos above. Or the Venetian crystal chandelier adorning the carved mahogany wainscotting in the State room of Livadia Palace in Yalta where Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill met. I love this tradition, too, the ancient art of glassmaking, foretelling modern American glass artists like Tiffany, Dominic Labino of Toledo and Dale Chihuly of Seattle.

And then there are the exquisite paintings, among my favorite details, covering walls and ceilings, furniture and grand staircases. So rich in detail, so vibrant the colors, so angelic the adorers, so passionate the love scenes. I used to think Michelangelo's awesome paintings at the Vatican were unique to the art world, to religious art especially. And of course they are. But he is not alone. Far from it. He had his predecessors and his successors all over the world. Countless Micheangelos in every country, across the ages, across time and faiths, painted temples, mosques, and churches, in India and in Katmandu, created well before the Renaissance, and also here in Ukraine and in Crimea, in Budapest and Krakow, in magnificent Istanbul, Ancient paintings adorn ancient walls. What glorious gifts to the gods, anywhere, any time, any place.

So here’s to glorious details. My latest toast: “Za Подробнее" [Podrobneyeah, in a rough transliteration]. Here's to tiles, and gargoyles, and ancient lights. Here's to dreamy paintings and heavenly stained glass. Here's to wrought iron railings under starry nights. Here's to intricate marble carvings and mosaic delights.

Mary Oliver, poet, and Loren's Soul

Loren (left) after a hard hike with the Florida Trails Association (2009); below, Mary Oliver, website phot0.

My cousin Leo's wife, Kathy Curro, whom I call cousin Kathy, introduced me to poet Mary Oliver. What a gift. I don't know how I missed her all these years, a contemporary, a prolific writer, and recipient of so many literature awards. Here I am in Ukraine, on a journey of discovery, and I learn from an American poet, in simple but powerful verse, why I might be here!
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
"When Death Comes," from New and Selected Poems (1992), which won a National Book Award.

Mary Oliver was born in a small town in Ohio, outside of Cleveland, moved to New England, and then to Provincetown, where she lived with her lifelong partner Molly Malone Cook, a photographer and her literary agent, until Molly's death in 2005 (from Wikipedia and Oliver biographies online).

Oliver still lives in Provincetown, and no one has glorified its details, its natural world, it rhythms and wonders more than her. Nature has been her inspiration, in the tradition of Thoreau and Whitman, and in her poetry she infuses it with wisdom, purpose and meaning for our daily lives. It won her the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1984, for her fifth collection of poems, American Primitive.

She writes of Molly's death the way I would like to write about Loren's, in "The Soul at Last."The Lord's terrifying kindness has come to me.

It was only a small silvery thing--say a piece of silver cloth, or a thousand spider webs woven together, or a small handful of aspen leaves, with their silver backs shimmering. And it came leaping out of the closed coffin; it flew into the air, it danced snappingly around the church rafters, it vanished through the ceiling.

I spoke there, briefly, of the loved one gone. I gazed at the people in the pews, some of them weeping. I knew I must, someday, write this down.
This poem could be about Loren's soul, too. Death, "the Lord's terryifying kindness," came to us, and Loren's soul floated up to the heavens. I've tried to imagine it: Loren alone on that Aucilla river basin trail, falling behind the others, a hiker friend going back to check on him and finding him breathless, falling to his knees, falling to the ground. She offers water, then realizes she must run for help, back to the beginning of the trailhead, about 5 miles. She asks Loren if he is okay; he says "yes," she told us, then leaves him water, says she'll be back, and runs off. That was Loren’s last word, I guess. “Yes,” I am okay.

Then what happened? Loren was alone. Maybe he thought he was okay. We don't know. Another friend on the hike came upon him and, he told us later, at Loren’s gathering at the funeral home, found Loren motionless, on the ground, lying against a tree, I think he said. We wanted to hear it all, get all the details, but it was so hard to hear, harder to grasp. The friend tried mouth-to-mouth resusitation, but Loren did not respond. So how long must it have been for Loren, alone, dying, taking his last breath, between the first friend who ran for help (a long run to call an ambulance and then to reach him on a difficult trail) and the second hiker who found him dead. Maybe twenty minutes? forty-five minutes? Longer?

I try to imagine it. How was it? Was there pain? Did he know? Did he feel alone? Was he scared? Did he see a bright white light, calling him? Did he see our mom? The goddess? Hear angels of death? If only I could have been there, by his side, to hold his hand, to whisper “I love you,” to tell him he is with us forever, dearly loved.

I imagine that I see his soul rising from his body, which he had woefully neglected and which had given him so many challenges. I see it floating from his body, from the place where he lay alone on that trail, a trail he loved we were told. I see that trail and the woods embracing him, filling him with love. I see that small silver fleck, like a feather, flying in tandem with an elegant white Eagle, joyous and free. It's the very same eagle Loren said he saw right after our mom died, on a St. Mark's trail, saying she was okay, she was where she wanted to be. Loren's soul, soaring above the rivers, the woods, the wetlands, the trails.

I can't begin to write like Mary Oliver, but I can hear her songs, feel her voice in the way she makes nature come alive, anthropomorphizes it (if there is such a word), gives it human form and feelings. I think Loren could, too. That's why Kathy sent me her poems, with the message, "I think of Loren on every page." Yes. I see that, and it brings some comfort., and also sadness.

Then my mind takes over, and I think that all this talk about the soul is pure drama. It is all imagination, it is make-believe, wishful thinking, hogwash. There is no "other side." It doesn't mean a thing.

And yet, it is all we have.

"Wild Geese," from Owls and Other Fantasies (2003)

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

"Grass" from White Pine (1994)

Those who are disappointed, betrayed, scarified! Those who would still put their hands upon me! Those who belong to the past!

How many of us have weighted the years of groaning and weeping? How many years have I done it, how many nights spent panting, hating, grieving, oh, merciless, pitiless remembrances!

I walk over the green hillsides. I lie down on the harsh, sun flavored blades and bundles of grass; the grass cares nothing about me, it doesn't want anything from me, it rises to its own purpose, and sweetly, following the single holy dictum: to be itself, to let the sky be the sky, to let a young girl be a young girl freely--to let a middle-aged woman be, comfortably, a middle-aged woman.

Those bloody sharps and flats--those endless calamities of the personal past. Bah! I disown them from the rest of my life, in which I mean to rest.

Postscript: This was the hardest blog to write.

BOOKS UPDATE

Dear American friends and donors:

Our English language books are slowly but surely being processed and shelved. Here is librarian Anna in the Reading Room, where we hold our English Club, with one shelve ready to go. We were excited to see it! Alina and Dima, English Club members, went with another librarian to see where more books are being catalogued. Oh how we love seeing all that American literature and those English classics! Remember, it's all done by hand here, the old card catalogue system. Most books, including our pioneer starter collection from Toledo (kudos again!), will be ready in a few weeks to be browsed and borrowed, she said. Some will be reference works, for use in the Library--the dictionairies, "how to" books, grammers. The librarians are sorting that out, and awaiting Iryna's return from her vacation. Then we hope to organize our celebration of the new collection. Other plans are on the horizon. I'm not sure of the status of a Bibliomist community partnership grant we applied for, but I'll ask Iryna when she gets back. I'll keep you posted. It's one day at a time here, Ukraine time. On behalf of the thankful beneficiaries of your gifts, Fran.

Knowledge is Power

This impressive statue sits comfortably in front of the Lugansk Oblast Public Library. Who is it?

We were on our book-buying spree for the Partnership grant and decided to visit the library. I wanted to see the “Windows on America” collection and meet its director. “Windows on America” is a U.S. Embassy project to give American classics along with video and computer equipment to Oblast-wide (comparable to counties) libraries throughout Ukraine. It's a great resource in all 26 oblast libraries and Crimea.

I used the "Windows on America" collection at the oblast library in Chernigov when I was in training; the PCV there at the time, the incomparable John Guy LaPlante, held his English Club meetings there. Barb Weiser and I used the collection to do literature and discussion seminars that were fascinating and fun. Also, my work group cluster asked one of the English club members, a bright and beautiful young woman, to serve as a translator for our community project on Chernigov tourism, and she was so good and so impressed the Peace Corps folks who attended the meeting at the City Hall that she nows works for PC headquarters in Kiev! Sometimes you never know how a small thing leads to a big thing. The ripple effect of good works.

I tried to sneak the Starobilsk Library in for a "Windows on America" collection, by the way, even though it is not an oblast library. I wrote earnest letters and made the case that our library serves some 30 small villages in far-eastern Ukraine, a rural area underserved by grant-makers and especially in need of books, to no avail. I keep trying. The fact that the US Embassy turned us down, on the other hand, led to our books project to start our own English-language collection. Where there's a will, there's a way!

The Lugansk public library is in a large nondescript building. Its collections are huge compared to Starobilsk’s. It is computerized, offers internet access, some public programming, and has an electronic card catalogue. It retains the old card catalogue in case something goes wrong with the computer, which I understand, but it also belies a lack of faith in the new technology.

The old card catalogues bring back many wonderful memories of when I worked in libraries in college and graduate school. It's rare to find them, with the old Dewey decimal system, in American libraries now, another relic of the past. They are common here in Ukraine.

I've been riffing here a bit because my Ukrainian adventure holds so many interesting experiences, and one thing leads to another.

But my big question remains: Who does the statue in front of the Lugansk Library portray? Does it represent a real person? A Ukrainian writer? A poet? Maxim Gorky, who the library is named after? I know it’s not Taras Shevchenko, the beloved Ukrainian writer whose statue stands in front of Lugansk Shevchenko University.

In the absence of facts, I've made up a story: The monumental statue in front of the Lugansk library is a brave warrior, an Everyman warrior, in the Soviet-hero, Socialist-realism style of the 1930s. He has put aside his shield and arms, and is reverently holding a manuscript, maybe a scroll, maybe a literary masterpiece. He has searched for peace all his life, and he finally found it, in books, in literature. A warrior and a scholar. And so this awesome statue embodies a sacred adage, a universal truth: "Knowledge is Power.” For now, and maybe forever, this will do for the name of the Lugansk library statue.

Channeling Loren

Mom reading to Loren, about age 4.

My cousin Roz Miller Walker is channeling my brother Loren. Roz is the daughter of my first cousin Maria Tirone and niece of Maria's brother Skip. Actually, she may be channeling all three, whose souls must be together somewhere in the universe. Loren felt especially close to Skip and Maria, as did Andy and I. These two wonderful people died early of long battles with relentless MS (Multiple Sclerosis), a painful struggle and an even greater loss suffered by my Aunt Loretta and Uncle Steve. I cannot imagine losing both of my children and going on with life. But my Aunt did that, with profound sadness but with an inner strength that must have come from a higher power. My mom always felt that about her sister.

Loren writes about a time when our Mom caught Skip and Loren, who learned from each other as young boys, throwing stones at cars, and punished them my making them go down to our recreation room and listen to Ravel's "Bolero." Loren remembers Skip fondly as a bright light in his early life, and he also thought our cousin Maria was the most beautiful girl he ever knew.

Roz looks just like her mother, and more than that, she is as gentle and compassionate and creative as her mom. She is a psychologist in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she lives with her talented husband Christopher. She and her mom, my Aunt Loretta, are reading Loren's autobiography, An Asperger Memoir, and learning a lot about some family stories and recalling many memories.

Roz emailed recently to say how much the book means to her, and how helpful it is. She says "I told a mom whose child I feel may have Asperger's about it and she gave me the money for a book. Her son is 20 and while she's often asked doctors about it, no one has made the diagnosis. She said it was a blessing to talk with me because I am the first person who has validated her gut feeling. Loren's book helped me formulate questions I might not have otherwise asked. It was so cool. I feel like I'm going to help a lot more people through Loren."

I think so too. And for Loren this alone would have made the whole effort to remember and record his struggles and his triumphs worth it. There may be a message here from Loren, maybe from the angels, I'm not sure. But Roz's story brought Loren back, and I hugged him.

Music for Haiti

Loren had a soft spot in his heart for Haiti. So did our mom, who spent time there many years ago with her sister Loretta (who is still going strong at 93). It's something else Loren and I shared. That’s why I wrote about Haiti from time to time, always looking forward to more discussions with Loren. And that’s why I know he would have loved the news that Wyclef Jean, son of a preacher, hip-hop artist, Haitian-American, applied to be a candidate for Haiti's 2010 presidential election on November 26 to replace current president Rene Preval.

Jean’s been away from Haiti for a long time. He moved to the U.S. with his family when he was 9 years old, first to Brooklyn, then to New Jersey. He became a Jersey boy, the Haitian equivalent of Bruce Springsteen.

He began his career as a member of the NJ hip hop group the Fugees, and is now a popular solo artist. He has contributed much to Haiti over the years, and he joined the international philanthropic efforts after the devastating earthquake that killed thousands and left more homeless. I’m not sure where all that money went, or where it is going. Has there been any progress?

The Electoral Council in Haiti, however, just ruled that Wyclef Jean does not meet the strict residency requirement because he hasn’t lived in Haiti for five consecutive years. It’s no small matter, I suppose, that the members of this council were all appointed by president Preval.

Haiti has been rudderless for so long that I thought maybe a new voice on the horizon would make a difference. I was wondering what Loren thought. Wyclef Jean says his vision is "to restore pride and hope for Haiti and to regain the deep spirit and strength that is part of our heritage." That must be music to Haitians’ ears. Let’s hope whoever becomes Haiti’s new president shares this dream, and listens to the same music.

Friends and Beauty in Odessa

Welcome to Odessa! 

WELCOME TO ODESSA!
Here are some more photos of our SNAC meeting in beautiful Odessa. One of my favorites is of an elaborate carved window. What craftsmanship!

Above, the stunning Odessa Opera House and Ballet Theatre. Breathtaking beauty. Gold and light. The majestic chandelair and painted ceiling. Jud and Vickie reading program. We enjoyed classical ballet and a great orchestra (acoustics fantastic).

Next, we are in the Richelieu plaza at the top of the famous Potyomkinski Skhody, a beautiful stairway named after the Russian Imperial battleship Prince Potyomkin, which was stationed at the Odessa seaport in 1905 and supported a workers' uprising. The uprising was squashed, and the mutinous sailors fled to Romania, but the events were made famous by a 1925 film, "Battleship Potyomkin," which I would now like to find and see.

Richelieu by the way, whose statue is at the top of the stairs, was the great grandson of Cardinal Richelieu of France, an early governor of the city under Catherine the Great of Russia. Tour guides say he was responsible for much of the Italian and French architecture of the early city's built environment. It still shines.

Next, new SNAC chair Jim Eleazer (Alaska), PCV with his wife Robin in Ivano-Franko oblast, SW Ukraine, here with our young tour guide Anatoly, as we gather in the hotel lobby. It was a bit like herding cats!

Group photo right,left to right and around: Barbara and Cheryl, working with Tatar communities in Crimea; Debbie is in the South at a university; Ed is in Nikolaiov; Vickie is also in Crimea; and Jim Eleaser, new SNAC chair.

Last but not least: One of many beautiful fountains in Odessa, this one capturing a rainbow. It brought us good weather and good luck in the proud and friendly city of Odessa.

Odessa

The grand curtain of the Opera House dazzles. Jud admires a garden in the City Park. SNACers enjoying Odessa; fantastic ornamental passageway; mother-in-law bridge, with wedding locks, overlooking Black Sea port; grand Opera house inside and out; one of many beautiful fountains; Odessa train station; the orthodox Cathedral across from our hotel.

We senior volunteers had another great SNAC (Senior Volunteers network) meeting in another great city, Odessa. Odessa is a port city on the Black Sea built under orders from Catherine the Great of Russia in the19th century. What a feast! A unique cosmopolitan mix of Russian, Ukrainian, and Mediterranean.

Our Hotel Tsentralnyy, as its name suggests, was well located across from a lovely park and the largest Russian Orthodox church in Odessa. The bells chimed on the hour all day and night. The art and craft show was lovely too.

The city has beautiful architecture, with heavy French andItalian influence. Buildings from the pre-Soviet era, many restored and rehabilitated, have lots of ornamentation, fantastic statuary, intricate wrought iron work, gargoyles and stone carvings. Many of these fantastic decorations, reminders of ancient artisanal traditions and pride of craftsmanship, are around the high ledges above shops and boutiques. Our tour guide Anatoly showed us a stunning example as we took a shortcut between Deribasiva and Preobrazhenskaya streets on our walk toward the Black Sea and the Opera House.

We strolled along tree-lined boulevards and promenades, past statues and fountains, through parks and gardens. We walked over the "mother-in-law" bridge, noted for the hundreds of locks of all sizes and styles left by newlyweds for good luck; past an impressive City Hall; a statue of Russian poet Alexander Pushkin; past the Potyomkinski Skhody, a grand stairway that leads down to the Sea; and on to the stunning Opera House and Ballet Theatre.

Along the way we saw dozens of young couples, just married, dressed in their wedding finery, posing in front of the great statues, fountains and buildings. I've never seen so many beautiful wedding dresses, and high heels worn effortlessly by elegant young women. This is a great Ukrainian tradition, these wedding poses in front of notable buildings and monuments. We volunteers came from all over Ukraine, but we all know this tradition! Odessa was in full wedding swing on this perfect autumn weekend, sunny and bright under clear blue skies. We hoped all this tradition and good weather portended long and happy unions for all the happy couples.

We then did different things around the city, and there's plenty to do. The Jewish museum, archeological museum, and art gallery. Going to the beaches, where many seniors went swimming. Taking a boat ride or cruise along the Sea. For some of us, a highlight of our Odessa trip was a night at the Opera House and Ballet Theatre, one of greatest and most beautiful in the world, a French rococo and gold leaf delight. We all agreed that it ranked right up there with La Scala, the Vienna opera house and, Jud and I thought, the Budapest opera house. We enjoyed a delightful ballet, Paquita, a cornerstone of the traditional classical ballet repertory, according to the program notes, accompanied by a wonderful full orchestra, and after the intermission, a colorful interpretation of Faust, with devils, witches and temptresses galore. It was lovely to be surrounded by such awesome beauty and classical music traditions, in the style of master dancers like Mihail Baryishnikov, Anna Pavlova, Vasyl Njinsky, and Rudolph Nureyev.

A walk through the city at night, full of lights, music, and happy, friendly people, ended our SNAC-filled day. No matter our ages, sites, or experiences, Peace Corps Volunteers know how to have a good time, enjoy each other's company, and embrace the beauty that surrounds us. Odessa was another wonderful Ukrainian adventure.