Lilacs
When I was little, we used to go away for the summer to this little town in Latvia, called Kraslava. It was located on the banks of the river Daugav, outside the larger city of Daugavpils. I have no idea who picked it and how, but I remember that it was a year when we had no summer plans, and it was June 7th, and we were still in the city, which was unacceptable for any family of class. Next thing I know, my grandmother, her sister and I were aboard a very civilized sleeper train on our way to the Baltics. My other experience with trains was a few years prior, when I traveled on a train with no water while overflowing with food poisoning, so this was quite a nice change. The Baltic republics, during Soviet times, were the closest thing we could get to going "abroad," ie outside the USSR.
We stayed at the town hotel the first couple of nights, and ate at their restaurant, ate romantic and sophisticated things such as "beefsteak," and "schnitzel," and "pommes frite," while my grandmother's sister walked around the streets asking around for people who might be renting rooms for the summer. We rented from a little old lady the first year, just the grandmas and I. We had a room off the back of the house with one of those iron stove/fireplaces that we used to light up with wood during cold nights. The room had easy access to the latrine, which was rather civilized in that it was in the actual house, and had an electric light - but without running water. There was no running water, actually; there was a sink with a hand washer, that we'd fill daily with cold water from the well. There was a small tub we'd fill with boiled warm water to bathe in, and once a week, we went for a thorough cleaning to the town bathhouse, which I hated. Too many fat naked women and soap scum... But: there was lemonade at the end.
The next year, we came back with more family - but the little old lady had had a stroke and was laid up in a tiny room in the same house, being taken care of by her daughter. Creepy and gothic novel-like it was, but we rented the house anyway, this time from her politely cold Latvian daughter who came down from the capital, Riga, to take care of her mother.
The third year we came, it was the summer before we left for America, and I came with my mom, not grandma. By that time, the little old lady had died, and we had the house to ourselves.
The house was on a dirt street lined with other houses just like it, overlooking the banks of this river. Most houses had some land in the back, with various agricultural goods planted. When the little old lady was alive, I recall potatoes and squash. After she got sick and died, I think it was largely unused land back there for us. The river did have a sandy shore, but was muddy, yellow, fast and unpleasant, so no one swam in it. There were even rumors of a gypsy boy from the clan who had set up camp a few miles out of the city who drowned there a few summers ago, so no one dared to go in.
It was an odd little town; it had a little city-like section, with asphalt roads and brick buildings, a museum and a movie theater, which tended to showcase Bollywood classics, like Flower in the Dust, and The Disco Dancer. In fact, I remember being thoroughly disturbed by the end of The Disco Dancer, when the mom gets electrocuted.
Surrounding this little downtown were these farmhouses on the river. Further out in the other direction, was a large park, evergreen woods, and a lake with a beach, which is where we went on foot daily, probably about a 40 minute walk. I remember very well that it was a freshly paved road, black, shiny and very very hot for my little city feet, even with rubber flip flops on them. With grandma, we would not go to the lake for the first week because the water was "still cold" despite the hot June sun, and when we did go, I wasn't allowed in further than where the water would reach my neck. With mom, the rules were a bit more lax. On the way back, walking through town, we would always stop by at the juice store, and get freshly made white grape juice.
Summer friendships were made with the locals, and we got to know the neighbors and the gossip. There was a mentally retarded woman who owned a cow, and who worked as the town prostitute. She'd stop by in the evenings and tell us, "Keep an eye on my cow, I'm going to work." It amused my grandmother, but I didn't know why at the time. Down the strip, there was also a young girl, probably a teenager, who had had a baby, and locals gossiped that she leaves the baby with her mom, and goes out at night. And of course, there were the gypsies, with their camp a ways out of town, who'd sometimes show up, and we'd have to hide our jewelry and makeup.
The banks of the river where the house was were lined with these shrubs of lilacs. I don't know if there were trees that were surrounded by shrubs of lilacs, or the shrubs of lilac had drunk enough acid rain to become mutated and gigantic, but I distinctly recall being able to climb the trunks of these shrubs, and sit between branches, and hide out underneath the foliage like in a private little grove. June, July - it didn't matter, the flowers bloomed wild. We'd pick little buds off the branches and suck on them. They tasted like candy.
The other day, coming home from work, I parked, got out of the car, and this scent hit my nostrils... and I felt such an acute sharp nostalgic feeling - I couldn't even pinpoint it exactly... I went up to the apartment, and opened up the balcony doors, and the semi-warm evening air brought in more of that same smell... I fell asleep with it... Then I went down and took this picture in the courtyard.
We stayed at the town hotel the first couple of nights, and ate at their restaurant, ate romantic and sophisticated things such as "beefsteak," and "schnitzel," and "pommes frite," while my grandmother's sister walked around the streets asking around for people who might be renting rooms for the summer. We rented from a little old lady the first year, just the grandmas and I. We had a room off the back of the house with one of those iron stove/fireplaces that we used to light up with wood during cold nights. The room had easy access to the latrine, which was rather civilized in that it was in the actual house, and had an electric light - but without running water. There was no running water, actually; there was a sink with a hand washer, that we'd fill daily with cold water from the well. There was a small tub we'd fill with boiled warm water to bathe in, and once a week, we went for a thorough cleaning to the town bathhouse, which I hated. Too many fat naked women and soap scum... But: there was lemonade at the end.
Old fashioned hand wash: the basin is filled with water; there is an opening at the bottom that is sealed by the little nozzle in a ball/valve fashion. You push up the little nozzle and water pours out of the opening, you let go, and the opening closes. The other little metal thing is, presumably, a soap dish.
The next year, we came back with more family - but the little old lady had had a stroke and was laid up in a tiny room in the same house, being taken care of by her daughter. Creepy and gothic novel-like it was, but we rented the house anyway, this time from her politely cold Latvian daughter who came down from the capital, Riga, to take care of her mother.
The third year we came, it was the summer before we left for America, and I came with my mom, not grandma. By that time, the little old lady had died, and we had the house to ourselves.
The house was on a dirt street lined with other houses just like it, overlooking the banks of this river. Most houses had some land in the back, with various agricultural goods planted. When the little old lady was alive, I recall potatoes and squash. After she got sick and died, I think it was largely unused land back there for us. The river did have a sandy shore, but was muddy, yellow, fast and unpleasant, so no one swam in it. There were even rumors of a gypsy boy from the clan who had set up camp a few miles out of the city who drowned there a few summers ago, so no one dared to go in.
It was an odd little town; it had a little city-like section, with asphalt roads and brick buildings, a museum and a movie theater, which tended to showcase Bollywood classics, like Flower in the Dust, and The Disco Dancer. In fact, I remember being thoroughly disturbed by the end of The Disco Dancer, when the mom gets electrocuted.
Surrounding this little downtown were these farmhouses on the river. Further out in the other direction, was a large park, evergreen woods, and a lake with a beach, which is where we went on foot daily, probably about a 40 minute walk. I remember very well that it was a freshly paved road, black, shiny and very very hot for my little city feet, even with rubber flip flops on them. With grandma, we would not go to the lake for the first week because the water was "still cold" despite the hot June sun, and when we did go, I wasn't allowed in further than where the water would reach my neck. With mom, the rules were a bit more lax. On the way back, walking through town, we would always stop by at the juice store, and get freshly made white grape juice.
Summer friendships were made with the locals, and we got to know the neighbors and the gossip. There was a mentally retarded woman who owned a cow, and who worked as the town prostitute. She'd stop by in the evenings and tell us, "Keep an eye on my cow, I'm going to work." It amused my grandmother, but I didn't know why at the time. Down the strip, there was also a young girl, probably a teenager, who had had a baby, and locals gossiped that she leaves the baby with her mom, and goes out at night. And of course, there were the gypsies, with their camp a ways out of town, who'd sometimes show up, and we'd have to hide our jewelry and makeup.
The banks of the river where the house was were lined with these shrubs of lilacs. I don't know if there were trees that were surrounded by shrubs of lilacs, or the shrubs of lilac had drunk enough acid rain to become mutated and gigantic, but I distinctly recall being able to climb the trunks of these shrubs, and sit between branches, and hide out underneath the foliage like in a private little grove. June, July - it didn't matter, the flowers bloomed wild. We'd pick little buds off the branches and suck on them. They tasted like candy.
The other day, coming home from work, I parked, got out of the car, and this scent hit my nostrils... and I felt such an acute sharp nostalgic feeling - I couldn't even pinpoint it exactly... I went up to the apartment, and opened up the balcony doors, and the semi-warm evening air brought in more of that same smell... I fell asleep with it... Then I went down and took this picture in the courtyard.
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