I haven’t felt like blogging for a while. Or perhaps it’s more that I didn’t know where to go with my writing. It’s been half a year now since I returned (unexpectedly) from northern Armenia. Now is the moment where the change starts to gel or solidify. I realize that, while I can still hold a conversation in հայերեն, it’s more difficult to recall words that used to be commonplace. Memories are beginning to fade, and moments of daily life are more distant … saying hello to Manvel who lived in the first floor of my building. He knew three sentences in English, but he greeted me religiously every time I walked by. Always reminding me that I was welcome in Vanadzor and in Armenia in general. I miss the moments spent persuading fruit and veg vendors that Russian wasn’t my native tongue, and that I could get through a conversation in my pigeon Armenian. I miss the lady from my “beer garden” in Tigran Mets Avenue, who gradually got used to my arriving mid-afternoon on Saturdays after a hike: book in hand, just me, myself and I … ready for a cold draught beer.
Now as the Czech summer ends and I watch videos, listen to songs, or browse through photos so I can cling to the recollections of my Armenian adventure, I gradually merge the similarities of three specific places I once called home.
I’m a rural person at heart. I spent my childhood wanting to escape small town life. My dad had aspirations that I would become a farmer and work with animals: as had been his dream. But my hopes went farther. I’m not sure if it was the genetics of my ever-moving paternal grandmother or the travel tales recounted by my very wise neighbor. But I knew I wanted life beyond any local farm. Funny thing is though: despite becoming a city-slicker, I never forsook my rural upbringing or time spent working with my dad, uncles and grandmother. It is the long thread of rural life that, for me, binds Missouri with rural Bohemia and the pastures of Armenia’s Lorri region. In the fields of all those lands, I see and feel the memory of my dad and his dreams; secretly hoping that some of my life’s adventures have made him proud.
Good people are worth listening to. Something inside me tends to be averse to seeking out conversation. However, many places I have lived so easily lent themselves to impromptu chats and discussion. Whether it be the doorways of stores on Brookfield’s Main Street, the garden pub of a Czech village along a random bike route, or the encounters with shepherds as they moved their herds between northern Armenia’s lush, green hills. They all began as strangers to me, yet we ended with many bonds: some had family that had emigrated, others had seen American TV shows or had travelled to Prague on a family holiday. It was my wary, skeptical entries into these numerous, ad hoc chats that confirmed to me that as citizens of the world we are all ostensibly different but very much still the same in our curiosity and desire to learn about and connect with others.
The women of my past prepared me for my future. Then there’s the W factor. As mentioned above, it was the women of my childhood who told me of the world outside my hometown. They assured me that studying and hard work would give me access to that world. And as the years prove them right, I remember and channel their spirits as I mull new adventures and live new experiences. In my mind, I talked to Elsie as I admired the gardens of many an Armenian grandmother. I give thanks to Louise and Mildred for their nurturing my interest in languages and travel and for helping make possible my first TWA flight to Paris. I summon the courage of Jacqueline anytime I’m not sure I have what it takes to defend myself and fight for what is just in the world. How she so nonchalantly stated in that Parisian tailor’s shop: I survived the Nazis; I’m hardly going to cower to a greedy, deceitful clothing store owner.
It’s been a difficult summer reminiscing about my homes old and new. But I am forever grateful for the lessons they taught me and the people from those places who enriched my spirit more than I ever could have imagined.
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