This post should be titled “I have a camera too, you know…”. There are people in this town who are really good at taking pictures, and then there is me. I don’t set an aperture and exposure on my camera, I just push the button. That doesn’t make me any less eager to share my photos. Plus I have better captions.
In dim light reluctantly released by the Government so the citizens wouldn’t bump into each other I was schlepping to kindergarten. It was 5 in the morning. I turned 5 just few months before and my sleeping in days were long gone. The System wouldn’t let me stay in bed past 7 for the next sixty years, when it will spit out my chewed up and worn out shell of a body patched up like Frankenstein monster by the torture they called free medicine.
I looked around. Zombie-like builders of communism were slowly moving past me. Same clothes, same faces, empty eyes. Years of being fed just bread and fat-free ideology drained the will to live out of people. At night, when the curtains were closed and my parents covered up the listening devices, they whispered about something they called meat. Once a year they tried to recreate meat out of contraband mayo and turnips. It was horrible but we stunned our taste buds with vodka to make it palatable.
It was early spring but one couldn’t tell just by looking at the Communist-controlled weather. Behind the barbwire fences, system’s functionaries, the apparatchiks, were frolicking in the sun and warmth. We got what was left. Used air contained hardly any oxygen. I stopped to take a deep breath.
The International Women’s Day – a holiday celebrating heavy women in cotton-stuffed waist jackets, head scarves and year-round galoshes was approaching. Communist cell in the kindergarten was preparing a concert where like trained monkeys we would attempt to entertain these never-smiling representatives of the weaker gender. Weaker? I evil-laughed on the inside, grinding my teeth. My face remained stoic and expressionless.
I was assigned to perform a Russian folk dance. The System knew I was Jewish and it was their way of putting and extra-painful twist on the torture that was dancing. My head yearned to be covered. My feet were itching to break out in Freilach. I craved gefilte fish even though I didn’t know what gefilte was. Or fish. Instead I found myself standing next to a girl, dressed in a Russian shirt and shorts. It was so cold inside that even ever-present Lenin’s portrait on the wall was covered with frost. My legs were slowly turning blue to match the shorts.
When the music started the headmistress’s eyes told me I had to smile and dance or I will be forced to read Das Kapital while marching around the room for the fifth time in a month. My smile felt like a grimace and my dance moves were awkward, but I couldn’t bring myself to read about the plight of the proletariat one more time.
Scary women in the audience did not smile anyway. They just didn’t know how. After the performance the teachers force-fed us disgusting chocolates filled with Marxism and Leninism. I willed myself not to gag. This came useful later when I lived on the streets of New York doing anything for a buck. Just like Marx predicted.
Standing there ashamed and smeared with chocolate, in a room where one could cut ideology with a knife, I had a dream that I, I someday will tearfully tell about my hardships to the American press and be quoted in every article about Russia.
For the first 22 years of my life I didn’t care about directions. Someone gave me a compass once but I never figured out how to use it. And why would I need to? All my travelling was done with someone else driving, piloting or engineering (or however you refer to driving a train). Now, when I have my own steering wheel to turn, the directions are important and indispensable. If you can find South on the map you can visit the Southeastern part of Kansas – an oasis of greatness bordering by the depressed and hostile Southwestern Missouri and Northeastern Oklahoma.
Just take Hwy 7 towards historic Paola, KS and Osawatomie, KS – home-base of John Brown, famous abolitionist and the leader of the Pottawatomie Massacre (it’s hard to refer to the killing of five people as a “massacre”, but everything has to be over-dramatized in the American history so just roll with it). These two towns are fine destinations on their own, but if you keep moving south you will find no less interesting sightseeing in the Linn County and beyond.
For example, Linn County courthouse in Mound City.
This is the time of the year when the right kind of cucumbers is available at the City Market and elsewhere to make pickles.
If you buy too much old dill just hang the leftovers in a dry place, it will dry up nicely and will be usable later on.
While you are at the market make sure to pick up a case of mangoes at the Little Saigon on 3rd and Grand.
These photos of the Santa Claus School where one could get a B.S.C. (Bachelor of Santa Claus) degree for $75 were published in the Life Magazine in 1961. Nowadays, our kids are forced to sit on the laps of uneducated Santas who probably can’t even pass the drug test.
