December 20, 2009—My Icy Kingdom.
Snow came. Village shut down partially. I shoveled some snow. I stayed warm in my room. I sledded with my 4th grade class. I thought a lot about throwing snowballs at my annoying dog. I watched more than my fair share of movies. I came very close to throwing snowballs at my annoying dog. I dreamed about my upcoming vacation. I was very cold when it was -20 degrees Celsius at night (apparently, so says the baba and partner). I got a minor case of cabin fever. I realized it was an acute case of laziness rather than cabin fever. I played lots of Ping-Pong at the gym I like. I felt better. I did laundry. My clothes froze. I thawed them. I have clean clothes now. Life is funny. Life is good. Russian is hard. Baby steps. I am writing on my blog finally—right now.
I blame my camera being broken (a causality of war) for no blog contact over the past few weeks, at least I wish that counted as an excuse. It doesn’t, but I WILL attribute it as the very reason why there isn’t a single picture of my village covered in two feet of snow on this post. I will do my best to describe life without accompanying charts and graphics. J
Apparently it has been 3 years since the last time it has snowed as much as it has in the last few days here. If remember from my prior posts, the majority of the people that I talk to here are above the age of 60 or around the age of 10. So the things that I commonly hear from the older folk around here, in Russian mind you is “ three years ago there was a storm about this size, BUT when I was a kid the snow would be over our heads and we would have to shovel tunnels through the snow to get to various places”—a rough translation, but fairly familiar isn’t it? Much like childhood stories where our parents experienced every life experience that we have only ten-fold. At what age do you normally realize that uphill both ways is not possible? What should I glean from my baba’s story: 1) global warming is real? or 2) parents are liars? I am thinking both. White liars and an overactive sense of gullibility—damn my childhood.
I really wanted some pictures of the winter wonderland here. It is quite beautiful. Roads mysteriously become level-looking, still have to keep the lazy eye on the road regardless of the appearance. Luckily the open manholes don’t become completely hidden in the heavy snow, otherwise I would end up on Russian television as the scared American in the bottom of the well.
The walls of the shoveled pathways through the courtyard of house stand just below my waist. I can see dogs if I go out of my way to see past their personal ice castles. The pregnant cat has been calling the outside attic home. Practically every time I leave the house via the exit under that part of the house, I hear Даша (Dasha the cat) say a few words and then pull a Cliffhanger move to descend down the gas piping to ladder a few feet below. The first few times it kind freaked me out, but now I just want a camera so I can film her. If I am leaving the house in this fashion it probably means that I am going to admire my cold, cold kingdom from the vantage point of my icy, icy throne. Oh the little big things.
On that note I have said too much and need to go to bed.
Love you all,
Эрон
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