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Lights Out!

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For a Latvian Writer

*It is now day eight since I’ve been without electricity in my bedroom and bathroom.*

For the past week, I’ve been without electricity in the bedroom and bathroom of my apartment (flat) In response to my maintenance request, the office sent an email saying that my request was being “reviewed.” How long does it take to review a simple maintenance request? I could review James Joyce’s Ulysses in less time than that if I had read it.

I know the complex is understaffed, but this is ridiculous. If they treat their employees the way they treat their tenants, it’s no wonder they’re chronically .under-staffed.

It is better to shower by flashlight or by candlelight?

I guess I should be grateful that I still have electricity in my kitchen, living room, and makeshift office so I can keep working on my latest novel. The electricity in those spaces will probably go out any minute now. I live in a shoddily constructed building. I’d have moved a long time ago if I could afford to but housing in my state is insanely expensive. More than 36 thousand people applied to be on a waiting list for low-income housing. I’m one of the ones who applied. I don’t know yet if I’m one of the ones who made it. I’m thinking of moving to Latvia where several of my cousins still live but the war in Ukraine has caused prices to go up there, too.

Today I received an email from the apartment complex’s management office about the balance I owe them. This is Tuesday. I was in the office Saturday with a cashier’s check for an amount larger than the balance mentioned in the email. The girl wouldn’t take the check because it represented only a partial payment. I already have an eviction notice but nowhere to go and a puny income. No job prospects in sight.

*My old manual typewriter was not as cute as this one.*

So what do I do? I fret. Apply for jobs no one wants to hire me for. To keep from going crazy, I write. I’m almost finished with the second draft of a novel I want to try to peddle to Harlequin. If the lights go out in my home “office” I wouldn’t be able to write without going to the library.

The rent situation has been going on for months. It’s why my blog posts have been so scarce. Writing fiction is a lot less fraught than writing non-fiction, even if the non-fiction is about myths and legends.

I love my characters and spending time with them. My novel takes me away from my bleak circumstances to Languedoc, France. Romance novels always have a happy ending. The question the books answer is not what the ending will be but how the characters will get there. I don’t know what my ending will be, either, but I will survive even though I don’t know how.

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The Latvian God of Spring

A father deity

Illustration by Jēkabs Bīne (1895 – 1955) To me he looks a bit like Attila the Hun. The back-to-back E is one of Ūsiņš symbols. He and his horses are the bingers of the sun

You would expect that the day honoring the god of spring would be the equinox on March 20th. However, Ūsiņa diena (Ūsiņš day) is celebrated on April 23. I don’t know the reason for this discrepancy. So, I’m not late in writing about this deity.

Paradoxically, Ūsiņš Day is considered to be the beginning of summer.

In Latvia, spring is known as the blossoming time (ziedonis, also used as a man’s name)

Ūsiņš, in Latvian mythology, is the god of light, spring, bees, and horses, as well as the god of spring. He brings green grass to fields and new green leaves to trees.

In Latgale province Ūsiņ Day, traditions continued into the beginning of the 20th century, while in Kurzeme and Zemgale it died out in the second half of the 19th century.

Ūsiņš Day was the first day of the season that horses were turned out to pasture. It was an ancient tradition for the young men of the homestead to go sleep in the pasture to protect the horses from both wolves and thieves. In order to keep warm, the horse herders built fires and slept by them on pine boughs or sacks of straw brought from home. Since they were Latvians, they also sang many songs. In case of rain, they built little huts out of branches. Horse pasturing could continue to Martiņ diena (Martin Day) when Ūsiņš became Martin, the god of autumn and still was the god of horses.

The most important of Ūsiņš Day symbols is a colt. The symbolism can be interpreted in several ways–as the power of the deity, human energy, and vitality, and as a phallic symbol of generative vitality.

A yellow horse represents the energy of the sun.

This is also a horse market day when horses are bought and sold.

I’ve always loved horses so this is a good excuse to search out and include pictures of them.

Scholars don’t agree as to the origins of the name Ūsiņš. Some argue that the name comes from the German husing, a.k.a. spirit of the home. Perhaps from the Russian word усень that Google translated as fall without specifying whether it was a noun or a verb. Others claim that the name derives from the Egyptian god, Osiris, or from the Sanskrit ŪŠA, which means dawn.

One thing I can tell you is that the Wiki translation of Ūsiņš to English does not mean “whiskers.” It’s an understandable, albeit silly mistake. The Latvian word for mustache is ūsas. Similar, but not the same. Why would anyone think the god of spring and light would be called “whiskers”?

*Ūsiņš Day* *is the first day of the plowing season.*

To ensure the fertility of his fields the farmer gets up early and plows the first furrow before dawn, while naked. (is all of Latvian mythology about sex? It was an agrarian society so of course it was) It’s important not to look back as he plows (maybe so his wife won’t distract him)

The first furrow must be plowed in the middle of the field. After the first three furrows are plowed it’s time for a special holiday meal, which includes eggs (!) In the evening of Ūsiņš Day, the farmer shares his holiday evening meal with the horse herders out in the pasture.

A sleepover with horses. It’s also a day for horsing around. The day is supposed to be greeted with noise like thunder,

Ūsiņš Day, a day for green. Your donation in support of my work would be greatly appreciated. Thank you!

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Great Mother Goddess: Māra

Ancient Latvians had a pantheon of deities.

*Māra by Ansis Cīrulis, 18*83 – 1942 The goddess is referred to as Dear Māra or Beloved *Māra*.

Many of the ancient deities were female.

At the top of the hierarchy was a trinity of deities, two of whom were female. Dievs, the male, was the top-ranking deity, the father of the world. Laima, the goddess of fate was one of the three. Māte (Mother) Māra is considered to be the feminine side of Dievs, the mother of the material world. She and Dievs are like yin and yang. Latvia is known as Māras zeme (Māra’s land) The other, minor goddesses are Māra’s assistants or different aspects of her being.

*The River Gauja is the longest Latvian river. It flows only within Latvija’s territory and so can be considered a symbol representing all of Latvia.* *Māra is also the mother of waters, the sea mother.*

Māra is the protector of women, childbirth, and children who are considered to be gifts from the goddess. She is the giver and taker of life. At death, she takes the person’s body, while Dievs take the soul. However, she does not determine the length of a person’s life, that is up to Laima. One of Māra’s many aspects is Veļu Māte, the goddess of the underworld, and mother of spirits. Different facets of her personality are mother and protector of cattle, mother of milk, mother earth, mother of the people, forest mother, mother of fields, and mother of flax. She encourages cows to give rich, creamy, abundant milk.

*Since cows give milk it makes sense that the mother of milk would also be the mother of cattle.*

In Latvian folk songs, dainas, Māra is depicted as doing women’s work–grinding grain, milking cows, or churning butter.

All the animals that are sacred to her are black–hen, toad, grass snake (a harmless creature), viper, and beetle. She can turn herself into any of them. All are associated with the realm of the dead. She is associated with the serpent cult, the chthonic fertility deity.

Māra is depicted as wearing green or gold garments sitting in a willow, by a spring, or on a rock i the middle of a brook.

Māra’s cross, also known as the cross of crosses, is the symbol of completeness, for the home, and fire. It is sometimes drawn on loaves of bread and carved into sacrificial rocks and on fireplaces.

Some scholars argue that the name Māra derives from the name Maria, a version of the name Mary. They take it to mean that she is the same being as Mary the Mother of the Christian God. However, she could just as easily be the Hindu goddess of death, who is also called Mara or Mata. The similarity of names shows the Indo-European roots of the Latvian language and culture, both much older than Christianity.

*Another of Māra’s symbols represents the earth and her role as the earth’s mother.*

It’s important to have this particular symbol of Māra at weddings to ensure the couple’s fertility.

The horizontal line of the triangle symbolizes the earth. The other two lines point to the direction where the sun rises (NE) and sets (NW) at the summer solstice. Māra’s many symbols include a simple horizontal line which represents the earth and a zigzag which symbolizes rivers.

When Māras triangle is unified with Dievs triangle, which is turned the other way, they represent balance and harmony.

Māras various symbols are used in arts and crafts of different kinds, weavings, ceramics, wood, and leather work.

Māra, Mārīte, and Mārīta are popular women’s given names. Māras Name Day is March 25th.

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Latvian Wonder Dog

The delights of revising a childhood favorite.

*Kriksis meets his new best friend in Rīga.*

The title of the book is Kriksis Trimdā in English Kriksis in Exile. My latest read.

Some of my followers are Latvians but probably many of them don’t speak, let alone read Latvian so why should they or anyone who is not Latvian care about a Latvian children’s book? Hopefully, my post will prompt people, no matter what their language to pick up old childhood favorites and read it again. Or perhaps to get a children’s book they never got around to reading.

Many adults turn up their noses at the prospect of reading a children’s book. Not me. I read Charlotte’s Web as an adult because students in my college English class raved about it. When I read the book, I understood why people of every age love it. I also read The Wind in the Willows when I was all grown up and every one of the Harry Potter books. Good writing is good writing, no matter who it’s meant for.

*The water rat is right, “There is nothing–absolutely nothing–half so much worth doing as messing about in boats.”* *(The Wind in the Willows)*

What prompted me to pick up my old book was disappointment with some of the books for adults that I’ve read lately. Books with holes in the logic of the plot. Books with way too much detail. A book that included the description of a character’s digestive issue. It was boring even before it got to that point. Books with cardboard characters. Redundancies. The last one I really liked was a book I re-read before last Christmas, Abide With Me by Elizabeth Strout that’s about a widowed small-town minister.

The exiled dog and his boy enchant me as much now as they did when my father and I took turns reading chapters to each other when I was in elementary school.

Lassie: “Tommy’s in the well!” Lassie alerts the family.

Kriksis: Tomiņš (Tommy) has been captured by Russian soldiers. Kriksis to the resscue.

*Was Tommy in the well a real episode? I don’t remember.*

If Kriksis in Exile were in English it would probably give some people a heart attack and get banned. I don’t remember being traumatized by it even though my family and I were exiles. I’d probably already been traumatized by overhearing the stories of their and their friends’ experiences during the Second World War. When someone, like my parents, who were refugees in Germany, survives the bombing of Berlin, you have a different perspective of reality.

The first chapter shows forest animals, all of them friends of Kriksis, struggling to define war. War is terrible noise. War is fire falling from the sky. War destroys mole’s house. They wonder, should they hide deep in the ground anyway? Can war follow them into the ground? Owl has seen war and tells about it to Raven who explains it to the other animals. War is humans fighting each other. Firing guns the size of logs. Flying machines with wings as long as trees are tall, dropping huge bullets on everyone. War is Russians trying to steal land that doesn’t belong to them.

Where is Kriksis the animals wonder? He is smarter than all the rest of them put together. He is not just their friend, he is their hero. He will know what to do. The forest is on fire and Kriksis rescues many of his friends by carrying them on his back as he swims a river. All the animals speak the same language. A language that a boy can understand but adults can’t.

It’s not until much later in the book, after many adventures, that Kriksis, having lost his family. who fled the war, meets Tomiņš who has also lost his family, not to death but to exile.

How is it that a child of exiles can find such a book enchanting? Maybe because of the stalwart dog and his loyalty to friends, both the other animal and the boy. Because of the dog’s intelligence and ingenuity. Because of Tomiņš and Kriksis motto, “We are not ones to be afraid. that helps them survive the perils of war and exile. There’s also the charm of dog and boy understanding each other so well.

I don’t remember how old I was when my father and I read about Kriksis and Tomiņš maybe eight or nine. Unlike with a couple of other books, we read it cover to cover. One book we never finished was a Latvian book called Legends of Christ. Once we got to Maundy Thursday. I refused to read more. I knew what would happen on Good Friday and did not want to read about it. No way could I be persuaded to continue.

Despite the subjects, war, and exile, there is no graphic violence in Kriksis in Eixle but when the boy and dog wind up as exiles in Germany they see buildings with shattered windows, buildings with no roof, and piles of rubble in the street. On their journey, they experience hunger and sleeplessness. Somehow, I survived hearing about all that.

*From a book of wonder tales by the author of Kriksis in Exile.*

When I finish reading, Kriksis in Exile, I think I’ll read some of my other Latvian books. It’s gratifying to know I can read my native language more smoothly than I expected. There were only a couple of words I didn’t recognize. And I was reminded of the charms of the Latvian language with all its declensions, conjugations, and terms of endearment.

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19th Century Life in the Far West

Ft. Nisqually Living History Museum, Tacome, Washington, USA

Present-day reality has not improved any so for a short while, I’m escaping to the past. I love history and I love the fort.

During the mid-19th century, Fort Nisqually was an outpost of the Hudson’s Bay Company. It’s a cool place to visit and a fun place to take kids.s

My photos from a few years ago helped me with descriptions for the historical novel that I set aside for what I thought would be a short time to write A Home for an Exile’s Heart. I still haven’t gone back to it as I’m writing what I hope will be a more marketable novel than As Wind to Flame. One of these days…

*The exterior* of the palisade at Ft. Nisqually.
Usually, there would be many cars parked in the lot. I think I might have taken this photo at a time when I was just driving past on my way out of the park. The fort is within the boundaries of Pt. Defiance Park in Tacoma, Washington, USA.

*Bastion, house, carriage* shed, and “the necessary” inside the palisade.

This was the first time I’d seen a “two-holer.” I didn’t know such a thing existed though I have used an outhouse at a tiny summer resort in the distant past. This is just a bit too much togetherness for me. Note the TP hanging from the nail. Probably squares of newspaper. I’ll let you think up your own editorial comments.

The fancy folk who lived in the factor’s house had this “necessary” at their disposal. Just lift the lid. Be sure to put it back down when finished.

*Interior of the factor’s house, a.ka. “The Big House.”*

The fine folk who lived in the factor’s house didn’t have to go far for their firewood. The bin is on the back porch.

The commode chair would have been in the bedroom.

I love the woven fence. One of my friends volunteers as a re-enactor at the museum. She would bring her chickens along and pen them here to do their own re-enacting.

The wash house is one of my favorite places at the fort. I love the long johns hanging from the drying rack. You could hang a lot of laundry on the drying rack which could be hauled up to the ceiling so it would be out of the way.

It would be necessary to have more than one of these as shown in the photo. One would be warming on the stove’s burner while the other was in use. When the one being used got cold it would be traded for the one that had been warming on the stove.

One of the families in As Wind to Flame owns a general store. An important scene takes place in the store.

The origins of the word “shebang” is unclear. It has many possible definitions, one of the being a shop. Maybe that’s where the phrase “the whole shebang”: comes from. No one knows for certain so I go with “shop.”

*The building on the right is the granary.*

Every weekend during the summer there are fun hands-on activities at the fort. In May Queen Victoria’s birthday is celebrated. There is also a brigade encampment. The annual candlelight tour that takes place in October is sold out well in advance.

Now back to the unpleasant present which is made more pleasant by the contemporary romance I’m currently writing.

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Write Happy

Was I wrong yesterday to imply that people can’t make their own happiness? Only partially. For many people, such as those living in war zones, in places where there have been natural or man-made disasters, or who are dealing with dread diseases, it’s probably impossible. For those of us in less dire situations we can grab a bit of happiness here and there.

I love to write. When it goes well, writing makes me happy, as if I’m soaring like these balloons. While I write I can forget my grim situation for a while. I live in the world I’ve created in my imagination. Even when writing does not go well, it’s better than not writing. However, when I close my document and leave my computer, unpleasant reality rebounds.

If I love writing so much, why have I neglected my blog so much in the last couple of months? I do enjoy writing, researching, editing, and illustrating my blog posts but I’m primarily a fiction writer. I love creating what I hope are interesting characters and the world they live in. Giving them problems that make them miserable for a while and then give them a happy-ever-after ending. Maybe because of my situation or my personality, I can’t give my stories and unresolved or even an unhappy, but fitting ending. That’s just not me.

For a while, I felt too dismal to write at all but I found a manuscript that I started for National Novel Writing Month (every November) and left unfinished when I couldn’t figure out where I was going with it. Looking at it again, seeing how many words I’d already written and the characters I’d created, I decided that the story has possibilities. and would work for Harlequin Romances.

Some writers turn up their noses at the very thought of writing for Harlequin. Not me. The publishing company has big advantages that other publishing companies don’t offer. They accept manuscripts from un-agented writers. They pay advances as well as royalties. Because of their book club where people sign up for monthly book packages writers are guaranteed and audience. One big disadvantage of the book club is that the month after your book arrives, four new books come in the mail and the previous month’s books are no longer the shiny new thing. That’s something that can happen with any publisher.

When I went back to Romance Rhymes With France, I decided I’d better read at least one of Harlequins books to see the sort of thing they publish. They have guidelines on their website but they’re don’t give you a feel for what they want. Fortunately, considering my practically non-existent budget, I was able to download a free novel. I’ve read quite a few Harlequin novels in the past and enjoyed them. I hope the one I downloaded was an awful exception to their usual standards. It was a perfect example of you get what you pay for. Flat characters, bad grammar, clumsy, repetitive writing, and even by the standards of romance novels totally unbelievable. I slogged through it anyway. It was worth it because it convinced me that I can do better. I even got ideas for my own story.

Mostly, working on Romance Rhymes With France has been a happy experience. I like my characters–an artist and a bestselling (!) author. I like the setting. Languedoc in southern France. I’ve been making pretty steady progress–two to four pages a day on average. As often happens, I hit a speed bump. I don’t like the way I took my characters in the last couple of days. Characters need conflict and inner struggles on their road to true love. I think I over-did it. Made the conflict for the hero too unpleasant for Harlequin and for me. So, I took a couple of days break from working on the novel. I hope the time away from it will give me a fresh perspective while I do something else.

Maybe I’ll have a happy ending, too. All that takes time. Finishing the manuscript. Re-writing. Editing.. Submitting. Waiting for a response.

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Do People Make Their Own Happiness?

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Shibboleth (Noun) a word or saying used by adherents of a party, sect, or belief and usually regarded by others as empty of real meaning. (Merriam-Webster)

Or is it just a smug, self-satisfied shibboleth that happy people to tell others that their unhappiness, even their misery, is their own fault. “We’re not to blame. Fate is not blame. You are.” An easy way to write off less fortunate others. That’s how this this banal catchphrase seems to me.

Do the people of Ukraine make their own happiness in the midst of an unjust,, unlawful, land brutalk war make their own happiness? Do the people of earthquake devastated Turkey and Syria make their own happiness? Well, the smug happy person may say. war and natural disasters are different. Clearly those events are not the fault of the victims.

But that’s also true on a smaller scale. A depressive does not choose to be a depressive because it’s satisfying or because in some twisted way it makes them happy. Relieves them of responsibility. Just get on anti-depressants the smug person might say. Anti-depressants don’t work for everyone. They have side-effects such as suicidal ideation. Or just a buzzing in the head like electricity is how one of my friends described it. Those are just a couple of the possible side-effects of anti-depressants.

As for me, being unhappy must be my own fault because I “choose” to live in a state where housing costs keep rising but my income does not. Smuggies don’t take into consideration that moving is also expensive. “Go live with someone” they say but don’t offer their own home to share. Not everyone is made to share living space with another person unless the other person is compatible, maybe a spouse or relative. Co-housing can be sheer torture for an introvert. But what does that matter as long as you have a roof over your head? It matters.

Just take your happiness into your own hands and everything will be peaches and cream. As is often the case, it’s more easily said and done. I’ve lost track of how many jobs I’ve applied for with no success. But, since my happiness is in my own hands. I will keep on keeping on. I do have one last resort housing option: a cemetery plot. It’s a quiet and private place.

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Homeless Plants?

My anxiety isn’t just for me losing my home, It’s also about the possibility of my plants losing their home. Most low-income housing that I’ve seen has no balconies. So, what would I do with my plants if I have to move to such a place?

For most of every year I have a mini jungle on my small balcony. There is barely enough room for both me and my plants.

My autumn fern is about ready to take over the entire balcony.

I have a friend who rents a house. I’ve thought about asking her to take my plants if I should have to move but she’s in pretty much the same situation as I. She has her own business but sadly too many of her clients don’t pay their bills on time or at all, so she’s hurting, too.. Despite having a husband, two kids, and two cats and a dog to worry about, she kindly made a contribution to help me out. I’m endelessly grateful to her for everything she has done for me.

I miss having a cat but at present, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about a potentially homeless cat, too. The fern has a child. It self seeded in another container and has grown surprisingly big in a relatively short time.

My big gorgeous hosta will soon be competition for balcony space with the fern.

Buying a hydrangea for my balcony garden probably wasn’t the best idea I ever had but I could resist the color or the sale price. It was small when I got it but it’s grown considerably in only two years. We had a pretty fierce cold snap just after Christmas but the hydrangea survived and now has small leaf clusters. I hope it survives the cold snap we’re supposed to get later this week.

The hydrangea has some mystery companions growing in its container. The green shoots are probably three inches tall. I don’t know what they are but I don’t like to yank out a plant until I’m sure it’s a weed. The shoots look like they might belong to some bulb plant.

Many people treat geraniums like annuals but I’ve succeeded in over-wintering them and getting them to bloom again. I babied the geraniums all winter bringing them indoors whenever it got too cold. They’re going to be coming inside again probably tomorrow. When the weather is good the three begonias live on a tiered, spiral plant stand.

If it weren’t for railing boxes, I wouldn’t be able to have as many plants on my balcony. This box turned out especially well. The Anna’s hummingbird loves the pink petunias. I hope somebody in the building has a hummingbird feeder so tiny Anna will be able to get a snack if my plants and I are gone.

I have room for visitors on my balcony if they’re very small.

My balcony is my haven of peace, beauty, and serenity. It’s calming even when I hear traffic noisy, which seems go go on all day and night. Although I’m not really a morning person, I sometimes wake up at dawn and photograph sunrises from there. I watch Jupiter from there. I have a chair and a tray table on a stand out on the balcony. When the weather is nice, say in the mid-fifties, I bundle up and sit there and write.

*Symbolic clouds hovering on the horizon.*

Despite the great view, this apartment is relatively inexpensive compare to others in town. Just not inexpensive enough for me at present.

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The Seven-hour Lunch

It’s a Latvian thing.

It’s apparently a French thing, too. Peter Mayle wrote in his bestselling book, A Year in Provence, that he and his wife closed the deal for the house they were purchasing over a five-hour lunch. It was probably such a short lunch because it was a business lunch. No doubt it’s an Italian thing, too.. Possibly this sort of lunch happens in all of Europe and maybe even South America.

One of my dear friends, a half-Latvian professor of music, is spending part of his sabbatical in Latvia studying the music of an ancient regional culture. This isn’t his first trip to Latvia so he has had the opportunity to make friends. He has also discovered the joys of the seven-hour lunch.

When I was in Latvia during the Soviet years of glasnost (openness) I also experienced the seven-hour lunch. Or, it might have been ten hours. I lost track. Hours at the table were nothing new to me. That’s how it was when my parents’ generation threw parties but then it was mostly in the evening. Mostly. Mostly. Often, when the fun times were too good to end a few friends were invited to return the next morning, or afternoon, (depending on how long the previous night’s party lasted) to help finish off the leftovers. The main dish then was meat-filled pancakes called kommorgenwieder derived from the German phrase komm morgen wieder, come again tomorrow.

For me there was no returning the in the morning. I was going home the next day.

*Latvians make a tidy little bundle with both ends tucked under.*

A vivid memory from my childhood was a celebration at our Latvian next door neighbor’s house. The wife had been a signer with Latvia’s National Opera. She led the guests in a lusty song. It’s sad that there was no such singing at this party. Either my relatives had forgotten the words to our ancient folksongs or the prevailing atmosphere dampened their enthusiasm for singing. On a previous visit to Gaida’s home, I sang a couple of folk songs to her little boys. Songs I had known since I was a little girl. Songs they should have known, but didn’t.

How did that long, leisurely lunch get started? My cousin, my father’s niece, Gaida (guy-dah) who at the time had an apartment in Rīga invited me and the Rīga rellies, including the ones on my mother’s side of the family to lunch at one in the afternoon. We talked, ate, and drank. Repeat. Repeat. Even though it was a time of privation more food and drink kept appearing on the table.

*Only a fraction of my tribe. The ones on my father’s side of the family are missing.*

At four, I was supposed to meet my mother’s younger brother and his son. They were driving in from her hometown Limbaži, which is about 54 miles (87 km) from the capital. We were to meet at the park across the street from my hotel. That was no reason to break up the party. My cousin, Guntis (soft U, uh), my father’s nephew went to pick them up and brought them over. They’d already me the Rīga crew when they all gathered at my hotel on the night I arrived.

*Traditional Latvian black rye bread. I was disappointed that at the time they didn’t have any in Rīga. I had to go back to the USA to be able to get it.*

What do you talk about at a seven-hour lunch? We talked about family, of course. The ones in Latvia, the ones in America, even the ones in Australia. But even though my mother had a large family, her grandfather was married three times, anecdotes about the family wouldn’t have taken up so many hours. One of my mother’s cousins, a professor at the University of Latvia gave a welcoming table speech to me. I don’t remember what he said, but I get misty just thinking about it. Latvians tend to give long speeches. Over the years I’ve been bored by too many of them. Pavils’ speech wasn’t very long but from the heart. I surprised myself by asking Guntis to give a speech from my father’s side of the family. I don’t remember what he said, either. Same reaction on my part.

Other than the abundance of food, I don’t remember what we ate. What sticks in my mind is a liqueur that tasted like minty mouthwash. It showed up when the other booze started running low. I confess, I never in my life drank as much nor stay as sober as I did while in Latvia. Adrenaline must counteract the effects of alcohol. Even though I felt comfortable and at home in Latvia, like the rest of us in that tour group from the West, I was constantly aware of the possibility of being followed by a KGB agent. Less for myself that my relatives.

The night of that long lunch was the only time I was drunk. It must have been the minty mouthwash liqueur. Guntis drove me, my uncle, and my cousin back to my hotel where they’d left their car. I remember bawling on my uncle’s shoulder, knowing I would never experience anything like that in my life again.

*We had vodka but not Stoli. It has become* *an international brand.* It *might have been been available in stores where only tourists were allowed to shop*. *Stores where only western currencies were accepted.*

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Nero Fiddled. I wrote.

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The legend goes that the Emperor Nero supposedly fiddle while Roma burned. The only problem with that myth is that the first fiddle was not invented, in Germany, until about 1400 hundred year’s after Nero’s death.

So much for an interesting legend about the indifference of a ruler.

I wrote while my life burned. No more literally than Nero’s fiddling. For a while, working on a new novel provided solace. An escape from unpleasant reality. My new work in progress is a romance novel for Harlequin. Not the first publisher I would choose but they’re one of the very few traditional publishers who accept unsolicited manuscripts from writers without agents. In addition to royalties, they also pay advances. A cash advance, even if it’s something that doesn’t materialize until sometime in the future, if at all, is something I badly need. Not to mention how nice, delightful, wonderful, exciting, thrilling it would be to hold a physical book that I wrote in my hands.

Preferably, a book that I did not pay someone to publish for me.

I’ve even been reading a pretty awful example that I download for free from the Harlequin website. It’s a chore to struggle through the thing but it’s worth it because it gives me confidence that I can do better. Readers deserve better. It also shows me the sort of thing the publisher wants and gives me ideas for my own story.

As for my burning world…housing costs in my state are insanely expensive. Unless some miracle happens, a miracle such as a job or a big jackpot winning lottery ticket, I can no longer afford my apartment. My former employer was a victim of the pandemic. Unemployment insurance has a way of running out. So many people in this state are hurting and need low-income housing that waiting lists are years long. I don’t know how they do it. Not everyone is as fortunate as I in having relatives help about but they’re not wealthy. They can’t afford to keep helping.

I keep applying for jobs but not getting hired, not even in fields where I have extensive experience. Maybe that’s part of the problem–I’m over-qualified. Or something. I’ve been a solitary person all my life so having a roommate would be a last ditch option. Better than living in a cardboard carton under a freeway overpass.

Anxiety is not good for inspireation.

Before anxiety achieved high-tide, my writing was going well. I managed to write approximately a thousand words, four pages, a day. Then, as the anxiety went from chromic to acute, the writing came to a dead halt. That went on for a few weeks. Eventually, not writing got to the point where it was worse than the anxiety and worry about where I would live if I lose my apartment., so I forced myself to write. My production isn’t as good as it was before, but a page a day is better than nothing.

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9 Magical Christmas Foods

A Latvian tradition is to eat nine special foods at their Christmas celebration. Each food has its own magical meaning.

*Pīrāgs: A Latvian bacon bun.* (*Pīrāgs* *is a singular noun. Plural is *pīrāg*i)*

My motivation to write ebbs and flows. Lately, it’s been at an ebb. I start a new blog post and it winds up in the drafts file. It’s embarrassing to admit how often that has happened. I seldom know why this happens even with the most interesting material. Maybe this time it’s because I miss working on my novel, A Home for an Exile’s Heart and I’m in mourning. I have another novel in progress that I set aside to work on Exile. I love it, too, but its draw on my interest doesn’t seem to be strong enough. Some of my lack of motivation has to do with anxiety and depression; it, too, ebbs and flows. Not even cookies.

*Latvian Christmas spice cookies baked with nine different spices.*

Instead of writing a new description of the nine special foods, I’m going to insert a scene from Exile.

Līvija is the protagonist. Cameron is the deuteragonist; the only American at a Latvian Christmas party at Līvija’s home. Dzintra is her seven-year-old daughter. The other characters are their housemates. Kristaps is six.

Many newly arrived refugees lived together communally until they could afford to acquire homes of their own. My family and I lived for a while with my godmother and her family.

The scene:

Līvija and Vera entered carrying platters of roast meat. Even after feeding ten people, there would probably be enough leftovers to keep the household satiated for a week. Līvija set a roast goose in front of Mr. Timma. Noticing the wonder on Cameron’s face, she explained, “We all received Christmas bonuses.”

“It is a Latvian tradition to eat nine special foods at Christmas.” Vera set a pork roast before Mrs. Timma and sat down between Kristaps and Marta. “Each of the foods has a magical meaning.”

Cameron turned to his little companion. “Will you tell me what the meanings are, Dzintra?”

Obviously pleased to be asked, she counted on her fingers. “Peas and beans so you don’t cry. Pīrāgi to always have a nice surprise. Beets and carrots to be healthy.”

Kristaps seemingly couldn’t bear to have everyone’s attention focused on Dzintra. He piped up loudly, “Pig meat for good luck!”

“Kris,” Siliņš silenced his son again. “Mr. Kvinn asked Dzintra, not you.”

Once again Cameron felt sorry for the kid. The boy couldn’t seem to do anything right. He also couldn’t seem to learn. Sliding down in his chair, Kristaps mumbled, “I was just trying to help.”

“In English pig meat is called pork.” Unfazed Dzintra went on, “Poultry for success. Fish for money. Sauerkraut to be strong. A round…” Dzintra broke off and leaned forward looking to her mother for help.

“A round baked good,” Līvija prompted.

Not subdued for long, Kristaps announced, “We have two round cakes!”

Dzintra tensed. She seemed ready to come to blows. “That’s supposed to be a surprise. You spoiled it, Kris!”

Zenta put a calming hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Ve hev many surprize. Tell Mr. Kvin about ze last two foods. Vat do round baked goods mean?”

“They mean lots of sunshine.” Her momentary flare of temper forgotten, Dzintra turned her sunny face toward Cameron. “And piparkūkas so you’ll always have love.”

“That must be why many piparkūkas are shaped like hearts,” Cameron said, putting a caressing hand on top of Dzintra’s head. “I’ll have to make sure I have a little of each food and plenty of piparkūkas, even though I’m lucky enough to already have lots of love.”

*Fancy layer cakes, “tortes” are a specialty of some Latvian ladies.*

The first few chapters are free to read. Any electronic device works.

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Displaced Persons Camp

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Hochfeld DP Camp, Augsburg, Bavaria, Germany was one of the hundreds of refugee camps set up by UNRRA, United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration after the Second World War to provide shelter and other basic necessities for the thousands of refugees who fled the Soviets and the Nazis. People from all three Baltic countries, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania were at Hochfeld.

Coming up with ideas for my blog can be a challenge. Too often, I start a post and for some reason, my will to work on it falters and comes to a halt. Occasionally, I come up with ideas when I’m not even looking for them, something sparks, and I take off, not even noticing how many hours I’ve been pounding the keyboard and searching for illustrations. I was going through old photos when I came up with these from my family’s collection taken during our time at Hochfeld.

*Hospital in Augsburg where I got my start in life.*

I was very small when we left Germany so I don’t remember much. We had a two-room apartment because two of my uncles, my mother’s older brother, and my father’s younger brother were with us. They had the multi-functional main room and my parents and I had the second room. Not every family was as fortunate.

*Courtesy of the Dankers family archive.*

Here’s what Mr. Dankers said about their DP living quarters: “Mom making dinner in our exquisite single room suite containing kitchen, living, dining, bed, rec & bath-room in Displaced Persons Camp Augsburg/Hochfeld in Germany, March 1951. Thank you, dear parents, for eventually taking my sister & me to the Land of Opportunity in America.”

*Mr. Ohaks, my uncle Nikolaijs, and yours truly.*

Mr. Ohaks was the building supervisor. I don’t know why he’s in the photo with us. Maybe he’s the one who set up the photo session. I also don’t know where the ball came from. Maybe it was in a CARE package from America. Founded in 1945 CARE (Cooperative for Assitance and Relief Everywhere, originally Cooperative for American Remittances to Europe) is one of the largest and oldest humanitarian aid organizations. I’ve known about CARE practically forever but only now looked up the meaning of the acronym. It’s still in existence.

*My other uncle, Alfons, and his friend.*

Alfons never mentioned this lady. The only information I have about her came from my mother. He and this woman had a romance. She was married but escaped Latvia without her husband. Perhaps he was a soldier who had been reported killed in action. In Germany, she learned that her husband was still alive and returned to him in Latvia. When she got there, she learned that he’d divorced her and married someone else. The Soviets would not allow her to return to Germany. I don’t know if this sad experience was the reason my uncle never married.

I borrowed parts of this tragic romance for one of the characters in my novel, A Home for an Exile’s Heart.

*Hochfeld apartment block. The man with the pipe is my uncle, Nikolaijs.* *I don’t think this is where my family and I lived. Hochfeld was merged with another smaller DP camp.*

I believe this is a street scene in Augsburg with Hochfeld DP camp in the background. Folks, if you have photos with no information written on them please do so for the sake of those who come after you.

*I don’t know if this photo was taken somewhere in Augsburg but I don’t know where else it could have been taken.*

Nikolaijs is in the middle. He lost part of his leg in the war.

I’m sad because Nikolaijs, my favorite uncle, was about to leave for the United States where he’d found sponsors in Pennsylvania. He wasn’t as afraid to change the diapers of a baby girl as my father and my other uncle. Koļa (Kolya) would read to me at bedtime. After a while, when he didn’t return to the main room, my mother came in to check on us. Koļa had read himself to sleep while I was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m still a night owl.

*My other uncle, Alfons, leaving for America.*

All refugees departing for their new homes had tags on their clothes as if they were packages that might get lost in transit. I guess it makes sense since they didn’t speak English well or at all. Except that this was Germany and the Baltic refugees could speak German.

Alfons’ first home in America was on a farm in South Dakota.

*Another friend, Ģirts, on his makeshift scooter. His family went to Australia.*

Life for kids in a DP camp could be fun and almost normal. Determined that their culture and language not be lost refugees set up schools for their children. They also put on plays and concerts.

My mother once took me to a Latvian preschool. A teacher and my mother accompanied me to the classroom. When we entered the room, the children surged to their feet, as Latvian children do to show respect for the teacher, I was terrified. I was probably three and had never seen anything like that in my life. It must have seemed as if the other kids were about to attack me. I ducked under my mother’s arm and ran to the workshop where my father was learning goldsmithing. My mother never said, and I never asked, whether she ever took me back or gave up on that portion of my education.

This is another incident that I used in my novel assigned to my heroine’s daughter Dzintra, who was also at Hochfeld. Except that Dzintra has two grandmothers to run to.

*Photo from my laissez-passer. A passport issued by the United Nations to stateless people.*

My mother probably knit that little sweater for me. I’m wearing a sun brooch that my father made for me. I still have it and still wear it.

The sun in Latvian mythology is a mother goddess. Her symbol represents protection, harmony, perpetual motion, and the power of life.

Good-bye Germany. Hello, America!

A Home for an Exile’s Heart is about the life of a Latvian refugee, Līvija Galiņa after they find a new home in Seattle, Washington in a neighborhood where one of my mother’s cousins, her mother, and son also lived communally with another Latvian family. Only the living arrangements are the same in my story as in real life.

You don’t need a Kindle to read my novel, any electronic device will do, including your laptop or desktop.

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Martin Day: The End of Veļu Laiks

Saying goodbye to autumn and welcoming winter.

*Martin’s symbol* *of fire and light. Both are important during the coldest and darkest time of year.*

Martin Day was on November 10th but I’ve recently learned that all of November is Martin Month. Who is Martin? He is one of the sons of Dievs the Latvian nature deity who has become associated with the Christian god who goes by the same name. Dieva (possessive case) other sons are Jānis, whose day is the Summer Solstice, and Ūsiņš, the god of spring and blossoming.

It is a tradition to sacrifice a rooster to Mārtinš to thank him for a good harvest and in hopes of a good harvest the following year.

Mārtiņi is the Latvian word for Martin Day. It’s the day when the Veļi, the spirits of the dead, return to their home beyond the sun. It marks the end of shepherding and the completion of harvesting. It is the beginning of ladus laiks, the time of ice. And it’s a cross-quarter day, the midpoint between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice.

*We seldom get ice like this in my state*

One of the customs to celebrate Martin’s Day is a masked procession. The masked participants are known as budeļi. Mumming, another name for masking goes on all winter to Meteņi, when spring is welcomed.

One of my friends is currently in Latvia where he took part in Martin Day festivities at the Ethnographic Open Air Museum in Rīga. Adults, as well as children, wear masks. In the old days in Latvia, budeļi went from farmstead to farmstead, singing and dancing. The householders welcomed them with refreshments.

My friend kindly gave me permission to use his photos and didn’t even ask for photo credits.

*Budeļi* at the Ethnographic Open Air Museum

*I’m sad that I never got to see anything like this when I was in Latvia. I was there at the height of summer and I got to see a Song Festival.*

*Latvians dance everywhere, all the time.*

Mārtiņi is one of many fire festivals in Latvian, and world pagan traditions. Fire represents the threshold to another dimension, The center of the bonfire is a direct link to Dievs. The fire rituals are complex and deserve their own post.

Mārtinš is also a popular name for men. My maternal grandfather was named Mārtinš.

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Veļu Māte: Mother of Spirits

Veļi are the souls of deceased individuals.

In Latvian mythology, Veļu Māte is one of many mother goddesses. She is not a nice little old lady. She is the goddess of the underworld, the keeper of keys to the underworld. She is also known as kapu māte, graveyard mother, and goes around wearing a white woolen cloak and iron shoes or shoes made of sand.

*Veļu Māte*, *image by Jānis Rozentāls, 1866 – 1916*

Veļu Māte ranks in importance along with Zemes Māte, Earth Mother who is also a goddess of death. Sometimes the two goddesses are considered to be synonymous. However, Earth Mother is said to be a good-hearted deity. On the other hand, Veļu Māte takes pleasure in the death of her victims and dances on their graves. She doesn’t always wait for people to die but goes to collect their souls. Or she lures souls with a pot of honey. In some folk songs, she bakes wheat bread to welcome her guests.

*Beyond the sun is where deceased souls dwell.*

In addition to Earth Mother, Veļu Māte is associated with the goddesses Laima (fate) Jūras Māte (sea mother) and Saule (the sun). When she sets the sun can take the soul of a person who is sleeping with the sun shining on them and take it with her. Perhaps this is the origin of the ancient belief that the deceased go to the realm beyond the sun (aizsaulē, also known as viņsaulē) The living stay on this side of the sun (šaisaulē)

A more charming depiction of Veļu Māte, she sits waiting on a hill overgrown with white clover, holding white flowers in her lap.

When there is a rainbow, it supposedly means that Veļu Māte is dancing on someone’s grave or between graves.

The weary souls who go to live Viņsaulē don’t get any rest. Life continues there as it did on this side of the sun; the souls keep on working as always. One poor person in a folk song begs Veļu Māte to come take him because he is weary from working his whole life and wants to rest. He must not have heard that in the realm beyond the sun Veļi keep on working. What a disappointment it would be to get to the far side of the sun and discover that you still have to work. In some sources, I found there was mention of otherworldly weddings but nothing about otherwordly sex. All work and no play. Which is a bit odd. Latvians are champion partiers. Work hard, play harder.

*Partying during the ancient Latvian equivalent of Halloween–Veļu Laiks, the Time of Sprits (Souls) source of image unknown*.

From my younger days, I remember representatives from our local Latvian association looking for venues that would be available until two in the morning for holding balls. That was no longer an issue when Latvians built their own social centers. For some folks, two in the morning was not enough. After the official ball was over some people invited guests to their homes for after-parties where dancing and singing continued until four or five in the morning. Celebrations on Midsummer Ever are supposed to go on all night. Been to a few. If you go to a Song Festival and stay in the main festival hotel, don’t expect to get much sleep. People hold after-parties in their rooms. If security doesn’t come to shush them it’s not a real party. Party while you’re on this side of the sun. On the other side, you’ll be working.

Note: There is some confusion among speakers of Latvian about the word Veļu (possessive) me included. The word is similar to veļa, laundry. In the objective case, “veļu” they are identical, “Mazgā veļu!” “Wash the laundry!” I don’t know if this similarity is coincidental or because it looks like Veļu Māte is wearing a sheet.

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The Curse of Vella

This is the time of year for curses. With Vella, it’s a mixed bag.

*I picked this image for aesthetic reasons*, *i.e., I like it.*

For those of you who may not know, Vella is Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing’s self-publishing serialization platform. It’s not a subscription service. The first few chapters are free to read. After the first three gratis e “episodes” (as Amazon calls chapters) readers “unlock” subsequent chapters with tokens. Amazon gives readers 200 (!) free tokens. The number of tokens it takes to read a chapter depends on how long it is. After that, if readers want to keep reading they buy tokens. This is the first of Vella’s curses. At least for writers.

*Writers have to promote the heck out of their novels, hence this picture once again.*

In my historical romance, A Home for an Exile’s Heart, readers can read nine chapters without paying anything. Of course, that means that neither Amazon nor I get our percentage. It’s a good thing for Amazon and me that my novel is long. I didn’t write Exile with Vella in mind. It didn’t even exist when I finished my manuscript. On the plus side, Amazon pays bonuses when people read and order more chapters that they pay for. The bonus amount varies from month to month. Amazon should give away fewer tokens. If readers haven’t been hooked by the first three chapters, are they likely to read the next six or more even if they’re free?

It’s good to have options.

It’s not necessary to have an e-reader in order to read stories published on Vella. Any electronic device will do, including smartphones, laptops, and even desktops. I learned this by trying it myself. The customer service rep I asked told me that Vella books can only be read with mobile devices. Either he didn’t know what he was talking about or Vella’s options have been updated since then.

Looks painless. It’s not.

One of the biggest curses of Vella, and every other self-publishing platform is DIY marketing.

Years ago when I was in San Francisco, walking in Union Square, I encountered a poet standing on a street corner peddling his poetry chapbook. I can’t remember how much I offered to pay for his anthology. Whatever the amount was, it wasn’t enough. He said, “Most people give me [X number of] dollars.” Talk about nerve. I’d have expected him to be grateful for any amount. It’s not the kind of gumption I have. I can’t remember if I gave him his asking price. Probably not. I’m not “most” people.

Thanks to the internet, writers don’t have to stand on street corners hawking their books. Nevertheless, I still hate marketing, as many writers do. I want to write, not to have to market. When I post links to A Home for an Exile’s Heart on social media, I feel like I’m not much different from that street corner huckster. I do it anyway but it’s pretty much the only thing I do in order to sell my book. That and write about Exile on my blog.

Something I strive for.

It’s a toss-up as to which is the biggest curse. Marketing? Or the fact that Vella allows writers to edit their published material any time they want as many times as they want. I must be a compulsive editor. I can’t seem to leave my novel alone and go on to something new. I love spending time with my characters so I sometimes reread a chapter or two. In doing so, I discovered that my story’s not nearly as complete as I thought. Reading an article in The Washington Post about what writers should look out for only made matters worse. I discovered a bunch of words that I’ve been unconsciously abusing that I had to get rid of or change. Once I finish editing the whole darn thing, I promise myself to stop and go on to something new. Even The Washington Post and other prestigious publications have typos and other glitches and people still read them.

Now that I’ve finished writing this post, I will let it sit for a while before reading it again to see if it needs more editing. Then I’ll do some more editing on Exile.

Veļu Laiks: Latvian Time of Spirits

Veļu laiks is one of the most important festivals in the Latvian solar calendar.

Autumn, the harvest is over. Nature prepares itself for winter sleep. Leaves change color and eventually fall. Frost sparkles on grass and the edges of leaves reminding us that winter is on its way. Longer nights encourage peacefulness and rest. It is a time of healing and reflection.

*Photo from a different year. This year nights have not yet been cold enough to bring on color change.*

Veļu laiks is the Time of Spirits, a festival honoring the dead. It is believed that at this time of year the veil that separates the world of the living and the world of the dead is at its thinnest allowing dead souls to visit their living descendants. The dead souls are hungry. They need to be fed. Sound familiar? Many such festivals are observed all over the world. Allhallowtide, which has been shortened to Halloween is one such festival. The traditions have changed along with the name. Are the dead expected to bob for apples? The Celt’s celebration, Samhain is another such fest. There is Dia de Los Muertos in Mexico and South America. Zhongyuan Festival in China is known as Hungry Ghost Month. These are just a few such observations.

In 1570 the church fathers and other authorities in Kurzeme (Courland) were informed that they must no longer tolerate this pagan behavior on the part of the peasants. No more offering of food and drink to the dead. This was such an effective dictum that the feasting of the dead continued into the mid-19th Century. Even in the 21st century many people still follow these ancient traditions. So much for the authority of the dukedom of Kurzeme.

Researching this post showed me just how much variation there is in Latvian terminology and customs. Veļu laiks is known by at least a dozen different names depending on the region or town. Veļu laiks is the most widespread name but it is also called, Time of Ancestors. Time of Wraiths, Time of Ghosts, Time of Little Spirits (affectionate diminutive) Time of the Deities, Time of Grandfathers. Iļģi, Time of Longing, and similar designations. Those who insist on one particular name or spelling for any tradition, custom, or recipe must be unaware of the many variations. All you have to do is look at the number of iterations of folk dress to see that variety is the spice of life in Latvia.

*These are only a few of the many variations in Latvian folk dress.*

Sources don’t even agree about the dates of Veļu laiks. Some say it begins on the autumn equinox and goes through Martinmas, November 10. Others say it doesn’t begin until September 29th and ends on October 28. Still others say it continues until Christmas. Whichever, Veļu laiks is now.

No commerce or smithing was allowed. No major work was to be done, especially no threshing since grain threshed during this period is believed won’t grow. Household chores and handiwork are allowed. No noise making, including singing. That must have been particularly rough on Latvians who love to sing in t Quiet activities such as telling riddles and stories and sharing memories are okay.

*Granary. Open-Air Ethnographic Museum.*

The father is supposed to summon his family’s deceased ancestors and friends to feast. He carries a candle to light their way and loudly calls to them. Food and drink for the visiting spirits were to be left on the well-swept floor or in the outbuildings on the farm, including the granary and pirtiņa (yes, there’s even an affectionate diminutive for sauna). Water and clean towels were provided for the ghosts so they could wash up before eating. Dead or alive, Latvians have a thing about cleanliness. After the spirits have eaten, they’re sent back to where they came from. Whatever food is left is consumed by the living. No doubt mice, rats, and other critters loved Veļu laiks, no need to forage in cold weather.

In some areas, the head of household drove a wagon to the cemetery, opened the gate for the dead to get out. The spirits climbed into the wagon and were driven to the feast at their old home. After they’d had their meal they were driven back to the cemetery. Dishes from which veļi have eaten must not be washed with well water for it will make the water bitter.

People went to bed at nightfall and were not supposed to get up even if they heard noises coming from outside. Walking around after dark was not allowed because it was believed that veļi would lead people astray. Thieves often took advantage of this rule to do their dirty deeds.

Frost during veļu laiks means a late spring. I’ve found nothing about what snow during this period might mean but if veļu laiks goes on into November or December there is bound to be snow on the ground *in Latvia.*

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Published Book, Sad Writer

The story behind the story of a Latvian Exile

“A Home for an Exile’s Heart” is now available on Kindle Vella. I’m not sad that my novel has not been published by a traditional publishing company, although that would be great. I didn’t want to spend a year or more approaching agents only to have them reject me. That’s what happened to a talented writer friend who already has four traditionally published books under his belt. I have none.

*The tentative cover for a paperback that may never come to be.*

Of course, just because no agent wanted to represent my friend’s book doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be interested in mine. He and I write in different genres. His is a mystery set in a WW2 POW camp. Easily categorized. Mine? Not so much. Yes, it’s a historical romance but much more. Is it also women’s fiction. I guess, but that limits the audience. Is it up-market fiction? I’ve read the definition more than once but I’m still not sure what the term means. Maybe it’s mainstream fiction. Figuring out the genre is probably not what agents want to do. They want to be able to pigeonhole a book quickly so store owners know where to shelve them.

My novel may always stay on Vella unless some traditional publisher stumbles across it, serendipitously, and wants to buy the rights to publish it.

*How can readers find what they want when there are no neat categories in which to organize the book? Forget about serendipitous browsing. Who has time for that?*

The reason I’m sad is that I miss my characters.

Anyone who has read a book and felt sad because they miss characters they’ve grown fond of will understand. I’ve been there and felt that. But when you write a novel the characters live in your head in a way that they don’t when you only read about them. My characters are vivid in my mind; I know them intimately in more detail than is written in my book. I know them better than I ever knew my friends or family members. Latvians are a close-lipped bunch, especially those of my parents’ generation. It’s too painful for exiles to talk about their stolen homeland. Nevertheless, I’ve pieced together enough information from their experiences and those of friends and other relatives, as well as my own memories, to create as accurate a picture as possible of what they went through.

Līvija Galiņa is based in part on my mother’s cousin. Both women were widowed Latvian refugees who came to the United States with their mother and one child. Both found love here; unlike my relative, Līvija falls in love with an American. Both families lived communally in a big house on Capitol Hill in Seattle. Many Latvian families, including mine, did so as well.

*Neither my family nor my relatives lived in this house but in similar ones.*

Cameron Quinn is Līvija’s love interest. They meet on the snowy day after Thanksgiving, 1952, when a car skids on ice, jumps the curb and nearly hits Līvija as she’s walking home from work. Cameron pushes her out of the way, saving her life. He’s a daredevil, a dashing former fighter pilot, a passionate suitor, and a kind, tender would-be father to Līvija’s little girl. There was never anyone like Cameron in my life. I could have used someone like him in my life. Still could. Cameron’s a composite of male characteristics I know from experience. I read up on what it takes to be a fighter pilot and watched endless videos of flying and aerobatics. They can be addictive.

*His war experiences, being shot down twice, did not dampen Cameron’s love of flying.*

Of my three main characters, I am most like Līvija’s seven-year-old daughter, Dzintra. I, too, was born stateless in Germany. As with her one of my uncles and his family found refuge in Australia. We both went to Latvian school, in addition to a regular American school. Neither of us saw any reason to learn the Latvian language. Who needs to speak Latvian in America? But my father insisted, so I learned. Cameron gently encourages Dzintra to keep learning by telling her about his own boyish reluctance to learn French, his mother’s native language. As an adult, he was glad he’d learned to speak French and Dzintra would be glad to have learned to speak her native tongue. I’m glad I did.

*Like Dzintra, I sang in the Latvian children’s choir.*

Woven into the story of these three characters are the stories of Līvija’s housemates–obstacles on her road to happiness. Her mother-in-law and sister-in-law are two such considerations. Edgars Siliņš, a single father, who needs a mother for his six-year-old son, would like to win Līvija’s affection for himself. The housemates include an older, stiff-necked, childless, busybody Latvian couple who were inspired by people I once knew. Līvija’s entire Latvian community believes it would be a cultural betrayal if she marries anyone but a fellow Latvian.

In one way or another, everyone has been traumatized by the war, by the loss of family members killed in the war, or by Soviet murders and deportation. Every exile wants to preserve their Latvian culture and keep their small community from dying out. Will Līvija choose her heart or her community and culture?

About Vella: Books are serialized on the platform. It’s not a subscription service. Readers buy “tokens” in order to read chapters. The first two hundred tokens are free. You don’t need a Kindle in order to read my novel. Any mobile device your laptop or even your desktop will do. I just tried it myself with someone else’s book and it works just fine. Nothing to figure out. The link to Vella is at the top of Amazon’s home page on the right. Just click on the link and claim your free tokens. Hopefully, you’ll love the story and want to read all of it.

Auseklis: The Morning Star in Latvian Mythology

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*An eight-pointed star in the colors of the Latvian flag. A symbol representing Auseklis*.

The many affectionate diminutives of the name Auseklis reflect the popularity of this mythological deity: ausekliņš, auseklītis, ausekliņis.

Auseklis is one of the celestial deities in the pantheon of Latvian mythology, a male deity. He is the third most important deity after Saule (the sun) and Mēness (the moon) Both Mēness and Auseklis are the sons of Dievs, the main deity in the Latvian mythological trinity. There’s considerable sibling rivalry between them. Sometimes Auseklis is associated with Venus, the third brightest body in the sky after the sun and the moon. In other myths, Auseklis is associated with Sirius or Mercury.

The name Auseklis derives from the verb aust which means “to dawn” the blossoming of the first light of morning. Appropriately, Auseklis is depicted as a young and playful deity.

Ausma is a popular name for Latvian girls. Auseklis used as a boy’s name is not as common.

*Auseklis is the god of dawn.*

He represents the victory of light over darkness and protects against evil; as such his symbol appears on the door of a house to keep evil from entering. The horse of a soldier going to war wore a star-studded saddle blanket. The eight-point star was woven into blankets to keep the sleeper from being tormented by an incubus during the night.

To invoke the protective power of Auseklis, you must draw the star in one continuous, unbroken line. Yes, I did it. I hope that Auseklis doesn’t mind that his sign is a bit lopsided. No doubt Auseklis has seen many earnests, lopsided drawings.

Before Latvia was unified into one country, it was a series of tribes, each with its own myths contained in many different texts, which accounts for the inconsistencies in our myths. Auseklis is one of the most frequently mentioned figures in the Latvian folksongs known as dainas, of which there are thousands.

In some variations of his myths, Auseklis courts Saules meitas, the daughters, of the sun. Sometimes he is depicted as courting the sun herself. In other variations, he serves as an attendant in the celestial wedding of Saule and Mēness.

As mentioned in my previous post about Mēness, he counts the stars, finds that Auseklis is missing, and takes advantage of the situation to fool around with Auseklis’ bride. When she learns of her husband’s betrayal, Saule takes revenge on her adulterous spouse.

*Auseklis star woven into the skirt of a folk costume* *belonging to my mother.*

Auseklis become the symbol of Latvia’s National Awakening during the 1930s. Stars show the way, offer hope, and allow for change. It was then that the eight-point star became a popular design in jewelry, fabrics, and graphic arts.

*A dazzling variant of the morning star symbol.*

The star motif does not appear in archaeological materials until the 16th and 17th centuries. It is widespread in Finno-Ugrian cultures, which include Finland and Estonia, and might well have been borrowed from them.

In London, I found a pair of wool gloves with Auskelis on the back. It was March so I had a pair of gloves with me on the trip and more gloves at home but I bought them anyway because of the Latvian design. For all I know, the gloves might have been knit in Scotland. The wool was itchy but I wore the gloves anyway. Eventually, either the wool got soft or I just got used to the scratchiness. I wore the gloves until they got holey.

*Not one of my friend’s mittens, but similar. The colors in hers are reversed.*

A friend who is currently traveling in Iceland forgot her gloves at home. Via social media, I assured her that she would find lovely gloves or mittens in some local shop. She did. Beautiful black and white mittens with–you guessed it, Auseklis on the back. Naturally, she bought them the moment she saw them and they’re keeping her hands nice and warm.

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Autumn Theme

Get a theme, they say. Pretty pictures are not enough, they say. Well, some of us like pretty pictures. I do have a theme–Latvian stuff. But I’m not a one-trick pony so I like to write about other things, too.

Here in western Washington, we’re getting a reprise of summer. Nights have not been cold enough to make many trees turn color just yet. This morning was foggy and more than a bit chilly. In the afternoon we’re supposed to get short-sleeve weather. We’ll see. Forecasts around here are often wrong. I have to photos from other autumns to get touches of seasonal colors.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold…

Sonnet 73, Shakespeare

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel…

“To Autumn” John Keats

“Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.”

Robert Frost

*Stone wall by the parking lot at a library branch*

I like the way the vines seem to embrace this rock and the moss that seems to be trying to soften the rock’s cold, hard nature. I like letting my imagination take over and go a little wild. Something I need to rein in when doing my posts about Latvia, even the ones about myths and legends.

An Exile’s Suitcase

What if a hostile foreign power was invading your country and you had to flee? What would you bring along, what would you leave behind? That’s a dilemma that the people of the Baltic States faced in October of 1944. It’s the dilemma faced by Ukrainians today. People have had to deal with that quandrum for hundreds of years. It has also happened to people in their own country, such as the Japanes who were interned in the United States during the Second World War. Those are questions my parents faced less than two months after they married as the Soviet Red Army advanced into Latvia.

*Of course, nobody’s suitcase really looked like this.* *As far as I know.*

In 2021 an art gallery in Cleveland, Ohio, with contributions from nine refugees, created an exhibit called, “The Suitcase Project” at a local art gallery. This exhibit, which I was able to view online only, was especially meaningful for me because of the participation of people from the Baltic States.

Here’s a list of people’s comments that accompanied the exhibit. I have not edited their comments but added my own remarks in parentheses.

Linens: sheets, towels (my mother brought linen sheets, pillow cases towels she’d embroidered for her hope chest)

Silver spoons

woven coverlet (My mother brought along a woven coverlet that I still have. When I visited my grandparents’ home in Latvia there was an identical one on my aunt and uncle’s bed)

documents, photo albums, clothing, a few silver items such as dinnerware, candlesticks, and sugar bowl (which I now have) and some money and family heirloom jewelry sewn into the hems of their coats. Some of these items were packed into a sturdy German ammunition’s case that my grandfather used to use to carry items to barter with during the war. This wooden case would later became my toy chest; I painted it blue with white and yellow daisies. Most everything else of theirs was simply left behind, or taken from them by the Russians.

(My parents had a huge wooden chest that was painted light green. It was big enough for me to hide in even when I was as old as ten. Our apartment here in the US caught fire in the middle of the night when I was five. My screams woke my parents. My father kicked out a window pane and threw our stuff out the window. I don’t know how the chest with our other stuff escaped. Firefighters put my mother and me on a parked bus. We watched the fire from there)

Some had nothing but the clothes on their back.

One grandmother’s advice, Don’t take your winter coat. You’ll be back by winter. (Some didn’t return for decades. Most of those who did return were there only to visit. A few moved home to Latvian permanently. It’s “home” even if they were born elsewehre. Neither of my parents ever returned, not even for a short visit)

Silverware that was brought from Latvia – as silver could be traded for food in the most dire of situations….

Wedding china, porcelain cups, jewelry, a white velvet wedding dress. Matchboxes from a factory where a man worked. A wood jewelry box decorated with amber inlay. Diaries, autograph books.

Silver 5 Lat coins (some coins were turned into brooches or ornamental spoons. I have one such one Lat spoon)

A wooden coffee grinder, a frying pan and a roasting pan. A folding baking pan that’s sill in use.

A two-year-old brought her teddy bear.

In addition to the woven coverlet, my mother brought along a Latvian, Zemgales folk costume. I don’t know if it ever fit her. Maybe before she got pregnant with me it fit but it seems made more for a teenage girl than a young woman. My mother brought it along from Germany then to the United States from the east coast to the West Coast from house to house. I never thought to ask her about the folk dress. I assumed it was hers, even though she never wore it. It’s too late now. I can’t help but wonder if some refugee bartered it for food or some other necessity. I’ll never know.

*Detail from the sash from my mother’s folk dress. These sashes are about nine feet long and are worn wrapped around the waist three times, then knotted and the ends hang loose to the knees.*

The vest from the folk dress is sewn with great care and skill. It’s fully lined. There are hooks all around the bottom edge of the vest so it can be attached to the skirt. The buttons are handmade sterling silver. Did my father make them? He was taught goldsmithing in the Displaced Persons camp in Germany.

The refugee organization obviously thought it would be easier for a goldsmith than for a postmaster with limited language skills to find a job in a prosperous America. My father spent the rest of his working life as a machinist but for a few years, he made jewelry for fellow Latvians.

*A Zemgales (one of the provinces of Latvia) brooch that my father made to go with the folk costume.*

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Sneak Preview

Coming soon. This is a preview of what the paperback cover will look like.

Līvija Galiņa is a widowed Latvian refugee who, with her family, fled her country in 1944 as the Soviet Red Army invaded. Her husband was lost in the war. She was pregnant at the time of her flight.

After years of floating through war-torn Europe, like flotsam on the tides of history, Līvija finds a new home for herself, her mother, and her seven-year-old daughter, Dzintra, in Seattle, Washington. where they live communally with six other Latvians. But where is there a home for her heart?

On the snowy day after Thanksgiving 1952, Līvija is walking home from her job as a house cleaner. In a fog of exhaustion, she doesn’t notice that a car has skidded on ice and jumped the curb until someone pushes her to the ground and lands on top of her.

The “someone” is her neighbor, dashing fighter pilot, Cameron Quinn. Their mutual attraction is immediate.

Līvija’s mother and their entire Latvian community are against Līvija making a match with anyone but another Latvian. Līvija ‘s housemate, Edgars Siliņš, a single father, feels that he has a proprietary right to Līvija’s affection. Her family and friends agree.

Līvija has always been an obedient, dutiful daughter. Can she find a home for her heart?

Pronunciation: Līvija = Lee-vee-ya. N with a diacritical mark is pronounced like the Spanis N with a tilde ~ Š = sh. Dz is a diphthong pronounced like “ts” in “tsar,” only harder.

This is the old cover photo for my novel. Like WordPress, Amazon is being a pain in the ass today. I can’t change the cover image without help from a living, breathing human being. Who knows when that will be. In the meantime…

Here’s how Vella works. Any mobile device can be used to read books on Amazon’s Kindle Vella. The story is serialized. It’s not a subscription. Readers buy tokens, which don’t cost much, for the chapters (Amazon calls them episodes) they want to read. The first few chapters are free to read. Comments made on the Vella page are very helpful to the author. They don’t have to be fancy, “I like it” or “It’s okay” will do. Of course, more details,, such as why you like it or what you like are appreciated.”

Latvia Under the Soviets

Life in Limbaži During the Occupation

Those who stayed behind. I didn’t do any adjusting on this photo.

I recognize only two people in this photo even though I’m probably related to most of them. My grandmother is in the middle of the middle row between the two little boys. The tall, blond guy is my youngest uncle, *Andrejs.*

When my parents, two uncles, and other Francis relatives fled Latvia ahead of the Soviet invasion in 1944 my mom’s mother refused to go. I can only guess the reasons for her decision. She didn’t want to live her country, her culture, and the life she knew. She probably thought she was too old to start a new life in a foreign country. Many people thought that the Allies would drive out the Soviets and that their family members would come home soon. Maybe Oma didn’t want to leave the place where her husband was buried. Andrejs was only eleven or twelve at the time so it’s only natural that he stayed with his mother.

*The pharmacy in the town of Mālpils where my mother worked.*

My parents had been married only about two months when the Red Army invaded. They were living in Mālpils where they met and where they both worked. My father was the postmaster. Mālpils is about 50 miles (80 km) from Limbaži. His family lived in Alūksne, which is twice as far away, close to the border with Russia. My father was also a telegrapher. I don’t know if he tried to contact either family by phone or telegraph. The Soviet army was between Alūksne and Mālpils so making contact was no doubt impossible. My folks felt they had no choice but to flee. During the first invasion of Latvia in 1940, my father barely escaped being deported to Siberia. His name was on a list of those to be deported but a friend saw the list and warned him. My father hid out in the forest for two weeks until it was safe to return. My parents, too, probably thought they’d be able to return when the war was over and that Latvia would be liberated from the Russians. They never dreamed that they’d never see their country or families again.

*The cemetery in Limbaži* *where my maternal grandfather lies buried. The arrow points to his grave.*

The Soviets desecrated many graves. When I was in Latvia during the waning days of the Soviet era, I visited Brāļu kapus Bretherns’ Cemetary where Latvian war veterans were laid to rest. The names and dates on the Latvian patriots’ gravestones had been chiseled away.

*My Oma and her chickens. I couldn’t do much to improve the resolution of this photo.*

My maternal grandparents’ house has a big backyard. Their property was even bigger before the new government decided that it was too big for just one family and took part of their land away. No doubt the backyard chickens helped the family survive the many food shortages during the years of occupation.

We sent packages with clothes, food, hygiene products, cigarettes, gum, and other items they could use themselves, barter, or sell on the black market. We also sent a teddy bear and a big ball.

*My cousin, Reinis helping his dad* *construct a greenhouse.*

Andrejs was quite the entrepreneur. Private businesses were not allowed in the Soviet Union. Andrejs didn’t let that bother him. He had a family to support, a wife and daughter as well as his mother and son. Andrejs raised tulips to sell to anyone who’d buy them. Latvians love flowers and give them on many occasions so he did very well. Other Latvians who lived in more rural areas did the same. On the way to Forest Park Cemetery, I saw little old ladies selling flowers in the street. That was not good enough for my uncle. Andrejs traveled all over the western and southern USSR peddling his flowers. His biggest day was March 8, International Women’s Day when every woman could expect to receive bouquets.

An envious neighbor, seeing my uncle’s nice greenhouse, reported him to the authorities. Andrejs was arrested and spent two years in jail for “speculation.” He didn’t let that deter him. Once he was released from prison he went back to growing tulips, except that he moved his greenhouse into the building at the back of the photo above. Out of sight, out of mind.

My uncle was handy with his hands as you had to be because so many items they needed weren’t available in stores. When I visited he expressed his frustration at being unable to find a trailer hitch so he could attach a trailer to his car so he could haul more tulips to market. He’d have to make one himself, he told me.

*My Oma and her two youngest grandchildren, Ilze and Reinis.* *This should have been my lap, too.*

My Oma had seven grandchildren but she got to see only two of them grow up. Four of them wound up in Australia. The seventh, me, in the United States. Like my father’s parents, my Oma passed away years before I was able to visit Latvia.

*I love this photo of Ilzīte (affectionate diminutive of Ilze) and her teddy bear from America.*

I included this photo because it tugs at my heart. I should have been able to play with this precious little doll and her brother. By the time I visited Latvia, they were all grown up.

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Latvia Between Wars

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Life in my mother’s hometown, Limbaži: a photo essay

*Whether or not they are familiar with this Welsh word, Latvians and most refugees know the feeling very well. Even their children and grandchildren know. It*‘*s a feeling that seems to be in our DNA and is passed down from generation to generation.*

Our refugee parents and grandparents spoke of Latvia as if it were a cross between Camelot and Brigadoon.

*A stamp with the coat-of-arms of Limbaži*

Between the first and second World Wars Latvia was a free, prosperous, and independent republic.

I don’t know what holiday the flag display is celebrating. My guess would be that it’s not Latvia’s Independence Day, which falls on November 18th. I would expect there to be snow on the ground in November since Latvia is almost on the 57th latitude. Even Moscow is farther south. Aberdeen, Scotland, and Kalmar, Sweden are on the same latitude. However, the Gulf Stream keeps Lativa warmer than one might expect so perhaps the holiday being commemorated is Independence Day. It’s a pity that there’s no writing on the back of this postcard.

*Outdoor stage in Limbaži.* *Rīga is not the only town in Latvia where song festivals are held.*

The first nationwide song festival in Latvia was held in Rīga in 1873 during the National Awakening. Latvia was still part of the Russian Empire then. It didn’t succeed in throwing off the Russian yoke until 1918, although an unsuccessful attempt was made during the Russian Revolution of 1905. Many Latvians who had participated in the failed uprising fled the country to save themselves and their families from Russian retribution.

*Limbažu (possessive case) Evangelical Lutheran church.*

These are Girl Guides, the Latvian version of girl scouts in the church my mom’s family attended. My mother is the flag-bearer. I don’t know what the occasion or even what the date was. Too many photos with nothing written on the back.

There are so many things about this photo that I love. Most of all that it includes my mother as a young woman. She’s the one ducking her head and smiling. In photos, she’s frequently the only one who’s smiling. I also love the meat grinder. My mother had one just like it here in the United States. I also love the bowl, the fat little pitcher, and the scale.

*A piano teacher, in the middle of the second row, and her students.*

My mother’s oldest brother, Leonīds Francis is in the first row on the far left. The smiley face, fourth from the left in the front row, is my mother. She was the third of four children, the only girl. Maybe she’s around eight or nine in this photo.

This beautiful pavilion is in the Unity Garden located in the center of Limbaži between Rīga and Parka streets. My mother’s family home was on Parka iela (street). The park was established in 1892. The pavilion replaced a building that was damaged by fire in the 1930s. The pavilion has been used as a theater. It still stands to this day. My mother told of riding through the park on her bicycle but never mentioned the theater. Perhaps the pavilion was too new then and hadn’t yet hosted the Ausekļa Limbažu Tautas teātris (National Theater) I love the graceful lines of this building.

At my maternal grandparents’ house. My mother’s tribe, the Franču (Francis) family. These are the people I should have grown up with. My mother and her cousin are sitting on the far right in the first row. My grandfather is first on the right in the middle row. My grandmother is third on the left in the middle row. My mother’s older brothers are on each end of the third row. The man in the uniform is one of my grandfather’s brothers, Gen. Francis. One of my mother’s many cousins is the young man who is first on the left in the middle row. His sister is sitting next to my mother in the first row. His sister made it to the USA. He did not. *Many of these people I don’t recognize.*

The occasion for this gathering might have been the christening of my mother’s baby brother. The local pastor is sixth from the left in the last row. He was one of the fortunate ones who escaped the Soviet invasion and wound up in the same American town as my family and I. Only five of the people in this group were able to escape the Soviet invasion of Latvia in 1944.

I was able to visit this house when I visited Latvia. Many of the people in this photo, including both my grandparents and my great-uncles and great-aunts, were gone by then. One of my uncles came to the United States but stayed on the East Coast when we moved out west. I was four or five when we moved. I never saw my favorite uncle, the one who stayed in Pennsylvania again. For three and a half years he shared quarters with my parents, my father’s brother, and me in the Displaced Person’s camp in Germany. My mother’s oldest brother found refuge for himself and his family in Australia.

These are the people and the town the Russians robbed me of as they robbed many others in all three Baltic States and Eastern Europe. And now, Ukrainians.

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Fire Weather

All up and down the coast from Canada to Baja California the West is on fire. This happens every year now. I’m fortunate enough to be in an area where there is no danger from flames. Not this year, anyway. No knowing what might happen next year.

*Photo taken September* 10, 2022, *from her home by S.a. Tudhope.*

Usually, in the summer I love that daylight lingers long into the evening. Yesterday, I couldn’t wait for darkness to set in so I wouldn’t have to look at the ugly sky. As the sun was going down it turned the color of pee.

Despite the smoke air quality yesterday was pretty moderate so I sat among my flowers on my balcony for a while and wrote in my journal. Normally, my balcony is a healing place though not necessarily quiet. There’s constant traffic noise and occasional human or dog noise. I love my outdoor writing spot anyway.

*Summer of 2016 on my balcony when the air was still clean.*

We have wildfires every year but in the past, they weren’t as pervasive.

*Same balcony, different view.* *August 5, 2017.*

That day in August five years ago the sun was the color of a blood orange but my camera was unable to capture the true tint. Just looking at this photo makes me feel sick.

Maybe this year’s smoke didn’t get bad as early because we had drenching rain in June, which meant lots of snow in the mountains. My friend’s husband and their daughter were still able to go skiing on Mt. Rainier until mid-June, a month later than normal.

Two weather sites said that we’d get a bit of rain this afternoon. It hasn’t shown up. In June, I wanted the rain to stop now I want it to start and go on for a week or two.

*Photo by S.a. Tudhope. September 10, 2022.*

Last evening the smoke was bad enough that it was coming indoors through my sliding door. It was too warm but I had to close everything up so I wouldn’t have to smell smoke indoors. The air quality is worse today but I have the slider open because the wind is mild and not blowing smoke indoors.

Will there ever be another year when the sky is clear and blue all summer? I don’t want to think about how much longer the fires will keep raging this year. I think of the poor folks who’ve had to be evacuated from their homes and my heart breaks for them. Will their homes still be there when the fires are finally brought under control?

Mēness: The Moon in Latvian Mythology

Latvian symbols have been known since Neolithic times. Roman historian, Tacitus (CE 56-120) knew of Baltic deities as far back as 98 CE (common era) The Balts, the last pagans of Europe weren’t Christianized until the early 13th Century. Couronians (Kurzemnieki) and Semigallians (Zemgaļnieki) were especially resistant to enforced Christianization. Therefore it’s a mistake to try to associate Dieva dēls (God’s son) Jānis with John the Baptist or the goddess Māra with the Virgin Mary. Latvians had their own nature gods and goddesses. Even today they have not been completely banished from Latvian culture.

Illustration by Ansis Cīrulis, 1883-1942

The Pantheon of Latvian nature deities with Mēness in the center. On his right is Saule (the Sun) and one of her daughters. Pērkons (Thunder) is on the black horse. The first figure on the left is Auseklis (the Moning Star) *The next three figures are the trinity of major gods, Dievs (God) Laima (Fate), and Māra*, *the Mother Goddess.*

Mēness is one of the major deities of the Latvian pantheon. One of Dieva sons.

In many mythologies, the sun is depicted as male and the moon as female. In Latvian mythology, it’s the other way around. The sun, Saule, is female and the moon, Mēness, is male. As in all mythologies, the beliefs and depictions are inconsistent.

Mēness (the moon) is the god of war, clad in silk and silver, wearing a starry cloak, carrying a sword at his side, and mounted on a white horse. The moon is the guardian of men and boys. Soldiers are his special concern. Mēness lends his light and protection to those who have to work or travel by night. When the moon isn’t riding his white horse, his chariot is drawn by the morning and the evening stars.

At first, Saule and Mēness were happily married. They were inseparable rising and going to bed at the same time. Together they had many children, the stars. In other tellings, Mēness was a rake and a rambling boy who courted Saules daughters (Saules meitas)

In different versions of the myth, Mēness is the guardian of the stars. He counts them every night. Having noticed that Auseklis (the morning star) is missing Mēness decides to steal his bride. When Saule discovers her husband’s adultery she grabs her sword and chops him into bits and pieces. Again, depending on the variation of the myth, she just whacks off half his head. That’s how the formerly happy couple winds up in their separate realms, he at night, she during the day. Never p*** off the sun. She may be a warm and loving mother but has the fury of hell when she’s betrayed.

Mēness has a more benevolent side. He is fondly known as Mēnestiņš, “dear little moon.” The moon is the deity of the entire human life cycle, of agriculture, of fertility and growth, of perpetual motion.

*The waxing moon attracts and increases energy.*

Everything that grows above ground should be planted when the moon is waxing. Root vegetables should be planted when the moon is waning as its energy, is also waning at this time. The symbol of the waning moon is used for healing to make the illness grow weaker and wear away.

Perhaps because the moon is so changeable, it also has its feminine side, Mēnesnīca, moonlight. I was unable to find anything more specific about mēnesnīca except that she’s the light of the moon.

*The moon over the park at the Latvian seaside resort, Ķemeri.* *Mēnesnīca*.

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The First Day of School in Latvia

A Photo Essay

Photographs from the beginning of the new school year in Jelgava, Latvia provided by Andris Bērziņš, Honorary Consul for the Republic of Latvija to the State of Indiana and the newly appointed president of the Jelgava and Carmel, Indiana Sister Cities, Inc. And, not least, a friend. His mother’s family was from Jelgava.

Jelgava is a city of approximately sixty thousand residents located in Zemgale, the central region of Latvia

The first day of school is special and exciting everywhere especially if it’s a child’s very first first day of school. It’s known as “Knowledge Day.”

In Latvia, things are done a bit differently. The first day of school is a big deal for everyone. The president of Latvia, Egils Levits and Prime Minister Prime Minister Krišjānis Kariņš sent greetings and good wishes to pupils and teachers.

Education and Science Minister Ilga Šuplinska had this message for school children, “Let this exciting energy, the joy of meeting up and being together, inspire you throughout the school year! We all have one goal – we want to be ourselves: strong, smart, and sensitive – today, tomorrow, and into Latvia’s common future. So let’s cheer each other up on a daily basis when we meet in both the real world and the virtual world,” she said.

*Welcoming kids on the first day of school in Jelgava.*

*Parents accompany their children to school on the first day.* *Looks like the days of everyone wearing uniforms to school are over.*

*Children wear their best clothes and bring flowers to their teachers.*

*An armload of flowers for the teacher.*

Bringing flowers to the teacher is not the only difference in how children behave in school in Latvia.

My first day of school was in the United States. When I came home from school my parents asked if children stood up, as a sign of respect when the teacher entered the classroom. When I said, “no,” my father said that I should stand up anyway. Even though I was shy and timid there was no way on earth I was going to stand up when no one else did. I was sure the teacher would either think I was being naughty or that I needed to go to the bathroom already. In either, case, I’d probably get a scolding. Of course, I never told my father and he never asked again.

When I was in high school and told my parents what classes I had to take their astonished response was, “Is that all?” “Study hall? Why do you need study hall? You can study at home.” I expected that reaction and wouldn’t have taken study hall but no other class fit into my schedule. That happened only once.

During my school years, I was pen pals with my cousin, who is one month younger. The diaspora took her family to Australia. At the beginning of the new school year, her letters included a list of classes she was taking. I was embarrassed to tell her how few my required classes were. So, if I had a class in social studies/history, I would make it sound like two different classes, social studies and history.

In Latvia, school requirements are so rigorous that graduating from high school is the equivalent of two years of college in the USA. I wonder if I would ever have made it through high school if I’d attended school in Latvia.

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Nameja Gredzens (Ring)

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How to Recognize a Latvian

Nameja is a possessive case. Namejs is a proper noun with a masculine suffix.

I’ve been identified as a Latvian more than once because I was wearing my Nameja ring. Apparently, they were once worn only by men. In modern times both men and women wear them. The rings come in sterling silver or gold.

A day or so after the Toronto Latvian Song and Dance Festival in the Yorkville neighborhood a woman saw me sitting in an outdoor cafe reading a book. She immediately recognized me as a fellow Latvian because I was wearing my Nameja ring. I invited her to my table and we had a pleasant conversation.

Another time I was in a department store in my hometown sorting through blouses on an upper rack when a woman’s voice startled me, asking, “Are you Latvian?” She had seen the ring on my right hand. Yes, I admitted I am a Latvian. She wasn’t a Latvian herself but had Latvian friends.

A friend once told me that if he were ever found dead without his Nameja ring on his hand, it meant that he’d been murdered and the ring stolen.

There are different stories about the meaning of the ring’s design. Someone once told me that the thicker and thinner bands woven together showed how the great and the small can work harmoniously together.

According to Wiki, the three bands woven together represent the three ancient Latvian lands, Kurzeme (Courland) Vidzeme, and Latgale. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t the three bands be of equal width? Not to mention the fact that there were more than three ancient lands that comprise Latvia. Why wouldn’t they be represented?

Also according to Wiki, the ring symbolizes independence, friendship, and trust.

Namejs was a legendary 13th Century leader of the Latgallian tribes who resisted the invasion by German crusaders attempting to Christianize the last pagans of Europe, the Baltic peoples. Namejs was forced to flee without his son. He is said to have given the boy a ring of twisted metal by which he would be able to recognize his son when Namejs returned. The German knights set out to find the boy. In order to protect their leader’s son, all men and boys started wearing similar rings. A novel, titled Nameja Gredzens, by the Latvian writer, Aleksandrs Grīns, served to popularize the ring as a symbol of Latvian unity. The novel inspired the film, The Pagan King. In Latvian, the film has the same title as the book.

*The iconic ring even appears on the Latvian one-Lat coin.*

Archaeologists have spoiled the legend by finding a ring of similar design in Latgale that dates to the 12th Century, long before Namejs was born. But who is to say that a ring like that nameless one could not, in the next century have been worn by the iconic Latvian hero and thus been named after him? Finding one ring does not mean other rings like it could not have existed.

I recently saw a question in an online article about which finger to wear the ring on. It never occurred to me to wonder. I wore it on the finger on which it fit, my right hand’s ring finger. The right, rather than the left hand so it wouldn’t be mistaken for a wedding band. In a way, it is a wedding band–it marries me to my people and my heritage.

Someone on a social media site asked if non-Latvians could wear the Nameja ring. My answer is, no. If the person is half-Latvian, then yes. Other Latvians may have a different point of view.

Not everyone can wear rings. Some people have acidic skin with which the metal interacts but they want to affirm their Latvian heritage. Friends wonder if there is any other option than wearing a ring. There are many–cufflinks, brooches, pendants, and earrings among them. If silver causes allergic reactions, gold may not.

*They come with or without the amber cabochon.*

*You can get dark Nameja honey beer and wine and vodka.*

A note about the oxidation on the silver jewelry that makes it look tarnished. Silversmiths deliberately apply oxidation to bring out the detail. It’s a characteristic of other Latvian silver jewelry. Please don’t clean it off.

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Bad Reviews

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First bad words, now bad reviews. I’m not going to use any bad words about my bad reviews. A writer can learn from a well-thought-out bad review. The two bad reviews I got for the books I published on Amazon weren’t thought-out at all.

Whether a writer is traditionally published or self-published they’re bound to get bad reviews. A writer knows that any review is better than no review. Anything that will bring attention to your books.

Even better is for the book to be banned. Banning a book can be good for sales. There was a recent article in The Washington Post by an author who was highly indignant that his children’s book had not been banned. More than thirty years after it was first published Art Spiegelman’s graphic novel, Maus, hit the bestseller lists after it was banned in Tennessee. Chicago newspaper columnist Mike Royko humorously demanded that his book, Boss, about controversial mayor Richard J. Daley, be vilified and banned. These two writers understood the lure of forbidden fruit.

*Books can be dangerous. They can open minds.*

Dictators and wanna-be dictators understand the power of books. Russian novelist Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was arrested and expelled from the Soviet Union in 1974 because his writing displeased the Politburo. He was allowed to return home only after the fall of the Soviet Union. Solzhenitsyn’s experience is almost the ultimate bad review. The ultimate bad review is getting executed for your writing as happened to Russian writer Isaac Babel.

This post wasn’t going to be about these writers, it was supposed to be about my experience with my own reviews. I’m nowhere near their class and the one-star reviews of two of the books I published on Amazon have done nothing to improve my sales. People have to know about a book before they buy it or demand that it be banned. I’ve done very little to publicize my books so poor sales are mostly my own fault.

The person who gave my books bad ratings is someone named Jennifer. She used the exact same words for both books: “I find it hard to understand why the author sympathizes with fascist leaders who spread baseless propaganda.” I copied her exact words from her one-star rating.

One of the books Jennifer rated is “The Dissident’s Wife” which is set in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) during the mid-1980s. My story is about a dissident Russian poet who has been accused of sedition and anti-Soviet slander. Valery Mironov goes from being a respected and beloved people’s artist to a pariah who’s been diagnosed with “creeping schizophrenia” ( a mental illness recognized nowhere in the free world) and incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital. I don’t mention any leaders in my book, let alone defend them.

*The Dissident’s Wife is no longer available on Amazon. I unpublished it because it is now under consideration by a traditional publisher.*

It’s obvious that Jennifer never read the book. She saw the hammer and sickle and had a knee-jerk reaction. It’s also obvious that she is ignorant of the difference between communism and fascism.

For Pete’s sake! They’re Christmas stories for children.

Beats me who Jennifer thinks is the “fascist leader” in this book. Santa? The grandmother whom her family brings from Latvia to the United States? Or perhaps the mother who thinks a piano would be a fine Christmas gift for her family, a gift they could all use. I suspect that the word “Latvia” is what triggered Jennifer’s one-star rating. Darn it, she didn’t even demand that the book be banned. Rats!

Fortunately, not all my reviews are one-star.

Bad Word, Bad Words…

Whatcha Gonna Do When You Run Out?

Some people might consider me to be an old fogey because of what I’m about to say regarding bad words. I don’t consider myself to be old. I prefer the French term: une femme d’un certain âge.

I’m not going to tell anyone not to use bad words. I’m just going to suggest giving it more thought before you do so. Then maybe you’ll change your mind. Or not.

You’re going to see a lot of asterisks in this post.

These days people throw around bad words as if they were confetti. These words get used so often that they become banal and boring and lose their power.

*Does this sweet little critter deserve to be called an ugly name?*

What if you have a puppy that poops on your carpet and you call him an a**h****? The dog didn’t do it deliberately just to annoy you. If you call this innocent little creature who did something you don’t approve of because he didn’t know any better. If a puppy is an a**h***, what are you going to call someone who is truly evil? Someone like a loathsome politician? Are you equating your puppy to that horrible human being?

*Why would a little critter like this deserve to be called an ugly name?*

A photo of a little owl was posted on a social media page. Someone referred to the bird as a little motherf****er. When I objected to the language the guy said, “You must be fun at parties!” The parties I go to don’t include that kind of language. I didn’t say that to him. Instead, I said, “I’m ignorant. Educate me. Why is a word like this okay? Is it original? Is it clever? Is it witty?” The guy had no reply.

*He must have expressed his genuine feelings to someone.*

Some psychologist has claimed that people who swear are perceived as “genuine.” The Merriam-Webster dictionary gives a couple definitions of genuine, “sincere and honestly felt or expressed” and “free from hypocrisy or pretense.” Apparently, the psychologist didn’t realize that sometimes expressing your genuine feelings can get you punched in the nose.

Civilization is all about being artificial. We wear clothes instead of running around naked. We use restrooms instead of squatting on someone’s lawn to do our business. If we see someone eating a drumstick and we want it, we don’t grab it out of their hand and take a bite. We say “please,” and “thank you” and “may I?”

Do you suppose a lack of civility, too much expression of genuine feelings, could be part of the problems we have today?

The Latvian Song and Dance Festival is Over.

The Saint Paul Latvian Song and Dance Festival is over but if you missed it, you have more opportunities to see, and maybe even participate (if you’re a member of a choir and it is invited to take part) in Rīga, Latvia in 2023 and in Toronto, Canada in 2024. Start saving your money and renew your passport.

*The Festival always begins with a procession.*

Tickets for these summer events go on sale early in the year and sell out quickly. There are usually several hotels where blocks of rooms will be reserved for attendees. These also go quickly. If you value a good night’s sleep, don’t reserve a room at the main event hotel. The partying will probably go on all night, not just in the public rooms but also in individual hotel rooms. I was at one such festival after-party in a hotel room in Pasadena, California. The room was crowded but I didn’t think we were all that noisy. However, hotel security came to shush us. We weren’t even dancing or anything though we might have been singing a little.

Contrary to what the “Visit St. Paul” website said, it was not the largest Latvian Song and Dance Festival in the world. Only 8000 visitors were expected. The largest festival, of course, was the one held in Rīga from June 30 to July 8 in 2018. That year was the 100th anniversary of Latvia’s original declaration of independence in November 1918.

My cousin and her husband were at the 2018 festival. He said there were so many participants in the procession that he and his wife went to lunch and when they came back the procession was still marching along.

These events are such a huge part of Latvian cultural heritage that I had to write about them again. Every third person in Latvia belongs to a choral group. I wonder what it would be like if 110 million Americans sang in a choir?

Since 2008 the Latvian Song and Dance Festival has been recognized by UNESCO as “one of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.”

I wrote this post primarily as a way to introduce this YouTube video, which I think is pretty cool.

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Celebrating with Eau de Tap

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0.0000704225353521126761 cents per word. More or less.

Amazon pays bonuses to authors who publish their books on Vella. The amount depends on the number of pages read. I just received a notice about my May 2022 bonus. Ten dollars! Woo-hoo! For a book that’s about 140k long.

How shall I spend this windfall? Go to Bali? Go to Capri? Buy an original Van Gogh?

This is not the first bonus I’ve received. It’s just the smallest one because someone read seventy-nine pages of my book. I received bigger monthly bonuses when my kind cousin-in-law, and maybe somebody else, was reading A Home for an Exile’s Heart. I think the highest bonus I got was sixty bucks.

Mostly, it’s my own fault. I haven’t done enough to publicize my novel. My efforts have been pretty sporadic at best. I don’t want to do PR. I want to write but when you self-publish, you don’t have much choice. Even traditionally published authors have to do a lot of their own book promotions. Fortunately, I just found out that one of my friends on Facebook publicizes books on her site. She urged me to send her a blurb and a link to A Home for an Exile’s Heart‘s Vella page. I did so but I don’t know what she will do or when. I’d love to leave it all in her hands but I’ll have to do my own PR, too.

When you self-publish, you also have to design your own cover. Even with millions of stock photos available for free, it’s hard to find exactly the right one. On a $0.00 budget, I had to settle for “close enough” images.

This was my first choice. My main character, Līvija (Lee-vee-ya) Galiņa (Guh-lyñ-ah) an exile from the Soviet invasion of Latvia in 1944, is walking home from work on the snowy evening the day after Thanksgiving, 1952. Even without houses, this scene could pass for a street on Seattle’s Capitol Hill. There’s a park on the hill so she could be walking past it. However, this image was too small and busy to look like anything but a vague mess in the cameo frame it has to fit into on Vella. I had to find a more simple image.

Courtship is a dance of love, intriguing and seductive. In one chapter my characters, Līvija and her hero, Cameron Quinn, a former fighter pilot who saves her from an out-of-control car on that snowy night, dance the tango.

Not a perfect match but it will have to do.

One of these days, I will have to turn my novel into a paperback. More nitpicky work I’d rather not do but I don’t have much choice. I have to wait for my book to have been available on Vella for thirty days before I can offer it as a paperback. When will that be? Who knows? I have yet to finish revising the last chapter in order to publish it. Since so few people have been reading Exile I haven’t been motivated to wrap up that final chapter.

The last chapter may not be ready to go, but I have a tentative design for the cover.

It’s time to stop lollygagging and finish that chapter, publish it, and start publicizing my book. Writing it was a labor of love but it was hard work nevertheless. I can’t let it all go to waste.

World Refugee Day

My family and I were refugees from Soviet Russia’s invasion of my parents’ homeland Latvia. My heart goes out to all refugees, particularly those who have had to flee from Ukraine because of the invasion of their homeland. Very little has changed in the last 78 years. For that matter, too little has changed since the Bolshevik Revolution that happened in Russia in 1917. Different dictator, same brutality.

This poem, by Latvian poet, Velta Toma (1912 – 1999) speaks to the soul of a Latvian refugee. To refugees anywhere.

This diaspora happened in the same year Ms. Toma composed her poem.

*This is the fate from which Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians fled three years later. Germans drive the Red Army out in 1941 but the Reds invaded again in October of 1944,*

Bēglis

Aiz manis tumsā zūd ceļi,
deg mājas, un sagrūst tilts.
un visi dzīvie kļūst veļi.

Kā vēju vajāta smilts
es klīstu pa svešām vietām
bez darba, dusas un cilts. 

                    - Velta Toma, (1944)



The translation is my own. 

Refugee

Behind me, the road fades into darkness,
my home burns, the bridge collapses
And all we living become ghosts.

Like a wind-driven grain of sand
I drift through foreign lands
without work, without rest,without kin.

An Explosive Anniversary

On May 18, 1980, after two months of earthquakes and steam blasts, Mt. St. Helens in Washington state, USA, erupted at 8:32 on a Sunday morning. The eruption spewed ash 80,000 feet (24 km; 15 mi) into the atmosphere. The eruption went on for nine hours and reduced the height of the mountain by 1400 ft. (426.72 m) The ash was deposited in over eleven states as well as parts of Canada. I was 156 miles (approx. 251 km) north of the mountain. Since it was the weekend, I was sleeping in and knew nothing of the eruption until much later. In my area, all we got was a light layer of ash on our cars. The mountain exploded laterally so Eastern Washington got the worst of it.

But this isn’t an article about the eruption, the lives it took, or the damage it did. I’ve blogged during other Mays but have never felt inspired to write about the eruption. It seemed that everybody already knew about what happened or if they didn’t would learn about it every year in the days leading up to the anniversary.

What inspired this post was a comment by someone on social media about Harry R. Truman who lived with St. Helens for 52 years during which time he owned and ran the Mt. St. Helens Lodge. When it became apparent that the volcano would erupt local officials tried to evacuate Harry. The old man refused to leave. He was one of the more than fifty people the eruption killed. The woman on social media called Harry a science denier. So, I have to defend Harry. He was a rascal and an independent old coot but even though I never knew him, I have no doubt that he never questioned that the volcano would erupt. The huge bulge in its north side would have been a major clue even if the earthquakes and steam eruptions hadn’t been.

Even though I’m only speculating, I can understand why Harry refused to leave his beloved mountain. He was 84 years old, twice divorced, and once widowed. He had only one child. He’d lead an unconventional, independent life. He was a WW 1 veteran having served in France. On the way to Europe, his troopship was sunk by a U boat. Later in life, he was a bootlegger, a poacher, and a thief who stole gravel from the Forest Service and fished on Native American land with a bogus license. He was never caught in any of these acts. Before moving to the mountain he ran a service station. Though he may have been a rogue, I seriously doubt that he was a fool.

*Mt. St. Helens and Spirit Lakve beore the eruption.*

I can’t blame Harry for not wanting to leave this gorgeous area or live to see the devastation he must have known the eruption would cause to the splendid place where he’d spent more than half his life there.

*Harry wasn’t fond of old people. I’m sure he’d rather have this guy for a neighbor.*

At his age what would Harry have done and where would he have gone if he left his home? Give up his cantankerous independence? Go to a nursing home? Become a burden on his only child? Sit around and rock, waiting to die? The mountain was his life. Better to make a spectacular exit than to give up the only life he’d known for fifty-two years.

I hope Harry was sitting on the porch of his lodge, drinking his favorite cocktail, whisky and Coke when the mountain blew.

The death toll isn’t certain. A couple of people were reported missing but turned up alive. It’s not certain if the people who were found later were the missing individuals or people with the same name.

White Tablecloth Festival: Celebrating Latvia’s 2nd Independence Day.

(Thank you to my friend for allowing me to use her photos. She prefers to remain anonymous. You know who you are)

The white tablecloth also symbolizes that Latvia’s break with the Soviet Union was achieved relatively peacefully through diplomacy with the occupying power.

The day before the party participants were invited to bring heirloom tablecloths that were handmade by their mothers and grandmothers to be displayed on the walls of the Latvian Center.

Whatever it’s called, May 4th is a day to celebrate the restorations of freedom.

As we celebrate we are all hoping that there will soon be a day for Ukraine to celebrate renewed peace and freedom.

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Song on May Morning

We’ve had the third coldest April in forty-five years in my little corner of the world. The thirteenth coldest since records have been kept. On the fourteenth snow came down thick and fast for maybe a half-hour. It even stuck to the grass. Then it was over as if it had never happened. Usually, the Pacific’s breath keeps our climate mild, even in mid-winter but this isn’t the first time it snowed in May.

We’re all hoping that May will be more like the month described in John Milton’s poem.

*The pale primrose stopped blooming weeks ago.*

John Milton – 1608-1674

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
  Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
  The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
  Hail bounteous May that dost inspire 
  Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
  Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
  Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcom thee, and wish thee long.

*Cowslip, not cow’s lip. A European flower of the primula family.*

Happy May Day!

In 1889 labor activists turned May Day turned into Labor Day in some parts of the world to commemorate the Haymarket riot in Chicago. It was a terrible event but I wish they’d left the joyous celebration of Floralia, to honor Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers alone, and been content to commemorate workers on the first Monday in September. I guess American influence has its limits.

May first was once considered to be the beginning of summer. A time to dance around the May Pole and for children to surprise friends by bringing them flower baskets, leaving them at the door or hanging them on the doorknob, knocking or ringing the bell, and running away. What a lovely surprise for the recipient.

WIPs: Too Much of a Good Thing.

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& A Sneak Preview

Writing doldrums can show up for any number of reasons. Sometimes because I have no idea what to write next. Sometimes because I have too many ideas and it’s hard to decide which one to work on next. Sometimes because I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read anything I write, not even the people who follow my blog.

*Sometimes the ideas pop up like popcorn. Too many at once. Tasty tidbits along with some old maids.*

My current issue that’s stymying me is having too many works in progress (WIPs) I have a magpie mind. I like the next shiny new thing. The next story or essay idea that I want to work on at the cost of other projects that are waiting to be completed. Too often I love my stories too much to want to let them go. I get persnickety and no matter how many times I’ve been over a manuscript, I keep finding new errors. I could go on editing forever.

*I have a lot in common with this bird.*

My three weightiest WIPs are my novel, A Home for an Exile’s Heart; a collection of essays from Come, Follow My Blog, titled, Latvian Lore, and a second collection of blog essays titled, Latvia, Despite the Soviets.

Even though none of these books is finished, a friend, who is also my writing mentor, has been helping me design covers for them. Colleen loves designing covers and has experience creating designs for many of her own traditionally published books. She loves helping people. She hasn’t said so but perhaps she also eagerly helps design covers for my self-published books in hopes of inspiring me to finish the darn things.

*A Home for an Exile’s Heart. An earlier version that needs a bit of editing.*

I thought A Home for an Exile’s Heart, my novel about Līvija Galiņa, a Latvian refugee who, with her family, flees her homeland when the Soviet army invades in 1944 and finds a new home and a new love-interest, former fighter pilot, Cameron Quinn in Seattle in 1952 was finished. I re-read the last chapter and decided that I don’t like it. Re-writing it has proven to be more of a hassle than I expected. Too sweet. It needed a touch of tartness. Just because it’s Christmas Eve doesn’t mean characters can put aside such strong emotions as jealousy and resentment. Yet, I don’t want to be heavy-handed. It’s a sticky wicket.

Latvian Lore is a collection of Latvian myths and traditions. The problem with that one is not having enough essays published in my blog to make a decent-sized book. I need to write and research more. There’s so much information to include that it’s hard to know what to include and what to leave out. I might even include family recipes. All that is to be decided later.

*This is the photo I picked for the cover of Latvia, Despite the Soviets.*

After A Home for an Exile’s Heart, the project that’s closest to completion is Latvia, Despite the Soviets, a memoir about a trip I took to Latvia for a Song and Dance Festival when it was still part of the Soviet Union. Some of the chapters are essays from Come, Follow My Blog, the rest is new material. I’ve also included chapters

to give my memoir historical context that some people may not be familiar with. I need to read my manuscript from start to finish to decide what needs rewriting, revising, and if I need to add new material. It is emotionally difficult material to write about. I need a break from it before continuing.

So what did I do? I started a new story. Flash fiction that I want to submit to a literary magazine. Caw! Caw! Shiny new object! Let me add it to my collection of WIPs.

A Concert for Ukraine

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It’s been a month since Russia’s savage, brutal invasion of Ukraine. It strikes close to home because of Latvia’s history of invasion by the Soviet Union and nearly fifty years of occupation. And because Latvia also shares a border with Russia. Unlike Ukraine, Latvia is a member of both NATO and the European Union. It’s the same with the other Baltic States, Estonia and Lithuania. If Ukraine falls none of the countries in Eastern Europe can feel safe. Maybe not even the rest of Europe.

All our hearts are broken. We can all too easily imagine what the Ukrainian people are going through. Our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents went through the same thing. We were robbed of our country and families who were unable to flee or who thought the Red Army would soon be driven out by the World War II Allies. Those who succeeded in escaping expected to be able to go back. They were mistaken. Nobody wanted to prolong the war.

I feel compelled to check on President Zelensky and to see how the Ukrainian people’s fierce resistance is going. I cry for them every day. So do many of my Latvian friends. Music tugs at our heartstrings, as music is meant to do.

This video shows a concert for Ukraine’s freedom that was held in Rīga, Latvia during the early days of the invasion. The song is called, “For the Country of My Birth” composed by a popular Latvian composer, Raimonds Pauls. Lyrics by Jānis Peters.

This song debuted in 1973 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the first National Latvian Song and Dance Festival.

The lyrics reference the year 1905 when Russian army troops opened fire on demonstrators in Rīga killing seventy-three and injuring two hundred people.

The translation is my own. To me, the castle of light symbolizes hope.

Then came the fifth year, rain of blood fell
Destroying the tallest trees.
Let's become soldiers, our song will sow a storm.
Forever a castle of light rejoices from the hill.

*The countries of Eastern and Northern Europe aren’t the only ones close to Russia. Alaska is 53 miles from Russia.*

Looking for Latvian Roots?

http://visitlatgale.com/en/

Deciphering Latvian names

This is not a lesson on how to do a genealogical search but the following information about Latvian names may be helpful in your search. Today’s post is longer than usual as the subject of Latvian names is pretty complicated. Don’t let that discourage you.

*You most likely won’t find a family tree that looks like his. My cousin in Latvia sent me a family “tree.” It was just a list of names and relationships on my father’s side.*

When Latvians emigrated to other countries, either they or immigration officials might have Anglicized their names. Some people, like my father, lopped a syllable or two off the family name long before he had to flee his homeland.

Today a woman from Australia was looking for relatives in Latvia and not having much luck. She had only a few names to go by. One of the people she was looking for was named Helmut. That’s an anglicized spelling. In his homeland, his name would be spelled, Helmuts.

The Latvian alphabet does not include the letter “W.” If you’re looking for someone with “W” in their name, try substituting “V.”

Men’s names, both first and last, have “-s,” “-is,” “-š,” or “-iš” as suffixes.

Women’s names, first and last, end with “-a” or “-e.” If she is using her father or husband’s name the suffix of her last name assumes the feminine ending. Which noun becomes the suffix depends on the spelling of the last name. If a last name ends with “-s” or “-š” the feminine suffix becomes an “-a.” Mr. Kalns’ wife or daughter’s last name is spelled Mrs. Kalna.

*Most, but not all, married women in Latvia use their husband’s name.*

If the man’s last name ends in “-is” or “-iš” the feminine version of the name ends with an “e.” On the other hand, if the man’s last name ends with “-is” or “-iš” his wife or daughter’s last name is spelled with an “e” at the end. Mr. Cālītis’s daughter would be Miss. Cālīte. Latvians have no equivalent to Ms.

This is not a hard and fast rule regarding suffixes. Sometimes both the man and woman’s last name ends with a vowel as in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Timma.

*A keyboard capable of inserting diacritical marks would be a timesaver.*

Letters in the Latvian language have only one pronunciation, unless they are modified by a diacritical mark, which makes them critical (!) Search engines and genealogy sites may not find the correct name if the diacritical mark is missing. This is where Google comes in handy if you don’t have a keyboard with that function. Google has a version for the Latvian language, Google.lv. There’s a tiny icon of a keyboard in the search window, click on that and a larger version pops up which includes diacritical marks, click on the mark you need and the correct letter will show up in the search window. However, if the next letter in the word does not have a mark, be sure to close out the keyboard or you’ll get the wrong letter. The letters on the virtual keyboard are not in the same as on your real keyboard so it will take a bit of searching to find the right one.

The lady mentioned above was also looking for a relative whose name was Jacob. That’s an Anglicized spelling. The correct Latvian spelling is “Jēkabs” because in our language a “c” is never pronounced as if it were a “k.” The name Veronica is spelled, Veronika. A name like Veronica would be simple to change but figuring out the Latvian spelling of a name like Jacob can be a puzzler. If you don’t know the correct spelling of the name you’re looking for check an online Latvian Name Day calendar. You may have to go through all 365 days to find the right one.

Diminutives can also complicate your search. The suffix “-īte,” (pronounced “ee-teh”) is used with feminine nouns (all nouns have gender-specific suffixes) to show affection or small size. As Latvians say, “The smaller, the dearer.” Usually, such endings are not used for women’s first names. Except that sometimes they are.

Mārīte is the diminutive for the name Māra and is generally used as an endearment by family and friends, whether the female in question is a woman the size of a female sumo wrestler or girl, a tiny elfin creature. But some parents give their daughter the name Mārīte as her legal name, a permanent term of endearment. The diminutive for a woman named Sarma is Sarmīte. Both are used as legal first names. If you know of a relative named Sarmīte but can’t find her in any database with that name, try looking for Sarma instead. Bitīte in Latvian means “little bee” but I know of no woman named Bite (bee) That doesn’t mean some woman isn’t out there whose moniker is Bite.

Men’s first names can also be turned into diminutives but I’ve never known of a man with a diminutive as his first name. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.

The Latvian alphabet that is currently used is based on Latin orthography. However, if you’re searching for pre-1922 records they could well be written in German orthography which was used at the time.

*Older records may be written in an alphabet that looks like this.*

Not confused enough? The Latgallain (Latgale) dialect will remedy that. The Latvian soprano Kristine Opolais is from Latgale (Latgola) In standard Latvian, her last name would be spelled Apaļais. Unfortunately, I can’t offer much help if you’re looking for someone with roots in Latgale. Try to find someone from the region to help you, perhaps someone in a local library or on a Latgaliešu (Latgalian) social media group.

I hope I’ve succeeded in making your search for Latvian ancestors a little less confusing.

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Latvian Vocabulary: Bizdings

Being stalked online.

Bizdings is not a plural word. In Latvian plural suffixes are often the letter “i.” Zirgs, is a horse. Zirgi are two or more horses. But some plural words do end with an “s.” Māja is the word for house. Two houses are mājas. “Let’s go home is, “iesim mājās.” A diacritical mark is necessary on each letter “A” to indicate “to home.”

Bizdings galvā

Galva is the Latvian word for head.

Galvā, with the diacritical mark, means in the head. Or on the head.

Bizdings is exactly what it sounds like and is pronounced pretty much the same in English as in Latvian.

*Something going ding-a-ling, on and on.*

Bizdings galvā something buzzing and dinging in the head. In other words, a ding-a-ling. Nutty. A bit cracked.

Anyway…

I thought of the phrase bizdings galvā today because I was being stalked on a social media platform by a woman who had a headful of buzzy-ding-a-lings. She wanted to talk. She wanted to make friends. Even though I might chat with someone on the elevator or in the checkout line at the grocery store, I have little interest in talking to strangers. So we didn’t talk.

Ms. Bizdings and I had been friends for quite a while. I don’t remember for how long. She never posts anything that I’ve seen. She never comments on my posts. She wanted to talk one other time, a year, maybe two years ago. Or longer, for all I know. That’s how much she cared about being friends. Today she must have been off her meds.

Today the Bizdings woman didn’t give up so easily. When I asked what she wanted to talk about, she said she wanted to talk about “life.” I told her I’m not good at talking to strangers, that she should get to know me first by chatting on messenger. That wasn’t good enough for her. She called twice. I declined both calls. I told her she was being pushy. I had to translate the word, “uzbāzīga.” She agreed but kept persisting.

We’ve talked before, she claimed. Don’t you remember? No, because we’ve never talked. Oh, yes we have, she insisted. We talked about your novel. It’s about a pilot. Yes, there is a pilot in A Home for an Exile’s Heart, but my novel is not about him. He’s the love interest of my protagonist, a widowed Latvian refugee. That information is available on Twitter and in several Latvian Facebook groups. What must have seemed like the clincher, to prove we’d talked, she said she’d told me about the Latvian tradition of giving bouquets consisting of an odd number of flowers. Bouquets with even numbers of blossoms are only for funerals. Why she thought that was relevant to anything, I don’t know.

After admitting that she’s pushy, she gave me the thumbs up. I gave her the thumbs down. She thought that was rude. I unfriended her. Thank goodness she lives on the other side of the world.

This is what happens when we put ourselves out there on social media. I want people to read my book so I’m going to keep putting myself out there in hopes of attracting an audience.

I didn’t make a friend, but I got a blog post out of it. That’s something.

Ancient Latvian Folk Dress

From the 11th to the 14th centuries, CE.

The colorful folk costumes most Latvians are familiar with may seem to have been around forever, but they actually date back only as far as the 19th Century.

Photos of archaeological folk costumes were used with permission from the Latvian National Cultural Center.

These are the garments worn by the peoples from the various tribes that came together to form modern Latvia. The folk costumes, decorations, and jewelry were recreated from fragments found in archeological digs. The clothing shown here is very similar to that worn by other Nordic people.

The word Nordic derives from “nord” meaning “north,” which would include the people of Northern Europe who live along the Baltic Sea.

I love the subtle colors of these costumes, especially the different shades of blue.

Map of Latvia’s different regions.

*The regions of Latvia where these folk costumes were worn. Courland. Senigallia. Livonia*. *Vends, a county by the Venta River*. *Selonia. Latgalia.*

11th Century Livonian (*Lībiešu*) *folk dress.*

The woman’s wool cloak is decorated with braided bands and fringe around the edges. She’s wearing a narrow belt that’s the precursor of elaborately woven modern belts of the 19th Century. On her belt, she is wearing small chains that hold tools, such as keys, sewing needles, and amulets. Modesty required that married women keep their hair covered. Rings were made of bronze or an alloy of lead and tin.

The information from the Cultural Center doesn’t specify how the blue color was achieved. However, it was most likely woad, Isatis tinctoria, which was used throughout Europe until the 17th Century. Crafters in our century also use dye from the Isatis tinctoria plant.

*11th Century Livonian (Lībiešu) warrior’s tunic.*

Decorations on men’s clothing are minimal, except for embroidery at the neckline which is fastened with the same style horseshoe-shaped brooch. He’s wearing a leather belt with a tooled scabbard for his dagger.

*11th Century Livonian folk costume for a 2-3-year-old child.*

Children were adorned with more jewelry and their clothes were more elaborately decorated than clothes for adults.

The mantle is studded with woven-in bronze studs. The linen shirt and wool shawl are fastened with horseshoe-shaped brooches, a design that is still used in Latvian jewelry. Her torc necklace is decorated with metal tassels that are used to this day in Latvian jewelry design. My mother once has a silver bracelet like the headband the model is wearing.

Unmarried women wear headbands or coronets of flowers, metal, or fabric that are embroidered and decorated with beads and crystals. Each region has its own characteristic designs.

*An interpretation of a 12th-13th Century Couronian (Kuršu) simple and practical warriors clothing*.

The outfit consists of a shirt, trousers, tunic, and cloak. In the days before buttons brooches were used to fasten garments. The warrior’s status in society was indicated by his weapons–helmet, sword, and shield.

*14th Centurļļy Latgalian (Latgaļu) recreated costume.*

The Fourteenth Century brought many changes to clothing. The mantle is more ornately woven of wool and linen in more intricate patterns and decorated with fringes and fiber tassels, instead of metal ones. The bracelets are more delicate. The coronet is decorated with yellow glass beads.

Photos by Mārtiņš Cīrulis

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Love at First Sight. For Real?

Love at first sight, followed by happily ever after, is a popular trope in romance novels but is it something that can only happen in fiction?

The two main characters, a World War II Latvian refugee and an American fighter pilot, in my novel, A Home for an Exile’s Heart fall in love at the first touch of their hands as they gaze into each other’s eyes and sparks fly. My Latvian beta reader thought that was unrealistic. In fiction, it happens all the time but can it happen in real life? I told my reader my favorite anecdote about a true life love at first sight story. This is how I remember hearing it so my words may not be exact but the facts are.

*They made beautiful music together may be a cliche but it can happen.*

Internationally famous Russian cellist Mstislav Rostropovich was being interviewed on a radio show about his marriage to opera singer Galina Vishnevskaya.

Host: “Mr. Rostropovich, I understand that you and your wife married a week after you first met.”

Rostropovich: “Yes. It was a big mistake.”

Host, taken aback, stammers, “A m-mistake?”

Rostropovich: “Yes. We wasted a whole week.”

I love this story. Rostropovich and Vishnevskaya were married for fifty-two years, until his death. Though it may be rare, love at first sight, followed by a happily ever after does happen in real life.

*The flowers may fade but not the love.*

Most of the time, it seems to me, a declaration of love can be premature. Some guy I once dated said that he loved me way too soon. I was not enchanted or bowled over. I said that he hardly knew me so how could he possibly love me? We hadn’t had any deep discussions or revelations of the secrets of our hearts. But he kept on declaring his love. Ove and over and over. Bleh. Maybe if he’d been the right guy I’d have been more receptive, even delighted. My advice, don’t date someone just because you’re lonely, bored, or depressed. Under such circumstances a “happily ever after” ain’t likely. If you meet a gem like Rostropovich or Vishnevskaya, go for it. Don’t settle for a rhinestone.

*Life’s a bowl of cherry pits but at least the beer’s not flat.*

How do the love birds in my novel know they’ve found someone they can love forever? There’s an immediate sense of familiarity as if they’ve known each other forever. During their first evening together, they spend hours just talking. They open their hearts, tell each other things they’ve never told anyone else, things that reveal character.

As Shakespeare said, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” It certainly can’t in a novel, so it doesn’t in A Home for an Exile’s Heart.

Latvian Love Words

Valentine’s Day is known among Latvians as Sirsniņdiena, which can mean Sweethearts Day, as in lovers, but also anyone you love. My mother called me, Sirsniņa. My aunt called me, Sirds, which means heart, as a term of affection.

For my Valentine’s Day post I’m writing about the words Latvians use to express love. These words are used much more conservatively than the terms of endearment I wrote about before.

Latvians are a reserved people. It used to be, and maybe still is in some circles that Latvians’ idea of a proper public display of affection was to go to church and get married in front of God and the congregation of family and friends. Latvians don’t say the words “love” or “I love you” lightly. People don’t generally use such expressions as, “I love this pair of shoes” or “I love pizza.” They like the shoes. They like pizza. “I love you” is reserved for spouses or fiancées/fiancés. They’re not even used for one’s parents, children, or other family members.

*An embrace like this should probably be kept private even when married.*

I remember overhearing a parent criticize an in-law for saying “I love you” to his young daughter. It’s not a phrase I remember hearing around my house when I was growing up. It should be enough that love is demonstrated by providing food, clothes, and a roof over one’s head. Some might say such an attitude is outdated, Things have changed, the world has changed. But I got criticized in a Latvian social media group for saying people should say, “I love you” much more often. That happened not only in this century but as recently as last year.

Here are those very exclusive words.

Mīlestība = Love

Es mīlu Tevi = I love you

Mīlulis = loved one

Mīlīgs = lovable

Mīļošs = loving

Mans Mīļiotais = my lover

These next diminutives are okay to use with adults, children, and even pets.

Mīlulītis = my little loved one

Mīļumiņš = my little loved one (smaller and thus more dear)

Sieva = wife (the diphthong “ie” is pronounced like the “ea” in “ear.”

Sieviņa = my dear little wife. It can be used affectionately, but depending on context can also be belittling.

Vīrs = husband (veers)

Vīriņš = dear little husband. Most likely used only in private. The word could also refer to a little old man.

Possessives:

Mans = (pronounced “muhns”) My. Masculine. But it refers to the subject, not to the person who is speaking. e.g. “Mans vīrs” is what a woman would say when introducing her husband.

Mana = My. Feminine, also refers to the subject. A man introducing his wife would say, “Mana sieva.”

A Latvian friend and I had a discussion about whether a declaration of love should include the word, “es” (pronounced like the letter “S.”) meaning “I.” He said that “es” = “I” is understood, so it’s enough to say, “mīlu Tevi.” Technically, in English, the word “I” would also be understood nevertheless people say, “I love you.” To me, just saying “mīlu Tevi” sounds abrupt, like you’re eager to get on to the next thing, maybe “What’s for dinner?” This rule could be a familial difference or a regional one. My choice would include the first person singular pronoun,

Have fun with these loving words. Use them however you please on Valentine’s Day or any other day you want to tell someone you love them. Some rules are meant to be broken.

Hearts can break when they don’t hear these words. And stay broken even though hidden.

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Candle Day: Latvia

February 2 Sveču Diena, affectionately known as Svecīšu Diena

February 2 is a cross-quarter day. It’s the day that marks the halfway point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Depending on which hemisphere you’re in the cross-quarter day could also fall on February first. In the northern hemisphere, it means that winter is on its way out and spring is just around the corner.

In Latvia, February second is called Candle Day. In fact, all of February is known as Candle Month. I’m not sure why maybe because it’s a dark month requiring more candles to brighten things up.

For many centuries Candle Day was a day for making candles out of wax or tallow. I imagine that by the time winter was half over the store of candles had been used up and needed to be replenished. Candles that are made on this day are supposed to burn bright and last long.

Candles are symbols of warmth and light. A flame is magical; it bears the powerful energy of light. It can calm and cleanse, but it can also destroy.

Candle Day traditions and practices vary from region to region.

The most important thing is to be jovial to laugh and sing so you’ll be jovial happy, and full of laughter all year. To help the jollity along one must drink a great deal of beer and eat a lot.

Spending lots of money on this special day means you’ll be prosperous for the rest of the year.

Weather forecasting on this day in Latvia doesn’t involve rodents.

Dripping eaves mean a lovely spring.

A hard freeze means don’t expect a warm spring.

Fog on February second indicates that a rainy summer is in store.

Frost on trees predicts a bountiful summer.

Some of the information I found was consistent across more than one site. Other information was unique to one site. I admit I didn’t check all sites, there were many too many.

*Don’t blow out the candle to get your wish. When you make it imbue it with positive thoughts.*

A handmade candle is a special gift to make a special friend happy. The person who makes the candle should hold her hands over the wax and concentrate on the positive things she wishes the recipient of the finished candle to have–happiness, well-being, prosperity, love. These positive thoughts should continue while pouring the melted wax into the mold. When the candle is finished the maker should hold it in her hands while continuing to think of positive wishes for the recipient.

The candlemaker should tell the recipient of the positive wishes that the candle brings with it that way when he lights the candle he will think of her and the positive things she wishes for him. Sounds like a bonding ritual.

The candle should be lit naturally, that is with a match, not a lighter.

The flame is not to be blown out because you might blow away all the good wishes. Instead, it should be pinched out with moist fingers or with a snuffer.

Candle-makers were supposed to be in a good mood while at their task. That’s where feasting, beer-drinking, singing, and laughing come in. If the candle-maker is in a bad mood the candles will sputter and burn with a dim light. Another example of sympathetic magic.

There is so much candle lore it’s hard to fit into one blog post and still publish it on February second.

Happy Candle Day. dear readers. Be sure to eat, drink, sing, and laugh.

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Quote: Ralph Waldo Emerson.

“The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, not the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when you discover that someone else believes in you and is willing to trust you with a friendship.”

“A Pocketful of Kitten”

While I was editing my historical romance, A Home for an Exile’s Heart, I’m pleased to say that my children’s story went live on Amazon’s Kindle Vella.

Vella offers the first three chapters of books as free samples. Since A Pocketful of Kitten is less than seven hundred words long there is only one episode, making my story a freebie. I hope you’ll check it out and if you like it, give it a “thumbs up” or even write a review.

Emjoy!

30th Anniversary of Barricades in the Streets of Riga

In January 1991 the Soviet military attempted to force Latvia back into the USSR. Latvia had declared its renewed independence the previous year. The siege lasted two weeks from January 13 to January 27th.

*Copied from the Embassy of Latvia post on Facebook.*

Today we pay tribute to the efforts of people in Latvia to protect their newly-regained freedom in 1991. That month, leaders of the USSR in Moscow decided to mobilize security forces to restore Soviet order in the three Baltic countries. Upon realizing this, people of all ages and backgrounds rushed to Riga – they brought trucks, tractors, and heavy equipment to build barricades around government buildings. They spent days outside in the freezing cold of January. The face-off culminated on January 20th when Soviet special forces initiated a gun battle and temporarily seized the Ministry of the Interior. Several people were killed. But the barricades held! Pro-democracy forces prevailed and went on to restore full independence. In honor of these events, today is marked as the Commemoration Day of Defenders of the Barricades in 1991. We thank and honor everyone who stood up for freedom and joined the barricades!

*Riga is 820 years old but Latvia has known freedom for only a fraction of those years.*

The Deported: 15,424

https://deportetie.kartes.lv/lv/c___56.967441-24.256683-8?fbclid=IwAR06QFJ7LY339O0NBMM-AxTeQT_D1AbW8E7k37y2l86ZNhCO4G-PefNh9aA

Today Latvians are commemorating the anniversary of the deportations.

Deported by the Soviets from Latvia in one night, the night between June 13 and June 14, 1941. There was no due process, not really, not when you consider that the government of Latvia at the time had not been democratically elected, but was forced on it by the Soviets.

Among those loaded onto cattle cars and shipped to Siberia were men, women, and children, some as young as one.

What crime could a one-year-old child have committed? Being born to parents who were considered enemies of the people. Guilt by association. These enemies were government officials, educators, journalists, cultural figures, anyone who had the prominence and respect to influence others to oppose the Soviet regime. It didn’t matter whether they had done so or not. Their positions in society meant that the possibility existed. Preventive arrests for things people might do.

The link I’ve included is to an interactive map provided by the National Library of Latvia, which makes it possible to look up the deportations from any town or civil parish. Click on the green dot by a town’s name and scroll through the list of names to look for relatives and friends.

I searched for names on the list for my mother’s hometown, Limbaži. I didn’t find the names of any relatives on the list of sixty-six deportees, but I found the name of my mother’s high school sweetheart. He was twenty-four when he was sent to Siberia. Eventually, I don’t know how many years later he was able to walk back home. He lived long enough to see Latvia regain its freedom, but died not much later.

I don’t know how my maternal grandfather escaped being arrested. He was the deputy mayor of his hometown and the editor of the local newspaper. Just the sort of person who’d be most likely to be rounded up. It was probably sheer luck. The arrests and deportations were pretty much a hit-or-miss thing. The NKVD had such a long list of people to arrest that if an individual happened not to be at home when agents came knocking in the middle of the night, they went on to the next name on their list and never returned.

My father’s hometown, Alūksne had 167 victims. None of my relatives appeared on that list, either. But my father’s older sister and her husband were arrested and sent to Siberia in the second wave of deportations in 1949. They, too, managed to return, probably after Stalin’s death in 1953.

Some of my mother’s relatives lived in the capital, Rīga. I didn’t look for them. The number of deportees from Rīga was more than four thousand. My mother’s family was practically a tribe. Great-granddad was married three times; my mother had cousins even she couldn’t keep track of. I don’t know what towns they might have lived in in 1941. I don’t know how many if any of them were deported. People don’t talk about such things. The memories are too terrible.

If you’re a Latvian reading this post and want to look up a relative, don’t worry if you can’t read the language. It’s not necessary. You just have to be able to recognize the name of a person or place. Pagasts means civil parish; their names are included on the list.

Born Stateless

This is a revised version of an essay I posted in November of 2020. It’s not just sad, but horrible that not only have things not changed in that time, they’ve gotten worse. Putin, a Stalin-wanna-be has brutally invaded Ukraine. Millions of Ukrainians have fled, thousands have stayed to fight for their country, and too many have died. My heart aches for them. I read the headline, watch video clips and cry. I hope the refugees can all go home soon and none of their children are born stateless.

A Photo Essay

Refugees have been on my mind lately, even though the refugee crisis on the southern USA border has been pushed out of the headlines by the pandemic and the presidential election. I’ve also been reading about refugees and their desperate plight in books by Erich Maria Remarque, Flotsam and The Night in Lisbon.

Flotsam is defined as the debris from the wreckage of a ship or its cargo. It’s also defined as people or things that have been rejected and are regarded as worthless.

Isn’t that perfect? We were human flotsam from the World War II wreckage of Europe. At best refugees were regarded by natives of the countries they fled to as “unwanted guests,” at worst as “the scum of Europe.” How sad that so little has changed.

I’ve also been thinking about refugees because for the past two years I’ve been writing a novel about a Latvian refugee, Līvija Galiņa, and her family, who after years as flotsam in Europe have finally found a safe haven in Seattle, Washington, USA. There, one snowy evening, Līvija is nearly run down by an out-of-control car, which has skidded on an ice street and jumped the curb. Her life is saved by a dashing former fighter pilot, Cameron Quinn. Writing my novel has been an all-consuming, delightful, frustrating, agonizing journey–hours of writing, followed by more hours of re-writing, editing, and more editing, doing my best to make my story captivating and readable. Hoping readers will find my characters as engaging as I do.

Here are a few photos of my family’s time in the Hochfeld Displaced Persons camp in Augsburg, Germany.

*This is what Latvians were running from*

This cattle car is not loading Jewish people to send them to concentration camps. This cattle car is loading Latvians to take them to Siberia. Thousands were deported. Most of them never returned. They died of starvation or overwork in forced labor camps. Or because it was so cold that even vodka freezes during a Siberian winter.

*The man in the middle is my mother’s brother.*

Nikolaijs lost his leg in WW II. He and his friends are posing outside a hospital. My uncle was in the Augsburg DP camp with us. He, my other uncle–my father’s brother, Alfons, my parents, and I all lived together. I think we had two rooms. A separate room for my folks and me and another for the unmarried uncles.

*The maternity hospital in Augsburg, Germany where I was born.*

*Me, in my grand carriage.* *I was born in Augsburg.*

I have no idea how this picture got taken or why Mr. Ohaks is in it. He was the “elder,” the supervisor, I guess, of the DP camp building where we lived. He was no relation to us. Perhaps he was my uncle’s friend, or as the elder, maybe he was everyone’s friend. I have no idea where that ball came from. It could have been in a CARE package from America.

*My other uncle, my dad’s younger brother, Alfons, and his special friend.*

My uncle never talked about her. I never knew her name. I only know about her from what my mother told me. The girlfriend had a husband who had stayed in Latvia. I don’t know how they got separated. Was he a soldier who’d been reported killed in action? While in Germany she learned that her husband was still alive. She went back to him, leaving my uncle devastated. In her absence, her husband had married someone else. The girlfriend was not allowed to leave Latvia again. Alfons never married. I based events in my novel on real-life incidents.

This is my uncle, Alfons, leaving for Bremerhaven, Germany to get on the boat that would take him to America. The promised land. He’s wearing a tag on his coat as if he were a parcel in the mail. All refugees wore them as they departed Germany.

*My mother, her brother, Nikolaijs, and me on a street in Augsburg.*

The uncles left one by one as they found sponsors in the USA. I’m upset because Nikolaijs was my favorite uncle. I believe the buildings on the right are the ones where we all lived. Many refugees did not have such elegant accommodations. Some had to live in root cellars.

A laissez-passer is “a diplomatic travel document issued by the United Nations” to stateless people. Refugee who’ve lost their homelands.

The Greely was the navy transport ship that brought my family and other refugees to New York.

I remember very little about the trip. I was only three and a half. My mother and I had an upper bunk in a cabin with other women and children. My father was in a different cabin with other men. Everyone but me was seasick.

On the Greely was the first time I remember seeing a Black man. He was a steward and very nice. He gave me an orange. Oranges were such a rare commodity that in the camps they were Christmas gifts.

The nice steward also brought me a dish of red Jell-o. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a thing. I called it kustelīgais (wiggly)

*Playing dress-up with a borrowed doll carriage.*

Our first stop in the USA was Pennsylvania where my parents worked on the corn farm that belonged to our sponsors to repay them for bringing us to America. We also lived in Delaware for a while.

After a year of working for their sponsors, refugees were free to go wherever they wished. My folks hated the heat and humidity of East Coast summers. Alfons had completed his tenure working on his sponsors’ farm in South Dakota and moved to Tacoma, Washington where he had friends. He wrote to my father saying how nice it was in western Washington and urged us to come to live here. I may be prejudiced but I think he couldn’t have picked a better place.

A safe haven in Tacoma, Washington. Refugee kids at a Children’s Christmas party. I’m the one front and center, bow and all.

(More installments of Latvia Under the Soviets will follow)

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