Author: dpedece

Barefoot Latvian writer with cheek. Lives in Rainier's Lap.

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

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(Yes, this is a repost from last year. My post, “Lights Out!” explains why I’ve been distracted. The only thing that has changed is that more and more Latvian communities are participating in White Tablecloth Day)

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

On May 4th, 1990 the Supreme Council of the Latvian SSR adopted a resolution “On the Restoration of the Independence of the Republic of Latvia”, turning a new white page in the history of Latvia. The White Tablecloth Festival celebrates the anniversary of Latvia’s renewed independence after decades under Soviet rule.

A clean new page is understandable but why a white tablecloth? The cloth was chosen as a symbol of national pride, unity, and self-confidence. On feast days tables are traditionally set with a white linen tablecloth. Latvian friends, neighbors, and families all over the world, those in Latvia and the Latvians of the Diaspora in their adopted homelands are encouraged to gather together as one family to celebrate Latvia’s renewed independence with reverence and joy.

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

Except for social media I’ve been out of touch with my local Latvian community. I’m not even sure if they’ve adopted the White Tablecloth Festival. I learned about it just the other day when a friend in Ohio shared photos of her Latvian community’s celebration of this anniversary.

It’s about time more attention was paid to this important holiday which usually gets little notice compared to Latvia’s original Independence Day. November 18th has been celebrated by Latvian exiles in their new countries. During the years of Soviet occupation, such a celebration was illegal in Latvia.

Buffet at the Latvian Center in Cleveland.

Whenever Latvians gather to celebrate there is always lots of food. On this special occasion in Cleveland, there were also speeches (hardly a unique occurrence) recitations of poetry, shared memories, and stories about what it means to be a Latvian. They also saw a video about the dedication of a monument to a Latvian freedom activist who died shortly before renewed independence became a reality.

Intricate drawnwork (Dresden work) embroidery.

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.

Crewel embroidery on a linen tablecloth.
Textile works of art. Some might even have been brought along when fleeing from the Soviet invasion of Latvia in 1944.

Of course, human nature being what it is, especially Latvian human nature, not everyone is eager to embrace the White Tablecloth Festival. Some people think it’s silly because white tablecloths are used for every celebration that involves feasting (all of them) Others prefer the name Renewal of Independence Day. I think White Tablecloth Festival is more of an attention grabber.

Glory to Latvia!

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.

Glory to Ukraine!

To clarify any misunderstanding. I am not collecting money for Ukraine. I prefer to leave that to long-established and respected organizations such as CARE, Save the Children, World Central Kitchen, Doctors Without Borders, and other charities. These donations are compensation for me for my work on the blog, researching, writing, editing, and illustrating. I apologize for not making this clear.

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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.

Management wants to show me the door.

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

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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.

Ūsiņš was the protector 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

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Ancient Latvians had a pantheon of deities.

Māra by Ansis Cīrulis, 1883 – 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.

One of Māra’s symbols.

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

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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

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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.
The interior of “the necessary.

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.

Commode chair

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

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.

Where the chickens lived.

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

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.

Flat iron.

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.

The general store.

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.

Safe behind the massive gate.

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

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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?

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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.

Another balcony resident.

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.

One of my three geraniums.

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.

Petunias and bacopas.

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.

Cabbage butterfly on a hosta leaf.

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

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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.

Beer and friends.

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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