Welcome *Expat Blog* Readers

Welcome to my blog. Recently learned that the *Expat Blog* had picked From Russia with Love to be their STAR for November. So here's to 15 minutes - make that 15 sentences - of fame.  I am thrilled to represent the many fine blogs written by expatriates.  I mean, the new logo and the limelight - it's right up there with being crowned homecoming queen.  Not that I've ever been there. Not yet! 


Anyway, visit the Expat Blog site, click on Blog of the Month and there's the whole scoop. Including a fun photo taken last month at the Swallow's Nest in Yalta. With a big eagle perched on my shoulder. So welcome to my blog. It's my privilege to offer you a glimpse into life in Russia. . . and now Ukraine.

Today in History: The Royal Wedding

Britain's Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer at St Paul's Cathedral, London on this day in 1981. Twenty-seven years ago ~ what a special pair and what a perfect day.

Were you one of the millions worldwide who watched the festivities on TV? Or perhaps you attended in person?! I wanted to go. Even then, I was well qualified to represent the U.S. in the competition to catch that bridal bouquet. . .

Looking back at all that wedding, at the marriage and at all that has transpired, what can be said? It's safe to say that things are not always as they appear. That royal families have struggles too. And even a princess is not exempt from a broken heart.

Dear blog reader, any special insights or memories from that royal wedding? What advise would you have given the royal couple, had they asked?

I Feel the Earth Move: Mysterious Explosion in Siberia Baffles 100 Years Later

The scientific community is still baffled by a mysterious explosion in Siberia that happened more than 100 years ago, June 30, 1908. Known as the Tungushka Event, the impact of the explosion was 1000 times greater than the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima.

An interesting video from the History Channel - although it does appear to be misdated.

The blast was felt hundreds of miles away from the center of impact in Tunguska, Siberia, knocking people off their feet and breaking windows. For the next several weeks, folks in Great Britain could read outside at night thanks to the glow of suspended dust in the air. Based on eye-witness accounts here are paintings and a recreation of the event.

Well, dear blog readers, for those of us of a certain age, is it possible that Carole King had the Tunguska event in mind when she sang I Feel the Earth Move? Now there's an explosion! What memories does that bring back?

Daily Life in Soviet Russia

Thanks to English Russia for these black-and-white shots of a monochrome era. Please help think of an explanation for each of these photos.

Open wide. Boys line up for. . . checkups.

Care to venture a guess - what is the occasion?
Check-ups before summer camp.
Physicals before entering the army.
Other possibilities?


What's going on with this trio?
They're singing the Hallelujah Chorus - all soprano.
They gargling.
They're catching raindrops two ways.
What else?


What's the scoop here?
He's home from his first year away at college.
He's just got paroled.
Other ideas?

Dear blog readers, counting on you to help out on the possibilities here. These photos are submitted to English Russia and published without captions. So, we're on our own to provide them. I'm looking to you for some help on this.

Remembering Dad (May 1926 - June 2006)

This past week, I've been thinking about my dad. Two years ago today was his memorial service.


Dad with Ruth, our beloved stepmother. A very happy day, our youngest brother's wedding in May of 1993.


Dad in May, 1947 and just back from 18 months in Germany. What magnificent cheekbones! What a sharp dresser! What blue eyes! Yep, that's my dad. Amazingly, he seemed to have no idea just how handsome he was.


In the distance is a peaceful spot where, years ago, the property of four farmers came together. They each gave a bit of land for a church cemetery. And there it is.


Through the cornfields and up over a little knoll. I visit here almost every time I'm home in Ohio. Mom is buried there, as are her parents and grandparents. And now Dad is buried there too.

In the woods to the side of the cemetery is this huge old tree, clear around in the very back. It's a silver birch, a tree expert told me quite confidently and well over 100 years old. I'd say 150.


At the base of this tree, Dad died of a self-inflicted wound. After many days passed, I visited the site and by then, several rains had washed the tree and area. And for that I am very thankful.

Well, for one thing, it's posted at the front of the woods, No Trespassing!

It was very early on the Friday morning that he died, the coroner figured. Two days later was Sunday, Father's Day. Amazing how plans change so fast. And see, I had planned to call Buehler's florist on Saturday afternoon to order a nice bouquet for Father's Day. Instead of that, I was writing an obituary.

For the most part, I felt quite detached from Dad's death. But when I wrote a piece for a eulogy, that's when I went through a pile of tissues. I don't know that I've cried much since then. Sometimes a person can hurt deeply, but tears don't come. Or, as one brother put it, maybe we said goodbye years ago.

On my recent trip back to the US, I don't recall being weepy at his grave or when I went back into the woods. But a couple weeks earlier, I was in Dallas going a box of his tools -- hammers, screw drivers, wrenches, pliers. Seeing his tools caught me off guard somehow. And I had to dig around for a tissue or two. But I had neat plan for those tools. I engraved his name on each item and then gave them out to a niece and nephews as a way to remember their grandpa. They had so much fun sorting through and picking out pieces. And that brought me joy.

Several years ago, in 2003 Dad made a first attempt on his life. That was unsuccessful, thank the good Lord but I went back to the US for 8 weeks to give him a hand. I remember a conversation we had about all that. I told him I was so glad that he was still with us. If you had died, we would have never, ever, ever recovered from it, I remember telling him. I never thought - I don't imagine that it even occurred to any of us - that he would try again. But then, after it really happened, it was clear that he had been planning his death for quite a while and that he wanted it to be absolutely final. And, certainly that was so painful, such sadness, such grieving. But you know, a person really does recover. A person really does heal. And life goes on. And I can look back on many very special memories. And for that I am so very thankful.

Life in 50 Boxes

Last week I visited my boxes. My life pre-Russia fits into 50-some boxes which are stored at in a Dallas-area church building. This wonderful little church so kindly guards my earthly possessions in a spare classroom. And this means so much to me. But when I came home, I like to go through and remind myself about the things I own. Not bragging or anything you understand. And the stash continues to shrink because I keep getting rid of stuff. Care to have a look?

So here are the boxes, looking toward the northwest corner of the room. And there in the foreground is the corner of my sewing machine which I found at an estate sale and refinished myself. So that's in my furniture collection, plus a little freezer and a rocking chair. Now that I think about it, I'll bet somebody could use that freezer. Per chance, could you?


Just between the two of us here, the last time I wore size 14 was back in 1993. Decided my size 14 days are history and that these clothes need to be in someone else's closet. Lots of fairly good stuff there, some of it rather dear to my heart, some I had made myself, all that was back when I taught clothing, textiles and fashion merchandising at a university. Back when I knew how to thread a sewing machine. Goodbye dear clothes.

And then there's the shoes. These shoes have been boxed up since 1998 when I packed up my stuff. Shoes like this won't work in Russia, not for me anyway. They're best for standing around, walking from a car into a building and teaching in all day. But not for walking a mile on crumbly sidewalks and such as we have in Russia. Besides that, seems that walking affects shoe size. Because these size 10-M just don't cut it anymore. Goodbye dear shoes. You belong in someone else's closet.


Oh what precious little suitcases. This Samsonite luggage was a graduation from high school gift from Mom and Dad back in 1970, back when LBJ was president, as I recall. Or maybe Nixon. Anyway, amazing where this luggage has been: In 1971, I packed up most all my clothes in these two suitcases and flew off to Texas to studay. After that, they held all my clothes as I moved to Sydney, Australia in 1976. I hold on to these for sentimental reasons so at least for now, they're not going into anybody else's closet.

Speaking of graduations. What's an expatriate to do with her fancy diplomas? Well mine are stored in a box. Amazing that I forked over $100 to have each diploma matted and framed. And they so beautifully graced my office wall once upon a time.

I'll admit, I do feel a twinge of some emotion when I happen upon these prizes of mine that are now stored boxes. And then my academic regalia is in there somewhere too along with the thesis and dissertation. But I remind myself that these trappings merely represent the ways in which I learned, the ways I grew and the ways in which I was s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d in graduate school. And those lessons remain in my heart and in my mind. Except that I've forgotten how to do standard deviations and stuff from statistics. On the other hand, I do know a thing or two about Russian verbs. Kinda similar, they are.

So there we have it, life in a few boxes. Another time we'll talk about the care and feeding of moths. And I've learned a thing or two about that, too.

And how about you? Ever put most of your stuff in storage? Ever go through and declutter your stuff? Did you find it freeing?

A Husband, a Pilot and Easy Credit

This billboard caught my eye recently, reminding me of World War II, Soviet-era artwork, bold and powerful and simple.

In a nutshell, it’s from SKB bank, publicizing easy loans. The two bottom lines in black print are about that, easily translated, He can get credit without a problem.

But the top two lines, in red, had me puzzled for a while. Say, perhaps you would like a glimpse into the always intriguing world of translating? Made even more interesting because I know just enough Russian to be dan-ger-ous!

1) Here's the off-the-cuff version I developed there on the street: Maybe you can’t leave with your husband the pilot, (But he can get credit without a problem). . . Hmmm. On second thought, this didn’t seem realistic. I'm not seeing pilots exiting en masse. Besides, pilot needs to be the subject of the sentence. On to version 2.

2) The chew-on-it-at-home version: Got a photo of it, brought it home and got out the dictionary:
*Может - maybe
*не (not) вышел - Has gone out; has got out; has appeared; etc etc etc)
*из мужа - from; of; out of. . . husband
*пилот - pilot – This is the subject of the sentence.
Maybe the pilot has not gone out of the husband. Hmmm. . . On to the next version.



3) Version using an on-line translation service (babelfish): Maybe, pilot did not leave the husband, then he will take credit without the troubles. (Huh?) This is wackier yet. Just wondering, could there be an idiom in the phrase?

4) Version 4, based on the on-line translation program but adding a twist of personal color, : Maybe your husband has not gotten piloting out of his system, regardless, he can get credit without any trouble. (or…maybe your husband is still a pilot at heart….). Well, moving right along. . .to native speakers of Russian.

5) Version: Checking with dear Lyda, with 5 years experience translating:
Maybe the husband is not good enough to be a pilot,
BUT he is good enough to take a loan without efforts.

Diplomat that she is, Lyda suggested going with this version:
The husband needs efforts to become a pilot,
But he doesn't need efforts to take a loan.

6) Well, let's confirm with dear Nadya, who has been translating 15 years. She hooted aloud, by the way, when she heard the version from #3, above, from babelfish. Maybe the husband wasn’t able to become a pilot, (Literally, maybe a pilot didn’t come of your husband), But he can get a loan without any problems.

8) Based on all that, I'd like to go with this:
Maybe it didn’t work out for your husband to become a pilot,
But he can get a loan without any problems.

Okay, we've got the main idea here. Need a loan? Zip on over to SKB Bank.

Oh the joys of translating. Okay Sveta in Moscow and Ludmila wherever you may be, have at it! I'm betting that you two have lots of experience with translating, not to mention first-hand experience with personal loans.

Soviet-era Photos: St Basils, Babyshkas

A couple of black and white photos from the Soviet era when life was itself was monochrome. Photos courtesy of English Russia: Life in Soviet Russia.

A grandmother sweeping snow from Red Square in Moscow, using a broom made of twigs. St Basil's Cathedral looms in the distance.


A gaggle of babyshkas, the Russian grandmothers. These ladies look sweet and huggable and they are, in a certain context. But I've heard it said that the babyshkas run the country. In a war of words, the babyshka will come out on top. Heaven help the young security guard, for instance, who messes with a babyhska. Or even a grandchild or neighbor child. She will let the offender have a tongue-lashing -- loud, shrill and non-stop. Every adult today has memories of his own babyshka who tried to teach him the right way to be. That's the nature of the Russian babyshka.

I myself am occasionally on the receiving end of a babyshka and her rhetorical questions about my clothing choices. Why aren't you wearing a hat? Why aren't you wearing a heavier coat? In general, I say thank the good Lord for the babyshka patrol. On the one hand they help teach the young. On the other hand, seems to me that for many men, their only escape is alcohol. Because to a babyshka, everyone is a child. Mercy me, have we digressed here or what?

Anyway, the picture above is rich with content. I'm still trying to determine the occasion although the mood is pleasant enough. Everybody's waiting but yet there doesn't seem to be a line. All are sensibly attired in wool coats, scarves tied around their heads. But have you noticed the one person who is very different. Spot him? And then in the upper left corner are a couple of younger women, wearing furs. I like the babyshka, lower right, with her war medals and cane. Some are looking this direction, yet they don't seem to be aware of the camera.

Family in Fifty-seven

From right, Dad and Mom, Dan and me.

If a tree could talk...

Weathering the Storms: Farewell to a Beloved Father

One summer afternoon as a little girl here in Rittman, Ohio, I was draped across the front porch swing of our white, frame house. The sky was dark and thunder rumbled in the distance. Dad’s truck pulled up just then and he came bounding up the steps from work.

He was wearing his dark green work clothes and carrying his lunch box, heavy with a thermos. He smelled of lacquer thinner, sawdust and of honest sweat, smells of a builder. Dad eased his lanky frame down onto the swing beside me. The storm was closer now, the thunder was louder and I was nearly in tears.

Dad draped his arm around behind me. As the lightening flashed, he explained that when two clouds bump together, lightening happens. He told me that God created the clouds and that God made the thunder and the lightening.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Eileen, because God is in control.” Then it began to pour down rain.

I felt so safe sitting there beside Dad, watching the angry clouds churn past. Starting then, I began to appreciate thunderstorms and to marvel at the raw power of God’s heavens.

* * * * *

Forty-nine years have passed since that conversation on the front porch swing. Forty-nine Ohio winters of shoveling snow from the front walk, forty-nine summers with magnificent skies and billowing clouds. Forty-nine years of life in the work-a-day world, raising a family, paying the electric bill, launching kids, keeping gas in the car and easing into retirement.

There have been sunny days and there have been dismal days. In recent years, there have been days when all Dad could hear was the rumbling of the distant thunder, when all he could taste was the bitterness of regrets, when all he could see was the approaching storm clouds.

One dark hour in recent days, Dad may have been overwhelmed by a storm of his own, the wind whipping around his face, raindrops stinging his cheeks and thunder crashing in his ears. Or perhaps he had been scanning the horizon, fearful of what storms tomorrow would bring. Perhaps he wanted simply to control his last days and choose when and where he would leave us. Such things are known only to God.

But had I been with Dad during that midnight hour, I would have sat down beside him. I would have slipped my hand into his and recited these words from the classic hymn:

Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high.
The sky is o’er shadowed with blackness,
No shelter or help is nigh.
Carest Thou not that we perish?
How canst Thou lie asleep,
When each moment so madly is threat’ning
A grave in the angry deep?

Master, with anguish of spirit,
I bow in my grief today;
The depths of my sad heart are troubled;
O waken and save, I pray!
Torrents of sin and of anguish
Sweep o’er my sinking soul!
And I perish! I perish, dear Master;
O hasten and take control!

I would stop and look at him,
“Dad, listen to me. You think all is lost. The Prince of Darkness, the Father of Lies is whispering in your ear. Telling you that life has been hopeless and that your future will be miserable. Please Dad, look to the Master. Like you told me so long ago, God is in control. Please Dad, the song doesn’t end here. Dad, please stay for the next verse. . .

Master, the terror is over,
The elements sweetly rest;
Earth’s sun in the calm lake is mirrored,
And heaven’s within my breast,
Linger, O blessed Redeemer,
Leave me alone no more;
And with joy I shall make the blest harbor,
And rest on the blissful shore.

The winds and the waves shall obey Thy will.
Peace, be still!
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea,
Or demons, or men, or whatever it be,
No water can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of oceans and earth and skies;
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace, be still!
Peace, be still!
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace, peace, be still!

Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, family and friends, life goes on and it will include dark moments. Storms roll across our horizon. We fear that our ship will capsize before we reach harbor. But let us look to the Master of the wind and the waves. He longs to be Lord of each of our lives. He longs to put his arm around each of us and guide us homeward.

During this dark and difficult hour, I am so thankful to have had a dad who pointed me to our Heavenly Father even, and most especially, when the storms come.

Tribute to My Dad