Chapter 3: Childhood Memories

Walking outside in our backyard on a particularly warm, muggy summer morning in 2017, I looked around a section of our property that I didn’t frequent all that often only to discover that the area was covered in chamomile flowers. I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was such a pleasant surprise to see this fragrant plant I’ve never seen on our property in the 20 years we lived here, suddenly just appear. I immediately plucked some of the flowers and inhaled their distinct aroma. As the scent spiraled through my brain, my mind was instantly transported back to the same type of sunny summer day almost forty years earlier. It was a spot in front of my maternal grandmother’s house in Transylvania, where these flowers grew abundantly around a drainage pipe, next to a broken slab of sidewalk.

Their house was located walking distance from our home, so our visits were relatively frequent. Theirs was a large, well kempt home with a substantial shed behind it, from which emanated the constant and distinct smell of garlic. Granddad was very much a garlic lover, and I managed to become one too.  He was notorious in our town for his beautiful gardens with abundant crops that were uniquely tasty, and hardy. Of course, his green thumb, I did not inherit.

In the attic of their home, they dried herbs and dehydrated fruits. They always seemed to have some type of tasty treat for us children to scavenge for. They had an abundant variety of berry bushes and grapes, and many types of vegetables, even beautiful flowers graced their property. Of course, much of these were grown to take to market. I recall late evenings when we’d watch their industrious hands wash, sort and tie up the bunches of their goods which were organized into baskets for early morning market. However, the memory most engrained in my mind was the creek that flowed at the far end of their property. In my memory, the creek was something out of a fairy tale; beautiful, idyllic in its location, and of course, very useful. It was indeed all these things; however, the reason it is so engrained in my memory is because this sweet little creek was completely packed with leeches. Oh yes, the dreaded blood-suckers from every child’s worst nightmares. This was rather sad, considering on some of those hot, dry, parched summer days, it would have been delightful to dip our feet into the cooling waters, but that would never happen. Not intentionally, anyway. On the occasion that we would meet our cousins at their house, we would inevitably make our way back to the creek to gawk at the little creatures swimming around and dare each other to do something epicly ignorant that might result in one of those little nightmares sticking to our flesh. If we’d slip into the water by mistake, we would bolt back out at hyper speed, then spend the next few panicked moments inspecting our legs for any unwelcome critters.

I wish I had many more memories of my childhood “back home”, but considering my family moved to the States in October of 1980, I had barely turned seven at the time, and those memories are often scarce, inaccurate, or the process of looking back seems to happen through rose colored glasses. However, it’s important to remember the reality behind the distortions.

Say for instance the house I grew up in those first few years of my life.  I remember the stuccoed structure well. Its green exterior with yellow decorative lining; the metal window blinds that served the dual purpose of shade and security; the concrete and metal gate that enclosed our yard and the heavy metal door that was generally always locked, although the key hung just inside the door on a nail. In my mind’s eye, this was a large structure that housed my paternal grandparents’ home, and contained a separation for our living area. Our “summer kitchen” was a separate building. This is often the case since cooking can warm up adjoining rooms, and with no air conditioning, keeping the sleeping areas cooler is crucial. Of course, the homes are built with walls constructed of adobe bricks, so they naturally maintain some level of coolness through hot summer days, and insulate against cold winters.

What I recall of our summer kitchen are several things. The decorative tile that my parents installed on its walls, which were white squares with a different colorful painting of a vegetable on each; the flooring, which was a turquoise linoleum; a tiny fridge; an electric stove; a turquoise colored table and chairs; as well as a daybed. Yes, a daybed. This was because this was basically our living area during the day, and it was a great place to sit or take a quick nap while mom was busily working nearby. The thing that stood out for me, however, was the outside set of stairs leading up to its door. I remember those because I distinctly recall taking a painful tumble off of them. Of course I shed tears in my anguish; they were concrete stairs, after all, and since this happened while I was sweeping them, it’s certainly not the way I expected my hard work to be rewarded. Much to my chagrin, however, when my family and I returned to my hometown in 1992, I was stunned to learn the truth about those steep stairs. The current owners were gracious enough to allow us into the yard for a peek, and I stared in complete astonishment at the TWO steps leading to the front door! Not only that, but those two steps were short! They certainly would not be considered legal stair heights. I was stunned. How could I have such a distinct memory of such a violent tumble, when there was hardly anything to physically tumble from?!  Of course, I had to ask my parents if that’s how the stairs had always been, and they quickly replied, “Yes, of course!” “Did you think the kitchen sank into the ground or something?” I proceeded to take a photo as a reminder to myself of my deceiving memory. While my other memories about my old home were otherwise accurate, this was a distinct flaw that remains surprising.

Across our Summer Kitchen was my paternal grandmother’s kitchen. Although theirs was attached to their living area, it was separated by a wall, with no access door in between, again, to isolate the kitchen’s heat. My grandmother was the most precious woman anyone could ask for in a grandma. She wasn’t necessarily beautiful, but had a beautiful, unassuming, diligent and extremely generous spirit that I often find myself longing to mimic. Just about anything she cooked was amazing. There were exceptions, of course, but as children, we had the frequent pleasure of having a choice of meals multiple times a day…whether to eat the meal my mother prepared, or if grandma offered something delicious, we were obliged to partake in that. Let’s face it, we probably often ate both. Grandma always seemed to make plenty, although as I grew up, I’d learn that she would give us children the best portions and save herself and my grandfather whatever was left. I distinctly recall her stirring batches of homemade chocolate on her wood burning stove from the mixture of melted butter, powdered milk, and bitter chocolate power, just to satisfy our cravings for something sweet since such delights were scarce.

My paternal grandfather was a barrel maker. He made various sized barrels for wine and other things that required fermenting such as sauerkraut. He hand-planed wood for hours into the appropriate sized planks, or “staves”, which formed the properly sized and curved barrel he was tasked with. I recall the smell of the fresh curls of wood that collected in large piles on his shed’s floor. Once the pieces were planed, he eventually assembled them around the base (“head”), and secured them in place with metal hoops. This was a particularly delicate procedure and took lots of time and patience, but he took such pride in his finished masterpieces, and I always found them to be quite beautiful and impressive. If he wasn’t making barrels, he was likely taking care of his large garden and vineyard; he was also an insatiable bookworm. There wasn’t a book or publication that came into his vicinity that he didn’t relish digging into. He and my grandma were so much fun together. They endured so many hardships, but I still recall the humor they shared. Laughing in their company was the norm; even their arguments were often funny, and the camaraderie among them is definitely something I missed once she became ill.

During my short lifetime living under Romania’s socialist, communist government, I learned of many hardships people had to endure. For some period of time at the end of the 1970’s, food was rationed. I still recall the tiny tickets that were distributed to families for their rations of salt, sugar, oil, and flour among other things….the essentials of life. Then there were the lines. Long lines for all kinds of things, in fact, everything! The scheduled sale of bread, meats, milk, the bare essentials, drew enormous lines of people, hoping to be able to get what was being sold before they would run out….which they always did. So often, people would line up at 3 and 4 a.m., yet and end up going home empty handed. Occasionally, even I, as a small child, had to endure the chaos of those lines. One such memory was when I was tasked with buying some sour cream to eat with the fresh bakery rolls my mom purchased at market. I witnessed people’s impatience and anger while we waited for the clerks to begin selling. When hungry, people are ruthless and cruel, and there is little regard for safety, even when it came to women, elderly and children.

My family did well living off their small plot of land, but they stretched their funds as far as physically possible. Additionally, they raised some livestock, and had an abundant garden, including fruit trees, lots of grapes, and a variety of vegetables. I still recall one of our favorite desserts being autumn apples that we’d put on the hot stove until they browned and got warm and mushy. We’d bite into the juicy delicacy and savored its sweet flavor. This was one of those treats one enjoys when their sweet tooth is parched – we haven’t made this “treat” since we landed in this land of abundance. Of course, there was a lot of canning of summer fruits as well. Cherries were my favorite. At one of our first grocery store visits here, I recall seeing beautiful, bright red cherries in a bottle. We were so thrilled that our beloved treats were available off a store shelf! Of course, they were maraschino cherries, and their flavor was a rude awakening. The smell was so strange, and the flavor was far from anything we were prepared for. It was like a plastic cherry soaked in cough syrup! To this day, I cannot bring myself to stomach maraschinos.

Although my memory would trick me into remembering only through those rose colored glasses, there are some memories that my mind would try to suppress. Over my years, I’ve learned that we only grow through difficult situations, not through easy, happy-go-lucky times. I distinctly recall a pastor explaining that God often has to crush a vessel in order to re-create it into something He can use. For me, this word picture became tangible when I struggled through an art class in high school. We were molding clay into something that was supposed to be beautiful and creative. I “re-created” that thing daily for at least a week, until I realized that I was running out of time. My concept of two bears standing on their hind legs finally managed to turn into a bowl. I still have that thing to remind me that it’s an area I’m clearly not gifted in. It’s not a thing of beauty, but for some reason, it carried deep meaning for me. The bowl opens up into what looks like wilted petals. Technically, it’s not something useful to me, but it certainly fulfilled its purpose in getting me that elusive “A” in the class! It’s essentially my life journey. I usually start out with my own plan, but pray that God intervene as He sees fit in order to fulfill the thing He wants to accomplish through me. My chunk of clay couldn’t care what I made of it, but spending day after day working it made it become a thing of delight.

Until I recently learned about someone dear to me enduring the horror of childhood rape, I was reluctant to share this part of my story. Knowing her over the years, I think I assumed that she endured something traumatic, but it’s not a question I would have ever posed. I believe that as a woman, and as someone who walked her own journey through a revolting experience, I had a sense that something was awry. It just pained me to learn that she carried this burden quietly her entire life. At the very least, the support of family would have been therapeutic, but I know that family members often fall short in providing the support we seek. I’ve seen first-hand instances where victims are blamed or shunned for speaking up or even seeking protection. However, what I endured has taught me a certain level of compassion for victims and a desire to be an advocate for the innocent.

When I was about five years old, a man in our town proceeded to sexually molest me several times. It never ceased to amaze me, first of all, how fearless he was in his timing, and second, how no one ever witnessed it. Of course, by now, I’ve learned that witnesses often betray victims. People are often so unwilling to “get involved” or “start drama”, even when they see something that would demand adult intervention. I honestly don’t believe anyone ever saw it or was aware he was capable of doing what he did. However, it made me firm in my commitment to handle such information differently, should it ever cross my path. I pity the fool who would dare touch one of my children, or anyone in my vicinity that way. I may not be the strongest person, and I may not be able to do permanent damage, but I will definitely leave my mark on anyone should I witness any such thing, jail time or not.

Of course, this might well be the reason God knew not to give me daughters. I think in order to protect her, she would have grown up locked in the house for most of her young life! I’m sure sanity would have eventually trumped my anxiety, but it’s something very emotional for me. Of course, this issue is not gender based. I have three strong, confident boys, who I hope I managed to watch adequately throughout their young lives so they don’t have to share similar burdens, but I did indeed fear for their safety as well. Unfortunately, this horror would revisit me at the hands of another man in the States, when I was eleven years old. I never blamed myself for these, nor have I felt like I caused them. However, I was so completely embarrassed by them that I only shared it with my husband after being married to him for some years. It also taught me that there is no such thing as a “safe place” to raise a family, and one cannot assume certain neighborhoods, relationships and surroundings guarantee protection. For me, my small quiet hometown has a dark shadow hovering over it in my memory, as does a place on this side of the ocean.

My sweet chamomile flowers….little do they know the memories they triggered. In the scheme of things, they served not only as a warm brewed treat into which we would crumble sweet biscuits on cool evenings as a young child, but their fragrance to this day reminds me to keep things in perspective, to savor the warm memories and hold onto the painful ones as life lessons which would make me into the woman, wife and mother I am today. They never did return in the years since, although I eagerly scout for them in our yard every spring. These little flowers have so many medicinal benefits, but for me, they bring a special joy in bringing back the memories of the years that would shape and mold me.