There were only a few Lithuanian words I would understand. The words were Christmas time words spoken by Grandfather, he would speak these words they would sound very far away and very close at the same time. Watching him speak they seemed one by one to slide past his tongue and to meet the golden air of new beginnings like 1906 and steamers crossing the Atlantic and new days in America. At Christmas, it was different. There was Christmas Eve dinner, which was the most important of all evenings. Sometimes, there was a plate set aside for dead relatives who would want to join them in the celebrations. But he would hear stories of Grandpa Bablinskas, who fell asleep during a picnic, near the cemetery, and when he woke in the graveyard the next morning with the drowsy air of fogginess in his eyes, in the early morning, mist hung over him like the cloud of the afterlife. He thought he was dead. He began to get up and stumbled in a daze, like the days of all the old ones who stepped off that boat on the shores of Ellis Island after ten days at sea to land in a place called America. This was real Lithuanian story, the one that spoke of factory working and the Priests farm which was a park with a band stand, apple orchards and family plots the Lithuanian families could plant summer crops. Lithuania was born in Amsterdam, NY, on May 28th, 1904. By 1905, Father Z came to town. And stopped the factory working men from fighting like goats in a bar. He purchased lots and a farm.
That’s what it was called before it was the cemetery. In 1906, the spot became the farm. Then the farm became the park Where the young Lithuanians would come and enjoy life look up at the sun and for that moment in the park, they were in Lithuania.
Knowing all this, I planted beans, played hockey, and sailed away on the Chuctanunda creek totally unaware that 100 years ago all the grandparents of Lithuania who were 15 years old dreamed and sat on summer lawns of past 1910’s summer suns by that same Creek. All in dreams and green leaves reflecting Sun glow on each tree like the trees that Grandma Kerbelis was sure to see. Like those leaves that turned into the Sun’s glowing and were soon covered with snow only to repeat the process year after year. I was 15, I found a map of Lithuania from the 1930s. It was old, incredibly old. There were creases in the pages. If you move it, it fell apart in your hands as it turned, still there are cities, towns, rivers, and all these on the map. Names I could not pronounce but wanted to. It was the map of all the world which began at Trakai Castle, gave the world every pure and golden sunshine day that could only come from old-time dreams of freedom. So, in my head, late at night, I see sisters and brothers in faraway places riding horses. Fighting Russians howling, mad, and fighting. Fighting for family, trees, and every lump of earth. I see great battles of old Lithuanian kings who conquered the land and couldn’t stop fighting because that’s what we must do. The maps flew on golden wings with the divine wind. They sailed away here with Grandpa Bablinskas and blessed the golden leaves that fell on the same cemetery he did not wake up in, on another day.
Wednesday, December 22. 9:30 pm, the youngest brothers go to bed after watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer and frosty the snowman on network television. The first sister and first brother stay up late and discuss Christmas presents and shopping. They’ll go to school tomorrow morning, the last day of classes before the Christmas holiday and Santa Clause.
A bus Departs Ames, Iowa 10:20 pm; The Second Sister is on this bus with her ticket in hand, which she passes to the driver, who will rip off half and hand her the rest. She is traveling from Ames, Iowa, to Davenport, Iowa. Chicago, Illinois. South Bend, Indiana. Cleveland, Ohio, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. New York City, and finally home to Amsterdam, New York. This trip home will take her thirty-seven hours, just in time for the Christmas holiday and Christmas eve dinner. She thinks of the rest of the family, the brothers and sisters putting up the Christmas tree. And wonders if the father bought it at Bob’s trees, where at a discount price of $3, you could walk into the woods and find a tree and cut it down yourself.
Thursday. December 23. The bus arrives in Davenport, Iowa at 1:22 am. The sudden stopping of a bus wakes up the second sister. They must change buses here to go to Chicago, so she takes her luggage with her as she goes into the bus terminal, except for the few travelers traveling late at night, she sits in a empty room. The cold winter air and clear sky remind her of snow and past Christmases. She hopes it’ll snow for Christmas. It had snowed a week before, about 6 inches, so there is snow on the ground, but the sky is still clear. The House on Ellsworth Street is silent, everyone sleeping. News reports say there’s a chance for snow on Christmas Day.
The bus departs Davenport, Iowa at 2:25 am, and back on the Interstate, she falls back to sleep again. Moving through the Illinois Prairie, the Stars are out, as she opens her eyes, she sees in the distance smoke rising from the few scattered homes along the road. Soon the kitchen chimney of Ellsworth Street will do the same. The two middle brothers come outside and wait for the van to drop off the Gazette newspapers. The house has two fireplaces and a wood-burning stove. Their task before they deliver newspapers is to light the kitchen stove fire, so the kitchen is warm for the morning.
Just before five O’clock in the morning, the Schenectady gazette van stops and drops off their newspapers at the corner of Ellsworth Street in Clizbe Avenue. They have 200 newspapers to deliver in the morning on a newspaper route inherited from their older brother and even their sisters’ delivered newspapers.
The bus arrives in Chicago, Illinois at 5:35 am. The second sister gets out to transfer to another bus again. This time, the bus terminal is a little more crowded as people are moving by getting ready for the morning. In Chicago, Christmas wreaths are everywhere, the sign of the seasons. The two middle brothers get home from delivering the papers in the morning. The kitchen is warm now. Slowly the house comes to life. The mother wakes up and gets ready for her workday. She drives to Albany thirty miles each way and works for the state of New York. The father gets up, starts up, and warms up the engine of her Toyota Corolla. He’ll also start the engine of the Chevy truck he drives to work at the Scotia naval depot. He’s got his football pools in for the weekend games. The third sister and the two youngest brothers get up and get ready for the school day. It’s the last day of classes before the Christmas holidays, and the breakfast talk is about presents. Who’s been nice and naughty, and will Santa Claus come this year? The mother talks about the second daughter on her way home, hopefully arriving safely.
Grandmother comes in right before Mother leaves for work. She’s watching the youngest brother, who doesn’t go to school yet, as the two brothers go to McClary Elementary. Another brother goes to middle school, and the third sister goes to high school and takes off. The grandmother will sit and prepare the Kucious, or the traditional Lithuanian Christmas Eve dinner.
At 10:30 am, the Second sister’s bus Departs Chicago, Illinois. It’s a cold morning. She sees smoke rising from chimneys everywhere. Crossing a country waking up to Christmas Eve, her bus slowly leaves urban areas and goes back into the vast expanses of Indiana Prairie, she thinks about her own home and Christmas.
At McClary Elementary school, the fourth brother is finishing his Christmas decoration he’s doing. He will place this on the Christmas tree tonight when they finish the decorating. The third brother listens to other friends talking about Santa Claus and which track he’ll take in class. And when he goes and leaves the North Pole, they’re apprehensive about this as the weather might get nasty.
At 5.45 pm the family decides to go shopping on Main Street in the afternoon. The parents tell the children that they can choose between two department stores – Woolworths and Grants. Excited about the prospect of toys, the children eagerly discuss what they might find at each store. The youngest brothers are excited about the possibility of getting new action figures or games. Estes rockets and motorized airplanes flying up in the air and walkie talkies are also a big hit this Christmas. As they make their way to Main Street, the siblings talk about how much fun it will be to see all the festive decorations and lights. They also reminisce about past Christmases, remembering all the fun traditions they have as a family.
When they arrive at Main Street, they are overwhelmed by all the beautiful displays and decorations in each store. The first sister and first brother immediately head for Woolworths while the youngest brothers race towards Grants. Inside Woolworths, the siblings marvel at all the different toys and gifts on display. Meanwhile, at Grants, the youngest brothers are having just as much fun exploring all their options for action figures and games. They excitedly show each other their finds and can’t wait to take them home and play with them. After hours of shopping, everyone meets back up outside on Main Street with their purchases in hand. As they walk back towards home, they talk about how grateful they are to have such a close-knit family and how lucky they feel to have each other during this special time of year.
Back at home, The Christmas tree has already been brought inside but not decorated. The oldest brother will get the boxes in the attic filled with Christmas decorations from years past, Some hand made in kindergarten at McCleary elementary school. But they’ll wait and put them up.
At 7:35 pm, The second sister’s bus arrives in Cleveland, Ohio, where she’ll transfer again. It’s good to get off and stretch your legs before walking into another terminal filled with holiday travelers, students going home, and people returning to loved ones. Back at Ellsworth Street, the Third sister and the four brothers have finished setting up the Christmas decorations and tree. They put their wreath with Santa Claus on the doorway outside. They put on the outdoor and indoor lights. They put tinsel and Garland everywhere. Christmas bells hang suspended by the ribbon on top of the threshold between the dining and living rooms. All the boxes from the attic are empty. The house looks festive, and everyone’s getting in the Christmas Spirit.
The third sister will drive the three youngest brothers to Saint Casimir’s Church and practice the midnight mass procession. Father Balch the Lithuanian priest has a rehearsal every year before midnight mass, so all practice doing their best. They are altar boys, and the midnight mass procession is the most significant mass of the year. The midnight mass consists of at least two dozen altar boys and girls carrying various parts of the Nativity scene, setting up the holy Manger in front of the congregation, capped off by Father Balch. Singing Happy Birthday to Jesus Christ.
The second sister departs from Cleveland, OH, at 9:55 pm for another all-night bus ride. The sky is still clear and cold. The dry cold of the Prairie has been replaced by the damp chill of Lake Erie in the Great Lakes, and with that feeling, she knows she’s getting closer to home and her own Christmas. Back at Ellsworth Street, her father watches the news. There’s a chance of a storm coming from the South. But he thinks the second sister will miss the worst if She is home by Christmas Eve afternoon.
She arrives, In Pittsburgh, PA, at 11:00 pm. This time, she can transfer to another bus. A few more passengers get on. The same bus will be driving through the night to New York City. The bus driver takes a few more tickets from other people as they put their bags away, mainly students. And that bus departs Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, at 11:53 pm.
December 24, Christmas eve, and the second sister’s bus arrives in New York City, New York 7:35 am. The House on Ellsworth Street repeats the same tasks it did the previous morning. However, there is palpable excitement in the air. Tonight is Christmas Eve. The youngest brother reminds the father to put the light out. The special light is placed near the living room window to shine outside to guide Santa Claus, so he’ll come to their house. The mother goes to work for half a day, but there will be an office Christmas party where she invites Annette to come over and visit. She’s a coworker who lives alone and doesn’t have a family. The father will work all day and ask the Wilsons to come over for the weekend.
After the traditional Lithuanian dinner, or Kucios, the children will be opening Christmas presents. Santa’s presents will come on Christmas day. It’s a long day as all will attend Saint Casimir’s midnight mass. On Christmas day relatives will come by friends will visit, there will be snow at that Christmas, as there always is, and they’ll go tobogganing at the Sanford farm. They’ll return for another Christmas meal with their family on Christmas Day. The house on Ellsworth Street will be a beehive of activity.
Tonight is Kucios and Grandpa and Grandma will attend, and grandpa will say the Lithuanian prayers in his native tongue, the language the children understand only a little.
As the second sister departs New York City New York at 8:30 am, Grandmother and first sister work in the kitchen on the recipes for the traditional Lithuanian dishes. Grandmothers and mothers have prepared the Kugelis and all these Lithuanian dishes for generations. With her long journey finally over, the second sister steps off the bus in Amsterdam, NY, at 1:00 pm. The first sister will pick her up at the bus station downtown.
The second sister finally arrives at her hometown in Amsterdam, NY, where the rest of her family is waiting for her. She steps off the bus and sees her first sister waiting for her with a warm smile. They hug each other tightly, relieved that they are finally together again after being apart for so long.
As they make their way back to the house on Ellsworth Street, they catch up on all the things that have happened since they last saw each other. The first sister tells the second sister about their youngest brother’s latest accomplishments in school and how excited he is for Christmas. The second sister shares stories about her travels and adventures. When they arrive at their house, it is bustling with activity as everyone is busy preparing for the Kucios meal. The mother and grandmother are in the kitchen, carefully following traditional Lithuanian recipes to prepare dishes like Kugelis and Zrazai. The father is outside shoveling snow and setting up lights around the house.
Second sister shares in a delicious meal filled with traditional Lithuanian dishes. There is laughter, stories, and lots of food as everyone enjoys each other’s company. The next day on Christmas Day, more relatives stop by to exchange gifts and share a meal together. They go tobogganing at the Sanford farm like they do every year, braving the cold weather for some fun in the snow. As she looks around at her family, the second sister is filled with gratitude and happiness.
As night falls, everyone gathers around for Saint Casimir’s midnight mass. The beautiful singing fills them with joy and peace as they celebrate this special holiday together. She made it home for Christmas
1973, a year that keeps haunting me in the dead of night at 3:30 in the morning, was a time when the world felt like a small town, and everyone in it was friendly and happy. It was a year that left an indelible mark on my life, a year of innocence and discovery.
1973 was a haven, a small town where you could stroll from one end to the other without a hint of fear. It was a place of order and mutual respect, where the concept of poverty was yet to be introduced, and we were all instilled with a sense of responsibility for our actions.
In 1973, I left grade school, which was two blocks from my house, McClarey School, where you played dodgeball in the basement gym. I had Ice Cream socials in June. All my friends were only two or three blocks from the house. In 1973, Grandpa and Grandma were still alive, and me and my brothers were on that third rung, still children. I was so safe, and the real world was so very far away.
In 1973, me and my brother walk seven miles to the Theodore Roosevelt Junior High School, down locust street past the reservoir where a boy no one remembered fell through the ice, to the end of the street where there was a big old house decaying mansion.
1973 Amsterdam was full of big old decaying mansions. We were told that rich people lived in these places, people who built the big brick factories so everyone could work in them, which was nothing wrong with that. If rich people want to make money by building factories, that’s ok.
1973 was one hundred years later, and the factories the rich people built and promised jobs to for ever and ever were closing. What rich people were left no longer looking outside their big windows but inside themselves?
In 1973, my second brother and I would cut through one rich mansion’s property to get to Market Street. At first, I was afraid to be caught, but soon, it became so commonplace that we never noticed or thought about the rich people in the big house. Their house was so big and far away that it was as if they weren’t really there.
1973 was the year I was introduced to the city before the fools took urban renewal money to make one big speedway. It was a time when bottles of soda were filled at the soda maker, milk was delivered, and there was still an evening paper.
1973 keeps revisiting me, like a lost treasure that I still yearn for. It’s the year I can’t seem to let go of, a time I keep searching for in my memories.
For 40 dollars, Dad bought a used 1973 Opel and told us that if we wanted a car, we would have to put it together; he would register it and buy the insurance for it so we could learn to drive. So, my three other brothers and I took out the engine and gave it a valve job.
Cleaned out years and years of grease and filth. Taking out the engine is like starting over in life; it gives you another chance at something you failed at years ago, and now, suddenly, you’re free.
I drove the 73 Opel 11 miles to see the woman I loved, only to find her with another man. The car died that day, and I never drove it again. I lay on the couch, pretending to sleep, as I heard her in another room with another man. The pain of that moment was etched into the fabric of the car, a constant reminder of lost love.
I took out the wiring from the 73 Opel and found all the connections from the power to its destination. Spending one whole day trying to find the short in the wiper blade was like patching my damaged nerve endings.
Completely replaced the brakes, the ball bearings, the gas line, and the tires so we could move again.
It drove 11 miles and never moved again, but another brother reworked it, and it did move for him.
So, we all took turns repairing it, learning the intricacies of gears, the mechanics of wheels, and the reasons behind the driveshaft and transmission. It was a journey of discovery, not just about the car, but about ourselves.
I never saw her again and didn’t even remember her name. But the 73 Opel, a machine that we all worked on, became a symbol of our shared experiences. It taught us not just how to fix cars, but also how to care for them. It was a Tangible reminder that love, like a car, requires constant attention and care and that sometimes, despite our best intentions, things do not always work out.
Poetry has been abducted by adolescents angry at the way their father scolded them
Poetry has been usurped by progressive Marxist racists
Poetry has been dung to death by LGBTQ Intolerant fascist
Poetry has been muddled by every young lover, who was jilted by their (Soulmate)
Poetry has been attacked by Muslim terrorist flying airplanes into it
Most important of all
Poetry has been computerized politicized Marginalized and postmodernized by deconstructionist idiots trying To find the reason behind the word and the reason, and the reason of the reason behind the word, and then the reason of the reason of the reason of the reason of the reason of the reason of the reason why the word means what it means
Until all that remains his goop and clop of ashes of a former socialist government empires
Once upon a time, in the early morning hours of a New York City state of mind, we were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes and talking about bands and rock and roll and everything at that early hour. I told him that in certain cultures, it is not the parents but the oldest adult male member of the family, clan, or tribe who makes all the decisions. “The village elder/clan head.” If a family member wants to marry, go into business, or move to another city, state, or town, they must first get the blessing from the oldest adult male member of the family, which is now you,” I said. He responded with that curious voice, contagious smile, and laugh that was always ready to seek out and learn new ideas with eager anticipation. With this, his eyes lit up and twirled with the possibility that he had finally reached the top rung. he was at the top of the ladder. Only his decisions are binding for the rest of the tribe and the rest of the clan. This process is by no means specific for every adult member. First and foremost, you must outlive every other male adult clan member. It’s not enough to be 84 years old because there’s always another one who might be 85. Some go before their time, and some who seemed to be preparing for the position all their life don’t make it. But because of the situation’s fate, he suddenly found himself at the top of the ladder. So, with the death of the 90-year-old uncle sat the last eternal optimist on the top of the ladder. I had known him for 40 years, and they were full years of song, full of a manifest destiny of possibilities. Full of waking up daily, feeling energized to talk to and be in his presence. To speak to him, there was a certain amount of spark in his voice. You understood and were enlightened by his energy. As an optimist, he knew that America was an exceptional country. We were set apart from the rest, destined for great things. So, he was destined for great things. He was part of that younger people’s mid-century world that emerged from World War 2, complete with sock hops, Soda pops, drag races down Queens Blvd, and Brooklyn Dodgers as world series champs—lived in the most fantastic city on Earth at the most beautiful time to be alive—the town he would never abandon. Younger people may not understand what eternal optimism in American exceptionalism means, but if you sat with him for five minutes, you would understand and know. And at last, you would stand with him to see a universe of possibilities. Of course, those at the top of the ladder are the ones who can only understand what is at the top of the ladder. I cannot entirely understand it, but I do my best to tell you his story. Because when you’re at the top of the ladder, above is only sky and space created by the grace of God. And below is all of humanity, with sounds of Beer and cigarette butts, pain and suffering, overdue bills, deadlines, places to be, and expectations of failure. He knew all that; of course, he did. But he saw beyond that: the Sunday morning Grand Canyon of possibilities. It filled a life with love, smells, and sounds of a city that never slept. He saw all its crocuses, daffodils, and flowers of a bright, shining spark of a new town in the mind of forever. He knew and never gave up on it; if he were your friend, he would never give up on you. And at last, he saw the top rung of the ladder, something he never expected, but that’s life. Handing you something in a way you never expected. What is life but flowers full of great expectations of success, which should always be welcome, and to discard the failure who preaches great intelligence but never gets on any ladder, much less climb it? So now it’s long tears and a journey in March as he travels to the West. It is the best time to travel there, so he does and finally joins from here to eternity, which was also a movie he liked.
Otto lived on the edge of the desert, a lonely stretch of land where the Arizona dust settled on everything in sight. In his small adobe house, he sat surrounded by his inventions, his only companions in this desolate landscape. Here, he found solace and refuge from the rest of the world.
But on this particular day, the stillness was shattered by a piercing cry – a banshee war cry that echoed through the barren land. Otto sat up, his heart pounding, and peered out the window. He couldn’t believe what he saw – a group of Indians, their faces painted with intricate patterns, riding on horseback toward his house.
As they got closer, Otto could feel his heart racing, his adrenaline pumping. This was the moment he had been waiting for – a chance to prove himself as a man. He stepped outside, ready to face whatever challenge they brought with them.
But as the Indians approached, their leader dismounted and walked towards Otto. “We’ve heard of your inventions,” he said. “We’ve come to ask for your help in our fight against the white men who are trying to take our land.”
Otto couldn’t believe it – these were not just any Indians, but a tribe fighting to protect their home. Without hesitation, he joined them; his banshee war cries ringing out in unison with theirs. In that moment, surrounded by the desert and these fierce warriors, Otto finally felt whole , contented with a purpose that only a man can understand.
You worked from bed and chair to the tune of Neal Young and kept working until long after dark, never letting pity inside the door to use as a weapon.
Otto lived on Sugar Mountain.
On his terms, Otto lived. He was a man who had carved his path, refusing to conform to society’s expectations. He didn’t work a 9-to-5 job like most people. Instead, he worked from the comfort of his bed or chair to the tune of Neil Young’s songs.
Although some may have pitied him for not having a traditional job, Otto never let pity inside his door. He used it as a weapon, pushing himself further and harder to pursue his passions and dreams.
One day, as Otto was on his way to Pennsylvania Station, he saw a lost soul sitting alone on the sidewalk. The man looked defeated and hopeless. Without hesitation, Otto went over to him and struck up a conversation. As they talked, Otto learned that this man had lost everything – his job, home, and family. He was now homeless with no hope for the future. Without thinking twice, Otto invited the man to come home with him. He knew what it was like to feel lost and alone, and he couldn’t leave this man to suffer on the streets. That night at Otto’s house, they talked until long after dark. They found solace in their similarities as they shared their stories and struggles. By helping someone else in need, Otto had found a sense of purpose and fulfillment that he had been missing. In that moment, it became clear to Otto that true happiness comes not from living for ourselves but by helping. And so, he continued to live on Sugar Mountain – surrounded by his inventions and fueled by his passion – but always with an open door for those needing shelter and companionship.
Otto lived on Sugar Mountain.
Carving his path with swollen old hands; Otto commanded armies that moved mountains and changed the course of rivers. These hands had accomplished incredible feats, from turning back time to unraveling the mysteries of science. But amidst all this power and success, one word held a special place in Otto’s heart – “please.” This simple word was significant for him, representing humility and respect for others. Despite his achievements, Otto always remembered the importance of treating others kindly and asking for things politely. He knew true greatness lies not in domination but in collaboration and mutual understanding. As he grew older, Otto became more aware of the impact of his actions on those around him. He made sure always to use his powers for good and to never take advantage of anyone. Otto’s wisdom and kindness were renowned throughout Sugar Mountain. People would come from far and wide seeking his advice and guidance. And he always welcomed them with open arms, listening to their problems and offering solutions with grace and humility. Through his actions, Otto showed that true power comes from within – from having a kind heart and using our talents for the betterment of others. And so he continued to live on Sugar Mountain,
With swollen old hands That commanded armies, moved mountains, changed rivers, Turned back time.
I found the mysteries of Science Theater 3000. All for the simple word “please”. Otto lived on Sugar Mountain, where kindness reigned supreme. The river flowed slowly and steadily, carrying with it the memories of Sugar Mountain. It was a place where time stood still and where people came to find peace and solace. Otto often sat by the riverbank, watching the water flow endlessly. As he grew older, he began to see the river differently – not just as a source of beauty but also as a symbol of life itself. He realized that just like how the river always moves forward, so do we as individuals. We are born into this world with a clean slate, ready to carve our paths and make our journey. And just like how the river is shaped by its surroundings, we, too, are shaped by our experiences and the people we meet along the way.
Otto lived on Sugar Mountain,
Where new beginnings were always possible as he watched the slow-moving river, Otto felt a sense of peace. He had seen many things in his lifetime – good and bad – but through it all, he had learned to embrace change and see each new beginning as an opportunity for growth. And so, he invited others to join him on his raft as they floated down the river together. Some initially hesitated, fearing what may lie ahead or clinging to their pasts. But Otto reassured them that with each twist and turned in the current, they would find themselves closer to another shore – one filled with new possibilities. Together, they laughed and sang songs while navigating through rough waters. They shared mysteries of their pasts and dreams for their futures. And at that moment, they were all connected by this journey down the slow-moving river.
Otto lived on Sugar Mountain,
Where memories were made, and new ones created. The journey down the river was challenging, though. There were times when they hit rocks or encountered strong currents that threatened to break them apart. But each time, they persevered and came out stronger than before.
Otto lived on Sugar Mountain,
Where life was cherished and embraced, he often joined the children in their games, forgetting his age and enjoying the present moment. Together, they would explore the surrounding forests, discovering new plants and animals. They would climb trees, build forts, and swim in the crystal-clear lake at the base of Sugar Mountain. As they laughed and ran around, Otto couldn’t help but feel grateful for this life on Sugar Mountain – where time seemed to stand still, and each day was a chance to make new memories. At six-thirty in the morning, the village would come alive with sounds of laughter echoing through every corner. But it wasn’t just playtime on Sugar Mountain. When the clock struck seven, everyone worked – tending to crop, baking bread, making clothes, or pottery. Each person had a role in keeping their community thriving. Otto had a small garden at his home, where he grew various vegetables and fruits. He also enjoyed painting scenes from nature or carving figurines out of wood. And like many others on Sugar Mountain, he recycled whatever materials he could find to create something functional or beautiful. At six-thirty in the morning, I would see young life ready to burst forth and seize the day, drink it all in, savor every minute, and then put the empty cans into recycling.
Otto lived on sugar Mountain,
As Otto grew older, he couldn’t help but notice the passing of time. It seemed like he was a young boy running around Sugar Mountain without care just yesterday. But now, he could feel his body slowing down and his mind becoming more reflective. He often sat by the lake, watching the water ripple and listening to the birds singing. During these quiet moments, he would think about life and its mysteries. And the older he got, the more he realized how little he knew.
Otto lived on Sugar Mountain,
Where age was just a number, he had seen many people come and go on Sugar Mountain – some leaving for other adventures, others passing away peacefully in their sleep. And as much as it pained him to see his friends leave, he couldn’t deny that they had all lived their entire lives on Sugar Mountain. But one thing that always saddened him was seeing young ones go too soon. Some adventurers wanted to explore beyond Sugar Mountain’s borders, while others sought their fortunes elsewhere. And although Otto understood their desire for new experiences, he couldn’t help but feel like they were leaving too soon. At six-thirty in the morning, I would see you packing up your things, Ready to hit the road, Eager for new adventures, Leaving behind a life so beautiful. But as much as Otto missed those who left, he also understood that everyone has their journey- whether staying on Sugar Mountain or venturing into the unknown. And even though Otto didn’t have all the answers, he knew one thing for sure – no matter where life takes you, it’s important to cherish every moment and make the most out of each day. As I sit by the riverside that he sat by, watching life move forward, I’m reminded of how little I know. But one thing is sure, You’re leaving here too soon, Yet, I wish you all the best on your journey.
Otto was finally set free from his electric wheelchair, which had imprisoned him for 50 years as a quadriplegic. He died in the hospital surrounded by his Indian friends; they all said, … You’re leaving here too soon.
Dear Ruth, it’s been 44 years, and I know you are dead, but I think I finally wrote that novel I told you about, “Poor Man’s Guide to Radio Survival.” Thank you very much for your support. You wanted me to write a textbook about getting a Radio job. I tried to sit down in front of a typewriter and write a story about how to get a radio job. Even having my mother edit it, dyslexic writers struggle to organize their thoughts. The problem is I never really got a Radio job. I was hired part-time at six different radio stations. I’d work three other jobs to support the radio job and constantly look for another one. People were always trying to get me fired, or I’d make a dyslexic mistake and I was pressured to quit my radio job. But I was doing what I loved, and for seven years, I was bold, and fortune favors the bold. I invented self-reliance that only I understood. I found an inner strength that I never had before. I found confidence within myself that I had never known existed. I learned how to trust people. I discovered how to work hard to survive. I found a way to keep my head and be calm when others around me were losing theirs. Most importantly, I learned how to look for another road to the goal of my ambition when all other roads were closed. It’s funny how life works out; I thought I was looking for a radio job all this time.
On the morning of July 19, 1918, in Ecktrenburg, Russia, at 49 Vosnesensky prospekt, a small leather suitcase was taken and put on a train. This suitcase was guarded by dozens of guards (men?) and eventually was placed in the basement of a museum. It was called the museum of the October Revolution. (I’ve known it as St. Basil’s cathedral). The suitcase was guarded and was thought to be so dangerous it could never be opened. In fact, in the typical Russian style, it officially didn’t exist. So there it remained in the basement corner of the museum of the October Revolution. There it stayed, almost forgotten for 75 years; until one day, the museum of the October revolution became St. Basil’s cathedral again, and a visitor stumbled upon this old weather-beaten suitcase and opened it. In there was a photo album, inside the photo album, there was a small flower pressed between the pages. Pressed there between the pages as a memento of a past happy sunny day of springtime 90 years ago. It had been there so long and was so delicate, so fragile you can barely see the words on the page. I remember pressing that flower and putting it in my photo album, I put it there in 1913, and the comment on the page was “greetings from shvibzik,”..
On June 5, 1901, Monsieur Philippe promised my dad I would be a boy, and so my mother would walk around the palace twelve times every full moon when she was carrying me. Monsieur Philippe was sure this would happen, but the French man was wrong. To save face, he told mommy and daddy this was a special sign. I am, as you can see, a girl. The birth of a daughter instead of a son only proved the girl will have an unusual destiny.
I am Anastasia and I want to tell you an unusual story… my story. It’s a good Russian story, as long as winter and as beautiful and sad as all good stories are. They say the difference between a Russian comedy and a Russian tragedy is, a Russian comedy is sad but beautiful and a Russian tragedy is beautiful but sad. I like Russian stories, they are part myth, part truth, and it’s the hope of truth in them that makes you feel happy. Father tells me all good stories are Russian stories even when they are written by non-Russians. I like stories, don’t you? My sister Olga gave me her book “The Princess and The Goblin” about a beautiful princess and a evil goblin, a magic ring and the spirit of a great grandmother who watches and protects her. My father is like that. He is Tsar, that’s what Tsar means he is anointed by God to protect all the motherland of Holy Russia. Oh please excuse me, we haven’t been formally introduced. Mother was always saying: “Remember your manner’s shvibzik”. I am Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, in Russian you would pronounce it Velikaya Knyazhna Anastasiya Nikolayevna Romanova, but that’s a mouthful so just call me “shvibzik,” I’m the youngest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, the Tsars of all the Russias of Imperial Russia, that’s my daddy. My mommy is Alexandra Fyodorovna. I was named after Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, not to be confused with Anastasia Romanovna, Grand Duchess Anastasia Mikhailovna of Russia, Anastasia Romanov, Countess de Torbay, or Princess Anastasia of Montenegro, all of which I am related to but I must confess I haven’t really met most of them, I am named after Grand Duchess Anastasia Mikhailovna of Russia who after attending my first name day, I never saw again, I learned later she had a terrible scandal, but mamma says there are scandalous people and they are not appropriate for young grand duchesses, then I would respond: “But mamma isn’t she a grand duchess?”; wherein mamma would get all red in the face and send me to my room. I didn’t mean to upset mamma, it’s just that there is so much to know and so much to learn. I want to travel to see things; I want to paint, to take pictures with a camera. I never seem to see more than my family or the inner imperial guards. Don’t get me wrong I love my sisters and my father. I share a room with my sister Maria. Olga and Tatiana are in the room next door Maria and I put birds made up of Cray paper on the ceiling when the wind catches them the look like they fly in the wind, I mostly play with Maria. We go to the tree fort. It’s on an island in the middle of a lake by the house. We have a doll house there and we dress our dolls and serve them tea. Maria likes to play with the dolls more than I, she said to me one day she wanted to have 20 babies. I think that’s too many, don’t you? I would be content with just one or two.
Sometimes I play with my older sisters, but they are very bossy, they are always trying to tell me what to do. I don’t like it when people tell me what to do. One day I was in Tatiana’s room. Tatiana and Olga were there. I was minding my own business, just playing with the piano, pressing all the white keys at the same time, and just sitting there and digging in my nose with my left hand. Olga wanted to slap me, but I ran away from her swinish hand. What gives her the right to do that? It was my nose, so I was using my hands on her piano. So, that was a wonderful summer. We travelled all the time that year it was the 300th anniversary of the family and we went to all the Russian towns. Everywhere we went great crowds gathered to cheer and wave; there were so many parties and big grand dances. I loved to dance. We all wore white dresses with blue satin sashes and danced with officers in full dress uniforms. My daddy says a good Russian feels dance because it is in our blood. I am a good Russian and I love a good waltz by Tchaikovsky. That year we danced all the time. Tall officers from the court would spin us round and round till we felt dizzy. We would go out in the balcony and have a … I’m embarrassed to say it… we’d have a cigarette. Yes, I know I was only twelve, but everybody smoked. I remember the first time Maria and I snuck into daddy’s office and opened the cigarette box. “That’s daddy’s cigarette box,” I said.
“Yes,” Maria said “Want to smoke one?” There was a little voice in my head saying: “Don’t you’ll get caught,” but of course… I did it anyway. Maria and I drew our first puff and exhaled. We coughed and coughed and then smiled that we got away with it. I played with the smoke in my mouth pushing it out then… feet. Big feet. I looked up from the feet and saw… daddy, only he didn’t look like daddy. At that moment, he looked like Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, the Tsar of all Russia’s. And when he gave us that look, we knew we were in trouble. I must confess daddy gave me that look a lot, like the time I put rocks into snowballs and threw them at Olga… well she called me shorty! Or the time I would hide my food under the table at state dinners. I never liker state dinners anyway; they were so closed, so claustrophobic. I was always dressed in big white gowns with corsets and couldn’t breathe and eating was out of the question, so I had to do something with the food. I was never as elegant as Olga, the oldest, or Tatiana, the prettiest. I am the shvibzik , which means Imp or troublemaker. But I never thought of myself as making trouble, things just happen. Anyway no one seems to get hurt; in fact, I really can say honestly I do love my family. I’m glad Tatiana is the prettiest and I couldn’t imagine a world without Olga being the oldest and if Maria wants to have 20 babies, that’s fine too… in a strange way we were all, my sisters and I together. Sometimes we’ll finish each other’s sentences, or we’ll know what each other were thinking. We would sign our letters OTMA; that stands for Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia. We had a code language that all four of us knew and spoke to each other. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any of it it’s a secret. YES, it’s a state secret… well, I just can’t resist I’ll give you just two words. Just two. I give you these two as they will be relevant to the story. Word one: “Medicine” and word two: “Potato”. That’s it. That’s all, don’t ask for anymore. We had to use the code there were… things… things we couldn’t repeat, not to anyone. You must remember: growing up with daddy and mommy, we were never alone there were always servants or soldiers around, like when we had to wait for Gregory to come. I never realized anything was wrong until one day when I was very little. I decided to climb the rocks outside Ghencha that’s our summer house on the Black sea. I wanted to look at the waves from a distance and I went off. I got about half way up when I noticed a crowd of people looking up at me. Daddy was there, and Mommy; and everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. This time, daddy wasn’t smiling. He was looking very much like the Tsar of all Russia. It took me a while to notice they weren’t looking at me but about twenty feet away from me at Alexia, my baby brother. He was about four at the time. I thought I had the audience when it was my brother stealing the show! Well, if you must know the truth, I never asked him to come, but there he was high on the rocky ledge. To our right there was about 200 feet drop. For some reason I stopped, and I must confess I was angry. Then Alexia stopped as well. Soon the drama was over and baby brother was “rescued”. I, of course, had to climb down by myself. Couldn’t anyone notice me? Who am I? WHO AM I? WHO AM I? I was still angry, but daddy explained that baby brother has a special secret that we must never tell. You see, he can never stop bleeding so he must never get a cut or anything. This caused mommy and daddy to worry a lot, that is, until Gregory Rasputin came. Mommy said Rasputin will come to save us. Mommy said he’s a saint to save us… I guess that’s good, but I must tell you I would wish he would take a bath occasionally. He does smell.
I’ll tell you about my dog. Her name is Ortino. She’s a cocker spaniel with a white nose and black paws. She will sit up and beg, and one day I taught her to give her paw. She is so sweet. She loves dinner. They bring different dishes to taste for Alexia and we all come and gobble them. They are so delicious. Terrific! We had just finished dinner and were sitting with Mother. The dogs were running about the room and barking loudly. Mother was going to receive Malakhov at 9 a.m. and Malam was coming too, which is very pleasant. I took this picture of myself looking at the mirror. It was very hard as my hands were trembling. I remember that day. Isn’t it funny how you seem to remember some days better than others? I remember that day because that was when the war started. Daddy had to go and leave us for long periods of time, but we wrote to him a lot. “Dear Daddy, I had 7 classes today and tomorrow I am going to have 4 or 5… I am having a Russian class now and Pyotr Alexeyevich is reading Turguenev’s ‘The Hunter’s Notes’ to us……We have just finished dinner. Mother is lying and sisters are sitting nearby. Tatiana is out, of course, as usual. Shvybzik and Ortino are lying in Mother’s bed and sleeping. They are such darlings…
“Dear daddy, I’m so grateful to you that you allowed us to use your bath. We bathed there yesterday. It was such fun! I was the first to go. There was so much water. I was able to swim around the bath and then jumped down from its sides. It was terrific! Then Maria and I played in the water for some time but, unfortunately, I had to get out soon. Ortino was running about all the time and barking. After that, Olga and Tatiana bathed and also enjoyed themselves!… Mother already has the flowers you like in her room. You know those yellow flowers that grow in front of Grandmother’s windows? They have just opened; I took one and pressed in a book for a keepsake. Tomorrow is Sunday. It’s so good to not have lessons when you can lie about in bed longer than usual… All of us are missing you, including Ortino who is running about here like a mad dog… She is such a dear…” “…The sun is so warm today. In front of the house there are some white and yellow little flowers and some little daisies… but they are few.”
Summer changed to winter, but the war went on. I directed a play for the wounded soldiers. We performed on the balcony. It was so pleasant. The choir sang “Lord, have mercy upon us!” by Tchaikovsky and we were all thinking about you, Father dear. Yesterday evening we were at Anya’s (Vyrubova). Demenkov, Shvedov and Zborovsky were there, too. We were to rehearse the comic item of the programme. We were dying of laughter looking at the actors… Uncle Pavel will, of course, have tea with us. So dull… When we are at home we sit in the balcony all the time and have dinner there, too… Ortino has rushed into the room and is running about looking for you. When she failed to find you, she jumped up on Mother’s lap… I am sitting now and grating carrots and radishes. Very tasty. At 11 a.m. I go to Aleksey’s room and gobble Aleksey’s food samples. Almost all teachers also take part in it. I miss dear Shvybzik (Anastasia’s dog). I still have the cigarettes you gave me and I smoke them sometimes with pleasure and thank you very much.
Mine and Maria’s bed is in the middle of the room. It’s better to sleep there. We open the window and it becomes very pleasant and comfortable… Sometimes we have classes in Mother’s balcony and once we had to go to the garden while they were leading the wire for the lamp there. Yesterday, the three of us, “the little ones” so to say, went to Anya’s hospital and there was a concert there. It was very nice. A small 10-year-old girl danced a Russian folk dance to concertina’s accompaniment. She looked so sweet. I felt a sort of pity for her. De La Zari was there as usual as well as Yu.Morfecy, Sasha Makarov and your friend Lersky. He told such a funny story about a drawing lesson that all the soldiers cried from laughter. Then he told them a funny story about playing the piano in three different rooms on different floors and how it all sounded for someone who listened. It was also very funny and finally he told them about the Zoo… Olga and Tatiana were in their hospital at that time and also saw a concert there. The Ferzens, the Bezobrazovs, some young ladies and a lot of other people were playing the balalaikas there. Maria and I are playing musical instruments together now. She is playing the piano and I am playing the balalaika. It sounds good, but it’s better when we play with Olga. Tell Aleksey that I play the balalaika as well as the sisters. Yours forever Anastasia…” “The weather is still nasty, it rains every day, but we still have breakfast and tea in the balcony. One day in February, we saw all these people at the gate. ‘Olga, who are these people at the gate?’ I said. ‘Don’t you remember’ she said, ‘the one day when you were close to the gate and saw a young boy and girl you wanted to play with? You tried to get closer, but the soldiers stopped you, they looked so afraid,” she said, “Many people in Russia are afraid of us, but they are afraid no longer because daddy’s no longer tsar.” In shock I responded. “That’s silly daddy is always tsar he is our father, the father of all Russia’s. He will watch over and protect us.”… “No,” said Olga, “Daddy is no longer tsar and we are no longer grand duchesses.”
Mommy and Olga seemed to be upset over this, that night they went to the soldiers to plead with them to stay, but they wouldn’t. They ran away.
They were afraid, but to tell you the truth, I wasn’t afraid. I was overjoyed. The palace which always seemed to be bursting with people, people watching us soldiers and courtiers in every room was empty. I walked from room to room danced on floors no one was there. Just me, my sisters and Mommy alone in a palace. This meant I no longer had to where a crown, I no longer had to where all those white dresses and be nervous about spilling on them. I could finally answer the question I longed to answer: who am I? I could be free, mommy told us to learn English because we would be going there, to England. Good, I thought, I can go and be a actress or a photographer. We were told to move, so different soldiers put all our things on a train. Daddy told me not to be afraid.
I will tell you how we travelled. We started in the morning and when we got into the train I went to sleep, so did everyone else. We were very tired because we did not sleep the whole night. The first day was very hot and very dusty. At the stations we had to shut our window curtains so that nobody could see us. Once, in the evening, I was looking out the window. We stopped near a little house, but there was no station so we could look out. A little boy came to my window and asked: “Uncle, please give me, if you have got, a newspaper.” I said: “I am not an uncle, but an aunty and I have no newspaper.” At the first moment I could not understand. Why did he call me “Uncle”? But then I remembered that my hair was cut and I and the soldiers who were standing next to me laughed very much. On the way, many funny things happened, and if I have time, I shall write to you as we travel further on. Goodbye. Don’t forget me. Many kisses from us all to you, my darling.
If you visit the Alexander palace today you’ll see a doll in a glass case. The caption reads: ONE OF THE GRAND DUCHESS DOLLS. It’s in a case to protect it from the air. And there, my dresses of white and pink, also in glass cases to prevent their destruction. In a way that’s what it was like as a grand Duchess, preserved at the palace, in a glass case all my life. Is this who I am? Is this the sum of my life, to be a doll in a glass case? I felt determined then and there to decide no, no I will be myself. So, we went to Siberia I felt it would be the beginning of my new life; to answer the question I keep repeating: who am I? At first, life in Siberia was pleasant. We still had our lessons, and Maria and I still performed plays. The soldiers were not bad; they treated us kindly and I started to hope. Then, something changed suddenly. There were different soldiers. They called us enemies of the people. Daddy said they were afraid. Why were all the Russian people afraid of us? I thought that if I could understand who I was, then they wouldn’t have to be afraid, cold and lonely, feeling the all the fear around me. soldiers not in uniforms, now they were wearing black leather jackets only. They were guarding the people’s enemies now. NOW, I suddenly feel it. Mommy’s constantly living in dread. She says something’s going to happen to us all the time. My chest feels heavy, heavy with dread. I must get it out.so I start writing poems, here’s one, “A young girl who was called Evelyn had just died. She was lying in the coffin, very pretty. All her things [were] in the same place. Nothing was changed and even the flower that she gathered, stood in the glace, but was beginning to fade. When she died, she was only sixteen years old. There was a man who loved her without having seen her but knew her very well. And she had heard of him also. He never could tell her that he loved her, and now she was dead. But still he thought that when he and she lived their next life, whenever that will be, no, that will not be me, that will not be me, that will not be me, I will find out who am I first.
I was lying in bed on a hot summer night in July thinking about writing. Yes, I’ll be a writer… I hear the men in leather jackets talking to daddy.
Maria and I have just been lying on the grass in front of the balcony… Yesterday the four of us made a fire and jumped over it. It was wonderful.
We were told to get dressed and to go, in the middle of the night.
Today they will show films to the wounded, I am very happy as we all go too… Maria and I rock in the hammock sometimes and she overturns me each time and I fall right on my face.
We were led down to the cellar.
Olga and Maria and I sometimes ride our bicycles about the rooms at full speed. Olga tries to catch me up or vice versa. We fall sometimes but are still alive. The lessons are over, and I am going to have breakfast with Mother and sisters though I don’t know if they have come back.
We wait until the men in the leather jackets come in. They are all holding guns.
Yesterday we were at the concert in the Grand Palace. They celebrated the second anniversary of their hospital. It was rather nice there. Your friend Lersky was there. Mother saw him for the first time and liked him.
They said something to daddy about the peoples committee, but I’m not listening.
Olga’s cat is running about here now. She can be heard as she is wearing a little bell on her neck with a blue ribbon.
Mother makes the sign of the cross, Father says forgive them they know not …..
Mother is lying down and we usually have breakfast and dinner nearby, but we have tea in the bedroom. We all have toy pistols now and we like to shoot very much. In the evenings after dinner, we go to play in the corner room where Olga, Maria, Alexey and I hide from each other and then shoot at each other in the darkness, but Alexey is sometimes scared and does not enter the room… yes, I’ll be remembered as a good Russian writer I’ll write stories like the ones by Chekov or Tolstoy.
The men in the leather jackets open fire on us, and at that exact moment I can answer the question. Then thirteen bullet shots make me collapse to the ground as I remember. WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I,
WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I , WHO AM I , WHO AM I ?
That’s the end of my story, oh I see by your faces you really don’t want it to end, I completely understand. Daddy says a good story never really ends, very well then I’ll give you two endings two alternatives around which two myths are built, I will only do this under one condition , you have your choice but you must accept all one or the other completely and with your soul you cannot accept pieces of one and pieces of another. Very well, I’ll start with ending one, or the myth of despair, called Evelyn’s despair. Myth is the most powerful tool you have. Myth is more powerful than any army or human being could ever be. Myth can inspire us to do great things or evil things.
The men who shot me and my father were afraid and truly acted out of fear but what happened next was ,…well there is an old Russian saying it goes “you can catch the devil but you can’t hold him long”, that night the devil was let loose in Russia and in the world As soon as the events of the murder of the imperial family reached the outside world the devil said the executioners were led by Jews. The devil went one step further and said Jews killed the imperial family, the imperial family of Holy Russia, the devil gave power to the nazis. So the war to end all wars became in fact the war that started all wars, and is still going on today. 100 years and 100 million deaths later. And the devil is still turning words into mass extermination.
This is only a myth and I don’t believe in it , yet some do and as long as some do it is kept alive , I am as I said a girl with an unusual destiny I wish I could make you understand I really do but I think it will just fly over your head, because try as you will to understand you cannot understand myth unless you understand God.
There is another myth, let’s call this one “Evelyn’s Hope”, as the men in the leather jackets open fire on us, and at that exact moment I can answer the question, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, thirteen bullets hit my chest , and thirteen bullets bounce off my chest, but the words kept running in my head, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO AM, Olga sewed diamonds into my corset, WHO AM I, WHO AM I, WHO, the was much smoke and lots of footsteps , blood everywhere , WHO AM I, WHO AM I , put on the back of a truck as it moved down a farm road, the truck gets stuck in the mud, WHO AM I , WHO AM , the guards go off to look for help , WHO AM I, WHO, I rise from the flat bed , quietly and gently taken by someone and hidden in the forest, WHO AM I, I see a shiny starry sky of an impossible night , of an impossible story, I hear a gramophone. I like it , Maria and I still sleep the way we did in summer and don’t want to remove our beds but Mother doesn’t like it, I have recovered the diamonds that save me help me and my liberator to get out of the country where I become a Disney cartoon character , to be loved by millions, yes I told you a girl with an unusual destiny.
I am shvibzik and once I placed a small yellow flower into a photo album , so delicate, so fragile you can barely see the words on the page ,and for all those young girls who escaped death by using my name , I am happy I brought you freedom , just one word, don’t forget me , I remember pressing that flower and putting it in my photo album, I put it there in 1913, the word on the page was “greetings from shvibzik,”..
Well there you have it two endings two myths, two stories which one will you believe.
Aldrich the monk, looks out the window of the monastery of Saint Sebastian in the north of England. The snow falls and creates beautiful patterns in the bare brown fields and treeless branches. This monastery makes Illuminated manuscripts to teach an impoverished, very illiterate population the story of Christ and guide them to salvation. But today, he doesn’t feel very excited. Today, he is doing more drudgery and copying another text from an old Pagen Papyrus Scroll. He’d instead copy the Gospel of Saint John like his friends. “I’m stuck doing this Pagan nonsense.” Well, that’s what he calls it under his breath anyway. The temperature drops drastically as the wind picks up, biting at any exposed skin. The tension in the air is palpable, causing hairs to stand on end and goosebumps to appear.
The snowflakes fall gently onto the monk’s face, melting his skin and leaving a chill in their wake. As he walks, the crunch of the snow beneath his feet reminds him of the passing of time and the fragility of life—the coldness of the outside seeps into the monastery despite the warmth of the fire. The monk can feel the chill seeping into his bones, a discomfort that mirrors the unease in his heart.
It was still dark outside, and soon, the sun would come up, although rather meekly, and he would head over to the scriptorium. To finish the Latin text, he’s been working on for the last ten weeks. No one reads it anymore. It’s written in the old Britton Romance language. A language so ancient all have forgotten what it was called, but to those who read and write Latin, it is barely decipherable. Aldrich understands because his mother was a Britton. It has been a good century since the Romans left the island. Still, fewer people even read and write anymore. His mother told him the stories of Roman law and order and civilization. When there was no need to build walls and defend yourself against your neighbor, he thought that was a better time, even though pagans were living about. His mother, a converted Christian, would still gather flowers and put them at the Old Temple of Artemis on the anniversary of his birth, which was the custom for the goddess of fertility and safe childbirth.
The Temple of Artemis was a grand structure of marble and gold, its columns reaching high into the sky, adorned with intricate carvings of goddesses and gods. His mother described the Temple as a grand structure with tall marble columns and intricate carvings decorating its walls. The air around the Temple of Minerva was filled with the scent of burning incense and fresh flowers brought as offerings. The air is heavy with the musty smell of ancient stone and earth. Though the Temple is now in ruins, there is still a lingering hint of incense and offerings from long ago.
The old bridge school that now stands in its place is a small, plain building made of weathered stone. The monastery is built on this site; the monks took stones from the Temple to fortify their structure and protect them from attack. Eventually, the local lord built a castle wall from its remains. The old bridge school has a musty smell, likely from years of neglect before it was converted into a school. Its faded images of gods and goddesses told stories of old, while its walls showed signs of wear and time. The ruins of the Temple can still be seen, with crumbling pillars and broken sculptures scattered across the grass. The old school was an attempt by the Roman Britton’s to carry on some education and knowledge for at least a little while before the wars created a wasteland. The monastery was built to safeguard what knowledge they had left.
This is where they taught, where the foundations of knowledge and wisdom were kept alive for centuries. The hallowed halls echoed with the laughter and eager voices of students hungry for learning. The walls whispered stories of countless minds that had passed through, leaving their mark on this sanctuary of education.
Now, the school is gone, and the ancient temples are gone. The stones are used to build churches and castles for defense. The world has fallen into chaos. The horizon was always full of activity, with guards scanning the seas for the tell-tale sails of Viking ships and soldiers stationed along the southern border, ready to defend against any threat from the south. The landscape was dotted with lookout towers and fortifications, a constant reminder of the ever-present danger. The guard can see the vast, barren landscape stretching out atop the monastery walls in all directions. The horizon is dotted with ships, their silhouettes cutting through the water as they approach the coast. Beyond the shore, tents and banners of different Norse tribes can be seen, their presence ominous and threatening.
The horizon is dotted with dark shapes and longboats manned by fierce warriors with braided hair and snarling faces. They are the Vikings, bent on pillaging and conquest. Closer to home, armored men on horseback ride along the borders, their shields bearing the crests of Saxon and Angle lords. If you’re not looking out for the Vikings, you’re watching out for the Saxons, the Celtics of the West. Despite being converted to Christianity, most of the people still fight to survive.
Aldrich does not concern himself with the outside world anymore. He knows his task and has accepted it. He is to write down and copy. These texts. To save them from further destruction. “He doesn’t know anyone who reads except those monks in the monastery; even the lords’ children are taught to wield a sword before being taught to read. “What’s it all worth?” He says to himself, “What is all this information for? Will it do any good in the future?”
What Aldrich couldn’t possibly have known is that this copy of the “Meditations of Marcus Aurelius” is, in fact, the last copy in the world; the 700-year-old Papyrus scroll disintegrates as he is reading it to copy on the Parchment of the Illuminated manuscript. He and his fellow monks will be responsible for saving countless ancient texts that otherwise would be lost to time.
