MAMOCHKA DEAREST

by Yevgenia Zimina

To say that I love her, that's not much -- the opposite would be unnatural. Do I respect her? Of course I do. It would be truer to say that I am infinitely proud of her. It is thought that a person recalls the past through images. For me it is through sensations: the freshness of a New Year's tree, the tap-tap of a sewing machine, the aroma of shortening and cinnamon together with the smell of autumn campfires. Through these sensations surface the events of childhood wherein the center of all life was Mama. She could do anything, nothing was too much, and she always succeeded. Even in the hardest times we children were caressed, full of food, and enveloped in her handsewn clothes from head to foot, from overcoat and everyday tunic to New Year's dressup as snow maidens, cosmonauts, pusses in boots of incredible beauty and complexity. For New Year we would restore the homemade garlands, the paper chains, the bright banners. Everywhere there were masses of crinkled paper, the scissors cutting away, our fingers rough with glue cooked up in a big green pot. The rooms were noisy and crowded and full of gaiety, because alongside Mama's three daughters there also toiled by the sweat of their brows a dozen neighborhood children of all ages. There were always a lot of children from our courtyard in the house, as well as school friends and university classmates. Always we had refreshments. Once my sister's classmate said, "Aunty Valya, you have such tasty things that one can't help getting fat." More than one of my school friends believes it is thanks to my Mama and the warm welcoming home she created that they developed their own personalities as women and as mothers. Our friends often came to her, not to us, for advice and support. She taught the girls to sew, to cook amazing dishes, to bake gorgeous looking (and tasting) cakes, to print up their literary compositions and history papers, and she taught them English (by profession she became an English teacher). In l938, having completed the first year of the Academy of Arts in Tbilisi (capital of Georgia, now an independent republic -- editor) as a talented promising student, she had to quit her studies because she was the fourth child in a family whose poverty bordered on destitution, whose early- widowed mother at times did not have enough money for bread, not to speak of paints and brushes and other expensive equipment for art school. Only two pencil drawings survive from those days over fifty years ago, and they portray people who truly seem alive. In one, the gray-haired model was about the age Mama is now, and her eye wrinkles are like Mama's and so are the eyes themselves, wise and unclouded. Once Mama thought up something fantastic -- making a Father Frost who was one and a half meters high (close to five feet -- editor). She sculpted his head (I went with her to the art studio for clay), then from the sculpture she made a mask of papier-mache and painted it. Papa made a wooden body and clothed it in my old overcoat, and with some special technique he covered it all with snow-white cotton wool. There, at the New Year's tree, stood this blue-eyed rosy-cheeked Father Frost smiling kindly through his white whiskers. Many years later Mama made just such a Father Frost for my son, and now she sews for him the traditional costume of Puss in the Boots, curling late into the night the oil paper feather for his cap. Already she teaches him, as in my childhood, the funny song about the clumsy bear who steps on the fox's tail, and of course she gives out a scream that would be heard across the whole forest. Ten years go by and again at nighttime (it seems to be our family habit) my Mama is stiching away at the sewing machine creating an extraordinary style queen's gown and crown, so that my daughter (also named Valya) will attract the admiring eyes of children and adults at the New Year's morning performance. Every mother tries to do everything in her power for her children. It always seemed to me that my mother was outdoing herself. Already widowed, she outdid herself and made me such a beautiful trousseau for my wedding that my friends exclaimed with delight -- all with her own hands, tastefully and with love. A son was born and then a daughter and there Mama is, helping and teaching and giving advice. I get seriously ill and she carries my whole family on her shoulders, gives me injections, washes and irons, and by then she is already 75 years old! Seven years ago Mama was obliged to leave Georgia and come live here in the north. Others in her place would have complained, grumbled about the climate, about being uprooted and going far away from acquaintances and friends (and she had a lot of them in Tbilisi). Most likely her soul was straining to go back and weeping for her homeland. But Mama kept secret her inner pain, never to be let out so as not to sadden us, her children. That is why even her life in the north developed in her favor. Right off the city government gave her an apartment (a blessing, because 7 years ago this wasn't yet an acute problem) and did all the paperwork for her to get a pension. Mama's home is again open to visitors -- all my friends and acquaintances are now hers too, all of them much younger than Mama, and this is not surprising since she is an interesting, many-sided, versatile person to a degree rarely encountered. At 77 her memory is so clear and her knowledge so broad that it's a pleasure to be with her, and for me her daughter it raises the embarrassing question, am I not feeling signs of fatigue too soon, too young? Not wanting any confirmation of that, I cheer up and take heart and the black patch gives way to white, life becomes full again, and one feels one can scale mountains, gallop on a horse, rush into a burning cottage, and banish the devil. I understand that Mama is the source of felicity in my life, a pure and clear sounding key, my inspiration. May she have a long long life, and receive even a tiny portion of the kindness and the light and sparkle that she has showered on others through her entire life.