Memories of a Carpathian Christmas (12/24/00)

Memories of a Carpathian Christmas

by Edward Andrusko

Our family may have grown up in poverty during the Great Depression years in New Jersey, but we were very rich in family love. My dearest memories are of my mother telling glowing stories of her childhood in a small humble villagein southwestern Ukraine.

She told of her youth growing up on a farm where the great plains of wheat fields touched the rolling foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. Mother's family, friends and neighbors farmed, gardened and tended the land as modest peasants. They kept most of the common farm animals, as well as a very protective dog and a comical cat.

She remembered with childlike pleasure riding the milk cows from the pastures back to the barn in the evenings while watching the sun set over the mountain range. Before winter set in, occasional journeys were made miles into the beautiful mountains where smiling soldiers, border guards of the neighboring nations, waved at the pretty girls.

She would sigh, and smile, as she related: "We children had to make our own fun in those days, but it was easy to do. Holidays were the most wonderful - especially Christmas. It seemed so joyous and religious, as we spent more time in church and then visited with our family, friends and neighbors.

"Traditionally we brought gifts to church for baby Jesus but not to each other. After liturgy we ate a delicious feast of home-grown and home-made foods and delicacies, and sang carols until we were ready for bed. Inside our thatched-roof cottage, an entire wall of our home was one enormous fireplace. Sleeping shelves were built into the sides of the fireplace where we kept warm by a crackling, sparking fire of large burning logs, and stared into the flickering flames until we fell fast asleep. The dancing fire always seemed somehow magical on Christmas Eve."

In our home in New Jersey my mother often mentioned how she missed her relatives and especially Christmastime in the Carpathian Mountains.

Most winter nights, as the winds whistled outside our home, we would gather together in the cheery warmth of the red-hot wood stove where Dad would make a pot of warm cider with cinnamon. Mom always seemed to find the time then to tell us the stories, teach the songs, or relate the history of her hometown in the old country. We anxiously awaited mother's bedtime stories of her childhood, and sometimes ... she told scary ones about her mountain neighbors to the west in Transylvania.

As the years passed, we nine children grew up, married and had families of our own. When our father died, leaving our widowed mother feeling alone in her new country, we grown siblings often talked of sending our mother back to Ukraine to visit her childhood home. However, it was an area occupied by Russia after World War II, and at that time visitors were not allowed.

In 1950 a job-related transfer took me, the youngest son in our family from the bustling, heavily populated New Jersey and New York area to Denver. Denver was settled at the foot of the beautiful snow-capped Rocky Mountains, surrounded on three sides by seemingly endless miles of wide rolling plains, spotted with large cattle ranches and farms.

This was a new and amazing outdoor world for me and my young family. We rented our first home in Idledale, 25 miles west of Denver in the foothills of the Rockies. A crystal-clear, cool mountain stream ran past our rustic home. Deer and cattle grazed together in the valley undisturbed, and we rode horses into town to get our mail.

We enjoyed our new rural lifestyle in the west and our community - a peaceful paradise of kindly rancher-neighbors and friends. My daily commute took me through such gorgeous country that I never tired of my trip.

When my mother reached the age of 80 and was still very vibrant, we talked her into visiting us. It took considerable convincing, and planning, but she agreed to take her first airplane trip ever. Departing from Newark Airport, four hours later she arrived in mile-high Denver to visit with us for a year. Needless to say, we were all very happy and excited. So many wonderful memories stepped off the plane with Mom.

As we drove west from the airport my mother was in awe of the majestic, snow-capped and purple Rocky Mountains in the distance. Heading westward on lightly traveled long roads stretching to the mountains in the distance, we passed miles of wheat, corn and hay fields rolling to the green foothills. Rustic ranches and farm houses appeared now and again on the wide-open grazing lands.

My mother watched quietly for a while then asked: "Where are all the people?" As she had come from the well-populated East Coast of America, to her it seemed there were more horses and cattle than people. "Do Native American Indians live out there over the horizon?"

I answered, "Most of the people, including the Native Americans, are down in the big city of Denver. Some tribes live west, on the other side of the mountains."

Passing the breath-taking Red Rocks Park, we entered rugged Bear Creek Canyon and followed the winding creek. Four miles up the canyon we entered our small valley of few homes, some on the banks of the creek, others perched high on the mountain peaks.

A dirt side-road led to our small cabin, remarkable for the very large stone fireplace chimney that rose from the ground to tower above the roof. A mountain stream nearby, called Bear Creek, flowed through a forest of native trees, and the hillside was covered with an array of wild flowers. Our neighbors waved a "hello" as we passed.

After we got out of the car my mother walked slowly and almost reverently around our tranquil valley home. A short time later she asked in awe, "How did you find this place? You know, this valley and small town look just like heaven to me." Holding back a tear of joy, she continued, "Why this looks just like my home ... back in the old country."

I said, "It must have been our destiny, Mom. This was the first house we were shown and when I saw this mountain valley it reminded me so much of your stories of your hometown in Ukraine, that we rented it that day."

In a short time we located a small Ukrainian Catholic Church with a fine congregation. It was just outside Denver, and Mother enjoyed the liturgies in her own language.

A few months later we had a white Christmas. After Christmas church services we had a family feast and an evening of caroling and storytelling around the dancing fire in our large fireplace. This wonderful similarity between Christmas in the Rocky Mountains and Christmas in the Carpathian Mountains was my Mother's every dream come true.

* * *

Free-lance writer Edward Andrusko was born in Perth Amboy, N.J. After high school, he joined the U.S. Marines at the age of 17. He served for four years - three years as a combat infantry Marine rifleman, and was wounded three times in World War II and decorated.

He studied American history and literature at the University of Colorado and is a member of the Marine Corps Historical Foundation, The U.S. Naval Institute and The Rocky Mountain Writers Guild Inc., and is past vice-president of the Boulder Art Association. He has lived in Boulder, Colo., since 1958.

His art and historical compositions have been published in many magazines and newspapers. This is his fifth Christmas story published in The Ukrainian Weekly.

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