SaulesSister Botanical Artđż Saule (sow-leh) is Latvian for Sun.
My friend, Sandi Vetter does the most amazing artwork using botanicals as her medium. Sometimes they’re mandalas, other times they’re strikingly life-like portraits. She is very prolific and comes up with new works all the time. I don’t know how she does it. Like many creatives, she finds solace in her art, working diligently when others might give up and curl into a ball of woe.
Sad to say, I’ve never seen Sandi’s work in person. Maybe one day she’ll have another show close to where I live.
This is Sandi’s newest creation celebrating Easter and spring. She included this quote in her post.
âThe Egg (and all seeds) contains âall potentialâ, full of promise and new life. It symbolizes the rebirth of nature, the fertility of the Earth, and all creation. In many traditions, the egg is a symbol for the whole universe. The âcosmicâ egg contains a balance of male and female, light and dark, in the egg white and egg yolk. The golden orb of the yolk represents the Sun God enfolded by the White Goddess, perfect balance, so it is particularly appropriate to Ostara and the Spring Equinox when all is in balance for just a moment, although the underlying energy is one of growth and expansion.â
The museum was founded in 1993 with a mission to educate the public about the 51 years of occupation during the 20th Century by the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republic, (1940-1940 and again from 1944-1991) and Nazi Germany (1941-1944) It is located in RÄ«ga in a building once known as The Corner House, the former KGB Headquarters. It took ten years to renovate the old KGB building..
I copied the following notice and photos from a Facebook post by the Museum of the Occupation. of Latvia. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about the timing of the attack. The parenthetical comment is mine. The translation from Latvian is by Google Translate.
Turning against the Latvian Occupation Museum is turning against the Latvian state
on the night of February 28 around 1:00 a.m. On the first floor of the building of the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia, a window in the office of the director was broken and a lit bottle of incendiary mixture (aka Molotov cocktail) was thrown.
This is not only an attack on the Museum, but also on the foundations of the Latvian state, the Constitution, and the truth.
The museum continues its work!
To learn more about the museum, I have included a link to a Wikipedia article.
I had to spend most of the day wondering because we had a region-wide internet outage. What does this have to do with Oslo? My browser is from Norway. Its default city is Oslo, Every day it urges me to set my city. I haven’t bothered. I like knowing the temperature in Oslo. Today it’s 34F (1.11C) It’s nice to know that it’s seldom as cold here.
The Opera House in Oslo is relevantto my browser.
Yeah, I know I’m a little weird. What writer isn’t?
It’s been a long time since I was without the internet. It went out sometime between one and two in the morning. I know because I was still up writing. Lost the new words I’d added to my manuscript. The net didn’t come back for more than 25 hours. What did I do without the net for such a long time?
Thank goodness I slept for most of that time. When I got up. I ate a banana and yogurt. Then wrote a journal entry and worked on my novel.
Thank goodness I wasn’t reduced to this since
Fortunately, Word does not need the internet. I don’t have a fountain pen and my handwriting is dreadful. I still try to write by hand because I always have and don’t want to lose what little skill I have left. Just in case my computer dies and I have to wait to get a new one.
I also read, ate (a sandwich and a salad) wrote some more journal stuff, and added more words to my manuscript. Went outside to look for signs of spring. A daffodil is getting ready to bloom. YAY! Came up with the idea for this blog post. Now that the net’s back up, I could search for stock photos.
I also cleaned out my photo file. I looked at each photo to fill more time and to better decide what to discard.
On the balcony at my old home.
I counted the petals on the little blossom, second from the right, to see if the petals follows the Fibonacci sequence. Nature supposedly follows the Fibonacci numbers which are the sum of the two previous numbers. Math isn’t my favorite subject, but I like the Fibonacci sequence. I’m not sure why. maybe because it’s kind of cool. Easy and fun.
1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 on and on until your brain boggles. I can go as high as 89 in my head. The flower had five petals so it follows the Fibonacci sequence. I did not count the buds or leaves.
The things I do to entertain myself. If the internet had stayed down a few more days, I might even have finished revising my novel.
If anybody is interested in the Fibonacci sequence, here’s a link to a Wikipedia article.
To mark the second anniversary of Russia’s invasion.
On Saturday, February 24, 2924, approximately 1000 demonstrators, including members of the Latvian/American community, gathered in Washington, DC to show their support for Ukraine’s independence. Similar demonstrations happened all over the world, including Dublin, France, London, Budapest, Buenos Aires, Manitoba, and Warsaw, Too many places to list here. Europeans especially understand the danger Russia poses to the whole world.
My cousins were among the demonstrators. The protestors sang Ukraine’s national anthem. Ukrainian/Americans thanked supporters.
All photographs are courtesy of the Latvian Embassy to the USA. Photo credit: RenÄte BeÄ·ere.
The Lincoln Memorial and the reflecting pool.
In front of the monument of The Great Liberator, Abraham Lincoln is a fitting place to rally for freedom.
Members pf the Latvian/American community to hold their flag to show Latvia’s support for Ukraine.
My cousin and her husband are holdingthe crossed-flags posters.
I’ Wasn’t able to be there so I’m guessing that this was when the crowd sang Ukraine’s national anthem.
The champagne blonde is my cousin.
This looks like the Lincoln Monument.
The Washington Monument and the reflecting pool in Washington DC
Latvia and the other Baltic States have been staunch supporters of Ukraine from the beginning of the war with Russia. Other Eastern European countries also know. Their citizens know all too well what it’s like to live under the boot of Russia. Officially, the Soviet Union is gone, but Putin has ambitions to be the new Stalin and bring back the Evil Empire.
I’ve posted this video before but it’s worth posting again. A few days after Russia’s invasion of Ukraine gathered in a public square in RÄ«ga to demonstrate their support for Ukraine’s freedom. Concert for Ukraine. The song translates as “My Homeland.” The cell phone lights look like little stars.
From atvijas TelevÄ«zija. Latvia’s Public Broadcasting Service.
If you like my work and can afford to help out, your donation would be greatly appreciated.
This is a message that I copied from a Facebook private message post. It was shared with me by a Latvian friend who is friends with this lady, Maija.
On Saturday my cousin called from Latvia and asked that we, here in the USA, write letters to House Republicans, former President Trump, and anyone else in a position to help, and ask for the continued support for Ukraine. Because if Ukraine falls, so will our Baltic states. My relative was formerly the Minister of the Interior of Latvia, a general in the Latvian Armed Forces, and a law professor. To hear him saying that he fears for the future of our Baltic countries and asking for the help of as many Americans as possible made my blood run cold. He has always been positive and upbeat, but not now. There is great fear in our Baltic states of once again being taken over by Russia and destroying our lands and people. We only have to look Ukraine to see the future destruction in Europe if Putin is allowed to continue unabated. I ask you to spread the word among all you know and write letters in hopes of making a difference in the current lack of support from the USA government. I ask you to reach out as far and wide as possible. The situation is very serious in the lands of our birth, our parents or our ancestors is in deep crisis.
Maija
Latvia was part of the Russian Empire for two hundred years. Between the end of World War I and World War II it had 20 years of freedom. The Soviet Amry invaded during the Second WorldWar. Forty-five years of oppression followed.
Latvians in their homeland and Latvians of the diaspora all over the world fear that Russia will invade again.Who, if anyone is going to stop them? If the United States allows Ukraine to fall, Latvia and the other Baltic States will fall, too. President Biden has vowed to help but the Republicans in Congress are digging in their heels.
Par of Latvia’s struggle for freedom.
Soviet tanks in Riga. January 1991. Will it happen again? The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics may be gone but Putin’s voracious appetite for power is not.
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It was a last-minute, rush-rush invitation, just ahead of the sheriff. Well. that’s a bit of hyperbole. I signed a mutual agreement document to vacate in order to evade eviction because I could no longer afford to pay my rent. My company was a victim of the pandemic. I’d been looking for a new job for years but at my age, it’s a challenge. I’ve had many interviews but no offers. That’s how I wound up living in a relative’s basement. In very nice quarters., with windows and a sliding glass door leading to a patio.
I brought my own computer, some clothes, and not much else. Two books. Some of my stuff is in storage, some was left behind because I didn’t have time to make other arrangements. “You’ve known for months that this would happen,” said the same person.” True. But when you have little money, you’re reluctant to spend it on a storage unit until it’s absolutely necessary. It’s also a bit tricky to move boxes of stuff when you have no car.
Two months.
I was supposed to be gone with the autumn leaves.
Four months later, I’m still here, on the other side of the country, with little hope of going home or anywhere else.
Rents are especially high in my home state but it’s a problem all over the United States. An Australian friend told me housing insecurity for seniors is a problem there, too. But it’s not just seniors who are suffering. Many others are, too.
I didn’t sign up for this, either. Life does not invite us to sign up for anything. Like it or not, we get whatever life gives us and have to deal with it the best we can. Nobody signs up to lose a job, but they lose it anyway, pandemic or not. Nobody signs up for cancer, but they get it anyway. My host has experience with both. He probably didn’t tell the oncologist, “I didn’t sign up for this.”
When I asked my host if he had any suggestions, he remained silent. Guess he didn’t want to mention a cave of a cardboard carton under a freeway overpass because waiting lists for affordable housing are years long–one, three, five, even ten years. I compared budgets online. This year’s budget for the Department of Defense is more than eleven times greater than the budget for the Department of Housing and Urban Development. Skewed priorities, would you say?
When I suggested that he could find me a husband, all I got was a barely audible snort Guess I’m not marriage material. Never was. probably never will be. The Washington Post had an article about two nonagenarians finding love while playing pool. Maybe there’s hope after all.
Home, sweet cave.
I don’t want to make this man sound like Scrooge. He’s been kind and helpful. And he’s mostly succeeded in hiding his frustrations and disdain.
So have I.
I just want to go home. If only I had one.
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In the Northern Hemisphere, the 21st of December (this year) is the day when the sun begins its long journey north. It’s the shortest day of the year and the longest night. Almost imperceptibly at first, the days grow longer. It’s the triumph of light over darkness.
The Latvian sun symbol. There are many variations.
The return of the sun is greeted with many rituals in Latvia and the other Baltic States,, Estonia and Lithuania. The people of these countries were the last pagans of Europe. They weren’t Christianized until the early 13th Century. Pagan traditions and beliefs remain strong. Not everyone is willing to admit this fact.
In the following video the group, Tautumeitas presents a modern version of the ancient tradition of masking and using the power word Kaladu to help light overcome darkness. I was unable to find a fitting translation of the word Kaladu.
The sun goddess, Saule, ensures the fertility of the earth, represented by grains and grasses. Like the Summer Solstice, the Winter Solstice is a fire festival.
My heart breaks for the many refugees in the world today. Like the poor, it seems that refugees will always be with us. Despite what the Bible says, too many people who claim to believe the directives in the Bible don’t want to take in refugees.
Wandering like ghosts.
It’s decades since my parents and I were refugees from the Soviet invasion of Latvia. Such refugees were known as Displaced Persons. Latvians called themselves “DeePees.” My initials. I’m a refugee of sorts again. Forced from my home because, like so many people all over the country today, I couldn’t afford to pay my rent. I’m fortunate enough to have been taken in, to have a roof over my head and food to eat. For which I am eternally grateful. That’s not the case for everyone.
I thought of this topic because I found a verse by a Latvian poet along with my translation. This is the time of spirits in Latvia and many other countries. This seemed like as good a time as any to write this post. Officially, the International Day of Refugees is June 20 but for too many people, every day is Refugee Day. This is also a time of Thanksgiving. A time to be grateful that we have homes and sustenance. It’s a time of sharing. So, I’m sharing one of the few things I have to share–this post and this poem.
Even if it’s not a physical fire that destroys a home, it feels like it.
“Refugee”
Behind me, the road fades into darkness,
my home burns, the bridge collapses
And all we the living become ghosts.
Like a wind-driven grain of sand
I drift through foreign lands
without work, without rest, without kin.
,,BÄglis”
Aiz manis tumsÄ zĆ«d ceÄŒi,
deg mÄjas, un sagrĆ«st tilts.
un visi dzÄ«vie kÄŒĆ«st veÄŒi.
KÄ vÄju vajÄta smilts
es klÄ«stu pa sveĆĄÄm vietÄm
bez darba, dusas un cilts.
_Velta Toma (1944)
1944 is the year Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, and many others in that part of Europe became refugees because of the Russian invasion of their country.
When the bridge is destroyed and you can’t go home, a new bridge must be built.
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Until I saw a friend’s post on social media, I didn’t realize that today is National Cat Day.
Leo in the pocket of Cameron’s flight jacket.
Sad to say that I no longer have a kitty. I don’t live in a place where I could have a cat. Maybe someday in the not-too-distant future. But, since it’s National Cat Day, I decided that this would be as good a time as any to promote my book, A Home for An Exile’s Heart.
Leo is a Maine Coon cat who belongs to the hero of my novel, Cameron Quinn. who is a former World War II fighter pilot. The story takes place during the last couple of months of 1952. Cameron is living in Seattle and working as an aeronautical engineer. He found Leo, as a kitten, abandoned in a cardboard box at the airfield in Bellingham, Washington where Cameron keeps his private plane. Leo flies back to Seattle in Cameron’s pocket. This is backstory. During the course of the story, Leo is all grown up, Cameron’s foil.
In the opening chapters, Cameron rescues a widowed WW II Latvian refugee, LÄ«vija (Lee-vee-ya) GaliĆa, when he pushes her out of the way of a car that has skidded on ice and jumped the curb, nearly hitting her. She lands in a snowbank. He lands on top of her. The accident happens in front of his house. Cameron takes her home to bandage the abrasions on her knees. LÄ«vija is charmed by both Cameron and Leo.
A Home for An Exile’s Heart is available on Amazon’s Kindle Vella. The first few chapters are free to read. It’s not necessary to have a Kindle to read the novel. Any electronic d
(I more or less had WordPress figured out, so, of course, they changed it)
For National Cat Day, I had to include a photo of my late, great kitty, Mincis.
For some reason, WordPress would not let me paste in a URL for Exile’s Amazon page.
Merriam-Webster defines “vitriol” as bitterly harsh or caustic language
.
One reason I haven’t been writing blog posts in the past few months is that I don’t want to spew vitriol all over my site to the disgust of my followers. But today my cup runneth over and I need to vent. Writing is a source of solace for me. During the time I’ve been absent from my blog, I’ve been editing a novel I hope to market to Harlequin.
Pretty poison, Foxgloves area source of medicine as well as poison.
Maybe writing this piece will be medicinal for me. I’ll try to depict the vitriol in images instead of words.
Due to poor decisions made during times of grief, stress, anxiety, and depression, I’ve landed myself in an untenable position. I also want to avoid pouring out buckets of “woe is me tears.” That too can be toxic waste. My readers don’t need any of that, either. Nor do I. If I feel sorry for myself, I will feel sorry in private and spare those who might read this.
“Double, double, toil and trouble…” Literature is also a source of solace.
In the past few weeks, I’ve developed carpal tunnel syndrome. Another reason I haven’t been blogging. Attempting to type with one hand while my shoulder was bothering me, holding down the shift key with my thumb, and pivoting my wrist to hit the “T” key with my pinky was another bad decision. My hand wakes me up in the middle of the night feeling as if it had been smashed by a baseball-size rock. It also leaves my fingers feeling numb and as if electric shocks were jolting them. I’ve been doing physiotherapy exercises following along with the YouTube therapist. It works but slooowly. And I keep on aggravating my median nerve. Can’t stop writing.
Carpal tunnel syndrome isn’t the worst of my problems.
In a nutshell, I’m homeless. Rents in my state are insanely high. I could no longer afford my apartment and had to move out in order to avoid being evicted. Relatives have taken me in. I have what amounts to a private little studio apartment in their daylight basement. The back of the house faces a wooded area so my view while sitting at my computer is mostly of trees. A few days after I arrived, I saw a deer tiptoeing through the backyard, timidly staying close to the trees.
Not their backyard, but close enough.
Living with rellies is only a temporary fix. The problem is that I have no place to go when my welcome finally wears out. I’m not the only one with this problem. High housing prices are a problem all over the country. An Aussie friend told me that housing insecurity for seniors is also a problem there. Investors, foreign and domestic buy apartment complexes and even entire neighborhoods and jack up the prices. There seem to be no laws to prevent this. The Department of Defense budget for this year is $773 billion, while the Department of Housing and Urban Development’s budget is $61.8 billion. HUD provides housing for low-income families and individuals but the need is great and the waiting lists for HUD properties are years long–1.5 to 3 to 5 and even 10 years long. I don’t know what I or any of the other people on the waiting lists are going to do in the meantime. Perhaps live in their cars or in tents, like the homeless people camped on the streets in Seattle and other cities. I don’t have a car or a tent. I’d gladly work, but no one wants to hire me.
Meanwhile, you know what’s going on in Congress. The whole world knows what’s going on in our Congress.
I didn’t want to make you guys put on one of these while reading my post.
Well, there. I managed to write this without spewing any vitriol although I certainly felt like it when I started. The pressure to get out of here is increasing. As always, writing helped. After this long period of silence, I hope I still have a few readers left. I hope you have many nice days and secure roofs over your head. And people to take you in if the winds of fate blow away your roof.
If you can afford it, a donation would be greatly appreciated.
I’ve been so obsessed with my own concerns, such as where I’ll live after August 31, that I forgot about the anniversary of The Baltic Way until a social media post reminded me.
On August 23, 1989, at 7 p.m. approximately two million people in the Baltic States joined hands to form a human chain that reached from Vilnius, Lithuania, through Riga, Latvia, to Tallinn, Estonia. A 675m (420 mi) long chain to bring the world’s attention to the 50th anniversary of the Molotov-Ribbentrop a non-aggression treaty between the Germans and the Soviets. A pact that violated international law. An agreement that also divided Finland, Poland, and Romania. Because of the pact, Germany could start WW2 on September 1 and allowed the Soviet Union to invade the Baltic States and occupy them for more than the next fifty years.
A few links in the Human chain.Peaceful, unarmed individuals, including children.
We take so much for granted in the United States and the rest of the Free World that we may allow freedom and democracy to slip through our fingers. People prattle on about Nazis, Communists, and Fascists without knowing what those words mean. People who have no idea what real oppression is. And others who think that not voting is a good way to protest against candidates they don’t like or are simply too lazy to get out and vote and then complain about their lousy lawmakers who got elected. How did that happen? It’s an insult to those who have suffered under these repressive regimes.
My cousins, who live in Riga were there. They had to drive nearly 30 km (18 mi) to find a place to park. I wish I could have been there. I might have cowered in fear when the plane flew overhead, expecting to be strafed at any moment but it was just recording the event.
It was also known as The Singing Revolution. Flowers and songs, not guns.
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No, my novella is not porn. No, my novella is not about real people. the characters are based on real people but they are products of my imagination.
Here’s the offensive cover.
It’s not the heart. It’s the hammer and sickle, symbols from the old Soviet flag.
One of my cousins-in-law has faithfully read almost everything I’ve written. He even read my ebook of knitting tips but he would not read The Dissident’s Wife. It doesn’t matter to him that the hero is a dissident, like Boris Pasternak or Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The setting and the content are especially fraught now because of the unprovoked, unjust barbaric war Putin started in Ukraine. When the Soviet Union dissolved, many people called it “the end of history.” They did not understand that history never ends. They celebrated it as a victory for the West. It was not.
When the USSR broke up, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn leftexile in Vermont and returned to Russia.
My cousin-in-law and I are both Latvians so I can see where he’s coming from. Both of us were both stateless, the children of refugees who fled Latvia when the Soviets invaded our country during World War 2. I don’t know if he’s like some of our fellow Latvians who refuse to acknowledge that anything good ever came out of Russia, not their literature, not their art, not their music. I’m not one of those Latvians. I like some Russian art, literature, and music but not their propaganda.
The Dissident’s Wife. was partly inspired by Yelena Bonner, a human rights activist and the wife of wife of Russian dissident scientist, Andrei Sakharov. Bonner was allowed to travel to the West three time for treatment for eye problems. Each time she returned home to her husband. While I admired her for her love and loyalty, I wasn’t sure that in similar circumstances I would return to the Soviet Union. I wondered what kind of man I would return for? A man like Valery Mironov, the dissident poet in my story.
The Soviet Union may be gone but little has changed in Russia as the case of Aleksei Navalny demonstrates.
Why did I write, The Dissident’s Wife? Because I admire dissidents of all nationalities. Because I was trying to create a painless little history lesson. The story is set in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) in the mid-1980s during Mikhail Gorbachev’s glasnost (openness) and perestroika (reforms) which ended with Gorbachev’s downfall.
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(Yes, this is a repost from last year. My post, “Lights Out!” explains why I’ve been distracted. The only thing that has changed is that more and more Latvian communities are participating in White Tablecloth Day)
(Thank you to my friend for allowing me to use her photos. She prefers to remain anonymous. You know who you are)
On May 4th, 1990 the Supreme Council of the Latvian SSR adopted a resolution “On the Restoration of the Independence of the Republic of Latvia”, turning a new white page in the history of Latvia. The White Tablecloth Festival celebrates the anniversary of Latvia’s renewed independence after decades under Soviet rule.
A clean new page is understandable but why a white tablecloth? The cloth was chosen as a symbol of national pride, unity, and self-confidence. On feast days tables are traditionally set with a white linen tablecloth. Latvian friends, neighbors, and families all over the world, those in Latvia and the Latvians of the Diaspora in their adopted homelands are encouraged to gather together as one family to celebrate Latvia’s renewed independence with reverence and joy.
The white tablecloth also symbolizes that Latvia’s break with the Soviet Union was achieved relatively peacefully through diplomacy with the occupying power.
Except for social media I’ve been out of touch with my local Latvian community. I’m not even sure if they’ve adopted the White Tablecloth Festival. I learned about it just the other day when a friend in Ohio shared photos of her Latvian community’s celebration of this anniversary.
It’s about time more attention was paid to this important holiday which usually gets little notice compared to Latvia’s original Independence Day. November 18th has been celebrated by Latvian exiles in their new countries. During the years of Soviet occupation, such a celebration was illegal in Latvia.
Buffet at the Latvian Center in Cleveland.
Whenever Latvians gather to celebrate there is always lots of food. On this special occasion in Cleveland, there were also speeches (hardly a unique occurrence) recitations of poetry, shared memories, and stories about what it means to be a Latvian. They also saw a video about the dedication of a monument to a Latvian freedom activist who died shortly before renewed independence became a reality.
Intricate drawnwork (Dresden work) embroidery.
The day before the party participants were invited to bring heirloom tablecloths that were handmade by their mothers and grandmothers to be displayed on the walls of the Latvian Center.
Crewel embroidery on a linen tablecloth.Textile works of art. Some might even have been brought along when fleeing from the Soviet invasion of Latvia in 1944.
Of course, human nature being what it is, especially Latvian human nature, not everyone is eager to embrace the White Tablecloth Festival. Some people think it’s silly because white tablecloths are used for every celebration that involves feasting (all of them) Others prefer the name Renewal of Independence Day. I think White Tablecloth Festival is more of an attention grabber.
Glory to Latvia!
Whatever it’s called, May 4th is a day to celebrate the restorations of freedom.
As we celebrate we are all hoping that there will soon be a day for Ukraine to celebrate renewed peace and freedom.
Glory to Ukraine!
To clarify any misunderstanding. I am not collecting money for Ukraine. I prefer to leave that to long-established and respected organizations such as CARE, Save the Children, World Central Kitchen, Doctors Without Borders, and other charities. These donations are compensation for me for my work on the blog, researching, writing, editing, and illustrating. I apologize for not making this clear.
It is now day eight since I’ve been without electricity in my bedroom and bathroom.
For the past week, I’ve been without electricity in the bedroom and bathroom of my apartment (flat) In response to my maintenance request, the office sent an email saying that my request was being “reviewed.” How long does it take to review a simple maintenance request? I could review James Joyce’s Ulysses in less time than that if I had read it.
I know the complex is understaffed, but this is ridiculous. If they treat their employees the way they treat their tenants, it’s no wonder they’re chronically .under-staffed.
It is better to shower by flashlight or by candlelight?
I guess I should be grateful that I still have electricity in my kitchen, living room, and makeshift office so I can keep working on my latest novel. The electricity in those spaces will probably go out any minute now. I live in a shoddily constructed building. I’d have moved a long time ago if I could afford to but housing in my state is insanely expensive. More than 36 thousand people applied to be on a waiting list for low-income housing. I’m one of the ones who applied. I don’t know yet if I’m one of the ones who made it. I’m thinking of moving to Latvia where several of my cousins still live but the war in Ukraine has caused prices to go up there, too.
Management wants to show me the door.
Today I received an email from the apartment complex’s management office about the balance I owe them. This is Tuesday. I was in the office Saturday with a cashier’s check for an amount larger than the balance mentioned in the email. The girl wouldn’t take the check because it represented only a partial payment. I already have an eviction notice but nowhere to go and a puny income. No job prospects in sight.
My old manual typewriter was not as cute as this one.
So what do I do? I fret. Apply for jobs no one wants to hire me for. To keep from going crazy, I write. I’m almost finished with the second draft of a novel I want to try to peddle to Harlequin. If the lights go out in my home “office” I wouldn’t be able to write without going to the library.
The rent situation has been going on for months. It’s why my blog posts have been so scarce. Writing fiction is a lot less fraught than writing non-fiction, even if the non-fiction is about myths and legends.
I love my characters and spending time with them. My novel takes me away from my bleak circumstances to Languedoc, France. Romance novels always have a happy ending. The question the books answer is not what the ending will be but how the characters will get there. I don’t know what my ending will be, either, but I will survive even though I don’t know how.
Your donation in support of my writing will be greatly appreciated. Thank you.
Illustration by JÄkabs BÄ«ne (1895 – 1955) To me he looks a bit like Attila the Hun. The back-to-back E is one of ĆȘsiĆĆĄ symbols. He and his horses are the bingers of the sun
You would expect that the day honoring the god of spring would be the equinox on March 20th. However, ĆȘsiĆa diena (ĆȘsiĆĆĄ day) is celebrated on April 23. I don’t know the reason for this discrepancy. So, I’m not late in writing about this deity.
Paradoxically, ĆȘsiĆĆĄ Day is considered to be the beginning of summer.
In Latvia, spring is known as the blossoming time (ziedonis, also used as a man’s name)
ĆȘsiĆĆĄ, in Latvian mythology, is the god of light, spring, bees, and horses, as well as the god of spring. He brings green grass to fields and new green leaves to trees.
In Latgale province ĆȘsiĆ Day, traditions continued into the beginning of the 20th century, while in Kurzeme and Zemgale it died out in the second half of the 19th century.
ĆȘsiĆĆĄ Day was the first day of the season that horses were turned out to pasture. It was an ancient tradition for the young men of the homestead to go sleep in the pasture to protect the horses from both wolves and thieves. In order to keep warm, the horse herders built fires and slept by them on pine boughs or sacks of straw brought from home. Since they were Latvians, they also sang many songs. In case of rain, they built little huts out of branches. Horse pasturing could continue to MartiĆ diena (Martin Day) when ĆȘsiĆĆĄ became Martin, the god of autumn and still was the god of horses.
ĆȘsiĆĆĄwas the protector of horses.
The most important of ĆȘsiĆĆĄ Day symbols is a colt. The symbolism can be interpreted in several ways–as the power of the deity, human energy, and vitality, and as a phallic symbol of generative vitality.
A yellow horse represents the energy of the sun.
This is also a horse market day when horses are bought and sold.
I’ve always loved horses so this is a good excuse to search out and include pictures of them.
Scholars don’t agree as to the origins of the name ĆȘsiĆĆĄ. Some argue that the name comes from the German husing, a.k.a. spirit of the home. Perhaps from the Russian word ŃŃĐ”ĐœŃ that Google translated as fall without specifying whether it was a noun or a verb. Others claim that the name derives from the Egyptian god, Osiris, or from the Sanskrit ĆȘĆ A, which means dawn.
One thing I can tell you is that the Wiki translation of ĆȘsiĆĆĄ to English does not mean “whiskers.” It’s an understandable, albeit silly mistake. The Latvian word for mustache is Ć«sas. Similar, but not the same. Why would anyone think the god of spring and light would be called “whiskers”?
ĆȘsiĆĆĄ Dayis the first day of the plowing season.
To ensure the fertility of his fields the farmer gets up early and plows the first furrow before dawn, while naked. (is all of Latvian mythology about sex? It was an agrarian society so of course it was) It’s important not to look back as he plows (maybe so his wife won’t distract him)
The first furrow must be plowed in the middle of the field. After the first three furrows are plowed it’s time for a special holiday meal, which includes eggs (!) In the evening of ĆȘsiĆĆĄ Day, the farmer shares his holiday evening meal with the horse herders out in the pasture.
A sleepover with horses. It’s also a day for horsing around. The day is supposed to be greeted with noise like thunder,
ĆȘsiĆĆĄ Day, a day for green. Your donation in support of my work would be greatly appreciated. Thank you!
MÄra by Ansis CÄ«rulis, 1883 – 1942 The goddess is referred to as Dear MÄra or Beloved MÄra.
Many of the ancient deities were female.
At the top of the hierarchy was a trinity of deities, two of whom were female. Dievs, the male, was the top-ranking deity, the father of the world. Laima, the goddess of fate was one of the three. MÄte (Mother) MÄra is considered to be the feminine side of Dievs, the mother of the material world. She and Dievs are like yin and yang. Latvia is known as MÄras zeme (MÄra’s land) The other, minor goddesses are MÄra’s assistants or different aspects of her being.
The River Gauja is the longest Latvian river. It flows only within Latvija’s territory and so can be considered a symbol representing all of Latvia.MÄra is also the mother of waters, the sea mother.
MÄra is the protector of women, childbirth, and children who are considered to be gifts from the goddess. She is the giver and taker of life. At death, she takes the person’s body, while Dievs take the soul. However, she does not determine the length of a person’s life, that is up to Laima. One of MÄra’s many aspects is VeÄŒu MÄte, the goddess of the underworld, and mother of spirits. Different facets of her personality are mother and protector of cattle, mother of milk, mother earth, mother of the people, forest mother, mother of fields, and mother of flax. She encourages cows to give rich, creamy, abundant milk.
Since cows give milk it makes sense that the mother of milk would also be the mother of cattle.
In Latvian folk songs, dainas, MÄra is depicted as doing women’s work–grinding grain, milking cows, or churning butter.
All the animals that are sacred to her are black–hen, toad, grass snake (a harmless creature), viper, and beetle. She can turn herself into any of them. All are associated with the realm of the dead. She is associated with the serpent cult, the chthonic fertility deity.
MÄrais depicted as wearing green or gold garments sitting in a willow, by a spring, or on a rock i the middle of a brook.
MÄra’s cross, also known as the cross of crosses, is the symbol of completeness, for the home, and fire. It is sometimes drawn on loaves of bread and carved into sacrificial rocks and on fireplaces.
One of MÄra’ssymbols.
Some scholars argue that the name MÄra derives from the name Maria, a version of the name Mary. They take it to mean that she is the same being as Mary the Mother of the Christian God. However, she could just as easily be the Hindu goddess of death, who is also called Mara or Mata. The similarity of names shows the Indo-European roots of the Latvian language and culture, both much older than Christianity.
Another of MÄra’s symbols represents the earth and her role as the earth’s mother.
It’s important to have this particular symbol of MÄra at weddings to ensure the couple’s fertility.
The horizontal line of the triangle symbolizes the earth. The other two lines point to the direction where the sun rises (NE) and sets (NW) at the summer solstice. MÄra’s many symbols include a simple horizontal line which represents the earth and a zigzag which symbolizes rivers.
When MÄras triangle is unified with Dievs triangle, which is turned the other way, they represent balance and harmony.
MÄras various symbols are used in arts and crafts of different kinds, weavings, ceramics, wood, and leather work.
MÄra, MÄrÄ«te, and MÄrÄ«ta are popular women’s given names. MÄras Name Day is March 25th.
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The title of the book is Kriksis TrimdÄ in English Kriksis in Exile. My latest read.
Some of my followers are Latvians but probably many of them don’t speak, let alone read Latvian so why should they or anyone who is not Latvian care about a Latvian children’s book? Hopefully, my post will prompt people, no matter what their language to pick up old childhood favorites and read it again. Or perhaps to get a children’s book they never got around to reading.
Many adults turn up their noses at the prospect of reading a children’s book. Not me. I read Charlotte’s Web as an adult because students in my college English class raved about it. When I read the book, I understood why people of every age love it. I also read The Wind in the Willows when I was all grown up and every one of the Harry Potter books. Good writing is good writing, no matter who it’s meant for.
The water rat is right, “There is nothing–absolutely nothing–half so much worth doing as messing about in boats.”(The Wind in the Willows)
What prompted me to pick up my old book was disappointment with some of the books for adults that I’ve read lately. Books with holes in the logic of the plot. Books with way too much detail. A book that included the description of a character’s digestive issue. It was boring even before it got to that point. Books with cardboard characters. Redundancies. The last one I really liked was a book I re-read before last Christmas, Abide With Me by Elizabeth Strout that’s about a widowed small-town minister.
The exiled dog and his boy enchant me as much now as they did when my father and I took turns reading chapters to each other when I was in elementary school.
Lassie: “Tommy’s in the well!” Lassie alerts the family.
Kriksis: TomiĆĆĄ (Tommy) has been captured by Russian soldiers. Kriksis to the resscue.
Was Tommy in the well a real episode? I don’t remember.
If Kriksis in Exile were in English it would probably give some people a heart attack and get banned. I don’t remember being traumatized by it even though my family and I were exiles. I’d probably already been traumatized by overhearing the stories of their and their friends’ experiences during the Second World War. When someone, like my parents, who were refugees in Germany, survives the bombing of Berlin, you have a different perspective of reality.
The first chapter shows forest animals, all of them friends of Kriksis, struggling to define war. War is terrible noise. War is fire falling from the sky. War destroys mole’s house. They wonder, should they hide deep in the ground anyway? Can war follow them into the ground? Owl has seen war and tells about it to Raven who explains it to the other animals. War is humans fighting each other. Firing guns the size of logs. Flying machines with wings as long as trees are tall, dropping huge bullets on everyone. War is Russians trying to steal land that doesn’t belong to them.
Where is Kriksis the animals wonder? He is smarter than all the rest of them put together. He is not just their friend, he is their hero. He will know what to do. The forest is on fire and Kriksis rescues many of his friends by carrying them on his back as he swims a river. All the animals speak the same language. A language that a boy can understand but adults can’t.
It’s not until much later in the book, after many adventures, that Kriksis, having lost his family. who fled the war, meets TomiĆĆĄ who has also lost his family, not to death but to exile.
How is it that a child of exiles can find such a book enchanting? Maybe because of the stalwart dog and his loyalty to friends, both the other animal and the boy. Because of the dog’s intelligence and ingenuity. Because of TomiĆĆĄ and Kriksis motto, “We are not ones to be afraid. that helps them survive the perils of war and exile. There’s also the charm of dog and boy understanding each other so well.
I don’t remember how old I was when my father and I read about Kriksis and TomiĆĆĄ maybe eight or nine. Unlike with a couple of other books, we read it cover to cover. One book we never finished was a Latvian book called Legends of Christ. Once we got to Maundy Thursday. I refused to read more. I knew what would happen on Good Friday and did not want to read about it. No way could I be persuaded to continue.
Despite the subjects, war, and exile, there is no graphic violence in Kriksis in Eixle but when the boy and dog wind up as exiles in Germany they see buildings with shattered windows, buildings with no roof, and piles of rubble in the street. On their journey, they experience hunger and sleeplessness. Somehow, I survived hearing about all that.
From a book of wonder tales by the author of Kriksis in Exile.
When I finish reading, Kriksis in Exile, I think I’ll read some of my other Latvian books. It’s gratifying to know I can read my native language more smoothly than I expected. There were only a couple of words I didn’t recognize. And I was reminded of the charms of the Latvian language with all its declensions, conjugations, and terms of endearment.
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Ft. Nisqually Living History Museum, Tacome, Washington, USA
Present-day reality has not improved any so for a short while, I’m escaping to the past. I love history and I love the fort.
During the mid-19th century, Fort Nisqually was an outpost of the Hudson’s Bay Company. It’s a cool place to visit and a fun place to take kids.s
My photos from a few years ago helped me with descriptions for the historical novel that I set aside for what I thought would be a short time to write A Home for an Exile’s Heart. I still haven’t gone back to it as I’m writing what I hope will be a more marketable novel than As Wind to Flame. One of these days…
The exterior of the palisade at Ft. Nisqually. Usually, there would be many cars parked in the lot. I think I might have taken this photo at a time when I was just driving past on my way out of the park. The fort is within the boundaries of Pt. Defiance Park in Tacoma, Washington, USA.Bastion, house, carriage shed, and “the necessary” inside the palisade.The interior of “the necessary.
This was the first time I’d seen a “two-holer.” I didn’t know such a thing existed though I have used an outhouse at a tiny summer resort in the distant past. This is just a bit too much togetherness for me. Note the TP hanging from the nail. Probably squares of newspaper. I’ll let you think up your own editorial comments.
Commode chair
The fancy folk who lived in the factor’s house had this “necessary” at their disposal. Just lift the lid. Be sure to put it back down when finished.
Interior of a worker’s house.Interior of the factor’s house, a.ka. “The Big House.”Firewood bin.
The fine folk who lived in the factor’s house didn’t have to go far for their firewood. The bin is on the back porch.
The commode chair would have been in the bedroom.
Where the chickens lived.
I love the woven fence. One of my friends volunteers as a re-enactor at the museum. She would bring her chickens along and pen them here to do their own re-enacting.
The wash house
The wash house is one of my favorite places at the fort. I love the long johns hanging from the drying rack. You could hang a lot of laundry on the drying rack which could be hauled up to the ceiling so it would be out of the way.
Flat iron.
It would be necessary to have more than one of these as shown in the photo. One would be warming on the stove’s burner while the other was in use. When the one being used got cold it would be traded for the one that had been warming on the stove.
The general store.
One of the families in As Wind to Flame owns a general store. An important scene takes place in the store.
The origins of the word “shebang” is unclear. It has many possible definitions, one of the being a shop. Maybe that’s where the phrase “the whole shebang”: comes from. No one knows for certain so I go with “shop.”
The building on the right is the granary.
Every weekend during the summer there are fun hands-on activities at the fort. In May Queen Victoria’s birthday is celebrated. There is also a brigade encampment. The annual candlelight tour that takes place in October is sold out well in advance.
Safe behind the massive gate.
Now back to the unpleasant present which is made more pleasant by the contemporary romance I’m currently writing.
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Was I wrong yesterday to imply that people can’t make their own happiness? Only partially. For many people, such as those living in war zones, in places where there have been natural or man-made disasters, or who are dealing with dread diseases, it’s probably impossible. For those of us in less dire situations we can grab a bit of happiness here and there.
I love to write. When it goes well, writing makes me happy, as if I’m soaring like these balloons. While I write I can forget my grim situation for a while. I live in the world I’ve created in my imagination. Even when writing does not go well, it’s better than not writing. However, when I close my document and leave my computer, unpleasant reality rebounds.
If I love writing so much, why have I neglected my blog so much in the last couple of months? I do enjoy writing, researching, editing, and illustrating my blog posts but I’m primarily a fiction writer. I love creating what I hope are interesting characters and the world they live in. Giving them problems that make them miserable for a while and then give them a happy-ever-after ending. Maybe because of my situation or my personality, I can’t give my stories and unresolved or even an unhappy, but fitting ending. That’s just not me.
For a while, I felt too dismal to write at all but I found a manuscript that I started for National Novel Writing Month (every November) and left unfinished when I couldn’t figure out where I was going with it. Looking at it again, seeing how many words I’d already written and the characters I’d created, I decided that the story has possibilities. and would work for Harlequin Romances.
Some writers turn up their noses at the very thought of writing for Harlequin. Not me. The publishing company has big advantages that other publishing companies don’t offer. They accept manuscripts from un-agented writers. They pay advances as well as royalties. Because of their book club where people sign up for monthly book packages writers are guaranteed and audience. One big disadvantage of the book club is that the month after your book arrives, four new books come in the mail and the previous month’s books are no longer the shiny new thing. That’s something that can happen with any publisher.
When I went back to Romance Rhymes With France, I decided I’d better read at least one of Harlequins books to see the sort of thing they publish. They have guidelines on their website but they’re don’t give you a feel for what they want. Fortunately, considering my practically non-existent budget, I was able to download a free novel. I’ve read quite a few Harlequin novels in the past and enjoyed them. I hope the one I downloaded was an awful exception to their usual standards. It was a perfect example of you get what you pay for. Flat characters, bad grammar, clumsy, repetitive writing, and even by the standards of romance novels totally unbelievable. I slogged through it anyway. It was worth it because it convinced me that I can do better. I even got ideas for my own story.
Mostly, working on Romance Rhymes With France has been a happy experience. I like my characters–an artist and a bestselling (!) author. I like the setting. Languedoc in southern France. I’ve been making pretty steady progress–two to four pages a day on average. As often happens, I hit a speed bump. I don’t like the way I took my characters in the last couple of days. Characters need conflict and inner struggles on their road to true love. I think I over-did it. Made the conflict for the hero too unpleasant for Harlequin and for me. So, I took a couple of days break from working on the novel. I hope the time away from it will give me a fresh perspective while I do something else.
Maybe I’ll have a happy ending, too. All that takes time. Finishing the manuscript. Re-writing. Editing.. Submitting. Waiting for a response.
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Shibboleth (Noun) a word or saying used by adherents of a party, sect, or belief and usually regarded by others as empty of real meaning. (Merriam-Webster)
Or is it just a smug, self-satisfied shibboleth that happy people to tell others that their unhappiness, even their misery, is their own fault. “We’re not to blame. Fate is not blame. You are.” An easy way to write off less fortunate others. That’s how this this banal catchphrase seems to me.
Do the people of Ukraine make their own happiness in the midst of an unjust,, unlawful, land brutalk war make their own happiness? Do the people of earthquake devastated Turkey and Syria make their own happiness? Well, the smug happy person may say. war and natural disasters are different. Clearly those events are not the fault of the victims.
But that’s also true on a smaller scale. A depressive does not choose to be a depressive because it’s satisfying or because in some twisted way it makes them happy. Relieves them of responsibility. Just get on anti-depressants the smug person might say. Anti-depressants don’t work for everyone. They have side-effects such as suicidal ideation. Or just a buzzing in the head like electricity is how one of my friends described it. Those are just a couple of the possible side-effects of anti-depressants.
As for me, being unhappy must be my own fault because I “choose” to live in a state where housing costs keep rising but my income does not. Smuggies don’t take into consideration that moving is also expensive. “Go live with someone” they say but don’t offer their own home to share. Not everyone is made to share living space with another person unless the other person is compatible, maybe a spouse or relative. Co-housing can be sheer torture for an introvert. But what does that matter as long as you have a roof over your head? It matters.
Just take your happiness into your own hands and everything will be peaches and cream. As is often the case, it’s more easily said and done. I’ve lost track of how many jobs I’ve applied for with no success. But, since my happiness is in my own hands. I will keep on keeping on. I do have one last resort housing option: a cemetery plot. It’s a quiet and private place.
My anxiety isn’t just for me losing my home, It’s also about the possibility of my plants losing their home. Most low-income housing that I’ve seen has no balconies. So, what would I do with my plants if I have to move to such a place?
For most of every year I have a mini jungle on my small balcony. There is barely enough room for both me and my plants.
My autumn fern is about ready to take over the entire balcony.
I have a friend who rents a house. I’ve thought about asking her to take my plants if I should have to move but she’s in pretty much the same situation as I. She has her own business but sadly too many of her clients don’t pay their bills on time or at all, so she’s hurting, too.. Despite having a husband, two kids, and two cats and a dog to worry about, she kindly made a contribution to help me out. I’m endelessly grateful to her for everything she has done for me.
I miss having a cat but at present, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about a potentially homeless cat, too. The fern has a child. It self seeded in another container and has grown surprisingly big in a relatively short time.
My big gorgeous hosta will soon be competition for balcony space with the fern.
Another balcony resident.
Buying a hydrangea for my balcony garden probably wasn’t the best idea I ever had but I could resist the color or the sale price. It was small when I got it but it’s grown considerably in only two years. We had a pretty fierce cold snap just after Christmas but the hydrangea survived and now has small leaf clusters. I hope it survives the cold snap we’re supposed to get later this week.
The hydrangea has some mystery companions growing in its container. The green shoots are probably three inches tall. I don’t know what they are but I don’t like to yank out a plant until I’m sure it’s a weed. The shoots look like they might belong to some bulb plant.
One of my three geraniums.
Many people treat geraniums like annuals but I’ve succeeded in over-wintering them and getting them to bloom again. I babied the geraniums all winter bringing them indoors whenever it got too cold. They’re going to be coming inside again probably tomorrow. When the weather is good the three begonias live on a tiered, spiral plant stand.
Petunias and bacopas.
If it weren’t for railing boxes, I wouldn’t be able to have as many plants on my balcony. This box turned out especially well. The Anna’s hummingbird loves the pink petunias. I hope somebody in the building has a hummingbird feeder so tiny Anna will be able to get a snack if my plants and I are gone.
Cabbage butterflyon a hosta leaf.
I have room for visitors on my balcony if they’re very small.
My balcony is my haven of peace, beauty, and serenity. It’s calming even when I hear traffic noisy, which seems go go on all day and night. Although I’m not really a morning person, I sometimes wake up at dawn and photograph sunrises from there. I watch Jupiter from there. I have a chair and a tray table on a stand out on the balcony. When the weather is nice, say in the mid-fifties, I bundle up and sit there and write.
Symbolic clouds hovering on the horizon.
Despite the great view, this apartment is relatively inexpensive compare to others in town. Just not inexpensive enough for me at present.
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It’s apparently a French thing, too. Peter Mayle wrote in his bestselling book, A Year in Provence, that he and his wife closed the deal for the house they were purchasing over a five-hour lunch. It was probably such a short lunch because it was a business lunch. No doubt it’s an Italian thing, too.. Possibly this sort of lunch happens in all of Europe and maybe even South America.
One of my dear friends, a half-Latvian professor of music, is spending part of his sabbatical in Latvia studying the music of an ancient regional culture. This isn’t his first trip to Latvia so he has had the opportunity to make friends. He has also discovered the joys of the seven-hour lunch.
Beer and friends.
When I was in Latvia during the Soviet years of glasnost (openness) I also experienced the seven-hour lunch. Or, it might have been ten hours. I lost track. Hours at the table were nothing new to me. That’s how it was when my parents’ generation threw parties but then it was mostly in the evening. Mostly. Mostly. Often, when the fun times were too good to end a few friends were invited to return the next morning, or afternoon, (depending on how long the previous night’s party lasted) to help finish off the leftovers. The main dish then was meat-filled pancakes called kommorgenwieder derived from the German phrase komm morgen wieder, come again tomorrow.
For me there was no returning the in the morning. I was going home the next day.
Latvians make a tidy little bundle with both ends tucked under.
A vivid memory from my childhood was a celebration at our Latvian next door neighbor’s house. The wife had been a signer with Latvia’s National Opera. She led the guests in a lusty song. It’s sad that there was no such singing at this party. Either my relatives had forgotten the words to our ancient folksongs or the prevailing atmosphere dampened their enthusiasm for singing. On a previous visit to Gaida’s home, I sang a couple of folk songs to her little boys. Songs I had known since I was a little girl. Songs they should have known, but didn’t.
How did that long, leisurely lunch get started? My cousin, my father’s niece, Gaida (guy-dah) who at the time had an apartment in RÄ«ga invited me and the RÄ«ga rellies, including the ones on my mother’s side of the family to lunch at one in the afternoon. We talked, ate, and drank. Repeat. Repeat. Even though it was a time of privation more food and drink kept appearing on the table.
Only a fraction of my tribe. The ones on my father’s side of the family are missing.
At four, I was supposed to meet my mother’s younger brother and his son. They were driving in from her hometown LimbaĆŸi, which is about 54 miles (87 km) from the capital. We were to meet at the park across the street from my hotel. That was no reason to break up the party. My cousin, Guntis (soft U, uh), my father’s nephew went to pick them up and brought them over. They’d already me the RÄ«ga crew when they all gathered at my hotel on the night I arrived.
Traditional Latvian black rye bread. I was disappointed that at the time they didn’t have any in RÄ«ga. I had to go back to the USA to be able to get it.
What do you talk about at a seven-hour lunch? We talked about family, of course. The ones in Latvia, the ones in America, even the ones in Australia. But even though my mother had a large family, her grandfather was married three times, anecdotes about the family wouldn’t have taken up so many hours. One of my mother’s cousins, a professor at the University of Latvia gave a welcoming table speech to me. I don’t remember what he said, but I get misty just thinking about it. Latvians tend to give long speeches. Over the years I’ve been bored by too many of them. Pavils’ speech wasn’t very long but from the heart. I surprised myself by asking Guntis to give a speech from my father’s side of the family. I don’t remember what he said, either. Same reaction on my part.
Other than the abundance of food, I don’t remember what we ate. What sticks in my mind is a liqueur that tasted like minty mouthwash. It showed up when the other booze started running low. I confess, I never in my life drank as much nor stay as sober as I did while in Latvia. Adrenaline must counteract the effects of alcohol. Even though I felt comfortable and at home in Latvia, like the rest of us in that tour group from the West, I was constantly aware of the possibility of being followed by a KGB agent. Less for myself that my relatives.
The night of that long lunch was the only time I was drunk. It must have been the minty mouthwash liqueur. Guntis drove me, my uncle, and my cousin back to my hotel where they’d left their car. I remember bawling on my uncle’s shoulder, knowing I would never experience anything like that in my life again.
We had vodka but not Stoli. It has becomean international brand. It might have been been available in stores where only tourists were allowed to shop. Stores where only western currencies were accepted.
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The legend goes that the Emperor Nero supposedly fiddle while Roma burned. The only problem with that myth is that the first fiddle was not invented, in Germany, until about 1400 hundred year’s after Nero’s death.
So much for an interesting legend about the indifference of a ruler.
I wrote while my life burned. No more literally than Nero’s fiddling. For a while, working on a new novel provided solace. An escape from unpleasant reality. My new work in progress is a romance novel for Harlequin. Not the first publisher I would choose but they’re one of the very few traditional publishers who accept unsolicited manuscripts from writers without agents. In addition to royalties, they also pay advances. A cash advance, even if it’s something that doesn’t materialize until sometime in the future, if at all, is something I badly need. Not to mention how nice, delightful, wonderful, exciting, thrilling it would be to hold a physical book that I wrote in my hands.
Preferably, a book that I did not pay someone to publish for me.
I’ve even been reading a pretty awful example that I download for free from the Harlequin website. It’s a chore to struggle through the thing but it’s worth it because it gives me confidence that I can do better. Readers deserve better. It also shows me the sort of thing the publisher wants and gives me ideas for my own story.
As for my burning world…housing costs in my state are insanely expensive. Unless some miracle happens, a miracle such as a job or a big jackpot winning lottery ticket, I can no longer afford my apartment. My former employer was a victim of the pandemic. Unemployment insurance has a way of running out. So many people in this state are hurting and need low-income housing that waiting lists are years long. I don’t know how they do it. Not everyone is as fortunate as I in having relatives help about but they’re not wealthy. They can’t afford to keep helping.
I keep applying for jobs but not getting hired, not even in fields where I have extensive experience. Maybe that’s part of the problem–I’m over-qualified. Or something. I’ve been a solitary person all my life so having a roommate would be a last ditch option. Better than living in a cardboard carton under a freeway overpass.
Anxiety is not good for inspireation.
Before anxiety achieved high-tide, my writing was going well. I managed to write approximately a thousand words, four pages, a day. Then, as the anxiety went from chromic to acute, the writing came to a dead halt. That went on for a few weeks. Eventually, not writing got to the point where it was worse than the anxiety and worry about where I would live if I lose my apartment., so I forced myself to write. My production isn’t as good as it was before, but a page a day is better than nothing.
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A Latvian tradition is to eat nine special foods at their Christmas celebration. Each food has its own magical meaning.
PÄ«rÄgs: A Latvian bacon bun. (PÄ«rÄgsis a singular noun. Plural is pÄ«rÄgi)
My motivation to write ebbs and flows. Lately, it’s been at an ebb. I start a new blog post and it winds up in the drafts file. It’s embarrassing to admit how often that has happened. I seldom know why this happens even with the most interesting material. Maybe this time it’s because I miss working on my novel, A Home for an Exile’s Heart and I’m in mourning. I have another novel in progress that I set aside to work on Exile. I love it, too, but its draw on my interest doesn’t seem to be strong enough. Some of my lack of motivation has to do with anxiety and depression; it, too, ebbs and flows. Not even cookies.
Latvian Christmas spice cookies baked with nine different spices.
Instead of writing a new description of the nine special foods, I’m going to insert a scene from Exile.
LÄ«vija is the protagonist. Cameron is the deuteragonist; the only American at a Latvian Christmas party at LÄ«vija’s home. Dzintra is her seven-year-old daughter. The other characters are their housemates. Kristaps is six.
Many newly arrived refugees lived together communally until they could afford to acquire homes of their own. My family and I lived for a while with my godmother and her family.
The scene:
LÄ«vija and Vera entered carrying platters of roast meat. Even after feeding ten people, there would probably be enough leftovers to keep the household satiated for a week. LÄ«vija set a roast goose in front of Mr. Timma. Noticing the wonder on Cameronâs face, she explained, âWe all received Christmas bonuses.â
âIt is a Latvian tradition to eat nine special foods at Christmas.â Vera set a pork roast before Mrs. Timma and sat down between Kristaps and Marta. âEach of the foods has a magical meaning.â
Cameron turned to his little companion. âWill you tell me what the meanings are, Dzintra?â
Obviously pleased to be asked, she counted on her fingers. âPeas and beans so you donât cry. PÄ«rÄgi to always have a nice surprise. Beets and carrots to be healthy.â
Kristaps seemingly couldnât bear to have everyoneâs attention focused on Dzintra. He piped up loudly, âPig meat for good luck!â
âKris,â SiliĆĆĄ silenced his son again. âMr. Kvinn asked Dzintra, not you.â
Once again Cameron felt sorry for the kid. The boy couldnât seem to do anything right. He also couldnât seem to learn. Sliding down in his chair, Kristaps mumbled, âI was just trying to help.â
âIn English pig meat is called pork.â Unfazed Dzintra went on, âPoultry for success. Fish for money. Sauerkraut to be strong. A roundâŠâ Dzintra broke off and leaned forward looking to her mother for help.
âA round baked good,â LÄ«vija prompted.
Not subdued for long, Kristaps announced, âWe have two round cakes!â
Dzintra tensed. She seemed ready to come to blows. âThatâs supposed to be a surprise. You spoiled it, Kris!â
Zenta put a calming hand on her granddaughterâs shoulder. âVe hev many surprize. Tell Mr. Kvin about ze last two foods. Vat do round baked goods mean?â
âThey mean lots of sunshine.â Her momentary flare of temper forgotten, Dzintra turned her sunny face toward Cameron. âAnd piparkĆ«kas so youâll always have love.â
âThat must be why many piparkĆ«kas are shaped like hearts,â Cameron said, putting a caressing hand on top of Dzintraâs head. âIâll have to make sure I have a little of each food and plenty of piparkĆ«kas, even though Iâm lucky enough to already have lots of love.â
Fancy layer cakes, “tortes” are a specialty of some Latvian ladies.
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Hochfeld DP Camp, Augsburg, Bavaria, Germany was one of the hundreds of refugee camps set up by UNRRA, United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration after the Second World War to provide shelter and other basic necessities for the thousands of refugees who fled the Soviets and the Nazis. People from all three Baltic countries, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania were at Hochfeld.
Coming up with ideas for my blog can be a challenge. Too often, I start a post and for some reason, my will to work on it falters and comes to a halt. Occasionally, I come up with ideas when I’m not even looking for them, something sparks, and I take off, not even noticing how many hours I’ve been pounding the keyboard and searching for illustrations. I was going through old photos when I came up with these from my family’s collection taken during our time at Hochfeld.
Hospital in Augsburg where I got my start in life.
I was very small when we left Germany so I don’t remember much. We had a two-room apartment because two of my uncles, my mother’s older brother, and my father’s younger brother were with us. They had the multi-functional main room and my parents and I had the second room. Not every family was as fortunate.
Courtesy of the Dankers family archive.
Here’s what Mr. Dankers said about their DP living quarters: “Mom making dinner in our exquisite single room suite containing kitchen, living, dining, bed, rec & bath-room in Displaced Persons Camp Augsburg/Hochfeld in Germany, March 1951. Thank you, dear parents, for eventually taking my sister & me to the Land of Opportunity in America.”
Mr. Ohaks, my uncle Nikolaijs, and yours truly.
Mr. Ohaks was the building supervisor. I don’t know why he’s in the photo with us. Maybe he’s the one who set up the photo session. I also don’t know where the ball came from. Maybe it was in a CARE package from America. Founded in 1945 CARE (Cooperative for Assitance and Relief Everywhere, originallyCooperative for American Remittances to Europe) is one of the largest and oldest humanitarian aid organizations. I’ve known about CARE practically forever but only now looked up the meaning of the acronym. It’s still in existence.
My other uncle, Alfons, and his friend.
Alfons never mentioned this lady. The only information I have about her came from my mother. He and this woman had a romance. She was married but escaped Latvia without her husband. Perhaps he was a soldier who had been reported killed in action. In Germany, she learned that her husband was still alive and returned to him in Latvia. When she got there, she learned that he’d divorced her and married someone else. The Soviets would not allow her to return to Germany. I don’t know if this sad experience was the reason my uncle never married.
I borrowed parts of this tragic romance for one of the characters in my novel, A Home for an Exile’s Heart.
Hochfeld apartment block. The man with the pipe is my uncle, Nikolaijs.I don’t think this is where my family and I lived. Hochfeld was merged with another smaller DP camp.Nikolaijs is the man in front.
I believe this is a street scene in Augsburg with Hochfeld DP camp in the background. Folks, if you have photos with no information written on them please do so for the sake of those who come after you.
I don’t know if this photo was taken somewhere in Augsburg but I don’t know where else it could have been taken.
Nikolaijs is in the middle. He lost part of his leg in the war.
My mother, Nikolaijs, and I.
I’m sad because Nikolaijs, my favorite uncle, was about to leave for the United States where he’d found sponsors in Pennsylvania. He wasn’t as afraid to change the diapers of a baby girl as my father and my other uncle. KoÄŒa (Kolya) would read to me at bedtime. After a while, when he didn’t return to the main room, my mother came in to check on us. KoÄŒa had read himself to sleep while I was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m still a night owl.
My other uncle, Alfons, leaving for America.
All refugees departing for their new homes had tags on their clothes as if they were packages that might get lost in transit. I guess it makes sense since they didn’t speak English well or at all. Except that this was Germany and the Baltic refugees could speak German.
Alfons’ first home in America was on a farm in South Dakota.
Another friend, Äąirts, on his makeshift scooter. His family went to Australia.
Life for kids in a DP camp could be fun and almost normal. Determined that their culture and language not be lost refugees set up schools for their children. They also put on plays and concerts.
My mother once took me to a Latvian preschool. A teacher and my mother accompanied me to the classroom. When we entered the room, the children surged to their feet, as Latvian children do to show respect for the teacher, I was terrified. I was probably three and had never seen anything like that in my life. It must have seemed as if the other kids were about to attack me. I ducked under my mother’s arm and ran to the workshop where my father was learning goldsmithing. My mother never said, and I never asked, whether she ever took me back or gave up on that portion of my education.
This is another incident that I used in my novel assigned to my heroine’s daughter Dzintra, who was also at Hochfeld. Except that Dzintra has two grandmothers to run to.
Photo from my laissez-passer. A passport issued by the United Nations to stateless people.
My mother probably knit that little sweater for me. I’m wearing a sun brooch that my father made for me. I still have it and still wear it.
The sun in Latvian mythology is a mother goddess. Her symbol represents protection, harmony, perpetual motion, and the power of life.
Good-bye Germany. Hello, America!
A Home for an Exile’s Heart is about the life of a Latvian refugee, LÄ«vija GaliĆa after they find a new home in Seattle, Washington in a neighborhood where one of my mother’s cousins, her mother, and son also lived communally with another Latvian family. Only the living arrangements are the same in my story as in real life.
You don’t need a Kindle to read my novel, any electronic device will do, including your laptop or desktop.
Your donation in support of my work would be greatly appreciated.
Martin’s symbolof fire and light. Both are important during the coldest and darkest time of year.
Martin Day was on November 10th but I’ve recently learned that all of November is Martin Month. Who is Martin? He is one of the sons of Dievs the Latvian nature deity who has become associated with the Christian god who goes by the same name. Dieva (possessive case) other sons are JÄnis, whose day is the Summer Solstice, and ĆȘsiĆĆĄ, the god of spring and blossoming.
It is a tradition to sacrifice a rooster to MÄrtinĆĄ to thank him for a good harvest and in hopes of a good harvest the following year.
MÄrtiĆi is the Latvian word for Martin Day. It’s the day when the VeÄŒi, the spirits of the dead, return to their home beyond the sun. It marks the end of shepherding and the completion of harvesting. It is the beginning of ladus laiks, the time of ice. And it’s a cross-quarter day, the midpoint between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice.
We seldom get ice like this in my state
One of the customs to celebrate Martin’s Day is a masked procession. The masked participants are known as budeÄŒi. Mumming, another name for masking goes on all winter to MeteĆi, when spring is welcomed.
One of my friends is currently in Latvia where he took part in Martin Day festivities at the Ethnographic Open Air Museum in RÄ«ga. Adults, as well as children, wear masks. In the old days in Latvia, budeÄŒi went from farmstead to farmstead, singing and dancing. The householders welcomed them with refreshments.
My friend kindly gave me permission to use his photos and didn’t even ask for photo credits.
BudeÄŒi at the Ethnographic Open Air MuseumMusic is everywhere.I’m sad that I never got to see anything like this when I was in Latvia. I was there at the height of summer and I got to see a Song Festival.Latvians dance everywhere, all the time.BudeÄŒicome in all sizes.
MÄrtiĆi is one of many fire festivals in Latvian, and world pagan traditions. Fire represents the threshold to another dimension, The center of the bonfire is a direct link to Dievs. The fire rituals are complex and deserve their own post.
MÄrtinĆĄ is also a popular name for men. My maternal grandfather was named MÄrtinĆĄ.
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In Latvian mythology, VeÄŒu MÄte is one of many mother goddesses. She is not a nice little old lady. She is the goddess of the underworld, the keeper of keys to the underworld. She is also known as kapumÄte, graveyard mother, and goes around wearing a white woolen cloak and iron shoes or shoes made of sand.
VeÄŒu MÄte, image by JÄnis RozentÄls, 1866 – 1916
VeÄŒu MÄte ranks in importance along with Zemes MÄte, Earth Mother who is also a goddess of death. Sometimes the two goddesses are considered to be synonymous. However, Earth Mother is said to be a good-hearted deity. On the other hand, VeÄŒu MÄte takes pleasure in the death of her victims and dances on their graves. She doesn’t always wait for people to die but goes to collect their souls. Or she lures souls with a pot of honey. In some folk songs, she bakes wheat bread to welcome her guests.
Beyond the sun is where deceased souls dwell.
In addition to Earth Mother, VeÄŒu MÄte is associated with the goddesses Laima (fate) JĆ«ras MÄte (sea mother) and Saule (the sun). When she sets the sun can take the soul of a person who is sleeping with the sun shining on them and take it with her. Perhaps this is the origin of the ancient belief that the deceased go to the realm beyond the sun (aizsaulÄ, also known as viĆsaulÄ)Â The living stay on this side of the sun (ĆĄaisaulÄ)
A more charming depiction of VeÄŒu MÄte, she sits waiting on a hill overgrown with white clover, holding white flowers in her lap.
When there is a rainbow, it supposedly means that VeÄŒu MÄte is dancing on someone’s grave or between graves.
The weary souls who go to live ViĆsaulÄÂ don’t get any rest. Life continues there as it did on this side of the sun; the souls keep on working as always. One poor person in a folk song begs VeÄŒu MÄte to come take him because he is weary from working his whole life and wants to rest. He must not have heard that in the realm beyond the sun VeÄŒi keep on working. What a disappointment it would be to get to the far side of the sun and discover that you still have to work. In some sources, I found there was mention of otherworldly weddings but nothing about otherwordly sex. All work and no play. Which is a bit odd. Latvians are champion partiers. Work hard, play harder.
Partying during the ancient Latvian equivalent of Halloween–VeÄŒu Laiks, the Time of Sprits (Souls) source of image unknown.
From my younger days, I remember representatives from our local Latvian association looking for venues that would be available until two in the morning for holding balls. That was no longer an issue when Latvians built their own social centers. For some folks, two in the morning was not enough. After the official ball was over some people invited guests to their homes for after-parties where dancing and singing continued until four or five in the morning. Celebrations on Midsummer Ever are supposed to go on all night. Been to a few. If you go to a Song Festival and stay in the main festival hotel, don’t expect to get much sleep. People hold after-parties in their rooms. If security doesn’t come to shush them it’s not a real party. Party while you’re on this side of the sun. On the other side, you’ll be working.
Note: There is some confusion among speakers of Latvian about the word VeÄŒu (possessive) me included. The word is similar to veÄŒa, laundry. In the objective case, “veÄŒu” they are identical, “MazgÄ veÄŒu!” “Wash the laundry!” I don’t know if this similarity is coincidental or because it looks like VeÄŒu MÄte is wearing a sheet.
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This is the time of year for curses. With Vella, it’s a mixed bag.
I picked this image for aesthetic reasons, i.e., I like it.
For those of you who may not know, Vella is Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing’s self-publishing serialization platform. It’s not a subscription service. The first few chapters are free to read. After the first three gratis e “episodes” (as Amazon calls chapters) readers “unlock” subsequent chapters with tokens. Amazon gives readers 200 (!) free tokens. The number of tokens it takes to read a chapter depends on how long it is. After that, if readers want to keep reading they buy tokens. This is the first of Vella’s curses. At least for writers.
Writers have to promote the heck out of their novels, hence this picture once again.
In my historical romance, A Home for an Exile’s Heart, readers can read nine chapters without paying anything. Of course, that means that neither Amazon nor I get our percentage. It’s a good thing for Amazon and me that my novel is long. I didn’t write Exile with Vella in mind. It didn’t even exist when I finished my manuscript. On the plus side, Amazon pays bonuses when people read and order more chapters that they pay for. The bonus amount varies from month to month. Amazon should give away fewer tokens. If readers haven’t been hooked by the first three chapters, are they likely to read the next six or more even if they’re free?
It’s good to have options.
It’s not necessary to have an e-reader in order to read stories published on Vella. Any electronic device will do, including smartphones, laptops, and even desktops. I learned this by trying it myself. The customer service rep I asked told me that Vella books can only be read with mobile devices. Either he didn’t know what he was talking about or Vella’s options have been updated since then.
Looks painless. It’s not.
One of the biggest curses of Vella, and every other self-publishing platform is DIY marketing.
Years ago when I was in San Francisco, walking in Union Square, I encountered a poet standing on a street corner peddling his poetry chapbook. I can’t remember how much I offered to pay for his anthology. Whatever the amount was, it wasn’t enough. He said, “Most people give me [X number of] dollars.” Talk about nerve. I’d have expected him to be grateful for any amount. It’s not the kind of gumption I have. I can’t remember if I gave him his asking price. Probably not. I’m not “most” people.
Thanks to the internet, writers don’t have to stand on street corners hawking their books. Nevertheless, I still hate marketing, as many writers do. I want to write, not to have to market. When I post links to A Home for an Exile’s Heart on social media, I feel like I’m not much different from that street corner huckster. I do it anyway but it’s pretty much the only thing I do in order to sell my book. That and write about Exile on my blog.
Something I strive for.
It’s a toss-up as to which is the biggest curse. Marketing? Or the fact that Vella allows writers to edit their published material any time they want as many times as they want. I must be a compulsive editor. I can’t seem to leave my novel alone and go on to something new. I love spending time with my characters so I sometimes reread a chapter or two. In doing so, I discovered that my story’s not nearly as complete as I thought. Reading an article in The Washington Post about what writers should look out for only made matters worse. I discovered a bunch of words that I’ve been unconsciously abusing that I had to get rid of or change. Once I finish editing the whole darn thing, I promise myself to stop and go on to something new. Even The Washington Post and other prestigious publications have typos and other glitches and people still read them.
Now that I’ve finished writing this post, I will let it sit for a while before reading it again to see if it needs more editing. Then I’ll do some more editing on Exile.
(This was a popular post last year so I figured it’s worth reposting for those who missed it or might want to read it again.)
VeÄŒu laiks is one of the most important festivals in the Latvian solar calendar.
Autumn, the harvest is over. Nature prepares itself for winter sleep. Leaves change color and eventually fall. Frost sparkles on grass and the edges of leaves reminding us that winter is on its way. Longer nights encourage peacefulness and rest. It is a time of healing and reflection.
Photo from a different year. This year nights have not yet been cold enough to bring on color change.
VeÄŒu laiks is the Time of Spirits, a festival honoring the dead. It is believed that at this time of year the veil that separates the world of the living and the world of the dead is at its thinnest allowing dead souls to visit their living descendants. The dead souls are hungry. They need to be fed. Sound familiar? Many such festivals are observed all over the world. Allhallowtide, which has been shortened to Halloween is one such festival. The traditions have changed along with the name. Are the dead expected to bob for apples? The Celt’s celebration, Samhain is another such fest. There is Dia de Los Muertos in Mexico and South America. Zhongyuan Festival in China is known as Hungry Ghost Month. These are just a few such observations.
16th Century RÄ«ga.
In 1570 the church fathers and other authorities in Kurzeme (Courland) were informed that they must no longer tolerate this pagan behavior on the part of the peasants. No more offering of food and drink to the dead. This was such an effective dictum that the feasting of the dead continued into the mid-19th Century. Even in the 21st Century many people still follow these ancient traditions. So much for the authority of the dukedom of Kurzeme.
Researching this post showed me just how much variation there is in Latvian terminology and customs. VeÄŒu laiks is known by at least a dozen different names depending on the region or town. VeÄŒu laiks is the most widespread name but it is also called, Time of Ancestors. Time of Wraiths, Time of Ghosts, Time of Little Spirits (affectionate diminutive) Time of the Deities, Time of Grandfathers. IÄŒÄŁi, Time of Longing, and similar designations. Those who insist on one particular name or spelling for any tradition, custom, or recipe must be unaware of the many variations. All you have to do is look at the number of iterations of folk dress to see that variety is the spice of life in Latvia.
These are only a few of the many variations in Latvian folk dress.
Sources don’t even agree about the dates of VeÄŒu laiks. Some say it begins on the autumn equinox and goes through Martinmas, November 10. Others say it doesn’t begin until September 29th and ends on October 28. Still others say it continues until Christmas. Whichever, VeÄŒu laiks is now.
No commerce or smithing was allowed. No major work was to be done, especially no threshing since grain threshed during this period is believed won’t grow. Household chores and handiwork are allowed. No noise making, including singing. That must have been particularly rough on Latvians who love to sing in t Quiet activities such as telling riddles and stories and sharing memories are okay.
Granary. Open-Air Ethnographic Museum.
The father is supposed to summon his family’s deceased ancestors and friends to feast. He carries a candle to light their way and loudly calls to them. Food and drink for the visiting spirits were to be left on the well-swept floor or in the outbuildings on the farm, including the granary and pirtiĆa (yes, there’s even an affectionate diminutive for sauna). Water and clean towels were provided for the ghosts so they could wash up before eating. Dead or alive, Latvians have a thing about cleanliness. After the spirits have eaten, they’re sent back to where they came from. Whatever food is left is consumed by the living. No doubt mice, rats, and other critters loved VeÄŒu laiks, no need to forage in cold weather.
In some areas, the head of household drove a wagon to the cemetery, opened the gate for the dead to get out. The spirits climbed into the wagon and were driven to the feast at their old home. After they’d had their meal they were driven back to the cemetery. Dishes from which veÄŒi have eaten must not be washed with well water for it will make the water bitter.
People went to bed at nightfall and were not supposed to get up even if they heard noises coming from outside. Walking around after dark was not allowed because it was believed that veÄŒi would lead people astray. Thieves often took advantage of this rule to do their dirty deeds.
Frost during veÄŒu laiks means a late spring. I’ve found nothing about what snow during this period might mean but if veÄŒu laiks goes on into November or December there is bound to be snow on the groundin Latvia.
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“A Home for an Exile’s Heart” is now available on Kindle Vella. I’m not sad that my novel has not been published by a traditional publishing company, although that would be great. I didn’t want to spend a year or more approaching agents only to have them reject me. That’s what happened to a talented writer friend who already has four traditionally published books under his belt. I have none.
The tentative cover for a paperback that may never come to be.
Of course, just because no agent wanted to represent my friend’s book doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be interested in mine. He and I write in different genres. His is a mystery set in a WW2 POW camp. Easily categorized. Mine? Not so much. Yes, it’s a historical romance but much more. Is it also women’s fiction. I guess, but that limits the audience. Is it up-market fiction? I’ve read the definition more than once but I’m still not sure what the term means. Maybe it’s mainstream fiction. Figuring out the genre is probably not what agents want to do. They want to be able to pigeonhole a book quickly so store owners know where to shelve them.
My novel may always stay on Vella unless some traditional publisher stumbles across it, serendipitously, and wants to buy the rights to publish it.
How can readers find what they want when there are no neat categories in which to organize the book? Forget about serendipitous browsing. Who has time for that?
The reason I’m sad is that I miss my characters.
Anyone who has read a book and felt sad because they miss characters they’ve grown fond of will understand. I’ve been there and felt that. But when you write a novel the characters live in your head in a way that they don’t when you only read about them. My characters are vivid in my mind; I know them intimately in more detail than is written in my book. I know them better than I ever knew my friends or family members. Latvians are a close-lipped bunch, especially those of my parents’ generation. It’s too painful for exiles to talk about their stolen homeland. Nevertheless, I’ve pieced together enough information from their experiences and those of friends and other relatives, as well as my own memories, to create as accurate a picture as possible of what they went through.
LÄ«vija GaliĆa is based in part on my mother’s cousin. Both women were widowed Latvian refugees who came to the United States with their mother and one child. Both found love here; unlike my relative, LÄ«vija falls in love with an American. Both families lived communally in a big house on Capitol Hill in Seattle. Many Latvian families, including mine, did so as well.
Neither my family nor my relatives lived in this house but in similar ones.
Cameron Quinn is LÄ«vija’s love interest. They meet on the snowy day after Thanksgiving, 1952, when a car skids on ice, jumps the curb and nearly hits LÄ«vija as she’s walking home from work. Cameron pushes her out of the way, saving her life. He’s a daredevil, a dashing former fighter pilot, a passionate suitor, and a kind, tender would-be father to LÄ«vija’s little girl. There was never anyone like Cameron in my life. I could have used someone like him in my life. Still could. Cameron’s a composite of male characteristics I know from experience. I read up on what it takes to be a fighter pilot and watched endless videos of flying and aerobatics. They can be addictive.
His war experiences, being shot down twice, did not dampen Cameron’s love of flying.
Of my three main characters, I am most like LÄ«vija’s seven-year-old daughter, Dzintra. I, too, was born stateless in Germany. As with her one of my uncles and his family found refuge in Australia. We both went to Latvian school, in addition to a regular American school. Neither of us saw any reason to learn the Latvian language. Who needs to speak Latvian in America? But my father insisted, so I learned. Cameron gently encourages Dzintra to keep learning by telling her about his own boyish reluctance to learn French, his mother’s native language. As an adult, he was glad he’d learned to speak French and Dzintra would be glad to have learned to speak her native tongue. I’m glad I did.
Like Dzintra, I sang in the Latvian children’s choir.
Woven into the story of these three characters are the stories of LÄ«vija’s housemates–obstacles on her road to happiness. Her mother-in-law and sister-in-law are two such considerations. Edgars SiliĆĆĄ, a single father, who needs a mother for his six-year-old son, would like to win LÄ«vija’s affection for himself. The housemates include an older, stiff-necked, childless, busybody Latvian couple who were inspired by people I once knew. LÄ«vija’s entire Latvian community believes it would be a cultural betrayal if she marries anyone but a fellow Latvian.
In one way or another, everyone has been traumatized by the war, by the loss of family members killed in the war, or by Soviet murders and deportation. Every exile wants to preserve their Latvian culture and keep their small community from dying out. Will LÄ«vija choose her heart or her community and culture?
About Vella: Books are serialized on the platform. It’s not a subscription service. Readers buy “tokens” in order to read chapters. The first two hundred tokens are free. You don’t need a Kindle in order to read my novel. Any mobile device your laptop or even your desktop will do. I just tried it myself with someone else’s book and it works just fine. Nothing to figure out. The link to Vella is at the top of Amazon’s home page on the right. Just click on the link and claim your free tokens. Hopefully, you’ll love the story and want to read all of it.
An eight-pointed star in the colors of the Latvian flag. A symbol representing Auseklis.
The many affectionate diminutives of the name Auseklis reflect the popularity of this mythological deity: ausekliĆĆĄ, auseklÄ«tis, ausekliĆis.
Auseklis is one of the celestial deities in the pantheon of Latvian mythology, a male deity. He is the third most important deity after Saule (the sun) and MÄness (the moon) Both MÄness and Auseklis are the sons of Dievs, the main deity in the Latvian mythological trinity. There’s considerable sibling rivalry between them. Sometimes Auseklis is associated with Venus, the third brightest body in the sky after the sun and the moon. In other myths, Auseklis is associated with Sirius or Mercury.
The name Auseklis derives from the verb aust which means “to dawn” the blossoming of the first light of morning. Appropriately, Auseklis is depicted as a young and playful deity.
Auseklis horse is a gift from Saule.
Ausma is a popular name for Latvian girls. Auseklis used as a boy’s name is not as common.
Auseklis is the god of dawn.
He represents the victory of light over darkness and protects against evil; as such his symbol appears on the door of a house to keep evil from entering. The horse of a soldier going to war wore a star-studded saddle blanket. The eight-point star was woven into blankets to keep the sleeper from being tormented by an incubus during the night.
To invoke the protective power of Auseklis, you must draw the star in one continuous, unbroken line. Yes, I did it. I hope that Auseklis doesn’t mind that his sign is a bit lopsided. No doubt Auseklis has seen many earnests, lopsided drawings.
Before Latvia was unified into one country, it was a series of tribes, each with its own myths contained in many different texts, which accounts for the inconsistencies in our myths. Auseklis is one of the most frequently mentioned figures in the Latvian folksongs known as dainas, of which there are thousands.
In some variations of his myths, Auseklis courts Saules meitas, the daughters, of the sun. Sometimes he is depicted as courting the sun herself. In other variations, he serves as an attendant in the celestial wedding of Saule and MÄness.
As mentioned in my previous post about MÄness, he counts the stars, finds that Auseklis is missing, and takes advantage of the situation to fool around with Auseklis’ bride. When she learns of her husband’s betrayal, Saule takes revenge on her adulterous spouse.
Auseklis star woven into the skirt of a folk costumebelonging to my mother.
Auseklis become the symbol of Latvia’s National Awakening during the 1930s. Stars show the way, offer hope, and allow for change. It was then that the eight-point star became a popular design in jewelry, fabrics, and graphic arts.
A dazzling variant of the morning star symbol.
The star motif does not appear in archaeological materials until the 16th and 17th centuries. It is widespread in Finno-Ugrian cultures, which include Finland and Estonia, and might well have been borrowed from them.
In London, I found a pair of wool gloves with Auskelis on the back. It was March so I had a pair of gloves with me on the trip and more gloves at home but I bought them anyway because of the Latvian design. For all I know, the gloves might have been knit in Scotland. The wool was itchy but I wore the gloves anyway. Eventually, either the wool got soft or I just got used to the scratchiness. I wore the gloves until they got holey.
Not one of my friend’s mittens, but similar. The colors in hers are reversed.
A friend who is currently traveling in Iceland forgot her gloves at home. Via social media, I assured her that she would find lovely gloves or mittens in some local shop. She did. Beautiful black and white mittens with–you guessed it, Auseklis on the back. Naturally, she bought them the moment she saw them and they’re keeping her hands nice and warm.
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Get a theme, they say. Pretty pictures are not enough, they say. Well, some of us like pretty pictures. I do have a theme–Latvian stuff. But I’m not a one-trick pony so I like to write about other things, too.
Here in western Washington, we’re getting a reprise of summer. Nights have not been cold enough to make many trees turn color just yet. This morning was foggy and more than a bit chilly. In the afternoon we’re supposed to get short-sleeve weather. We’ll see. Forecasts around here are often wrong. I have to photos from other autumns to get touches of seasonal colors.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold…
Sonnet 73, Shakespeare
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel…
“To Autumn” John Keats
“Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day Nothing gold can stay.”
Robert Frost
Stone wall by the parking lot at a library branch
I like the way the vines seem to embrace this rock and the moss that seems to be trying to soften the rock’s cold, hard nature. I like letting my imagination take over and go a little wild. Something I need to rein in when doing my posts about Latvia, even the ones about myths and legends.
What if a hostile foreign power was invading your country and you had to flee? What would you bring along, what would you leave behind? That’s a dilemma that the people of the Baltic States faced in October of 1944. It’s the dilemma faced by Ukrainians today. People have had to deal with that quandrum for hundreds of years. It has also happened to people in their own country, such as the Japanes who were interned in the United States during the Second World War. Those are questions my parents faced less than two months after they married as the Soviet Red Army advanced into Latvia.
Of course, nobody’s suitcase really looked like this.As far as I know.
In 2021 an art gallery in Cleveland, Ohio, with contributions from nine refugees, created an exhibit called, “The Suitcase Project” at a local art gallery. This exhibit, which I was able to view online only, was especially meaningful for me because of the participation of people from the Baltic States.
Here’s a list of people’s comments that accompanied the exhibit. I have not edited their comments but added my own remarks in parentheses.
Linens: sheets, towels (my mother brought linen sheets, pillow cases towels she’d embroidered for her hope chest)
Silver spoons
woven coverlet (My mother brought along a woven coverlet that I still have. When I visited my grandparents’ home in Latvia there was an identical one on my aunt and uncle’s bed)
documents, photo albums, clothing, a few silver items such as dinnerware, candlesticks, and sugar bowl (which I now have) and some money and family heirloom jewelry sewn into the hems of their coats. Some of these items were packed into a sturdy German ammunitionâs case that my grandfather used to use to carry items to barter with during the war. This wooden case would later became my toy chest; I painted it blue with white and yellow daisies. Most everything else of theirs was simply left behind, or taken from them by the Russians.
(My parents had a huge wooden chest that was painted light green. It was big enough for me to hide in even when I was as old as ten. Our apartment here in the US caught fire in the middle of the night when I was five. My screams woke my parents. My father kicked out a window pane and threw our stuff out the window. I don’t know how the chest with our other stuff escaped. Firefighters put my mother and me on a parked bus. We watched the fire from there)
Some had nothing but the clothes on their back.
One grandmotherâs advice, Donât take your winter coat. Youâll be back by winter. (Some didn’t return for decades. Most of those who did return were there only to visit. A few moved home to Latvian permanently. It’s “home” even if they were born elsewehre. Neither of my parents ever returned, not even for a short visit)
Silverware that was brought from Latvia – as silver could be traded for food in the most dire of situations….
Wedding china, porcelain cups, jewelry, a white velvet wedding dress. Matchboxes from a factory where a man worked. A wood jewelry box decorated with amber inlay. Diaries, autograph books.
Silver 5 Lat coins (some coins were turned into brooches or ornamental spoons. I have one such one Lat spoon)
A wooden coffee grinder, a frying pan and a roasting pan. A folding baking pan thatâs sill in use.
A two-year-old brought her teddy bear.
Haunting.
In addition to the woven coverlet, my mother brought along a Latvian, Zemgales folk costume. I don’t know if it ever fit her. Maybe before she got pregnant with me it fit but it seems made more for a teenage girl than a young woman. My mother brought it along from Germany then to the United States from the east coast to the West Coast from house to house. I never thought to ask her about the folk dress. I assumed it was hers, even though she never wore it. It’s too late now. I can’t help but wonder if some refugee bartered it for food or some other necessity. I’ll never know.
Detail from the sash from my mother’s folk dress. These sashes are about nine feet long and are worn wrapped around the waist three times, then knotted and the ends hang loose to the knees.The vest from the folk dress is sewn with great care and skill. It’s fully lined. There are hooks all around the bottom edge of the vest so it can be attached to the skirt. The buttons are handmade sterling silver. Did my father make them? He was taught goldsmithing in the Displaced Persons camp in Germany.
The refugee organization obviously thought it would be easier for a goldsmith than for a postmaster with limited language skills to find a job in a prosperous America. My father spent the rest of his working life as a machinist but for a few years, he made jewelry for fellow Latvians.A Zemgales (one of the provinces of Latvia) brooch that my father made to go with the folk costume.
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Coming soon. This is a preview of what the paperback cover will look like.
New cover for my novel.
LÄ«vija GaliĆa is a widowed Latvian refugee who, with her family, fled her country in 1944 as the Soviet Red Army invaded. Her husband was lost in the war. She was pregnant at the time of her flight.
After years of floating through war-torn Europe, like flotsam on the tides of history, LÄ«vija finds a new home for herself, her mother, and her seven-year-old daughter, Dzintra, in Seattle, Washington. where they live communally with six other Latvians. But where is there a home for her heart?
On the snowy day after Thanksgiving 1952, LÄ«vija is walking home from her job as a house cleaner. In a fog of exhaustion, she doesn’t notice that a car has skidded on ice and jumped the curb until someone pushes her to the ground and lands on top of her.
The “someone” is her neighbor, dashing fighter pilot, Cameron Quinn. Their mutual attraction is immediate.
LÄ«vija’s mother and their entire Latvian community are against LÄ«vija making a match with anyone but another Latvian. LÄ«vija ‘s housemate, Edgars SiliĆĆĄ, a single father, feels that he has a proprietary right to LÄ«vija’s affection. Her family and friends agree.
LÄ«vija has always been an obedient, dutiful daughter. Can she find a home for her heart?
Pronunciation: LÄ«vija = Lee-vee-ya. N with a diacritical mark is pronounced like the Spanis N with a tilde ~ Ć = sh. Dz is a diphthong pronounced like “ts” in “tsar,” only harder.
This is the old cover photo for my novel. Like WordPress, Amazon is being a pain in the ass today. I can’t change the cover image without help from a living, breathing human being. Who knows when that will be. In the meantime…
Here’s how Vella works. Any mobile device can be used to read books on Amazon’s Kindle Vella. The story is serialized. It’s not a subscription. Readers buy tokens, which don’t cost much, for the chapters (Amazon calls them episodes) they want to read. The first few chapters are free to read. Comments made on the Vella page are very helpful to the author. They don’t have to be fancy, “I like it” or “It’s okay” will do. Of course, more details,, such as why you like it or what you like are appreciated.”
Those who stayed behind. I didn’t do any adjusting on this photo.
I recognize only two people in this photo even though I’m probably related to most of them. My grandmother is in the middle of the middle row between the two little boys. The tall, blond guy is my youngest uncle, Andrejs.The invasion of RÄ«ga. 1940. (Wiki)
When my parents, two uncles, and other Francis relatives fled Latvia ahead of the Soviet invasion in 1944 my mom’s mother refused to go. I can only guess the reasons for her decision. She didn’t want to live her country, her culture, and the life she knew. She probably thought she was too old to start a new life in a foreign country. Many people thought that the Allies would drive out the Soviets and that their family members would come home soon. Maybe Oma didn’t want to leave the place where her husband was buried. Andrejs was only eleven or twelve at the time so it’s only natural that he stayed with his mother.
The pharmacy in the town of MÄlpils where my mother worked.
My parents had been married only about two months when the Red Army invaded. They were living in MÄlpils where they met and where they both worked. My father was the postmaster. MÄlpils is about 50 miles (80 km) from LimbaĆŸi. His family lived in AlĆ«ksne, which is twice as far away, close to the border with Russia. My father was also a telegrapher. I don’t know if he tried to contact either family by phone or telegraph. The Soviet army was between AlĆ«ksne and MÄlpils so making contact was no doubt impossible. My folks felt they had no choice but to flee. During the first invasion of Latvia in 1940, my father barely escaped being deported to Siberia. His name was on a list of those to be deported but a friend saw the list and warned him. My father hid out in the forest for two weeks until it was safe to return. My parents, too, probably thought they’d be able to return when the war was over and that Latvia would be liberated from the Russians. They never dreamed that they’d never see their country or families again.
The cemetery in LimbaĆŸiwhere my maternal grandfather lies buried. The arrow points to his grave.
The Soviets desecrated many graves. When I was in Latvia during the waning days of the Soviet era, I visited BrÄÄŒu kapus Bretherns’ Cemetary where Latvian war veterans were laid to rest. The names and dates on the Latvian patriots’ gravestones had been chiseled away.
My Oma and her chickens. I couldn’t do much to improve the resolution of this photo.
My maternal grandparents’ house has a big backyard. Their property was even bigger before the new government decided that it was too big for just one family and took part of their land away. No doubt the backyard chickens helped the family survive the many food shortages during the years of occupation.
We sent packages with clothes, food, hygiene products, cigarettes, gum, and other items they could use themselves, barter, or sell on the black market. We also sent a teddy bear and a big ball.
My cousin, Reinis helping his dadconstruct a greenhouse.
Andrejs was quite the entrepreneur. Private businesses were not allowed in the Soviet Union. Andrejs didn’t let that bother him. He had a family to support, a wife and daughter as well as his mother and son. Andrejs raised tulips to sell to anyone who’d buy them. Latvians love flowers and give them on many occasions so he did very well. Other Latvians who lived in more rural areas did the same. On the way to Forest Park Cemetery, I saw little old ladies selling flowers in the street. That was not good enough for my uncle. Andrejs traveled all over the western and southern USSR peddling his flowers. His biggest day was March 8, International Women’s Day when every woman could expect to receive bouquets.
An envious neighbor, seeing my uncle’s nice greenhouse, reported him to the authorities. Andrejs was arrested and spent two years in jail for “speculation.” He didn’t let that deter him. Once he was released from prison he went back to growing tulips, except that he moved his greenhouse into the building at the back of the photo above. Out of sight, out of mind.
My uncle was handy with his hands as you had to be because so many items they needed weren’t available in stores. When I visited he expressed his frustration at being unable to find a trailer hitch so he could attach a trailer to his car so he could haul more tulips to market. He’d have to make one himself, he told me.
My Oma and her two youngest grandchildren, Ilze and Reinis.This should have been my lap, too.
My Oma had seven grandchildren but she got to see only two of them grow up. Four of them wound up in Australia. The seventh, me, in the United States. Like my father’s parents, my Oma passed away years before I was able to visit Latvia.
I love this photo of Ilzīte (affectionate diminutive of Ilze) and her teddy bear from America.
I included this photo because it tugs at my heart. I should have been able to play with this precious little doll and her brother. By the time I visited Latvia, they were all grown up.
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Life in my mother’s hometown, LimbaĆŸi: a photo essay
Whether or not they are familiar with this Welsh word, Latvians and most refugees know the feeling very well. Even their children and grandchildren know. It‘s a feeling that seems to be in our DNA and is passed down from generation to generation.
Our refugee parents and grandparents spoke of Latvia as if it were a cross between Camelot and Brigadoon.
A stamp with the coat-of-arms of LimbaĆŸi
Between the first and second World Wars Latvia was a free, prosperous, and independent republic.
Town Hall with a kiosk in front
I don’t know what holiday the flag display is celebrating. My guess would be that it’s not Latvia’s Independence Day, which falls on November 18th. I would expect there to be snow on the ground in November since Latvia is almost on the 57th latitude. Even Moscow is farther south. Aberdeen, Scotland, and Kalmar, Sweden are on the same latitude. However, the Gulf Stream keeps Lativa warmer than one might expect so perhaps the holiday being commemorated is Independence Day. It’s a pity that there’s no writing on the back of this postcard.
Outdoor stage in LimbaĆŸi.RÄ«ga is not the only town in Latvia where song festivals are held.
The first nationwide song festival in Latvia was held in RÄ«ga in 1873 during the National Awakening. Latvia was still part of the Russian Empire then. It didn’t succeed in throwing off the Russian yoke until 1918, although an unsuccessful attempt was made during the Russian Revolution of 1905. Many Latvians who had participated in the failed uprising fled the country to save themselves and their families from Russian retribution.
These are Girl Guides, the Latvian version of girl scouts in the church my mom’s family attended. My mother is the flag-bearer. I don’t know what the occasion or even what the date was. Too many photos with nothing written on the back.
A home economics class.
There are so many things about this photo that I love. Most of all that it includes my mother as a young woman. She’s the one ducking her head and smiling. In photos, she’s frequently the only one who’s smiling. I also love the meat grinder. My mother had one just like it here in the United States. I also love the bowl, the fat little pitcher, and the scale.
A piano teacher, in the middle of the second row, and her students.
My mother’s oldest brother, LeonÄ«ds Francis is in the first row on the far left. The smiley face, fourth from the left in the front row, is my mother. She was the third of four children, the only girl. Maybe she’s around eight or nine in this photo.
This beautiful pavilion is in the Unity Garden located in the center of LimbaĆŸi between RÄ«ga and Parka streets. My mother’s family home was on Parka iela (street). The park was established in 1892. The pavilion replaced a building that was damaged by fire in the 1930s. The pavilion has been used as a theater. It still stands to this day. My mother told of riding through the park on her bicycle but never mentioned the theater. Perhaps the pavilion was too new then and hadn’t yet hosted the AusekÄŒa LimbaĆŸu Tautas teÄtris (National Theater) I love the graceful lines of this building. At my maternal grandparents’ house. My mother’s tribe, the FranÄu (Francis) family. These are the people I should have grown up with. My mother and her cousin are sitting on the far right in the first row. My grandfather is first on the right in the middle row. My grandmother is third on the left in the middle row. My mother’s older brothers are on each end of the third row. The man in the uniform is one of my grandfather’s brothers, Gen. Francis. One of my mother’s many cousins is the young man who is first on the left in the middle row. His sister is sitting next to my mother in the first row. His sister made it to the USA. He did not.Many of these people I don’t recognize.
The occasion for this gathering might have been the christening of my mother’s baby brother. The local pastor is sixth from the left in the last row. He was one of the fortunate ones who escaped the Soviet invasion and wound up in the same American town as my family and I. Only five of the people in this group were able to escape the Soviet invasion of Latvia in 1944.
I was able to visit this house when I visited Latvia. Many of the people in this photo, including both my grandparents and my great-uncles and great-aunts, were gone by then. One of my uncles came to the United States but stayed on the East Coast when we moved out west. I was four or five when we moved. I never saw my favorite uncle, the one who stayed in Pennsylvania again. For three and a half years he shared quarters with my parents, my father’s brother, and me in the Displaced Person’s camp in Germany. My mother’s oldest brother found refuge for himself and his family in Australia.
These are the people and the town the Russians robbed me of as they robbed many others in all three Baltic States and Eastern Europe. And now, Ukrainians.
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All up and down the coast from Canada to Baja California the West is on fire. This happens every year now. I’m fortunate enough to be in an area where there is no danger from flames. Not this year, anyway. No knowing what might happen next year.
Photo taken September 10, 2022, from her home by S.a. Tudhope.
Usually, in the summer I love that daylight lingers long into the evening. Yesterday, I couldn’t wait for darkness to set in so I wouldn’t have to look at the ugly sky. As the sun was going down it turned the color of pee.
Despite the smoke air quality yesterday was pretty moderate so I sat among my flowers on my balcony for a while and wrote in my journal. Normally, my balcony is a healing place though not necessarily quiet. There’s constant traffic noise and occasional human or dog noise. I love my outdoor writing spot anyway.
Summer of 2016 on my balcony when the air was still clean.
We have wildfires every year but in the past, they weren’t as pervasive.
Same balcony, different view.August 5, 2017.
That day in August five years ago the sun was the color of a blood orange but my camera was unable to capture the true tint. Just looking at this photo makes me feel sick.
Maybe this year’s smoke didn’t get bad as early because we had drenching rain in June, which meant lots of snow in the mountains. My friend’s husband and their daughter were still able to go skiing on Mt. Rainier until mid-June, a month later than normal.
Two weather sites said that we’d get a bit of rain this afternoon. It hasn’t shown up. In June, I wanted the rain to stop now I want it to start and go on for a week or two.
Photo by S.a. Tudhope. September 10, 2022.
Last evening the smoke was bad enough that it was coming indoors through my sliding door. It was too warm but I had to close everything up so I wouldn’t have to smell smoke indoors. The air quality is worse today but I have the slider open because the wind is mild and not blowing smoke indoors.
Will there ever be another year when the sky is clear and blue all summer? I don’t want to think about how much longer the fires will keep raging this year. I think of the poor folks who’ve had to be evacuated from their homes and my heart breaks for them. Will their homes still be there when the fires are finally brought under control?
Latvian symbols have been known since Neolithic times. Roman historian, Tacitus (CE 56-120) knew of Baltic deities as far back as 98 CE (common era) The Balts, the last pagans of Europe weren’t Christianized until the early 13th Century. Couronians (Kurzemnieki) and Semigallians (ZemgaÄŒnieki) were especially resistant to enforced Christianization. Therefore it’s a mistake to try to associate Dieva dÄls (God’s son) JÄnis with John the Baptist or the goddess MÄra with the Virgin Mary. Latvians had their own nature gods and goddesses. Even today they have not been completely banished from Latvian culture.
Illustration by Ansis CÄ«rulis, 1883-1942
The Pantheon of Latvian nature deities with MÄness in the center. On his right is Saule (the Sun) and one of her daughters. PÄrkons (Thunder) is on the black horse. The first figure on the left is Auseklis (the Moning Star)The next three figures are the trinity of major gods, Dievs (God) Laima (Fate), and MÄra, the Mother Goddess.
MÄness is one of the major deities of the Latvian pantheon. One of Dieva sons.
Ruler of the night.
In many mythologies, the sun is depicted as male and the moon as female. In Latvian mythology, it’s the other way around. The sun, Saule, is female and the moon, MÄness, is male. As in all mythologies, the beliefs and depictions are inconsistent.
MÄness (the moon) is the god of war, clad in silk and silver, wearing a starry cloak, carrying a sword at his side, and mounted on a white horse. The moon is the guardian of men and boys. Soldiers are his special concern. MÄness lends his light and protection to those who have to work or travel by night. When the moon isn’t riding his white horse, his chariot is drawn by the morning and the evening stars.
Protected by MÄness.
At first, Saule and MÄness were happily married. They were inseparable rising and going to bed at the same time. Together they had many children, the stars. In other tellings, MÄness was a rake and a rambling boy who courted Saules daughters (Saules meitas)
In different versions of the myth, MÄness is the guardian of the stars. He counts them every night. Having noticed that Auseklis (the morning star) is missing MÄness decides to steal his bride. When Saule discovers her husband’s adultery she grabs her sword and chops him into bits and pieces. Again, depending on the variation of the myth, she just whacks off half his head. That’s how the formerly happy couple winds up in their separate realms, he at night, she during the day. Never p*** off the sun. She may be a warm and loving mother but has the fury of hell when she’s betrayed.
The sun’s flares of temper.
MÄness has a more benevolent side. He is fondly known as MÄnestiĆĆĄ, “dear little moon.” The moon is the deity of the entire human life cycle, of agriculture, of fertility and growth, of perpetual motion.
The waxing moon attracts and increases energy.
Everything that grows above ground should be planted when the moon is waxing. Root vegetables should be planted when the moon is waning as its energy, is also waning at this time. The symbol of the waning moon is used for healing to make the illness grow weaker and wear away.
Perhaps because the moon is so changeable, it also has its feminine side, MÄnesnÄ«ca, moonlight. I was unable to find anything more specific about mÄnesnÄ«ca except that she’s the light of the moon.
The moon over the park at the Latvian seaside resort, Ķemeri.MÄnesnÄ«ca.
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Photographs from the beginning of the new school year in Jelgava, Latvia provided by Andris BÄrziĆĆĄ, Honorary Consul for the Republic of Latvija to the State of Indiana and the newly appointed president of the Jelgava and Carmel, Indiana Sister Cities, Inc. And, not least, a friend. His mother’s family was from Jelgava.
Jelgava city flag.
Jelgava is a city of approximately sixty thousand residents located in Zemgale, the central region of Latvia
The first day of school is special and exciting everywhere especially if it’s a child’s very first first day of school. It’s known as “Knowledge Day.”
In Latvia, things are done a bit differently. The first day of school is a big deal for everyone. The president of Latvia, Egils Levits and Prime Minister Prime Minister KriĆĄjÄnis KariĆĆĄÂ sent greetings and good wishes to pupils and teachers.
Education and Science Minister Ilga Ć uplinska had this message for school children, “Let this exciting energy, the joy of meeting up and being together, inspire you throughout the school year! We all have one goal – we want to be ourselves: strong, smart, and sensitive – today, tomorrow, and into Latvia’s common future. So let’s cheer each other up on a daily basis when we meet in both the real world and the virtual world,” she said.
Welcoming kids on the first day of school in Jelgava.Parents accompany their children to school on the first day.Looks like the days of everyone wearing uniforms to school are over.Children wear their best clothes and bring flowers to their teachers.Teachers waiting for pupils.An armload of flowers for the teacher.
Bringing flowers to the teacher is not the only difference in how children behave in school in Latvia.
My first day of school was in the United States. When I came home from school my parents asked if children stood up, as a sign of respect when the teacher entered the classroom. When I said, “no,” my father said that I should stand up anyway. Even though I was shy and timid there was no way on earth I was going to stand up when no one else did. I was sure the teacher would either think I was being naughty or that I needed to go to the bathroom already. In either, case, I’d probably get a scolding. Of course, I never told my father and he never asked again.
When I was in high school and told my parents what classes I had to take their astonished response was, “Is that all?” “Study hall? Why do you need study hall? You can study at home.” I expected that reaction and wouldn’t have taken study hall but no other class fit into my schedule. That happened only once.
During my school years, I was pen pals with my cousin, who is one month younger. The diaspora took her family to Australia. At the beginning of the new school year, her letters included a list of classes she was taking. I was embarrassed to tell her how few my required classes were. So, if I had a class in social studies/history, I would make it sound like two different classes, social studies and history.
In Latvia, school requirements are so rigorous that graduating from high school is the equivalent of two years of college in the USA. I wonder if I would ever have made it through high school if I’d attended school in Latvia.
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Nameja is a possessive case. Namejs is a proper noun with a masculine suffix.
I’ve been identified as a Latvian more than once because I was wearing my Nameja ring. Apparently, they were once worn only by men. In modern times both men and women wear them. The rings come in sterling silver or gold.
Latvian identity ring.
A day or so after the Toronto Latvian Song and Dance Festival in the Yorkville neighborhood a woman saw me sitting in an outdoor cafe reading a book. She immediately recognized me as a fellow Latvian because I was wearing my Nameja ring. I invited her to my table and we had a pleasant conversation.
Another time I was in a department store in my hometown sorting through blouses on an upper rack when a woman’s voice startled me, asking, “Are you Latvian?” She had seen the ring on my right hand. Yes, I admitted I am a Latvian. She wasn’t a Latvian herself but had Latvian friends.
A friend once told me that if he were ever found dead without his Nameja ring on his hand, it meant that he’d been murdered and the ring stolen.
There are different stories about the meaning of the ring’s design. Someone once told me that the thicker and thinner bands woven together showed how the great and the small can work harmoniously together.
According to Wiki, the three bands woven together represent the three ancient Latvian lands, Kurzeme (Courland) Vidzeme, and Latgale. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t the three bands be of equal width? Not to mention the fact that there were more than three ancient lands that comprise Latvia. Why wouldn’t they be represented?
SÄlija is also known as Selonia.
Also according to Wiki, the ring symbolizes independence, friendship, and trust.
Namejs was a legendary 13th Century leader of the Latgallian tribes who resisted the invasion by German crusaders attempting to Christianize the last pagans of Europe, the Baltic peoples. Namejs was forced to flee without his son. He is said to have given the boy a ring of twisted metal by which he would be able to recognize his son when Namejs returned. The German knights set out to find the boy. In order to protect their leader’s son, all men and boys started wearing similar rings. A novel, titled Nameja Gredzens, by the Latvian writer, Aleksandrs GrÄ«ns, served to popularize the ring as a symbol of Latvian unity. The novel inspired the film, The Pagan King. In Latvian, the film has the same title as the book.
The iconic ring even appears on the Latvian one-Lat coin.
Archaeologists have spoiled the legend by finding a ring of similar design in Latgale that dates to the 12th Century, long before Namejs was born. But who is to say that a ring like that nameless one could not, in the next century have been worn by the iconic Latvian hero and thus been named after him? Finding one ring does not mean other rings like it could not have existed.
I recently saw a question in an online article about which finger to wear the ring on. It never occurred to me to wonder. I wore it on the finger on which it fit, my right hand’s ring finger. The right, rather than the left hand so it wouldn’t be mistaken for a wedding band. In a way, it is a wedding band–it marries me to my people and my heritage.
Someone on a social media site asked if non-Latvians could wear the Nameja ring. My answer is, no. If the person is half-Latvian, then yes. Other Latvians may have a different point of view.
Not everyone can wear rings. Some people have acidic skin with which the metal interacts but they want to affirm their Latvian heritage. Friends wonder if there is any other option than wearing a ring. There are many–cufflinks, brooches, pendants, and earrings among them. If silver causes allergic reactions, gold may not.
They come with or without the amber cabochon.You can get dark Nameja honey beer and wine and vodka.
A note about the oxidation on the silver jewelry that makes it look tarnished. Silversmiths deliberately apply oxidation to bring out the detail. It’s a characteristic of other Latvian silver jewelry. Please don’t clean it off.
Please support my work with your kind contribution. Thank you.
First bad words, now bad reviews. I’m not going to use any bad words about my bad reviews. A writer can learn from a well-thought-out bad review. The two bad reviews I got for the books I published on Amazon weren’t thought-out at all.
Whether a writer is traditionally published or self-published they’re bound to get bad reviews. A writer knows that any review is better than no review. Anything that will bring attention to your books.
“Bad” is in the mind of the reader.
Even better is for the book to be banned. Banning a book can be good for sales. There was a recent article in The Washington Post by an author who was highly indignant that his children’s book had not been banned. More than thirty years after it was first published Art Spiegelman’s graphic novel, Maus, hit the bestseller lists after it was banned in Tennessee. Chicago newspaper columnist Mike Royko humorously demanded that his book, Boss, about controversial mayor Richard J. Daley, be vilified and banned. These two writers understood the lure of forbidden fruit.
Books can be dangerous. They can open minds.
Dictators and wanna-be dictators understand the power of books. Russian novelist Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was arrested and expelled from the Soviet Union in 1974 because his writing displeased the Politburo. He was allowed to return home only after the fall of the Soviet Union. Solzhenitsyn’s experience is almost the ultimate bad review. The ultimate bad review is getting executed for your writing as happened to Russian writer Isaac Babel.
This post wasn’t going to be about these writers, it was supposed to be about my experience with my own reviews. I’m nowhere near their class and the one-star reviews of two of the books I published on Amazon have done nothing to improve my sales. People have to know about a book before they buy it or demand that it be banned. I’ve done very little to publicize my books so poor sales are mostly my own fault.
The person who gave my books bad ratings is someone named Jennifer. She used the exact same words for both books: “I find it hard to understand why the author sympathizes with fascist leaders who spread baseless propaganda.” I copied her exact words from her one-star rating.
One of the books Jennifer rated is “The Dissident’s Wife” which is set in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) during the mid-1980s. My story is about a dissident Russian poet who has been accused of sedition and anti-Soviet slander. Valery Mironov goes from being a respected and beloved people’s artist to a pariah who’s been diagnosed with “creeping schizophrenia” ( a mental illness recognized nowhere in the free world) and incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital. I don’t mention any leaders in my book, let alone defend them.
The Dissident’s Wife is no longer available on Amazon. I unpublished it because it is now under consideration by a traditional publisher.
It’s obvious that Jennifer never read the book. She saw the hammer and sickle and had a knee-jerk reaction. It’s also obvious that she is ignorant of the difference between communism and fascism.
For Pete’s sake! They’re Christmas stories for children.
Beats me who Jennifer thinks is the “fascist leader” in this book. Santa? The grandmother whom her family brings from Latvia to the United States? Or perhaps the mother who thinks a piano would be a fine Christmas gift for her family, a gift they could all use. I suspect that the word “Latvia” is what triggered Jennifer’s one-star rating. Darn it, she didn’t even demand that the book be banned. Rats!
Some people might consider me to be an old fogey because of what I’m about to say regarding bad words. I don’t consider myself to be old. I prefer the French term: une femme dâun certain Ăąge.
I’m not going to tell anyone not to use bad words. I’m just going to suggest giving it more thought before you do so. Then maybe you’ll change your mind. Or not.
You’re going to see a lot of asterisks in this post.
These days people throw around bad words as if they were confetti. These words get used so often that they become banal and boring and lose their power.
Does this sweet little critter deserve to be called an ugly name?
What if you have a puppy that poops on your carpet and you call him an a**h****? The dog didn’t do it deliberately just to annoy you. If you call this innocent little creature who did something you don’t approve of because he didn’t know any better. If a puppy is an a**h***, what are you going to call someone who is truly evil? Someone like a loathsome politician? Are you equating your puppy to that horrible human being?
Why would a little critter like this deserve to be called an ugly name?
A photo of a little owl was posted on a social media page. Someone referred to the bird as a little motherf****er. When I objected to the language the guy said, “You must be fun at parties!” The parties I go to don’t include that kind of language. I didn’t say that to him. Instead, I said, “I’m ignorant. Educate me. Why is a word like this okay? Is it original? Is it clever? Is it witty?” The guy had no reply.
He must have expressed his genuine feelings to someone.
Some psychologist has claimed that people who swear are perceived as “genuine.” The Merriam-Webster dictionary gives a couple definitions of genuine, “sincere and honestly felt or expressed” and “free from hypocrisy or pretense.” Apparently, the psychologist didn’t realize that sometimes expressing your genuine feelings can get you punched in the nose.
Civilization is all about being artificial. We wear clothes instead of running around naked. We use restrooms instead of squatting on someone’s lawn to do our business. If we see someone eating a drumstick and we want it, we don’t grab it out of their hand and take a bite. We say “please,” and “thank you” and “may I?”
Do you suppose a lack of civility, too much expression of genuine feelings, could be part of the problems we have today?
The Saint Paul Latvian Song and Dance Festival is over but if you missed it, you have more opportunities to see, and maybe even participate (if you’re a member of a choir and it is invited to take part) in RÄ«ga, Latvia in 2023 and in Toronto, Canada in 2024. Start saving your money and renew your passport.
The Festival always begins with a procession.
Tickets for these summer events go on sale early in the year and sell out quickly. There are usually several hotels where blocks of rooms will be reserved for attendees. These also go quickly. If you value a good night’s sleep, don’t reserve a room at the main event hotel. The partying will probably go on all night, not just in the public rooms but also in individual hotel rooms. I was at one such festival after-party in a hotel room in Pasadena, California. The room was crowded but I didn’t think we were all that noisy. However, hotel security came to shush us. We weren’t even dancing or anything though we might have been singing a little.
Don’t you just love those lace socks?
Contrary to what the “Visit St. Paul” website said, it was not the largest Latvian Song and Dance Festival in the world. Only 8000 visitors were expected. The largest festival, of course, was the one held in RÄ«ga from June 30 to July 8 in 2018. That year was the 100th anniversary of Latvia’s original declaration of independence in November 1918.
My cousin and her husband were at the 2018 festival. He said there were so many participants in the procession that he and his wife went to lunch and when they came back the procession was still marching along.
These events are such a huge part of Latvian cultural heritage that I had to write about them again. Every third person in Latvia belongs to a choral group. I wonder what it would be like if 110 million Americans sang in a choir?
Since 2008 the Latvian Song and Dance Festival has been recognized by UNESCO as “one of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.”
I wrote this post primarily as a way to introduce this YouTube video, which I think is pretty cool.
0.0000704225353521126761 cents per word. More or less.
Amazon pays bonuses to authors who publish their books on Vella. The amount depends on the number of pages read. I just received a notice about my May 2022 bonus. Ten dollars! Woo-hoo! For a book that’s about 140k long.
How shall I spend this windfall? Go to Bali? Go to Capri? Buy an original Van Gogh?
Can’t even afford a glass.
This is not the first bonus I’ve received. It’s just the smallest one because someone read seventy-nine pages of my book. I received bigger monthly bonuses when my kind cousin-in-law, and maybe somebody else, was reading A Home for an Exile’s Heart. I think the highest bonus I got was sixty bucks.
Mostly, it’s my own fault. I haven’t done enough to publicize my novel. My efforts have been pretty sporadic at best. I don’t want to do PR. I want to write but when you self-publish, you don’t have much choice. Even traditionally published authors have to do a lot of their own book promotions. Fortunately, I just found out that one of my friends on Facebook publicizes books on her site. She urged me to send her a blurb and a link to A Home for an Exile’s Heart‘s Vella page. I did so but I don’t know what she will do or when. I’d love to leave it all in her hands but I’ll have to do my own PR, too.
When you self-publish, you also have to design your own cover. Even with millions of stock photos available for free, it’s hard to find exactly the right one. On a $0.00 budget, I had to settle for “close enough” images.
This was my first choice. My main character, LÄ«vija (Lee-vee-ya) GaliĆa (Guh-lyñ-ah) an exile from the Soviet invasion of Latvia in 1944, is walking home from work on the snowy evening the day after Thanksgiving, 1952. Even without houses, this scene could pass for a street on Seattle’s Capitol Hill. There’s a park on the hill so she could be walking past it. However, this image was too small and busy to look like anything but a vague mess in the cameo frame it has to fit into on Vella. I had to find a more simple image.
Courtship is a dance of love, intriguing and seductive. In one chapter my characters, LÄ«vija and her hero, Cameron Quinn, a former fighter pilot who saves her from an out-of-control car on that snowy night, dance the tango.
Not a perfect match but it will have to do.
One of these days, I will have to turn my novel into a paperback. More nitpicky work I’d rather not do but I don’t have much choice. I have to wait for my book to have been available on Vella for thirty days before I can offer it as a paperback. When will that be? Who knows? I have yet to finish revising the last chapter in order to publish it. Since so few people have been reading Exile I haven’t been motivated to wrap up that final chapter.
The last chapter may not be ready to go, but I have a tentative design for the cover.
If only I were an artist, too.
It’s time to stop lollygagging and finish that chapter, publish it, and start publicizing my book. Writing it was a labor of love but it was hard work nevertheless. I can’t let it all go to waste.
My family and I were refugees from Soviet Russia’s invasion of my parents’ homeland Latvia. My heart goes out to all refugees, particularly those who have had to flee from Ukraine because of the invasion of their homeland. Very little has changed in the last 78 years. For that matter, too little has changed since the Bolshevik Revolution that happened in Russia in 1917. Different dictator, same brutality.
This poem, by Latvian poet, Velta Toma (1912 – 1999) speaks to the soul of a Latvian refugee. To refugees anywhere.
This diaspora happened in the same year Ms. Toma composed her poem.
This is the fate from which Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians fled three years later. Germans drive the Red Army out in 1941 but the Reds invaded again in October of 1944,
BÄglis
Aiz manis tumsÄ zĆ«d ceÄŒi,
deg mÄjas, un sagrĆ«st tilts.
un visi dzÄ«vie kÄŒĆ«st veÄŒi.
KÄ vÄju vajÄta smilts
es klÄ«stu pa sveĆĄÄm vietÄm
bez darba, dusas un cilts.
- Velta Toma, (1944)
The translation is my own.
Refugee
Behind me, the road fades into darkness,
my home burns, the bridge collapses
And all we living become ghosts.
Like a wind-driven grain of sand
I drift through foreign lands
without work, without rest,without kin.
DacÄ«teand her kaÄ·Ä«tis, Tincis, which is not included among the nicknames but is the main character in a Latvian children’s book that I loved.
The other day I was editing a chapter of my novel, As Wind to Flame. One of the characters is named Louisa. Rereading the chapter reminded me of the time I read it to my critique group. They wanted to know who Lu was. Who was Lulu? Since there were only three characters in the scene, one of them a guy and the other Louisa’s sister, Thea. It seemed obvious to me that when Thea said Lu or Lulu she was talking about Louisa. I had one character call Louisa “Baby” because the girl is Thea’s younger sister and often behaves like a baby. I was the only one to whom the nicknames seemed an obvious reference to Louisa.
Too many different nicknames was the groupâs consensus opinion. Only three nicknames were too many? I felt sorry for the members of my group. Such a paucity of nicknames. Unlike other European languages, English has a shortage of diminutive. Iâm a Latvian. Multiple nicknames are common among us. Over the years Iâve had many nicknames. I counted a total of fifteen terms of endearment that people who are fond of me have called me. The poor Americans had only one, maybe two nicknames.
Some of my nicknames are diminutive variations of my first name, Dace. DacÄ«te and DaÄuks. Both are common variations. The â-Ä«teâ suffix is a common way to turn a name into a diminutive for girls and women whose names end with an âe.â One friend came up with his own original version, Dacele. I thought that was kind of sweet. The diminutives for womenâs names that end with an âa,â as in Ausma, the suffix becomes, â-iĆa,â AusmiĆa. The âNâ with the âtailâ is pronounced like the Spanish âNâ with a tilde.
Menâs names, both first and last end with an â-sâ or an â-is.â Diminutives follow the same rule. I have a half-Latvian friend with an Anglo name, Scott. He was pleased when I gave him the Latvian nickname, âSkotiĆĆĄ.â
(note: Unless they have a diacritical mark, letters in the Latvian alphabet have only one pronunciation. Since in the name Scott, the âcâ is pronounced like a âkâ thatâs how itâs said and how it’s spelled in Latvian. The Latvian âcâ is pronounced almost like the “tsâ in tsar.)
Back to terms of endearment.
DĆ«da is a popular nickname for girls and women. It derives from the word, dĆ«do, the cooing sound made by doves. I guess that to parents DĆ«da must have seemed like a fitting endearment for cooing baby girls. Iâve been called by every single variation of DĆ«daâDĆ«dele, DĆ«diĆa, DĆ«cÄ«tis (yes, sometimes masculine suffixes show up in girlsâ nicknames), and DĆ«c. My cousin and I were both called DĆ«da by our mothers. It’s sad that neither of us has a mother to call us DĆ«da and other endearments anymore.
DĆ«ja, a dove.
Oops! I left out a couple of variations of my name. The rule for diminutives is, âthe smaller, the dearer.â DaÄuks is small. DaÄukiĆĆĄ is even smaller and thus more dear. Dacele could become DacelÄ«te.
Iâve lost count of the various variations.
Some nicknames are the same as the ones Anglos use. For instance âKitten,â which becomes KaÄ·Ä«tis, and also MincÄ«tis, PincÄ«tis, and IncÄ«tis. My mother called me KaÄ·Ä«tis and MincÄ«tis. I once knew a Latvian woman called, PelÄ«te, little mouse. The names of birds also come into play. DĆ«jiĆa, little dove. CÄlÄ«tis, little chicken. PĆ«cÄ«te, little owl for when a child is being a crosspatch. I guess to Latvians owls look grumpy.
PĆ«ce. Owl. It does look kind of cross, doesn’t it?
Yep, I’ve been told not to be such a cross little owl.
When I was a baby I must have had pink cheeks because I was known as apple blossom ÄbeÄŒziediĆĆĄ and ÄupÄiks. I donât know where ÄupÄiks came from. Maybe it came from the Kewpie doll-like tuft of hair I had on top of my head. At least thatâs what I imagine.
After I posted on Facebook about my many nicknames some of my Latvian and half-Latvian (fractional Latvian) friends wanted me to give them Latvian nicknames. So I did. I hope they enjoy their diminutive Latvian names of endearment.
If you want to give yourself, your spouse, child, or another loved one a Latvian nickname, you now know where to begin.
The other day I succeeded in delighting a photographer. Heâd posted a photo on a social media site of a road surrounded by towering trees as it curved around the rim of a deep gorge. Others besides me loved the photo; they called it beautiful, awesome, gorgeous, etc. One-word reactions such as this are the norm. I made similar remarks, but I also commented on the splash of golden sunlight shining through the leaves. The photographerâs response was effusive to the point of gushing. His response delighted me. It made me happy to make him happy.
Even art photographers sometimes risk their necks to get a good shot.
This isnât the first time Iâve pleased a photographer by looking closely at his or her work of art and commenting on details that I find especially outstanding or evocative.
As a writer, I know what other creatives like, what tickles them to the point where their socks fly off, like Charlie Brownâs when heâs knocked off the pitcherâs mound by a fastball.
Itâs wonderful to get responses such as beautiful, awesome, and breathtaking, but they donât tell the artist very much. The same goes for writing. I like hearing, âgood story,â ânice,â and âinteresting.â These are all instantaneous responses that require little thought. Creatives want to know why you like their work. What makes it special?
To photographers, I say such things as âI like your framing.â “I like the contrast of colors and texture.â âThe way you captured the light is magical.â âI love the composition.â
Writers also like to know what you like about their story.
“Writing is easy. Just sit down at a typewriter, open your veins and bleed” or variations of the same have been attributed to more than one writer.
One of the best responses I once got from a reader was, âI felt like I was there with your character. I felt what she was feeling.â
Thatâs what I want to know. Do my characters come alive? Have I made you feel what they feel? Are my settings so vivid that it seems as if youâre there? Are my images, metaphors, and similies memorable? Can you visualize what Iâm describing? If my writing made you get misty or gave you a chuckle, Iâd like to know that, too.
The kind of reactions Iâve described require a bit of thought, not just a knee-jerk reaction. Yes, it takes a bit of time, but the creative has put hours ofâprecious time, love, and much effort into their work. I think they deserve a thoughtful response.
I have to admit that I donât always know what to say, either. Even though I took several art history classes in college, I feel I don’t know enough about art to make apt comments. Thatâs why I avoid going to opening receptions at art galleries, just so I donât have to talk to the artist, Iâm afraid that what I say will be banal, cliched. That’s more about my own ego, to not seem ignorant. But even if the artist has heard the same comment a hundred times it’s okay. Creatives like to know their work has been seen and appreciated, no matter how naive the comments.
Today Latvians are commemorating the anniversary of the deportations.
This map belonged to my parents.
Deported by the Soviets from Latvia in one night, the night between June 13 and June 14, 1941. There was no due process, not really, not when you consider that the government of Latvia at the time had not been democratically elected, but was forced on it by the Soviets.
Among those loaded onto cattle cars and shipped to Siberia were men, women, and children, some as young as one.
What crime could a one-year-old child have committed? Being born to parents who were considered enemies of the people. Guilt by association. These enemies were government officials, educators, journalists, cultural figures, anyone who had the prominence and respect to influence others to oppose the Soviet regime. It didnât matter whether they had done so or not. Their positions in society meant that the possibility existed. Preventive arrests for things people might do.
The link Iâve included is to an interactive map provided by the National Library of Latvia, which makes it possible to look up the deportations from any town or civil parish. Click on the green dot by a townâs name and scroll through the list of names to look for relatives and friends.
I searched for names on the list for my motherâs hometown, LimbaĆŸi. I didnât find the names of any relatives on the list of sixty-six deportees, but I found the name of my motherâs high school sweetheart. He was twenty-four when he was sent to Siberia. Eventually, I donât know how many years later he was able to walk back home. He lived long enough to see Latvia regain its freedom, but died not much later.
I donât know how my maternal grandfather escaped being arrested. He was the deputy mayor of his hometown and the editor of the local newspaper. Just the sort of person whoâd be most likely to be rounded up. It was probably sheer luck. The arrests and deportations were pretty much a hit-or-miss thing. The NKVD had such a long list of people to arrest that if an individual happened not to be at home when agents came knocking in the middle of the night, they went on to the next name on their list and never returned.
Town Hall
My fatherâs hometown, AlĆ«ksne had 167 victims. None of my relatives appeared on that list, either. But my fatherâs older sister and her husband were arrested and sent to Siberia in the second wave of deportations in 1949. They, too, managed to return, probably after Stalinâs death in 1953.
Lake Alƫksne
Some of my motherâs relatives lived in the capital, RÄ«ga. I didnât look for them. The number of deportees from RÄ«ga was more than four thousand. My motherâs family was practically a tribe. Great-granddad was married three times; my mother had cousins even she couldnât keep track of. I donât know what towns they might have lived in in 1941. I donât know how many if any of them were deported. People donât talk about such things. The memories are too terrible.
If youâre a Latvian reading this post and want to look up a relative, donât worry if you canât read the language. Itâs not necessary. You just have to be able to recognize the name of a person or place. Pagasts means civil parish; their names are included on the list.
This is a revised version of an essay I posted in November of 2020. It’s not just sad, but horrible that not only have things not changed in that time, they’ve gotten worse. Putin, a Stalin-wanna-be has brutally invaded Ukraine. Millions of Ukrainians have fled, thousands have stayed to fight for their country, and too many have died.My heart aches for them. I read the headline, watch video clips and cry. I hope the refugees can all go home soon and none of their children are born stateless.
A Photo Essay
Refugees have been on my mind lately, even though the refugee crisis on the southern USA border has been pushed out of the headlines by the pandemic and the presidential election. Iâve also been reading about refugees and their desperate plight in books by Erich Maria Remarque, Flotsam and The Night in Lisbon.
Flotsam is defined as the debris from the wreckage of a ship or its cargo. Itâs also defined as people or things that have been rejected and are regarded as worthless.
Isnât that perfect? We were human flotsam from the World War II wreckage of Europe. At best refugees were regarded by natives of the countries they fled to as âunwanted guests,â at worst as âthe scum of Europe.â How sad that so little has changed.
Iâve also been thinking about refugees because for the past two years Iâve been writing a novel about a Latvian refugee, LÄ«vija GaliĆa, and her family, who after years as flotsam in Europe have finally found a safe haven in Seattle, Washington, USA. There, one snowy evening, LÄ«vija is nearly run down by an out-of-control car, which has skidded on an ice street and jumped the curb. Her life is saved by a dashing former fighter pilot, Cameron Quinn. Writing my novel has been an all-consuming, delightful, frustrating, agonizing journey–hours of writing, followed by more hours of re-writing, editing, and more editing, doing my best to make my story captivating and readable. Hoping readers will find my characters as engaging as I do.
Here are a few photos of my familyâs time in the Hochfeld Displaced Persons camp in Augsburg, Germany.
This is what Latvians were running from
This cattle car is not loading Jewish people to send them to concentration camps. This cattle car is loading Latvians to take them to Siberia. Thousands were deported. Most of them never returned. They died of starvation or overwork in forced labor camps. Or because it was so cold that even vodka freezes during a Siberian winter.
The man in the middle is my mother’s brother.
Nikolaijs lost his leg in WW II. He and his friends are posing outside a hospital. My uncle was in the Augsburg DP camp with us. He, my other uncle–my father’s brother, Alfons, my parents, and I all lived together. I think we had two rooms. A separate room for my folks and me and another for the unmarried uncles.
The maternity hospital in Augsburg, Germany where I was born.Me, in my grand carriage.I was born in Augsburg.My folks and I in a park in Augsburg. Mr. Ohaks, my uncle Nikolaijs, and yours truly.
I have no idea how this picture got taken or why Mr. Ohaks is in it. He was the “elder,” the supervisor, I guess, of the DP camp building where we lived. He was no relation to us. Perhaps he was my uncle’s friend, or as the elder, maybe he was everyone’s friend. I have no idea where that ball came from. It could have been in a CARE package from America.
My other uncle, my dad’s younger brother, Alfons, and his special friend.
My uncle never talked about her. I never knew her name. I only know about her from what my mother told me. The girlfriend had a husband who had stayed in Latvia. I don’t know how they got separated. Was he a soldier who’d been reported killed in action? While in Germany she learned that her husband was still alive. She went back to him, leaving my uncle devastated. In her absence, her husband had married someone else. The girlfriend was not allowed to leave Latvia again. Alfons never married. I based events in my novel on real-life incidents.
This is my uncle, Alfons, leaving for Bremerhaven, Germany to get on the boat that would take him to America. The promised land. He’s wearing a tag on his coat as if he were a parcel in the mail. All refugees wore them as they departed Germany.My mother, her brother, Nikolaijs, and me on a street in Augsburg.
The uncles left one by one as they found sponsors in the USA. I’m upset because Nikolaijs was my favorite uncle. I believe the buildings on the right are the ones where we all lived. Many refugees did not have such elegant accommodations. Some had to live in root cellars.
The photo for my laissez-passer
A laissez-passer is “a diplomatic travel document issued by the United Nations” to stateless people. Refugee who’ve lost their homelands.
The USNS General A.W. Greely.
The Greely was the navy transport ship that brought my family and other refugees to New York.
I remember very little about the trip. I was only three and a half. My mother and I had an upper bunk in a cabin with other women and children. My father was in a different cabin with other men. Everyone but me was seasick.
On the Greely was the first time I remember seeing a Black man. He was a steward and very nice. He gave me an orange. Oranges were such a rare commodity that in the camps they were Christmas gifts.
The nice steward also brought me a dish of red Jell-o. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a thing. I called it kustelÄ«gais (wiggly)
Playing dress-up with a borrowed doll carriage.
Our first stop in the USA was Pennsylvania where my parents worked on the corn farm that belonged to our sponsors to repay them for bringing us to America. We also lived in Delaware for a while.
After a year of working for their sponsors, refugees were free to go wherever they wished. My folks hated the heat and humidity of East Coast summers. Alfons had completed his tenure working on his sponsors’ farm in South Dakota and moved to Tacoma, Washington where he had friends. He wrote to my father saying how nice it was in western Washington and urged us to come to live here. I may be prejudiced but I think he couldn’t have picked a better place.
A safe haven in Tacoma, Washington. Refugee kids at a Children’s Christmas party. I’m the one front and center, bow and all.
(More installments of Latvia Under the Soviets will follow)
Characters develop a mind of their own and won’t do what you want them to do. Heroes turn into villains and the other way around. Stories you thought were “meh: at best turn out to be unexpectedly good. Stories you thought were good turn out to be trash or at least needâa lot of rewriting. Exciting material dies in the computer or on paper.
Don’t trash it. Recycle It.
Because I’m a “pantser,” someone who doesn’t plot out a story, someone who wings it, I usually just sit down and start writingâalmost as soon as a story demands to be written. The writing doesn’t always happen on the computer. Often the writing process starts in my head and gets considerable mulling before I start typing.
That was not the case with a new idea that insisted on being written while I was still working on another book that I was trying to get ready to submit. I knew I should finish the current project before I started on the new inspiration, but Rosa’s story kept tugging at my brain, saying “Write me! Write me!”To placate that nagging story, I started taking notes, writing very short scenes,âand scraps of dialogue, and jotting down ideas, willy-nilly as they came to me, in no particular order.
Lost access to my computer for several days so had to resort to paper and pen. which I do anyway.
Somehow, I wound up writing a prose poem. It scored better on an app called “The Poetry Assessor” than material intended to be poems.
I admire poetic writing, such as the opening pages of John Steinbeck’s,âThe Grapes of Wrath in which he describes the drought deathâof the land that will eventually drive the Joad family from their tenant farm.âI could attribute this poetic writing I unintentionally achieved from slowly savoring Steinbeck’s book and absorbing his style, but it’s happened before in my novel, A Home for an Exile’s Heart which I published on Amazon’s Kindle Vella. I’m not sure how that happened, either. I sat down at my keyboard and wrote. Voila!
My new character, Rosa musings about a painting:
In Rosaâs basement quarters, a painting hung above the sofa, that showed hills receding in the distance, trees, and a house tucked between the humps of the hills. A curving road led from the middle distance of the painting and disappeared into shadowed shrubbery in the foreground. Rosa sat in an armchair opposite the painting and stared. To her nearsighted eyes, the buff-colored road looked like a ripe banana. Once sheâd seen the banana, she couldnât unsee it.
âAlexa,â Rosa commanded, âplay the âBanana Boat Song.â
Softly, Rosa sang a duet with Harry Belafonte. âDaylight come and I wanna go home.â
Yep, the painted road looks exactly like this banana.
BTW–I didn’t intend to write this blog post, either. I sat down with my fingers on the keyboard and it happened. Willy-nilly. The Writing Genie. The Puppet Master.
I’ll do anything to avoid rewriting the pesky chapter in the current manuscript that has me hung up. After several days away from it, writing this blog post, and reading that chapter for what seems like the 27th time, I realized, “Hey, this is pretty good. Why was I bent all out of shape over it?”
I don’t know if Rosa’s story will ever turn into a book but in the meantime, I’m having fun with it.
#botanicalcreativity#eggsymbolism#ostara#embracingtheseasons#inspiredbynature#celebratespring
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