Wind chill

Forget the musty trails,  try frosty trails instead. And forget the meandering, brisk walking's the  only way to keep warm.

It's been one of those weeks where the windchill was constantly in  the -40s (on Wednesday, supposedly, Winnipeg was the coldest place in North America). I must remind my dear old mom (who frets that she didn't survive the gulag so her daughter could work outside here on the prairies) that working as a letter carrier in Winnipeg isn't like being in Siberia. I get regular meals (and no, it's not cabbage soup twice a day), dress in layers (Gortex is amazing), and have a warm barrack (I mean, home) to return to. My boss doesn't stand around with a gun or a mean dog, 'supervising' my progress. Well, not yet.  

My mom (still in the hospital) told me a story yesterday of how a fellow gulag inmate had tried to warm herself near some coals and her quilted jacket caught fire. She ran into the snow and rolled around to quench the flames. My mom noticed some lights out in the field and went out to see what was happening. She walked the woman back to the barracks. By then the woman was frozen solid. They put her into a shower and she recovered. But my mom says the woman "went crazy" and was never herself again.

Stay warm, eh!

Political Activism

http://www.praguedeclaration.org

The above link is about recognizing Soviet communism as the monstrosity it was. You can sign the petition and work towards creating a better understanding of the past so that the future can be better.

New Soviet documentary

This will be on my must-see movie list for 2009:

http://www.sovietstory.com/about-the-film/

On another note. Boss said we're not to climb snowbanks anymore. Sigh. Where's the fun in that? And I've got my super-duper mountain climbing socks from Marks Work Warehouse. I'd like to CHOOSE my own battles and if I feel like climbing snowbanks while I deliver the mail, I think I should just do it. 

Okay, that's my rant. 

Robert Frost's poetry

Wisdom from Robert Frost's

 "The Road not Taken"

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

(I'M OMITTING VERSES TWO AND THREE)

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

And then I must add the lines of his other poem which has accompanied me on many a snowy walk in my own local woods.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

How can you tell I spend all my time walking? 

Word of the year CHOICE

Getting on the bandwagon here ... my word of the year is going to be ... CHOICE. You know, kind of like the poem about choosing the path less traveled. I think it's what defines us as humans (with my apologies to the Killers who ask: are we human or are we dancers?).  I'll say that I have freedom with my act of choosing. 

Now what shall I choose?

Places on a Map

I gave myself a renewed subscription to Russian Life's "Chtenia: Readings from Russia" for the new year. It's an amazing little journal that arrives with the seasons. My renewal came with a free modern map of Russia. I've put it up on my wall and pinpointed places that have a story for me - (because of my mom). Wow, is Russia ever a big place - and pre-1991 it was even bigger. 

Siberia just goes on and on. Because of its sheer size, winters there really are colder than elsewhere. It has something to do with the Ural mountains and the fact that there's little coastline to moderate the temperatures. There's just so much land with virtually no towns or cities shown on the map. I guess the small settlements - often gulags with forced labour - never got to be given a name on a map. I can find Arkhangelsk - north of St. Petersburg near the White Sea Canal. I can also see Vorkuta - a notoriously harsh gulag. But I can't see the little place near Yaya (just southest of Tomsk) where my mom was sent. In fact, most of the places of my mom's life can't be found anywhere. 

Fedorofka, her home village has been renamed Kaliniwka. Koenigsberg, where she spent her teenage years is now Kaliningrad, East Prussia is now Poland and no Yaya.  Today, it's no doubt just some leftover barbwire in some bush.  Then there's the place where she was sent as POW in 1945 - somewhere in the Ural Mountains - Shadrinsk - I found it!  It's on the Iset River. 

I must try and keep these places real. I would SO much love to travel by train through Siberia. 

Maybe someday. 

Happy 2009

Funny how the new calendar year has nothing to do with new. I mean, I look out the window and it's old snow, sleeping trees, and a sun barely able to peek over the horizon. Frozen energy.

New is supposed to be full of life, no? Instead, this time of year it's all about surviving. A time to survive the short, blustery hours of daylight, and the long, colder hours of night. And that does takes energy. Not the loud burst of frivolity of a new year's eve party (although I've done my share), but the daily grind of sticking to it and believing that spring is waiting.

Hey, it's kind of like writing a book. You write and you write and sometimes it seems dark and the words are hard to find ... but then you survive and spring, or should I say getting published, looms on the calendar like a tree thick with buds. (Hopefully it won't be like my plum tree that blooms so pretty and never gives me a plum.)

OK. Happy 2009 everyone. Spring's a comin! It'll be the real new year for me. Did I mention my book's coming out spring, 09? Fingers crossed.