A Spring Day Feeds You For a Year

The arrival of spring to our tiny village of Chukhrai – population 18 – means that soon the rutted, ice-covered, puddle-riddled forest road that connects us to the outside world will become passable.

Slowly, the babushki and dedushki emerge from their hibernation. All winter I had observed subtle signs of their existence. Wispy columns of smoke rising from the chimneys of their two-room log cabins. Runner tracks in the snow left from early morning forays in a horse-led sleigh to gather firewood. An old man covered from head to toe in torn, dirty, yet warm telogreika (wadded clothing), sitting on an overturned pail in the middle of the frozen river, his fishing line disappearing into a hole in the ice.

My husband Igor and I set out on an expedition down the six-mile lifeline to the next village, from which a paved road leads another 15 miles to civilization. We load our sturdy Russian UAZ army jeep–perhaps the only modern invention to reach this village aside from electricity and television–with axe, chain saw, winch, crowbar, and rubber boots.

All that remains of Chukhrai’s local store are a few bricks and stones. So our neighbors, most elderly and over 80, wave us to a stop as we begin our trek. I write down their zakazy (orders). Mostly, the villagers get by with what they reap from the land. Few items are needed from the “mainland.” Sacks of flour to bake bread. Sugar to preserve berries and make samogon (moonshine). Carrot, cucumber, and dill seeds to sow. Chicks to raise for fresh eggs and poultry. Piglets to fatten up for pork and salo (lard, which supposedly no Russian can survive the winter without).

Beyond the village now, we ram the jeep like an ice-cleaver through a still-frozen puddle. Further on, meltwater in deep ruts engulfs the entire front half of the jeep. The engine sputters and water spills into the door wells. A fat tree accosts the side of the vehicle. But the UAZ doesn’t mind and neither do we. At just $3,000 new, this rugged jeep has earned its keep. When two-thirds of the valves fell out of the carburetor, the unstoppable machine just kept going. A popular joke has it that Russians keep inventing bigger and better trucks so as not to build roads.

We arrive in the district center, Suzemka, about 20 miles away. A town of about 7,000, it offers limited produce and foodstuffs at its weekend market. We stock up on supplies and, after two hours of civilization, are ready to go home. We return to our village to divvy up the take. Our neighbors shove money for gas in our pockets, but we decline. Despite our protests, they bring us potatoes and salo, remarking that they don’t like to feel indebted.

As the ground warms, the villagers turn to the land. They mend the fences around their sizable garden plots to keep out cows and wild boars. They borrow horses to plow the land. The old woman across from us, called by her patronymic Trofimovna, asks one of the two “young” men in the village, 40-year old drunks still living at home, to lead the horse and plow while she spreads manure for fertilizer. A half-liter of samogon and a few lard sandwiches are fair pay for a day’s work.

I begin to tend to my own small garden, dwarfed by that of Trofimovna, who at 90 is nearly three times my age. Yet, it is all that I can handle. She will spend every day from spring until fall and from dawn until dusk doubled over the earth planting seeds, picking weeds, removing potato beetles and cabbage worms. I would like to think that I have more important things to do. But, as the Russian saying goes, “A spring day feeds you for a year” (Весенний день год кормит). Her harvest will get her through the winter until she can sow again. If she does not sow and reap, she will starve. Perhaps it is the daily grind that keeps her fit, indeed alive, day-to-day, year-to-year.

I head to the woods that surround our village with bucket in hand and rubber boots on my feet. Though they say in Russia that there are only two seasons – winter and summer – I marvel at the delicate signs of spring. Little earring-like seeds of alder trees adorn the melting ice. Tiny green sprouts shoot from under disappearing snow. Water trickles out of swamps in the forest to join the river. Soon the river will swell and engulf adjacent lands for a spell.

Finding a large birch tree, I carve a small hole in the base of the trunk, fashioning a spigot from a splinter of wood, and set a bucket underneath. In a day’s time, I will return and collect birch juice full of the sweet smell of spring and fresh blossoms.

Off in a meadow, a pair of common cranes, having just arrived from some warmer place, heralds the arrival of spring with their trumpeting call. A warm, happy feeling spreads through me. Summer cannot be far behind.