Tidbits from the Past

I collect paper. Not pretty paper. Not useful paper. I am just one of those "pile" people who always has a huge pile of paper...stuff...on one, usually more, desks in the house. Also, stuffed in drawers and closets. It drives Jim crazy. In some ways I can be quite tidy, but I can't seem to help the paper. I do pay the bills and do the financial stuff around the house, so there is always that. But then I never met a coupon book I could throw out before it's time (and usually long after), or a parenting magazine that I didn't want to hold onto because I am pretty sure there is some rare gem of advice buried somewhere inside. Not to mention any sort of special offer or flyer for a service (you never know when you might need to know who to call for cleaning out your gutters). Then there is the OLD paper stuff. I am way too sentimental about letters, cards, and, of course, artwork from children. Before even having children, I had a stash of artwork from nieces and nephews (hear Jim's teeth gnashing). Now...oh my...my oldest is only in Kindergarten, and the pile of artwork is astonishing, from daycare and preschools.

So, let's just say, I'm working on it. Really, I am. For instance, now that the "spare" bedroom has a future resident, I have been cleaning out the closet. Yes, I've thrown out a lot. But I would like to mention that this exercise has also justified my packrat ways, because it is so exciting to find those rare tidbits of things from the past that just make you sit and read and remember, or laugh, or wonder. I had a good laugh reading cards from my first college roommate. We really "got" each others sense of humor. Then I found a beautiful little note from my late grandmother. I could just sit and look at her handwriting all day. I never realized before how much my Aunt's handwriting resembles her mother's.

Then, of all things, I found a clipped newspaper column from Aug. 1995. I assume that I clipped it, although my parents have clipped columns over the years and sent them to me. In 1995 I was in Dayton, traveling all the time for my auditing job. I suppose I clipped the column because it was a funny travel story. I have NO idea, really. It was written by DL Stewart in the Dayton Daily News, and it was called "His most memorable adventure? Russian into the woods" and was a funny column about DL Stewart's trip to Russia. I'm sure Jim would say I clipped it because it contained potty humor (DL gets a case of Trotsky's Revenge on a long car ride in the middle of Russian nowhere). I do like potty humor (Jim doesn't share my tastes in humor, and he sometimes wonders how he could have married someone who can have the same humorous taste as a toddler). Whatever the reason, I found this column from 1995, long before I ever considered adopting from Russia, and I laughed. And I marveled at how I clipped this particular thing and saved it. Then I stashed it in my new pile of Russia-related papers for Owen. I consider pile shifting to be almost as good as throwing it away. And THIS, I tell Jim, is why I am a packrat.


HIS MOST MEMORABLE ADVENTURE? RUSSIAN INTO THE WOODS
BYLINE: D.L. Stewart
DATE: August 23, 1995
PUBLICATION: Dayton Daily News (OH)
EDITION: CITY
SECTION: LIFESTYLE
PAGE: 1C
COLUMN: RETURN TO RUSSIA
We toured 10th century monasteries and 12th century cathedrals. We strolled inside historic Kremlins and relaxed on a boat chugging down the fabled Volga River. We drank vodka with strangers and ate caviar with friends.
So what is about Russia that I'll never forget? Trotsky's Revenge.
I'm not sure what caused it. It might have been the fish livers and cabbage I had for breakfast. Or maybe the deep-fried calf's brain and cabbage I had for lunch. In any event, there are eight of us packed shoulder-to-shoulder in two tiny Russian cars, speeding over rural roads that haven't been repaired since Ivan the Terrible, when it first hits.
"Uh, Ilyas," I say to one of our hosts. "Do you think we could stop at the next gas station?"
"We have plenty of gas," he replies.
"Exactly," I groan.
Ilyas says something to the driver, who pulls off the road. When he slams on the brakes, I jump out of the car and look for the gas station. But we are deep in the heart of Russia, halfway between Moscow and nowhere. There is no gas station in sight. No roadside rest stop. Nothing that looks like it might contain a roll of Charmin. Just trees. Miles and miles of birch trees.
I look at Ilyas. He looks at me and shrugs. I think about it. But only until the fish livers pick another violent argument with the calf's brains. I sprint for the birch trees.
Ten minutes later I emerge from the woods. I feel somewhat better. But I am no longer wearing socks.
We resume our drive. Fifty miles later our cars pull off the road and everyone jumps out. Someone produces a newspaper and spreads it on the trunk of our car. Someone else produces a bottle of cheap red vermouth and some plastic cups. Another someone produces some bags of pistachio nuts.
Ilyas says something in Russian that sounds like "ka-POOT-nee" and thrusts a plastic glass of vermouth into my hand.
"I don't think that's a good idea in my condition," I mention.
"Ka-POOT-nee," he insists.
For the next 20 minutes we kapootnee, except for the drivers. Then we get back into the cars. We drive another 50 miles and pull off the road again. This time we kapootnee with Polish cognac, fruit juice and French candy bars.
We drive for another 50 miles. Now the fish livers, calf's brains and cabbage are fermenting in cheap wine and potent cognac.
"Uh, Ilyas," I say. The car pulls off the road, and I leap out 10 seconds before the driver slams on the brakes. Once again there is nothing in sight but birch trees. Russia has millions of birch trees. I sprint for them. Not only does Russia have millions of birch trees, I discover, it has billions of mosquitoes.
Fifteen minutes later I return to the car. I feel slightly better. But now I have no underwear.
Shortly before midnight we reach our destination, a 14th century convent where we will be spending the night. Before we go to bed, Ilyas suggests, we should have one more kapootnee. This time I politely, but firmly, decline.
I don't want to be ungracious. But I'm starting to run out of clothes.