A few miles past the dirt roads on the outskirts of town you
can find my secret garden, or as you say in Polish, działka. I don’t know the name of the place or
the crossroads, and I couldn’t even give you directions – but put me in a car
and I’ll get you there. The car I was in was a stick shift, so I let my aunt
take me there. I pull on the door handle
before the car even stops. I should probably close the door behind me but I
have a one-track mind. My aunt shakes her head and closes the door; hopefully
she won’t bring up my “American ways” up to me after a few beers. Off in the
distance you can hear the blades of a lawnmower, hawking grass out like people
being spit out of a revolving door. The faint smell of gasoline is even part of
this place. No matter how hard the gasoline
fumes try, nothing will cover up the wind whipped, floral filled, warm air
being thrown in my face. My memory soaks up this smell and if I could bottle it
up and put it on a shelf, I’d be a millionaire. I slip off my worn out, white
leather sandals, and slide them back into the car. I won’t need these here.
The weight of the wicker baskets I’m carrying doesn’t slow
me down. Fresh baked, sliced rye bread, three pounds of fresh Polish kielbasa,
a variety of dark lagers, and a jar of homemade mustard are just a few of the
delicacies I will indulge in today. The grass is so fresh and soft, and maybe
even a little moist that I feel like I’m walking on clouds, which in turn are
steps, and will eventually lead me to heaven. And for me, this place is heaven.
Bury me here and let my soul spend eternity running through the fields of
flowers.
Even the grass remembers me. It tickles me on the soft
arches of my feet as if it’s telling me it’s ready to play. The walk to the
gate inflates my anticipation and I’ve forgotten all about the fact that I’m
carrying at least twenty pounds of weight between my fingers. The hinges cry
out as I open the gate and it’s like I’ve walked into a Van Gogh painting. At
least two hundred tawny, over blossomed marigolds stand like soldiers along
each side of the path. Although I know where I am going, I always appreciate
their long, over extended stems stretching towards the cottage home and it’s
big wooden door. Before I can make it to the end of the path, I’ll be greeted
by a kaleidoscopic medley of other flowers. Some so polite, that you don’t even
need to bend over to smell them. They stand at 5’7, eye level height for me,
and we both agree that eating vegetables does make you grow. Around the base of
these flowers, is a small patch of green onions, which immediately makes me
jealous of the dahlia’s diet.
In front of me is the old, cottage house, which has been
around for at least 50 years. My grandparents built it when they were in their
early thirties, minus a few necessary repairs; it’s remained exactly the same.
The white wooden panels, some which have been faded into more of an eggshell
from the sun, go in different directions on the front of the house. The roof is
a dull worn out tin, stained in a traditional Polish red. Lined inside each
window is a traditional Polish lace curtain, this too, faded and worn out by
the sun. The path around the house starts at the front of the door and it ends
there too. When you take your first few steps along the path you are greeted by
an assembly of patio chairs, a wooden lunch table, and an overused black
grill. Around the back of the house
garlic hangs by the bunch from old shoelaces hanging on to nails. Next, you
come around to the all glass, paned greenhouse. The greenhouse is overgrown
with sun ripened red and yellow tomatoes. The yellow ones are like sunbursts
filled with juice and taste best with a dash of paprika. I pick a few, wipe
them against my dress, and bite into them as if they were apples. It’s juices
immediately run down my chin, drip on my dress, leaving evidence if I ever try
to say I’m not guilty of indulging. Across from the greenhouse, velvet-skinned
grapes grow in clusters on vines strewn up and down the sidewall of the cottage
house. I could live here forever.
I pull the front door open, swatting at a bee or two, and
immediately see a weathered arm reach up, with a jar of pickles in it’s grasp, from
a hole in the floor. Below the dusty wooden floorboards is a cellar filled with
every pickled vegetable or jarred fruit you can think of. My Babcia, Polish for
grandma, is ready to showcase everything she has managed to stick into a jar.
Each jar of pickles is meticulously lined with dill and fresh garlic bulbs,
some even stuffed with curry leaves. She
insists I sample them all and within a few minutes a platter full of pickles is
presented in front of me. In the mean time, I am asked to fill up empty wine
bottles with water from the well. I will never forget how many times my cousin,
Marcin, use to threaten me and tell me I would end up at the bottom of the well
if I didn’t give him my share of baked apples with cinnamon and sugar. The well
pump looks exactly the same, but this time around it takes a few more pumps
than usual to get the water flowing. Before
I’m done, the grill has been lit and the smell of what was last cooked on the
grill makes the inside of my cheeks sweat.
I walk around the back of the house and my eye catches a
spot on the wall where I once carved my name with my grandpa’s knife. The
letters have been smoothed out since I did this ten years ago, but as I run my
finger over my name I can hear my childish laughter thawing out the frost that
one time I came here in February. This time around the flowers are unreal. I couldn’t
even use my imagination to come up with these kinds of plants if I tried. Silk petals, smooth to the touch, come in
every color imaginable. The warmest ambers bleed into sun stroked yellows to
create flower you can get lost in. The earth is soft and warm and being
barefoot in the rows of sunflowers makes me feel like a young child, in a white
linen dress reveling in my innocence. The sun is warm on my face and it gives
off just enough rays to send me home with a few more freckles than I came with.
Now my freckles match my babcias. My babcia is an older lady who looks doesn’t
fear the gaze of others, over a head full of washed out violet hair. Her hands
are rough and beat up because she tends to the garden so much, but when she
squeezes your hand, her warmth and energy are contagious. With that one touch
she immediately melts every strain or wrinkle on your face and has a power that
can bring you back down to earth when you’ve floated a bit too high. I fall
asleep thinking about how much I am going to miss her when I leave this place.
I am awoken from my nap, on my soft grass blanket, by the
smell of charring sausage. I can see an ivory coffee mug filled with chilled Polish
beer on the table. Next to it, a small dish with chunks of freshly churned
butter slowly melting into a puddle of it’s own - from the heat of sun. I can
only imagine how the salty and sweet combination will taste against my lips. A
cotton napkin lines the bottom of a small brown basket that holds a loaf of
that fresh baked bread and it’s crumbs. None of the plates, cups, or silverware
match each other. They’ve all been
abused, some chipped, some with cracks in the ceramic all the way down. They’ve
never looked more perfect to me. The drippings from the sausage sizzle as they
hit the scorching coals at the bottom of the grill. When my grandma rolls three
pieces of kielbasa on my plate, I’m not sure I can even wait until they cool down.
I think for a minute maybe a dip in the stone ground mustard might cool them
down, but I know better. I’d hate to spoil that first delectable bite by
burning the inside of my mouth and not being able to taste anything. Each
sausage looks as if it’s ripping through the seams of those fine cuts made by
my grandma’s knife. She swears those slashes make the kielbasa cook more
thoroughly, therefore making it taste better. I think it’s aesthetically
pleasing too. By the time I’ve eaten
everything, there is a puddle of sweat left behind from the kielbasa
accompanying faint mustard streaks. I’ve managed to eat at least half a jar of
pickles too. I really have no room for dessert and my sundress no longer has
any more room for me. I take a deep breath and decide to indulge in my babcias
apple tart anyway.
I always leave here content in more ways than one. The
journey to Bialystok, Poland is a long one, but knowing that my secret garden
is here would make it worth it, even if I were only here for one day. A total
balance of mind, body, and spirit happens here. When you’re here every sense is
alive.
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