No, I am not a brilliant family counselor — I’m not a brilliant anything. I can’t colonize Mars; I can’t solve the Middle East crisis or end the war in Ukraine. And I can’t penetrate the tangled web that Charles and Camilla and William and Catherine and Harry and . . . what’s-her-name . . . you know, the overbearing American interloper . . . oh yeah, Meghan . . . have woven for themselves. But I think I can help to resolve the all-encompassing, obsessive, absolutely compulsive need that so many of us common folks seem to harbor when it comes to butting into the personal lives of the Royals (and former Royals) of the United Kingdom.

Quite simply, it’s none of our business.

WHAT??!!! None of our business??!!!

You heard me. Think about it. Would you want the whole world knowing every sordid little detail of your family’s innermost secrets? Would you want it all splashed in the headlines day after day after day? Not likely — and I’m betting that your family secrets aren’t half as titillating as theirs.

But that — right there — is the heart of the problem: the headlines. The media just won’t leave it alone.

Well, that’s not entirely fair either, really. First, because the Royals are among the most famous people in the world. And because Harry and . . . what’s her name again? . . . oh yeah, Meghan . . . have continued to insist that they want to live quiet, normal, private lives and to protect their children from the insanity of the “Firm,” while simultaneously reinventing themselves as the worst kind of intrusive, invasive, obnoxious publicity hounds imaginable.

And whiny. My God, are they ever going to stop whining?!!

All right, before you start jumping all over me, that’s just one side of the story. Maybe they really were mistreated at the Palace. Maybe they were just “the spare” and “that American actress.” Maybe life was too restrictive for an independent young woman. But didn’t she know that before she married him? In any event, they were unhappy and they decided to take action, which was their absolute right as adult human beings. So they ran away from home.

They weren’t exactly penniless, and they landed comfortably in a nice little house in California, where they proceeded to write a first book, give TV interviews, start businesses and media sites . . . all on the basis of the royal positions they claimed to hate so much. And instead of settling in and enjoying their new-found independence (not to mention their prosperity), they yammered, and shouted, and screeched about how mean Harry’s family was for taking away the titles he said he never wanted, the royal homes they had already moved out of . . . and the allowances that went with all of that.

The little boy had left his toys behind, and now he wanted them back. But he didn’t want to do anything to earn them. And the little girl who thought she should have been a princess was especially upset, because no one was treating her like one.

*. *. *

We all know the rest of the story — the part that has been made public, at least: the charges and counter-charges of insults, lies, and family feuds. And there has to be so much more that we don’t know . . . and shouldn’t. It is, after all, a family matter, although a family constantly in the public eye.

What does matter to us, though, is the way it’s being handled.

The “Firm,” or the “Crown,” or whatever you choose to call it, has always been exceedingly close-mouthed about personal matters, which is probably smart, given the public’s insatiable curiosity and tendency toward nasty comments. But Harry and . . . dammit, what is her name? . . . Maggie? Muggles? No, it’s Meghan, right? Well, they just can’t stop scratching their fingernails down the royal blackboard, making the family shiver with a pseudo-royal visit to Nigeria and talk of a second tell-all book.

I guess the bottom line is this: If they want so badly to be non-royal, ordinary (but upper-income-level) civilians, then they should just shut up and be that. Stay home, run your business ventures, and enjoy your children before you turn around and find they’ve grown up and still aren’t sure who they really are.

And as for us, the readers who inhale all of the crap — both favorable and “un” — that’s written about them every single day . . . well, if we’re sick of it, we should just stop clicking on all the articles. It’s our own fault for being such incurable voyeurs.

Problem solved.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/24/24

Note: This next bit of sentimentality was first presented in June of 2023. But while I’m on my writer’s break — or, to be more accurate, slogging my way through the swampland of writer’s block — I’m filling in with a few of my better efforts from the last couple of years. So here we are, headed back to the future again. Thanks for hanging in there with me. -Brendochka

*. *. *

Welcome back. For those of you who have been following me through my long-ago travels around the western hemisphere, and especially my Russian adventures, this new series will prove quite a departure. And for those who are brand new to my blog: welcome to my wonderfully weird world of wit, wisdom and winsomeness — or at least, that’s what I’m aiming for as we start out along this new road.

But as I sat down at my keyboard to begin this chapter, I realized that I was showing clear signs of withdrawal, and that I’m one of those people who probably needs to taper off gradually, like when I tried to give up sugar. So, rather than attempting to make too clean a break from all that Russian stuff at once, I thought I’d start things rolling with a little bit of Russian-related nostalgia. Just a touch — you know, so I don’t crash and burn. And here we go . . .

*. *. *

Ekaterina Alekseyevna (Katya, for short) was a delightful little lady from Moscow, who was teaching Russian at Northern Virginia Community College in 1985, when I decided that studying an impossible language might be a relaxing way to spend my evenings and weekends after working 40-plus hours a week at a super-stressful job in a high-powered Washington law firm. So now you know something about me: I am a glutton for punishment.

Our Russian 101 class started off with, as I recall, 27 students, only one of whom had ever studied the language before but needed a refresher course because he had met a Russian woman on one of his trips there and wanted to marry her. (Talk about gluttons for punishment? Sad to say, that did not work out well for him.) The rest of us were total neophytes; I, for example, knew how to say exactly three words in Russian: “yes,” “no,” and “goodbye,” which actually placed me well ahead of the rest of the class. As for the Cyrillic alphabet . . . well, judge that for yourselves:

But I am as stubborn as I am masochistic, so I dug right in, and at the end of the first semester, I was one of the 12 remaining students in our class. The high attrition rate was no surprise — just look at the freakin’ alphabet! And don’t even get me started on the grammar, or how to pronounce a word that begins with four consecutive consonants. As it turned out, though, I had something of a knack for the language, even though other, simpler languages had always eluded me. In fact, after one of our evening classes, as several of us were walking together toward the parking lot, Katya asked me if I had ever studied Russian before. I said I had not, and she asked, “Well, why do you suppose you’re so good at it?” I told her I thought it might be genetic, because all four of my grandparents had come from Russia — the part that is now Ukraine. She stopped in her tracks, pointed a finger at me (no, not that finger, silly!) and declared, “Aha! It’s in your blood.” And thus, I swear, she put a curse on me. I’ve had this Russian obsession ever since — the language, the history, the culture, even (God help me) the politics — and that was almost 40 years ago. Let me tell you, that’s a long time to be obsessed with anything!

*. *. *

Relax . . . I don’t really believe in curses. But the part about the Russian grandparents was real, and particularly my maternal grandmother, to whom I was most attached. My Bubbe was an amazing lady: sweet, warm, loving, hard-working, nurturing . . . and tough as nails when she needed to be. She came here in 1905 from the old country — a town called Zhitomir, not far from Kyiv — as a young wife with one baby. She and my Zayde (grandfather) spoke no English when they arrived in America; but they were multi-lingual, speaking Russian, Polish and Yiddish, and quickly learned to speak English without ever being able to read or write it.

They settled in Woonsocket, Rhode Island — God knows why! — and had four more children, all five finishing high school with top grades, which was quite an accomplishment in those days. By the time their first grandchildren — my sister and I — came along, my grandfather had a thriving bakery business; they owned a multi-unit house, fully paid-for, where we and two of my aunts and uncles lived and paid rent; and they were the darlings of the surrounding, predominantly French-Canadian-Catholic neighborhood.

But back then I wasn’t really interested in my heritage, though now I wish I had been. They were just my loving grandparents, and were as much of an influence on my childhood as my own parents were. So what was it like, growing up with an ever-present Russian-Ukrainian-Jewish grandmother hanging over you — watching, listening, feeding, touching, hovering, feeding, scrubbing, scolding, feeding, hugging, fussing, and — did I mention? — feeding you every hour of every day for the first nine years of your life? Sound awful? Well, you’re wrong. It was wonderful, and not only because of the food. We were cared for, looked after, taught right from wrong (and almost everything was wrong . . . right?). We were loved, and we were safe.

And we grew up good.

And God help us when we misbehaved! If a grandparent or an aunt or uncle caught us doing something we shouldn’t, they didn’t conspire with us to hide it from our parents — they ratted us out, big time. And, depending on the severity of the crime, either we were sent to our room without supper, or . . . for the worst offenses, like lying, or killing the neighbor’s cat by sitting on it (my sister actually did that)* . . . we were spanked. Bare-bottom spanked. Usually with a strap. Did anybody report our parents to Social Services? Ha! What Social Services? — they didn’t exist. Did we hate our parents? Well, yeah . . . at the moment, we did. But not for long, because then we’d get supper in bed and a big hug along with the inevitable lecture, which usually ended with the best lesson of all . . .

And we grew up good.

* Note: I was too little to remember my sister’s dead cat episode, but I’ve been told she didn’t mean to kill it; she just wanted to go for a ride. You know: “Gidyap, Kitty!” I guess it was a really big cat. I’m thinking maybe Maine Coon size.

There were dozens of pearls of wisdom that my Bubbe had brought with her from the old country, mostly cautionary, like “Stay away from that girl; she’s a kurva.” (You can probably figure that one out.) Or, “Don’t sit on the stone steps; you’ll get piles.” (I think that meant hemorrhoids). Or, “Don’t ever touch a frog! You’ll get warts.” And my personal favorite: “If you keep frowning, your face will freeze like that.” Well, between the “piles” and the warts, how could I not be frowning?!!

But there were no warnings about playing in the dirt; or about stuffing ourselves with huge meals made with solid Crisco or schmaltz (chicken fat) and unlimited amounts of salt; drinking from each other’s soda bottles; climbing trees; roller skating without a helmet (who had helmets?); or reading comic books filled with bad guys blasting the good guys with their deadly ray guns.

And still we grew up good.

There was one other member of my grandparents’ household: my great-grandmother (Bubbe’s mother), who was called “Baba.” She was ancient — probably not much older than I am now, though I’m not a great-grand yet. She must not have been well, because I remember her spending most of her time in her room. Or maybe it was because we were all speaking English and she had never learned how and felt left out. But there were times when she was up and about, shuffling around in a housedress, an apron, and floppy bed slippers. She always had hard candies in her apron pockets along with — for whatever reason — mothballs. (Don’t ask me why; I really don’t know.) The candies weren’t individually wrapped in those days, so when she would sneak some to my sister and me, they tasted a little like . . . what else? . . . mothballs. There was also usually a little pocket lint stuck to the candy, but we didn’t care; candy was candy. Unless it was a mothball.

And we grew up good — though sometimes I wonder how we grew up at all.

It was a household crawling with relatives — parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second and third cousins from out of town, and of course, the ever-present old folks — all talking at once, arguing (they called it “discussing”) about anything and everything, and sharing each and every minuscule detail of their lives. It would probably drive me crazy today, but at the time it was normal, and I loved each and every one of those people — my people — with all my heart.

My Zayde and Baba both passed away when I was just eight, within three days of each other; and my Bubbe lived another thirteen years after that. I miss them still, and when I finally get to that great shtetl in the sky, they’re the first people I want to see. Because of them, I got sucked into what my sister later dubbed “that whole Russian thing.”

And because of them, I think I grew up pretty good.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
Reprinted 5/23/24

Well, I’m still on a semi-break from writing, but cannot stand a blank page (or screen). So I’ve decided to bring back one or two of my oldies but goodies, starting with a look back into my childhood and some of my earliest, and fondest, memories. Come with me, if you will, to a time most of you won’t remember because you hadn’t been born yet: the 1940s — the era of big bands and swing music, 19-cent-a-gallon gas, stay-at-home moms, and World War II . . .

*. *. *

Yes, younger readers, there are still people alive who remember the 1940s and are lucid enough to write about them. I was an infant/toddler in the earliest years of that decade, but I do remember the second half, and even parts of World War II, referred to simply as “The War.”

Keep in mind, as I flash back to those times, that my viewpoint was that of a little kid, so everything seemed so much bigger. Our street, for example, was considered a main thoroughfare. Returning for a visit years later as an adult, I was shocked to see that it’s just a two-lane street. And our huge front and back yards are merely little patches of green. Different perspective, now. And through the miracle of Google Maps, there it is, pictured below:

Looking at it today, it actually seems to be in better shape than it was then, and appears to have had all of the old asbestos siding shingles removed. I’m also glad to see they’ve added fire escapes, because the one narrow inside stairway made this place a death trap in case of fire. Gone are the shrubs along the front, and the lilac bushes I loved for their fragrance in the spring. My grandparents owned it, and raised their five children in the big apartment on the first floor. Later, we — my parents, older sister and I — occupied the second floor front, with an aunt and uncle in each of the rear apartments on the second and third floors. Third floor front was rented by an “outsider” — a single man who was quiet, respectful, and who we hardly knew was there most of the time. He paid his rent on time every week, minded his own business, and didn’t burn the place down; and that was all that mattered.

I remember the bedroom I shared with my sister Merna: twin beds, a night stand between them, one closet, one dresser, and flowered curtains on the window. There was one tiny bathroom for the four of us. We mostly hung out in the big kitchen with its ice box and oil stove and the table where we ate all our meals. The parlor (not grand enough to be called a living room) was for “company,” or for evenings spent around the radio listening to Jack Benny, Fibber McGee and Molly, Duffy’s Tavern, or President Roosevelt’s fireside chats. And of course, in the summer, the Boston Red Sox baseball games from Fenway Park.

My sister and I sometimes played on the floor of the parlor, which was the only room with a carpet — but only on rainy days or after dark; the rest of the time we were outside, even in the coldest of New England winters, where we were sent to “get some fresh air,” but more likely just to get us out of the way. Indoor play included Checkers, Tiddly Winks, and paper dolls, or reading our Superman or Archie comic books. I remember Merna teaching me to read, write and do simple arithmetic at a time when I was considered by the adults to be too young to learn those things. Thanks to my big sister, I was reading newspapers by the time I was three. My parents used to make me read for all of their friends, like some sort of carnival act, and everyone thought I was a genius. I’m not. I just had a big sister who didn’t know she was doing the “impossible.”

And I remember some things about The War: the flag with three stars in my grandparents’ front window, for their two sons and one son-in-law fighting overseas; the ration coupons for certain scarce food items like sugar and butter; the blackout curtains on the windows to be drawn shut during air raid drills; and the scary war newsreels in the movie theater every Saturday. And my father, rejected for military service as “4-F” because of his flat feet, doing his part for the War effort by working in the shipyard in Providence, actually helping to build the warships like the ones that landed at Normandy on D-Day. And everybody saving things— scrap metal, rubber, even newspapers — to contribute to the War Drive.

And who could forget the day The War ended in Europe? My sister and I were outside in the front yard as usual, when my mother hollered out the window, “The War is over!” I didn’t fully comprehend, but Merna did, and she let out a “Yippee!” and began dancing around the apple tree, chanting “The War is over! The War is over!” So of course I had to join in, because . . . well, because she was my big sister and if she was happy, then so was I. And the whole family was happy because all the uncles were coming home, alive. No one knew about PTSD in those days; the veterans and their families simply reunited and re-adapted, some better than others. We were lucky.

*. *. *

I remember digging a round hole in the dirt with the heel of my shoe to play marbles in the back yard. And sitting on the grass, searching for four-leaf clovers. Or playing “Red Rover, Red Rover” and “Simon Says” with our neighborhood friends. Roller skating down the sidewalk and knowing where every crack in the concrete was that we had to avoid. And sending away for our favorite movie stars’ autographed pictures, then waiting breathlessly for the mail to arrive every day. And in the winter, sledding down the same little hill where we roller-skated in the summer. Happy times indeed.

I also remember nearly every adult smoking, we kids living in a perpetual blue-gray haze of second-hand smoke, and ashtrays everywhere filled to the brim with stale cigarette butts. And being given a quarter to run to the store for a pack of Camels or Chesterfields or Lucky Strikes for one member of the family or another. There was no legal age requirement for buying carcinogens in those days, because no one knew what a carcinogen was.

*. *. *

My grandfather was a baker, with his own bakery just down the street; rye bread, challah, yeast rolls and bagels were his specialties, and Bubbe contributed her incredible “babka” coffee cakes redolent with cinnamon and raisins. Saturday was the only day Zayde didn’t work — it was the Sabbath, when he would walk to the Synagogue and spend the day in prayer. After sundown he would walk back, with a stop at the neighborhood bar to knock down a couple of whiskeys with his friends before coming home to a late supper with the entire family at the big dining room table. Sometimes he would lose track of time and linger at the bar; then my sister would be sent to fetch him and they would stroll home together, hand-in-hand. No one worried about a 12-year-old girl walking into a saloon full of men; not one of them would have dreamt of saying or doing anything improper — they were our neighbors and friends. Then, after dinner, Zayde would go back to the bakery to prepare the dough and heat the big brick oven for the next day.

Sunday was his biggest work day. Every Sunday, after he had made his usual customer deliveries in his old, beat-up truck, he would come home with two miniature, hot-from-the-oven, round rye breads — one for my sister and one for me. He would stop his truck at the front of the driveway where she and I would be waiting for him. We would jump onto the running boards on each side, hold on tight, and ride with him to the garage in the back of the house; then we would grab our very own loaves of bread and head to our grandparents’ kitchen. There, with real butter for the warm bread, and a bowl of my Bubbe’s homemade vegetable soup, we ate our Sunday lunch. When I close my eyes, I can still smell it and almost taste it. Nothing since has ever been that good. And after lunch, we would sit with him at the kitchen table and help him sort the coins he had been paid by his customers that day.

We were far from rich, but we always ate well. I remember our un-homogenized milk being delivered to the back door in glass bottles, with the cream floating at the top; my mother used to spoon it out into a glass jar to be sparingly added to her coffee. And — carrying the most practical traditions with them from the old country — my grandparents had built a chicken coop in the back yard, with one very happy rooster and a bunch of hens that kept us supplied with eggs and were destined eventually to become Sunday dinners. I even remember Baba (my great-grandmother), on some of her better days, out there gathering eggs, or scattering chicken feed on the ground.

But one day, that rooster was gone, soon to be replaced by another from a nearby farm. When I was a little older, my mother finally told me why: It seems that pompous piece of poultry hated my Baba (the feeling was apparently mutual); and one day when she happened to trip and fall while feeding the chickens, he took advantage of the opportunity, attacked her mercilessly, and was pecking away at her face and arms until my grandfather rescued her. Exacting revenge without benefit of due process, he wrung that damned rooster’s neck, right there on the spot. Apparently, Zayde had also brought with him from the old country an unequivocally Russian sense of justice!

We also had Bubbe’s vegetable garden — labeled a “victory garden” during the War years — with everything from tomatoes and cucumbers to potatoes, carrots, corn, and of course the beets for her homemade borshch. She even grew fresh dill and pickling spices for the cucumbers and green tomatoes she would put up in canning jars and stow away in the cellar until they turned so sour it hurt to bite into them.

*. *. *

When we were sick — and we did get all the childhood diseases, like mumps, measles, chicken pox, and the annual case of the “grippe,” now known as the flu — our family doctor came to the house. Everyone knew you didn’t take a sick child out to the doctor’s office to infect other kids and get sicker themselves! “What are you . . . crazy??!!!” Depending on the ailment, we were given doses of Milk of Magnesia, cough syrup, or a regular aspirin crushed and mixed with a spoonful of orange juice to try to disguise the horrible taste; and — for practically everything — Bubbe’s homemade chicken soup, otherwise known as Jewish penicillin. And there was the dreaded thermometer that didn’t go under your tongue, but got dipped in Vaseline and inserted . . . well, you know where. Oh, the indignity of it all!

You may have noticed all the references to homemade soups — vegetable, chicken, and borshch. (And by the way, that is the correctly transliterated spelling; there is no “t” at the end, and don’t ask me why we English speakers insist on adding it — possibly because we don’t have a letter pronounced “shch” in our alphabet. Spellcheck hates it, by the way, but that’s too bad.) Anyway, soup is another wonderful old-world tradition they brought with them, served at the start of every meal except breakfast, and often as a meal on its own. It’s a delicious, nutritious, filling, and economical way of feeding a crowd, and I learned to appreciate it all over again, decades later, when I spent those months living and working in Russia. (Seriously, folks — just read the first 28 chapters, okay?)

*. *. *

There are also things I don’t remember about those days, because we didn’t have them. We didn’t have central heating; the only warmth was provided by that oil stove in the kitchen, so the parlor door was kept shut in the winter, and the bedrooms were always freezing cold at night when the stove was turned way down to conserve the oil. We didn’t have a second bathroom, a second car, a second phone, or a guest bedroom. We also didn’t have a washer or dryer. I clearly recall my 98-pound mother every Monday, down on her knees, leaning over the bathtub and scrubbing our clothes, towels, sheets, everything, on a washboard; then rinsing and rinsing, and wringing it all out by hand — she had some strong hands! — then finally hanging it all on an outside clothesline to dry. In the winter, everything would freeze to the texture of cardboard, and the sheets stood up by themselves and smelled so clean and fresh. And then, of course, it all had to be ironed.

We didn’t have TV yet — not until 1950 — and the home computer was decades in the future, still the stuff of science fiction. So where did we get our information? At the library, of course — that wondrous repository of thousands of old, well-worn, musty-smelling volumes filled with knowledge and inspiration. And our news was broadcast every hour on the hour over the radio, and delivered to our little neighborhood store every morning printed on cheap paper with ink that rubbed off on our fingers. But what more could you expect for three cents?

And where did we shop? Well, there was no Amazon — no “online” at all. But we did have the neighborhood grocery, the neighborhood pharmacy, the neighborhood ice cream shop, the neighborhood hardware store, bakery, butcher shop . . . you get the picture. Stores where the proprietors greeted us by our first names, and kept us up-to-date on all the neighborhood gossip. And for those special purchases, like clothes and shoes . . . well, that required an excursion downtown to the department store; but luckily that wasn’t necessary too often because clothes got mended by Bubbe on her treadle sewing machine and handed down from generation to generation, or recycled to the younger siblings and cousins.

We also didn’t have a problem with boredom — there wasn’t time, what with all the laundry, cooking, cleaning and egg-gathering to help with, and homework to be done. And you didn’t “sass” your parents, teachers, or other adults, because if you even tried, you got smacked — hard — by all of them! And no parents went into debt to be sure their children had the latest and greatest electronic gadgets, because those things didn’t exist yet so we didn’t miss them. We learned early on to think for ourselves; there was no Siri to do it for us. We kids didn’t have house keys either, because we didn’t need them; there was always a grownup there when we got home from school. The “latchkey kid” hadn’t been conceived of yet, so there was little opportunity for us to get into serious trouble.

What we did have, though, were things like respect — for others, and for ourselves — and quality family time, and fun. And most of all, we had hope. Even during the War years, there was a certainty that it would one day end, that the good guys would win (we did), and that all would be well again (it was). Sure, there were problems — every age has its share of those. But we didn’t whine or angrily “tweet” about them; we dealt with them and worked together to solve them.

And we grew up good.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/22/24

Have you ever just shut down? I mean, mentally, physically, or both? You’re not sick; you just haven’t got it . . . whatever “it” is.

Well, that was me yesterday, and it seems to have carried over to today. I read the day’s news — all depressing and demoralizing, as usual — but nothing really inspired me to comment. And certainly nothing tickled my funny bone.

Which reminds me: Did you know that that bone leading up from the elbow to the shoulder is named the “humerus” — thus the “funny bone” designation? Try whacking it sometime; it’s anything but funny.

Okay, TMI — or at least, more than you ever cared to know about the human skeletal system. But you see how my mind just keeps drifting today, from one silly, insignificant subject to another? I mean, the President of Iran was just killed in a helicopter crash; the International Criminal Court is issuing warrants against the heads of both Hamas and Israel; and gazillions of cicadas are about to become crunchy outdoor carpeting in various parts of the world. And all I care about is the difference between “humorous” and “humerus.”

But come to think of it, that’s a great idea for a future chapter: the reason English is such an exasperating language to learn, even for native speakers. Just think of “there,” “their,” and “they’re.” And what the apostrophe actually stands for. And why “so fun” is grammatical homicide. And the use of subjective and objective pronouns. And . . .

Okay, enough. Really going to take that break now. So, ‘til tomorrow, I hope. In the meantime . . .

TTFN,
Brendochka
5/21/24

It was the morning of May 13, 1993, to be precise, when I checked in as the newest tenant at Rublevskoye Shosse 16, Moscow, Russia. And as I arrived with my 18 pieces of luggage and office equipment — having been transported from Sheremetyevo Airport by two men I didn’t know in a truck that threatened with every bump and pothole in the road to break into a thousand little pieces — I looked at the building that was to be my home for the next several months and silently asked myself:

“What in Heaven’s name was I thinking??!!!”

It didn’t even look this good. The vehicles in the front lot were mostly ancient, Russian-built Ladas and a few disreputable-looking trucks, not the shiny SUVs in this newer picture. And the first-floor restaurant, savings bank, pharmacy, and — of all things — “manicure studio” were not there. But there was mud. Not deep, but everywhere, from the spring thaws.

And strangers. Not one single person I had ever met or spoken to before. The two guys with the truck worked for us, and became my friends and saviors. The lady at the rickety desk in what passed for a lobby (entrance in the rear) was pleasant enough, but never did get over her suspicion that I was somebody’s spy. And the four women I was about to meet soon became my Russian family. But at that moment, I was on my own, with all of my American colleagues back in Washington, and a smattering of the Russian language at my command.

But the apartment itself, which also served as our foundation’s office, was surprisingly large and comfortable. I had two drivers and a housekeeper, as well as three wonderful office assistants. It turned out not to be a mistake after all.

*. *. *

I’ve written earlier in this blog of my overseas experiences — mostly funny, but a few . . . well, not so much. I won’t repeat myself here; if you’re interested, just scan back to Chapters 1-28 and prepare to be amused, surprised, and occasionally even wondering how I survived it all. But for now, I’ve just found myself reminiscing because of recent events in the “new” Russia, and the changes — not for the better — that have taken place there since that day in 1993.

What I found then, as I settled in and became acclimated to my surroundings and familiar with the wonderful new people I’d inherited, was a country experiencing a thrilling transition: full of hope for the future and excitement at the prospects of success and freedom that had been laid out before them by the last previous president, Mikhail Gorbachev. His successor, Boris Yeltsin, was carrying on the programs of “perestroika” (restructuring) and “glasnost” (openness) introduced by Gorbachev. New enterprises were being created; foreign investment was growing; and a disco had opened directly across the highway from my building.

Wait . . . What???

A disco?!! Okay, so they acquired some — actually, a lot — of the bad with the good. But that’s to be expected. I learned to live with the 24/7 noise and the comings and goings of the young, mini-skirted and leather-jacketed nouveau riche. It reminded me of home, only louder and . . . well . . .

Our foundation was there to bring healthy food to children in orphanages and hospitals. Others from the West brought opportunities for previously unheard-of private enterprises — actual profit-making ventures. Everyone was delighted to accept our help, in whatever form, and to learn and grow from our tutoring. And the government encouraged it all. I will always be thankful to have been there at that time.

Because today . . .

Well, as we all know, today is like an icy cold blast from the past — the Stalinist past, when association with foreigners can once again result in your being labelled a “foreign agent,” and simply criticizing the government or the military gets you a cell in a Siberian prison camp. This is the Putinist era, and to put it mildly . . . it’s devastating!

Dissidents, journalists, critics from all walks of life are being held hostage in penal colonies. Some have been murdered, both inside and outside of Russia; others are in peril of suffering the same fate. Peaceful protests are brutally broken up. There have even been cases of “friends” ratting out their acquaintances.

This is not “my” Russia, where I found the warmest, friendliest, kindest, most generous people I’ve ever known; where I discovered the joy of anticipation and promise of a better world; and where I was shown the beauty and mystery of the legendary “Russian soul.” That Russia is disappearing under the heel of one man’s boot, as it did from 1917 until 1991. And I mourn for its people, who want nothing more than to breathe the air of freedom.

And now he wants Ukraine as well . . .

Will it ever be enough?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/20/24

It’s Sunday again, and time for a repeat of my weekly tribute to the hostages being held on strictly political grounds in Russia’s prison system. But the form of this week’s message is a bit different, as I cannot resist referencing an interview granted the BBC by Leonid Volkov, one of the leading members of the Anti-Corruption Foundation (Russian initials: FBK). Founded by the late Alexei Navalny, the FBK continues to operate under the guidance of Navalny’s widow, Yulia Navalnaya. And Volkov — himself a recent victim of violence designed to frighten the FBK out of existence — has courageously sworn to keep it alive.

Describing the attack outside of his home in Tallinn, Lithuania, in March of this year — when he was disabled with pepper spray and then fiercely beaten with hammers by his assailants — Volkov did not hesitate to place the blame squarely on Vladimir Putin’s shoulders:

“We always knew we are fighting against, like a crazy, fascist dictator, who doesn’t recognise any red lines.” [Laura Kuenssberg, BBC’s Sunday with Laura Kuenssberg, May 18, 2024.] He accused Putin of “killing thousands of people” — political opponents — both in Russia and abroad.

Urging world leaders to continue sending military aid to Ukraine, and not to consider trying to negotiate a settlement with Russia, he said that Putin is “bluffing in a way to present himself like much stronger than he is, hopeful it will be enough to force Ukraine and its Western allies to enter some negotiation . . . don’t get bluffed.” And further, that there must be “military pressure, economic pressure, political pressure, from inside, from outside . . . If there are 50 things we can do, we have to do all 50 of them, if you do 49, that’s not enough, because that’s the greatest threat to the world that we’ve seen in 80 years.” [BBC, id.]

Those are not my words; they are the words of an insider, one who has lived under the Putin regime and been forced to flee his native land, to take refuge in Lithuania in order to survive . . . yet even there to be hunted down and mercilessly beaten as a warning to keep quiet.

Still, like Alexei Navalny himself, Volkov and the other members of his Anti-Corruption Foundation refuse to be silenced. Their verbal revolution continues — to honor their founder, to free those already imprisoned, and hopefully once and for all to stop the carnage.

*. *. *

I have included here a screen shot of Leonid Volkov, taken during his BBC interview, in order to call attention to the sign over his right shoulder (upper left corner of the picture). It contains a familiar — and most apt — quotation that none of us should ever forget:

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” *

*. *. *

And so, once more: To those known . . .

Vladimir Kara-Murza – HOSTAGE
Evan Gershkovich – HOSTAGE
Paul Whelan – HOSTAGE
Ilya Yashin – HOSTAGE
Robert Woodland Romanov – HOSTAGE
Boris Akunin – HOSTAGE
Marc Hilliard Fogel – HOSTAGE
Asya Kazantseva – HOSTAGE
Ilya Barabanov – HOSTAGE
Alsu Kurmasheva – HOSTAGE
Aleksandr Skobov – HOSTAGE
Antonina Favorskaya – HOSTAGE
Oleg Orlov – HOSTAGE
Boris Kagarlitsky – HOSTAGE
Oleg Navalny – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Karelina – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Fadeyeva – HOSTAGE
Lilia Chanysheva – HOSTAGE
Vadim Ostanin – HOSTGE
Sergei Udaltsov – HOSTAGE
Konstantin Gabov – HOSTAGE
Danuta Perednya – HOSTAGE
Olesya Krivtsova – HOSTAGE

. . . and those hundreds of others whose names remain unknown to me . . . you are not forgotten, nor have you been abandoned. The fight continues on your behalf, by good men and women who refuse “to do nothing.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/19/24

* The origin of this quotation remains in dispute. Was it Edmund Burke, as most generally believed? Perhaps British philosopher John Stuart Mill? We’ll just have to leave that to the experts.

Seriously, folks . . . and you know I don’t often comment on U.S. politics . . . but is this the best we can do?

I ask you: Where are the modern-day Abraham Lincolns? the Harry Trumans? the Oliver Wendell Holmeses? the Walter Cronkites?

Have the gene pools simply run dry?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/18/24

Holy crap! Yesterday turned out to be down-and-dirty time in the U.S. House of Representatives; and it should surprise no one that the two antagonists were none other than everyone’s favorite southern belle, Republican Marjorie Taylor Greene, and her verbal equal from New York, Democrat Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (often referred to simply as AOC). What honor they bring to their elected positions! What grace! What superior intelligence! What class!

What a couple of . . . well, never mind. I won’t join in the fray. But I do take pleasure in passing along their exchange, as reported by CNN, for those who haven’t yet heard about it.

Not surprisingly, Greene started it with a mystifyingly irrelevant question in the midst of a House Oversight Committee markup on the issue of contempt charges against Attorney General Merrick Garland. She began by asking Democrats on the committee whether any of them employ the daughter of Judge Juan Merchan, who is presiding over the New York criminal trial of Donald Trump.

[What the . . . ???]

So Rep. Jasmine Crockett (D-Texas) understandably responded by asking Greene, “Do you know what we’re here for?”

Greene: “I don’t think you know what you’re here for . . . I think your fake eyelashes are messing up what you’re reading.”

[What the . . . ???]

Not one ever to pass up an opportunity to run her mouth, AOC jumped right in with: “That is absolutely unacceptable. How dare you attack the physical appearance of another person.”

Greene (to AOC): “Are your feelings hurt?”

AOC: “Oh, girl. Baby girl. Don’t even play.”

[Okay, now it’s beginning to sound like a rehearsal of West Side Story.]

During a break, but with her microphone still on, AOC told her Democratic colleagues that Greene’s ego was bruised, and that “she doesn’t want to say sorry to nobody for nothing. She is going to learn.”

[To “nobody” for “nothing”? I hate to be picky, but some rudimentary English grammar might be nice here. Well, we’ll just chalk that one up to the heat of the moment . . . ]

When asked if she would strike her words, Greene agreed to do so, but said she would not apologize. AOC then made another motion to strike Greene’s words, which elicited the following:

Greene: “Why don’t you debate me?”

AOC: “I think it’s pretty self-evident.”

Greene: “Yeah, you don’t have enough intelligence.”

And so on.

The whole thing finally concluded with Greene continuing to refuse to apologize, though she said she would strike her words so that the proceedings could move forward. She was eventually allowed to continue speaking, though some Democrats — as well as Colorado Republican Lauren Boebert — voted to have her silenced for the remainder of the proceeding. Too bad that didn’t actually happen.

*. *. *

And we mustn’t forget about Texas Republican Jasmine Crockett, who was apparently still smarting from the false eyelashes remark. According to reports:

[Following] “a series of confusing votes in response to Greene’s explosive rhetoric, Crockett made a dig that appeared to be directed at . . . [Greene]”:

“‘I’m just curious. Just to better understand your ruling. If someone on this committee then starts talking about somebody’s bleach blonde bad built butch body, that would not be engaging in personalities, correct?’” [CNN, May 16, 2024.]

To which Committee Chairman James Comer . . . apparently worn out . . . responded: “Uh, what now?”

*. *. *

Well, at least they didn’t get physical . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/17/24

As shocking as it may seem, my favorite wordsmith, Dmitry Peskov, in delivering the pronouncements of “el jefe” Vladimir Putin, has spoken the absolute, logical, indisputable truth with regard to the planned summit in Switzerland to discuss a peace process in Ukraine:

“Without Russia, discussing security issues that concern us is absolutely futile.” [Reuters, May 16, 2024.]

Well . . . duh! Of course it’s futile to make arrangements for someone — in this case, an entire country — without that someone’s input. That would, of course, require their presence at the discussions. And it appears that Russia hasn’t been invited to attend.

As we already know, all attempts at negotiations have failed thus far because, first, Russia absolutely refuses to give back a centimeter of the land it has stolen from Ukraine to date; and second, because Ukraine won’t simply break down and gift its land to Russia. Stalemate.

So some 50 countries are ready and willing to devote the time (and, not incidentally, the money) involved in planning and implementing a summit meeting in Lucerne to try to come up with a reasonable plan that would be acceptable to both parties. Well, I hate to tell you world leaders this, but . . .

There ain’t no such thing!

Not at this point, anyway. Because what Russia is demanding is not reasonable. Vladimir Putin has — without provocation or any semblance of just cause (“Naziism,” indeed!) — marched in and stolen pieces of a sovereign nation and claimed them as his own. And, like a child on a playground, he won’t give back the toys he snatched and he’ll jump up and down and scream until he’s blue in the face and until he gets his own way, so there!

And because there is far more at stake for Russia than “just” Ukrainian territory. Perversely, there is now the need to continue bolstering its war-time economy by extending the war it had not expected to become so protracted and expensive . . . as evidenced by this week’s replacement of the Defense Minister, General Sergei Shoigu, with a civilian economist, Andrey Belousov. Not to mention his planned long-term future advance through other parts of Eastern Europe. Both of which Putin, of course, denies and denies and denies until, again, he is blue in the face.

*. *. *

Now, I laud all of you peace-loving diplomats and politicians for your desire to end this hideous war that never should have begun in the first place. But do you really think that you have a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing Russia to yield an inch on its demands, or Ukraine to simply give away its precious land? I sincerely hope you do, and if you succeed, I’ll be the first — and the happiest — to admit I was wrong. But for now, I have to agree with Mr. Peskov.

Still, one can always hope.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/16/24

No, it wasn’t the Simon & Garfunkel dream about the world agreeing to put an end to war, though I wish it had been, since it might have had a chance of coming true today. Rather, I dreamt that I was riding in an official limousine with some other people when we were caught in a hail of gunfire. We ducked down, hightailed it out of there, and escaped unharmed, except for the dog, who was sadly shot and killed. But we still had to hide from gangs of terrorists who were everywhere . . . though they looked more like street gangs out of West Side Story than 21st-Century international terrorists. Anyway . . .

The other details — which are still incredibly clear in my mind — are not relevant here. The only reason I’m telling you this story is because this morning, when I looked at the news headlines, I saw that Slovakia’s Prime Minister, Robert Fico, had been shot and seriously wounded in “a hail of gunfire.”

Oh! My! God! I’m psychic!

Well, hardly. At least, I don’t think so. It’s just coincidence, right?

But about the Prime Minister. I’ve written about him before, out of concern for his Moscow-leaning form of government; his friendliness toward Viktor Orban, the similarly-inclined Prime Minister of Hungary; and Slovakia’s pulling away from its support of Ukraine — with whom it shares a border, albeit one of just 97 km. (about 60 miles).

I know I have expressed a desire to see both of these men out of office, hopefully to be replaced by more liberal leaders. But I do not — NOT EVER — wish anyone bodily harm. And the news report that just flashed on my screen indicates that, after three hours of surgery, Robert Fico is still fighting for his life, and “the situation is bad.” [BBC, May 15, 2024, 2:50 p.m. EDT.]

I sincerely hope Mr. Fico recovers. Would I like to see him take this attack as a sign that it’s time for him to leave the political arena? Yes, I would. But I also hope that this assassination attempt — which has already been labelled as politically motivated — will have failed. We need Slovakia, Hungary, and all the other Eastern European nations within NATO’s orbit; but not at the cost of people’s lives . . . or the loss of human decency and civilized society.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/15/24 – 3:00 p.m. EDT