When September Comes

Although my job has me in touch with many cultures, older people make me uneasy. I fidgeted with my notes before asking, "Tell me, Mr. Baran, what inspired you to write this book?"

He turned to gaze on the rose garden then looked straight at me. "To contemplate one's past when young is not easy, so imagine how arduous this is at my age." He paused to relight his pipe, and went on, "To your question, Miss Novak: Since such meandering into yesterdays have been constant, I thought it a waste not to write them down in a book."

His odd way of phrasing sent me back years. "Then, this is a autobiography?"

"Only in part, he replied, "My story is rather a fond reflection on three generations of valiant ladies and the men who loved them. Enchanting women whose lives have profoundly touched everyone who knew them."

His comment caused me change direction. "The town folk here describe your clan as a happy bunch who sing at weddings and picnics at a drop of the hat. What makes them like that?"

"This is a trait of most Slavic people," he replied. "They use the power of song to help them survive centuries of subjugation by cruel and powerful monarchies. Kings who tried to destroy their culture by forcing them to speak alien tongues."

Having heard this from Grandmother, I changed tack. "Tell me, Mr. Baran, as one who has built many homes, have you found writing a challenge?"

He relit his pipe, and turned to me. "Yes, I did, only to discover a greater one as my story progressed. To be propelled three generations into the lives of people I loved, caused me to reevaluate the present and our society as it is today."

His way of speaking intrigued me. I again checked my notes, and asked, "Do you see our society in general as a lost cause?"

"Whether I do or not doesn’t matter," he replied soberly. "Young or old, we all should have a hand in molding character. We don't need a doctorate in sociology to tell us, social reforms without spirituality don’t work. I pray we've learned our lesson and like some of our astute young, start searching our souls."

His words negated the line about bitter old men. "How do you compare your boyhood with the youths of today?"

"Ours was an innocent era," he began, "A time when clean-scrubbed school kids needn't care who wore the sixty-dollar sneakers. We had everything but money, yet young minds found pleasure whittling objects from wood, or reading wholesome books. Now, many are being filled with aimless dreams prompted by the mesmerizing flicker of television screens--" He stopped with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Miss Novak. I suppose having lived this long gives me such license. Please stop me, should I digress like that again?"

"It's OK, Mr. Baran. Please go on."

A shadow of a smile arched his white moustache. "I must forewarn you about my writing, Miss Novak: Don't expect much poetic phrasing from an old carpenter."

"All the reviews I've read have omitted your modesty. Can you tell me what you plan to do with your book advance?"

"I've arranged to give half to medical research. As you know, the purpose of my book is to forewarn a special breed of young women of a deadly malady. One nearly impossible to detect and yet becomes a death sentence to nearly a million worldwide."

I remembered and changed to a more pleasing subject. "Could you explain to me, why your women are so special?"

Baran paused as if to choose words. "My enchanting ladies had a way of beguiling those who knew them. They would often put on a impish facade to fool us, unaware they deceived themselves."

"What were they hiding, Mr. Baran?"

His impatience showed as he knocked ash from his pipe. "I thought everyone knew that, for most of their lives, they lived under an ominous cloud, but still managed to cram more joy into people's lives than some could in a lifetime."

A catch in his voice told me this would not be an ordinary interview. "Your ladies sound fascinating. Can you touch on the magic used to make them so special?"

For the first time, his weathered face formed a grin. "They saw humor in everything. My daughter Emma, with her flowery tongue could magically transform an iron pot into a Ming vase," he chuckled, and asked, "Will this be published?"

"Tell me about it, and we'll see."

"I especially liked Emma's stories about her Catechism class. She once asked the children what made Holy Mary so special. One girl, no doubt influenced by older sisters, eagerly waved a hand, 'I know, I know,' she called out, 'I'm sure Mary didn't sleep around like the others in her time.'"

"Emma sounds precious," I said, laughing. "Her grandmother was a ballerina from St. Petersburg. Can you tell me about her?"

His face softened. "Even as a youth, I sensed Svetlana was special. Wherever she went, heads would turn to watch her graceful gait as she walked. And yet, with all that refinement, people who got to know her, knew better. Svetlana’s quick wit and disarming smile made them feel special. Mothers walked miles to bring their children to her ballet school."

"I’m told she had two daughters. What were they like?"

"The older Natasha married and moved to Chambersburg," he said, and again turned his gaze on the rose garden. "Christine, well, this was her favorite place," he said almost in a whisper. "I knew her in school, but later lost touch. Then, at an Easter Mass, a girl seated in front of me, turned to whisper to another, and I couldn't believe my eyes. I once saw such a profile of a love goddess carved in translucent stone." He turned to me with tear-glazed eyes. "If only you could have known my Christine, you would better understand why I wrote this book. My girl was a vivacious creature who would dazzle you with her smile, while tossing impossible one-liners. She’d do this at times to make me forget why I needed to scold her."

Choked up, I said, "The way you described your Christine, I can't wait to read about her."