Chulki

    Katya is turning 18, and Nellie, as an adopted Baba, wanted to get her a special gift. Well, to be more precise, she wanted me to get Katya a special gift. "It's a box about this big," she indicated with her hands, "and there are three rows of candy--gold, silver, and...umm...dark. Will you get one and send it to her in Virginia?"
    "What kind of candy? Is it chocolate?"
    "Yes, of course it's chocolate.What other kind of candy is there? We've had them before--gold, silver and dark. Kind of round, you know, and some of them have nuts in them. And if you go into the store, then you turn left and go a little more and then there's some other candy and then the ones I want. And a birthday card, a pretty one. And I need face cream too. I only have enough left for one week, and then it will be gone."
    I thought I knew what she meant, even though the directions weren't terribly clear, and began my search on Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, I ran into trouble immediately because Walmart had run out of that particular box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates--the only assortment was a much bigger box than Nellie had requested. Not sure how to proceed, I decided to call and ask.
    "Nellie, it's Jessica. I'm at the store and they don't have the little box of candy, only a big one. Do you still want it?"
    "What? Jessica? What are you talking about?"
    "The candy, for Katya's birthday. Remember? You asked me to buy it?"
    "Oh, yes. So what's the matter? Where are you?"
    "I'm at the store. And I'm looking at the candy, but they only have little boxes of all gold, or all dark. There's great big box with all the colors, but it is more expensive. Do you still want it?"
    "Yes, that's fine. It's her eighteenth birthday. But it's such a good thing you called, because I tried to call you and you didn't answer and I really, really need you to buy me some chulki."
    I racked my brain trying to remember if I'd ever known that word before in my life. I determined that I hadn't. "Chulki? I don't know what that is. Can you describe it any other way?"
    Nellie thought. "I don't know...it's just chulki."
    "But I don't know that word. What is it for? What do you do with it?"
    "Well, they're like socks, but black and long. Not too long, just to the knees. And not thick; they have to be thin to wear with dress shoes. You wear them with skirts. I need black."
    Perhaps she meant knee-highs. I hoped so. "Alright, Nellie, I think I understand. I'll try to find some and bring them with me on Tuesday. Do svidanya (goodbye)."
    And I continued on my hunt. Candy, check. Black knee-highs, check. Birthday card, check. Face cream...oh dear, Olay decided to raise the price on their night cream. Day cream was fine, but Nellie's night cream apparently now cost twice as much as usual. With a sigh, I called Nellie again.
    "Hello, Nellie, it's Jessica again. I found everything except the night cream. The one you like is much more expensive than it used to be--do you still want it? Or I could get the store brand, but you didn't like it as much."
    "What? Chulki, chulki...I told you, they're like socks, but long, to the knees, and black."
    I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. "Yes, yes, I found those. Now I'm looking at face cream."
    "I don't understand. What's wrong? You found the chulki? And now you're going straight ahead?" The word for "cream" and the word for "straight ahead" do sound a bit similar.
    I tried speaking louder, as clearly as I could. "Cream. Remember, you needed face cream? I found your day cream, but your night cream costs too much. What do you want me to do?" But although I was practically shouting (in Russian) in the middle of Walmart's facial care aisle, Nellie simply could not understand what I was talking about.
    "You're going straight ahead? Where are you going? I don't understand." She sounded so tired, but I was at my wits' end.
    "Cream for your face. I'm not going anywhere right now. I'm looking at face cream and I need to know what you want, since your night cream costs twelve dollars now!"
    "Ohhhh, cream. Why does it cost so much?"
    I rolled my eyes. "I have no idea."
    "Well, just get the other one."
    Phone adventures with Nellie are exhausting.

Little White Things

    Nellie wears dentures. She had only a few teeth left when I met her, and it wasn't long until all of them needed to come out. So I took her to the dentist and we sat for a very long time, fitting and re-fitting, until finally we left with a new set of teeth. I think it took two visits. It was excruciating, for Nellie at least--the poor thing was completely exhausted. But now she has a mouth full of teeth, which would be very handy for chewing if she could find something to hold them in. Unfortunately, she isn't interested in denture glue. I tried. She might have used the stuff I brought her, several years ago now, but she didn't like it. So most days, even when she remembers not to talk with her mouth full, it's still a little tricky to understand her because her teeth just won't hold still!
    One afternoon, however, she came up with a solution. "You know what I would really like to have?" she asked me. I couldn't guess, so she went on. "I saw it on TV--a lady went into a drugstore and they gave her something and she put it on her teeth and smiled and everything was wonderful! I would love to have some."
    I don't watch a lot of television, and I don't have very much experience with dentures, so I wasn't quite sure what exactly it was that she would love to have. "But what is it?" I tried to get her to clarify.
    "It's little white things," she demonstrated with her hands. "There are big ones and little ones, I think. I'd rather have the little ones."
    "And you can get it at any drugstore? Or is there a specific place I need to look?"
    "Oh, I think you can get it at any drugstore. And the lady smiled big, like this--and everything worked out perfectly!"
    "But what is it? Is it glue for your dentures?"
    Nellie made a face. "No, not glue. Who wants glue? It's little white things."
    I still wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking for. "What does it do? Does it hold your teeth in?"
    "I think so."
    "So it's like stickers for your teeth, maybe?"
    "Maybe so. They show it on TV all the time! Doesn't your grandma wear dentures? You can ask her."
    I shook my head dubiously. "No, my grandma has all her own teeth still. But I'll try."
   
    I've looked at two different drugstores and asked various denture-wearing and non-denture-wearing friends. No one has heard of such a thing, but we haven't given up hope yet.

Does he eat milk?

    My sweet sister gave birth to a perfect baby boy just a few weeks ago (I could digress, waxing eloquent on my newest nephew's darling elfin features and cute facial expressions, but I'm sure you can imagine for yourself). And Nellie is in love, although she's never actually seen him. She asked me his name and then tried to Russianize it: "So-ya," she pronounced carefully, nodding her head. "That's a nice name."
    Each week she asks me how the "little boy" is doing, and each week I give her a progress report. One afternoon she threw me for a loop. "What does he eat?" she queried. "Does he eat milk?"
    "Yes, of course," I answered, not sure what else a fairly newborn baby might consume.
    "Where does your sister get it?"
    I wondered if Russians were shy on the subject of breastfeeding. "Well," I said, "she nurses him."
    Nellie spoke a little louder, as though I had misunderstood the question. "But where does she get it? At the store?"
    "No," I repeated, "from herself. She nurses him."
    "Moloko," Nellie said in Russian. And then, in English, "MILK." Back to Russian: "For the baby. Where does it come from? Where does she buy it? Don't you understand milk?"
    I was mystified. "Yes, I understand milk. For the baby. Moloko. She doesn't buy it anywhere; she nurses him. Haven't you ever seen women nursing their babies?"
    Nellie shook her head in disbelief. "But my mother told me that American women NEVER nursed their babies. They ALWAYS buy milk at the store."
    I had almost no words. "Well...umm...that's not true." And Nellie was astonished.

Vindication

    One of Nellie's old students also happens to be an old schoolmate of mine, a lovely girl who moved away, married, had a beautiful baby and still keeps Nellie posted on her grown-up life. And Nellie, knowing that we were acquainted, keeps me updated too. So when a birthday card arrived with a new photo of their family, of course Nellie showed it to me.
    "Oh, how nice!" I exclaimed. "What a sweet picture."
    Nellie frowned and pointed at each of them in turn. "But look, he's shorter than she is. And his face is so round. And why does her hair look like that? How can she have married a man who's shorter than herself? A woman wants to look up to her husband!"
    I had a sinking feeling about the direction of the conversation; Nellie was moving quickly into her stubborn and irrational mode. I tried to reason with her: "He's not short--he's just sitting down. Maybe he's hunched over a little. Look at that older picture (I pointed to one on her wall). See, when he's standing, you can tell that he's quite a bit taller than her. Besides, short isn't bad...he's a handsome guy."
    "No, no, he's just short. I don't like short men. Nobody likes short men. I know what happened: she didn't get married right away, so she just said 'yes' to the first person who asked. I never heard anything about him until her mom said they were married, so she must have just met him and got married in a week! Didn't you know your husband a long time before you married him?"
     I could feel irritation rising like a wave of heat as I listened to her carry on about how incomprehensible it was that her student should marry a short man she barely knew; I could tell that it was futile to argue, but I couldn't ignore the injustice of it all. "How do you know that they didn't meet months before they married? And anyway, don't you know that people are different? My husband and I were longtime friends, but I know people who have gotten married in just a few weeks."
    "Well," Nellie demanded, "would you marry him?"
    "Of course not."
    "There!" she was triumphant. "Because he's short and has a round face, right?"
    I wanted to shake her. "No, because I've never met him and I already have a husband!"
    But there was no convincing her. I left that day so frustrated that my head hurt.

    Last Tuesday, Nellie waited until I'd been there about half an hour to mention a surprise visit the previous weekend from my old friend. "And she brought her husband and baby--and her husband was so handsome! So tall and strong and good looking, and so nice. She said in the birthday picture he had been sitting on the ground, and she was on something to make her taller. Such a lovely family."
    I rolled my eyes at her in exasperation. "I TOLD you."
    She chuckled sheepishly. "You did, didn't you?"

THE University

    "How far is it from your house to the university?" Nellie asked me one day.
    "Which university?"
    She rolled her eyes at me. "THE university, of course."
    "But what is it called? There are so many in Oklahoma." I hoped to narrow the field a little.
    Nellie looked completely bewildered. "There's more than one? But I'm sure that Karik told me there was only one."
    "No, no. I could name a whole bunch of them right now, just off the top of my head. There's the University of Oklahoma, Oklahoma State University, Oklahoma City University, the University of Central Oklahoma, Oklahoma Baptist University, Rose State University, East Central University...." I could have continued, but Nellie's eyes had begun to glaze over.
    "Oh, dear. I don't know. You just go, and turn, and go straight, and keep going, and you're there."
    "Which road do you take?" I still didn't have any idea which university she had in mind.
    "Which road? Umm...I don't know. But it's so beautiful--absolutely lovely. And the buildings are made of red brick, and they're building some new ones...don't you know which one I'm talking about?"
    I sighed. "Oh, Nellie, most of them have red brick buildings and all of them are always building something new. And they're all beautiful in some way or another! If you can't tell me something else, I can't figure out which one you mean."
    "Really? You don't know? Then what am I going to do? How can I find out?" Her voice rose to the desperate squeak I've come to recognize as panic.
    I didn't really think it was that hard. "You can ask Karik what it's called."
    Relief flooded her face. "Oh, that's a good idea. I'll ask him. So can you come to a concert there when I find out which university it is?"
    "When is the concert?"
    She knew the answer to this one. "The 13th of May," she stated proudly. "Can you come?"
    I hated to disappoint her, but even knowing the location wasn't going to help on that day. "I'm sorry, Nellie, but that's Mother's Day. I'll be at my Mama's house."
    If you've read Anne of Green Gables, you'll know what I mean by saying that immediately she was back in the depths of despair. "Oh, no! You can't come? Are you sure that's Mother's Day? Is it always on May 13th?"
    "No, it's always on the third Sunday of May. I'm sorry, but I'm sure."
    Nellie brightened again. "But if it were on a Saturday, you could come. I'll tell Karik, and next year maybe you can come."
    Dear Nellie. We still have to figure out where it is we're going.

Thirty-Nine Years of Mourning

WARNING: This story will not make you laugh.

    Every year, around her birthday, Nellie tells me again about when her mother died. I think she doesn't remember that she's told me before. I knew it was coming when I arrived to find her fretful and depressed; almost as soon as I sat down, she began to talk.
    "It was today that I brought my mother home from the hospital. Thirty-nine years ago today, I brought her home because her cancer had come back and the nurse told me that if I didn't want her body to be given to the students for dissection I should take her home right away. There was nothing else they could do. The cancer was all through her body this time, even though it had gone away for awhile. So I brought her home and tried to make her comfortable. I didn't know what to do. It was horrible, awful. She tried to be brave, and then she cried and shouted and I couldn't figure out what she wanted. She understood then that she was about to die, and she told me that I mustn't cry. She didn't want any tears.
    "So when she died a few days later, I tried not to cry. It would have been easier if I could have just cried, but my mother didn't want me to. What could I do? That was her wish. My neighbors wanted to help me with the funeral meal, but I couldn't do it. On the seventh day, I let them help me spread a table of sweets because it is our tradition and I sat there with the other women, but I couldn't cry. It was my birthday, but now all I can think of every year is when my mama died."
    She was crying now. And what could I say? Thirty-nine years of sadness, bottled up inside--all I could do was hold her hand and rub her back until she calmed a little. Her sweet 91-year-old roommate looked with concern at her tears and asked me what was wrong. "She's remembering when her mother died," I explained softly.
    "I'm so sorry," she whispered back.
    "Will you be alright?" I asked Nellie. She nodded, and I hugged her goodbye reluctantly.
    As I gathered my things, her roommate said quietly, "I'll take care of her."

    More than my lifetime ago, she wasn't allowed to cry...but Nellie still mourns.

There's No Such Thing!

    Nellie has a fascination (you might almost call it an obsession) with the clothes she sees the news anchors wear. There are two pretty young women whose program begins while I'm there, and neary every week she demands how on earth they can always have new dresses. "You see what they're wearing today? I've never seen those dresses before, and they'll never wear them again! How can they afford new clothes every single day?"
    I've tried to suggest that maybe some business sponsors their wardrobe, but that doesn't seem to make sense to her.
    One week, the blonde anchor wore a black and white animal print ruffled top. Nellie kept looking back at her, distracted from our conversation, until finally she couldn't stand it any longer. "What's with her blouse?" she asked. "I don't understand what it's supposed to be. Is it grey?"
    "It's black and white, like a leopard," I explained.
    "Black and white? But leopards are yellow and brown." She was still confused.
    "It's a snow leopard, I think. They're white with black spots."
    "A snow leopard? I've never heard of such a thing."
    "They're kind of like white tigers--have you seen those? Except with spots instead of stripes. You know, the tigers that look like zebras." Perhaps I was not really making sense after all; Nellie seemed even more bewildered.
    "What? I don't understand. Leopards, tigers, lions...big cats? Grrr?"
    I laughed. "Yes, 'grrr.' That's what I'm talking about. They all say 'grrr.' Except the zebras, of course. I don't know if they make any sound."
    She waved her hand impatiently. "Forget about the zebras. We're talking about leopards. But leopards aren't black and white--they're yellow and brown."
    "I promise, there are snow leopards who are black and white. Don't you believe me?"
    Nellie was not convinced. "I've never heard of any such thing in all my life, and I'm eighty-six years old. You're less than half my age. How could you know about something I've never heard about? Where did you see them?"
    I tried to remember. "Oh, on television..."
    "There!" she shook her finger triumphantly. "Just because you saw it on television doesn't mean it's real. There's no such thing."
    I rolled my eyes and recalled another example. "I've seen them at the zoo, too."
    She slumped. "You have?"
    "Yes, so they have to be real."
    The evidence had stacked against her, and she finally gave in. Mostly. "Oh, alright. But what about her blouse? You said they're black and white, but her blouse is grey."
    "Well," I reasoned, "it's really white with black spots but you see it as grey because you can't see it clearly and it all mixes together."
    Nellie frowned. "How do you know that I see it that way?" she demanded suspiciously.
    "Because you read everything like this!" I held my hand about four inches away from my eyes. "Maybe if you moved really, really close to the television, you could see the spots."
    She brightened. "Maybe so! I'll try it." And she moved her chair near enough to peer closely at the new anchor's blouse. "You're right! It's white with black spots!"

Oops.

    Lindor truffles are among Nellie's favorite candies. Of course, she also likes Swedish fish and cordial cherries and...well, pretty much anything. But she really loves Lindor chocolates, so when she asked me if I could buy her some I wasn't surprised.
    "Are they for anything special?" I wondered.
    "Oh, they're for a lady who works here. Her birthday is coming soon, and she's such a nice lady that I want to give her a present. She's seventy or something, and such a nice person.
    I was happy to comply. "Sure I will. Do you want a card too?"
    "Yes, a pretty birthday card--you can write something nice in it like 'I congratulate you on your birthday and wish you health and happiness'--you know what to write."
    "Alright. What's her name?"
    Nellie hesitated. "I think it's Samira."
    I laughed. "Are you sure?"
    "You know me too well, don't you?"
    "Yes," I answered, "I can remember a time not very long ago when you couldn't remember my name!"
    She chuckled sheepishly. "But I know your name now! It's...um...don't tell me...."
    I shook my head in amazement.
    "Is it...Jennifer?"

Don't Talk to Strangers

     I was sick again on a Tuesday, and called Nellie to let her know why I couldn't come; otherwise, she would assume that I were dead or at least in the hospital.
    "Hello, Nellie?" There was silence on the other end. "Nellie, are you there? It's Jessica."
    Finally she spoke. "What? I don't understand."
    "It's Jessica," I spoke a little louder. "You know, your friend, the one you call your granddaughter? The girl who comes to see you every Tuesday?"
    Another long silence. Nellie evidently wasn't catching on. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice hard and flat--and she hung up!
     I looked in disbelief at the "call ended" message on my phone, took a deep breath, and tried again.    "Nellie, it's Jessica," I began quickly. "You know me. I come every Tuesday and we have tea."
    There was a pause, and then she sighed. "Fine," she gave in with obvious incredulity. "What do you want?"
    Exasperated and now exhausted (because I was, after all, feeling fairly awful), I hurried to finish. "I just called to tell you that I can't come today because I'm sick."
    Nellie's voice changed completely as she recognized at last who I was. "Ohhh, Jessica! Now I understand! You're sick? Do you need to go to the doctor? What about the apples? Can your husband come and get the apples? Why do you get sick so much?"
    This was the Nellie I knew.

Golden Fingers

    Nellie was waiting for me at the nursing home entrance. Her first words revealed that she was in much turmoil of spirit: "The little boy fell on his head," she said, without preamble, "and broke into lots of pieces!" I knew exactly which "little boy" she meant; she has two porcelain dolls, about six or eight inches tall, dressed in Russian-style clothes, who live on her shelves and sometimes tumble off for no good reason at all. I had glued his feet (or maybe it was his brother's) a time or two before.
    "Don't worry," I tried to comfort her. "Maybe I can fix him. Let's go see."
    "But there are so many pieces!" She would not be comforted, so we wheeled down the hall and started tea while I inspected the fragments she had gathered. Sure enough, there were quite a few pieces...and try as I could, they didn't quite make a whole head. One was unmistakably missing. I crawled around the floor, peering under the bed and into corners hoping that the last bit would magically appear...but it was nowhere to be found.
     I showed Nellie the triangular hole right in the center of his forehead and told her that I while could glue the rest, there would still be that gap. She brightened up immediately and dismissed the gaping wound as a non-issue: "You have golden fingers," she assured me. "You can do something. Maybe his hair will cover it!"
    "Alright," I agreed, somewhat doubtfully, to make the attempt. "So what is his name? If we're going to fix him, he needs a name."
    "Ummm..." Nellie looked blank.
    "Do you want him to have a Russian name, or an American name?"
    "Well...I'm not sure. Maybe an American name. What's your husband's name, again?" I reminded her, and she seized upon it happily. "His name is Jerry!" she declared.
    There was no way his hair, even bowl-cut as it was, could cover that hole in any manner that looked natural--but with such trust, I had to try. Carefully wrapped in a paper towel, the little boy traveled with me to work, where we have many tubes of superglue; Jerry's story so affected my coworkers that he quickly became a community project. I carefully glued all the pieces until all that remained was that triangle between his eyes.... "Maybe," my boss suggested, "you could use a bit of paper."
    So I took him back home and fashioned a tiny papier-mache patch which, when dabbed with foundation, actually blended pretty well. When Tuesday came again, I showed the finished product to the ladies at work and continued on with a tiny bit of trepidation to Nellie. I wasn't so concerned that she wouldn't be pleased, but that she might refuse to believe that I had used paper to patch him!
    I shouldn't have worried. Nellie was so delighted at Jerry's return that she only shook her head in wonder at how little the hole showed. Smiling happily, she kissed the doll on the head and directed me to put him back on his shelf next to the other little boy. As I gently set him in his place, I asked her if she had a name for the second figure. She shrugged her shoulders. "You name him," she commanded.
    "How about 'Tom'?" I suggested.
    "Thom ee Djeri," she tried out the sounds of the words, nodding with approval. "Very good."
    And so Tom and Jerry live high on Nellie's shelf, where (hopefully) they will stay safely without any more falls.

Happy Birthday

    My phone rang, and I sighed when I saw Nellie's name. Usually when she calls it's for some emergency, such as running out of face cream or being afraid that I'll cut myself on a hypothetical mirror in my purse. Because of this, I always answer her calls with a little trepidation...but I answer, because otherwise she'll work herself into a tizzy and assume that I'm dead.
    There was a sort of confused silence on the other end of the line. I tried again. "Hello, Nellie? Are you there? How are you?"
    Finally she responded. "Oh, yes, ummmm..." I waited, wondering if she had forgotten what she wanted to say.
    "Yes? What do you need?" I prompted.
    And she began to speak, slowly, as if she were reading or reciting. "My dear Jessica, I want to congratulate you on your birthday! I wish you love and health and success and all the best."
    If smiles were audible, she could have heard mine through the phone. It was a traditional Russian birthday wish, such as I hadn't heard in...well, far too many years. "Oh, thank you!" I told her.
    I could almost hear her own smile in reply. "Did I say it right?" she asked happily. Oh, yes. Perfectly right.

The Rabbit

    My sister is expecting a baby. Since Nellie always asks me to tell her something interesting, I relayed the happy news to her. True to form, her first response was rather pessimistic. "I guess you feel sad, then," she said.
    I didn't follow. "Huh? Why would I be sad?"
    "Because you don't have a baby," she replied, as if it were only logical.
    "Oh, no, no, no. I'm not sad at all!" I don't think she believed me at first. Finally I convinced her that really I was very happy for my sister--and even more, I would be an aunt again!
    When I came back the next week, Nellie presented me with a stuffed rabbit--the kind with a carrot, the kind one always sees at Easter, even though it was nearer Thanksgiving than spring. I raised my eyebrows at her. "What's this for? Is it for me?"
    "No, it's for the baby," she answered.
    "The baby?" The connection wasn't immediately obvious, since my sister's baby wasn't due for at least seven months.
    "Yes, yes, your sister's baby. You must save it for two years and then give it to her."
    I chuckled. "Ohhh. I see. Well, alright." I started to poke it into the bag with the tea things.
    "Don't do that!" she commanded. "It'll make him dirty." I rolled my eyes at her and started to put him in my purse instead.
    "No, not there either. That will mess him up."
     So I carried the rabbit under my arm out to the car, where I carefully stuffed him into my purse. What Nellie doesn't know can't hurt her!

Fresh Air

    It was a bright, beautiful day and several of the occupants whose faces I knew were out on the "porch" enjoying the sunshine. One sweet old gentleman waved at me and declared, "She's not here today."
    I thought for sure he was joking, and laughed. "Well, I'd better check," I told him, and started in through the front doors. On the other side of the glass, hidden by the corner of the entrance, I saw Nellie peeking at me--delighted at her own prank. Unable to help laughing again, I shook my finger at her and hurried back outside where all the conspirators were giggling like mad for the fun of playing a trick on me. We sat happily in the sun for a few minutes and then retired to Nellie's room for tea.
    "Did you notice I'm in a much better mood today than I was last week?" she asked me toward the end of my visit. As a matter of fact, I had noticed. The previous week she had been a mess, so I nodded and asked her what was different.
    "Well, I was feeling so sad and depressed that I thought to myself, 'Maybe this is the end. Maybe I'll just die pretty soon.' I told my nephew, and he said to me, 'No, no, you're not going to die. You just need some fresh air!' And so every day I've been sitting outside for a little while, and see what a difference it makes!"

Sing Me a Song

    As I filled the teakettle and sat on the side of her bed, Nellie suddenly demanded, "Sing something."
   
     I wasn't sure I had heard correctly. "What?"
   
     "Sing me a song," she repeated.
   
     "What kind of song? A Christmas song? Any particular song? Do you want me to sing in English or Russian?" If she chose Russian, my repertoire would be severely limited.
   
     "It doesn't matter," she said. "Just any song."
   
     So I sang. It was December, and the songs most on my mind were Christmas carols, so I began with one of my favorites--What Child Is This? I love to sing, but I do NOT love to sing when I know people are listening. It took me a few bars to overcome my shyness, but, after all, I love to sing. Nellie listened quietly, keeping time with her good hand and humming along rather tunelessly.
   
     "I like that song. I remember singing it in church before my stroke. Sing me another," she commanded. And so I sang on. Silent Night, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, Away In a Manger, We Three Kings...all the verses I could recall. When I finished We Three Kings, she asked what it was about. "That's a pretty song. I've never heard it before. Sing it again."
   
     "Again? The same song?" I was getting a little tired, but Nellie was insistent.
   
     "Yes, yes, again."
   
     I sang We Three Kings one more time, and finally Nellie was satisfied. As my one-woman-caroling session came to an end, I wondered how I would feel if I were suddenly cut off from the songs I love so much--if I could no longer sing because I couldn't remember any words.

Homesick

I brought a book for Nellie to read--a well-loved Russian poet telling a well-loved Russian fairytale, in Russian (of course) with beautiful illustrations. Having handed it to her, I proceeded to fill and turn on my electric kettle so we could have tea. By the time I sat down on the bed beside her, my little babushka was practically sobbing.

Alarmed, for she'd been perfectly fine when I entered the room, I asked, "What's wrong? What happened?" She only shook her head and continued to cry. I was really worried by this time, and tried again. "What is the matter? Are you alright?" Finally she calmed enough to gasp through her tears, "My heart--"

Oh, dear. What had I done? I rubbed her back and soothed her until she was able to talk a little, and the words trickled out. "When I saw the book, and the pictures, and the story, my heart was so sad...and I cried." She was still crying, though at least now she could control it a bit. She kept turning her head away to keep me from seeing the tears.

"It's okay," I comforted her. "Sometimes it's good to cry a little."

"I think I need to go back to Russia," she said. "I should go back and die there, in my homeland."