My mother’s stories
chapter 18
Cibul'ka and two little pigs
I remember once my friend and I spent one or two wonderful hours
in the neighbouring yard jumping down from the attic onto a huge corn-coloured
pile of straw, laughing our heads off. My mother had in her stock a story like
that for comparison. She also was having a lot of fun with her friends while
teasing their red dog Cibul’ka. The dog was so clever that children believed
she could understand every word they said. At least one word she could not
stand completely. If someone called her “dog”, even in a low voice, Cibul’ka
would always bare her teeth in response. And, of course, she got really
frenzied when children climbed the tree and began to shout loudly “Dog! Dog!”
I imagine how exciting it was to sit there on
the tree branches, shouting and laughing, while Cibul’ka was jumping fiercely
on the trunk, barking madly. After shouting themselves hoarse, children
gradually calmed down and began to tell the furious dog that they had not meant
anything wrong and remembered perfectly well that her proper name was Cibul’ka.
Miraculously, after hearing her name, Cibul’ka settled down quickly and wagged
her tail vigorously, showing the children that she was ready to accept their
apologies and be patted on the head.
Or a story about
two piglets, which was one of my favourite. It was actually, a tale of
competition between two sisters. It started as soon as a neighbouring woman
brought two new-born piglets to their house. The problem was that her sow gave
birth to 14 sucklings and it has only 12 tits. So the woman offered my mother
and her sister to take care of two little ones. My favourite aunt Zina seized
the smaller piglet immediately. I would do the same in her place. I remember
how fascinated I was with tiny dolls at that age. My mother, who was five years
older and much cleverer, grabbed the bigger one instead. This initial
difference between two piglets was getting only more pronounced as the time
passed. It was not really something unexpected. Everybody knows that a better
start usually leads to a higher level of success. Moreover, to her piglet’s
luck, my mother had poor appetite and in spite of lack of food was always ready
to share her meals with it. Zina, with her excellent appetite, couldn’t even
think about such a thing. When two little pigs reached their teens Zina’s one
escaped and roamed wild for two or three weeks. After it was found and caught
at last it looked so much smaller than my mother’s that everybody asked if
those two were a mother and her off-spring.
Especially I loved
the ending of the story when my mother, chuckling merrily, began to describe to
me how her grown-up pig tried to protect their house by attacking the
intruders. And nobody except her could stop her devoted sow because it took
only her orders. So in that long competition between two sisters my mother
triumphed and in spite of my affection for my aunt I enjoyed it simple-heartedly.
Didn’t I have the same with my friends? Whose dress was better, who could jump
further or climb higher – this everlasting competition made our life more
interesting and exciting. Inevitably, it led us to disappointments from time to
time, and some of those failures, for some reason, got stuck uncomfortably in
my memory.
I remember once,
for example, we tried to impress one rather reckless girl, who was a new-comer
in our settlement. She was just staying with her grandparents for some time and
we couldn’t resist the temptation of showing off in front of her. So we took
her to a high-voltage pole towering above the road not far from our dwellings. It
was a gigantic metallic construction 30 meters high at least and we dared to
climb it only till the place where the first cross-beams were situated. It was
about eight meters above the ground and we felt very proud of ourselves when,
after reaching it, we climbed down towards the girl, who was watching us from
below. But as it turned out she could do better than that. After we faced her
at last, she rushed to the pole and easily reached the same place. Then she
clutched the nearest cross-beam and hung in mid-air, calling us mockingly to
join her. But nobody did. It looked pretty high when we were staring from below
at her legs dangling above our heads.
I knew it was a
challenge for me in the first place as I was a leader of our small group of
playmates. Yet I stood there rooted to the spot, caught by a sudden fear. I didn’t
have a very high opinion about that girl, especially after she sang a very rude
song in front of my best friend and me. Moreover, I knew her main motive was
her desire to shock. Yet nothing could justify my cowardice in my eyes.
I don’t know why
but my memory is always ready to jump to those recollections where my
self-respect suffered. It was visa versa with my mother. In her stories she
always tried to show herself in a better light. It was difficult not to feel a
prickle of envy sometimes, listening how popular she was among the boys because
of her beauty and sharp tongue. Or what a good runner she was that nobody could
catch her. Or how she recited long poems in front of the whole school and
everybody clapped their hands enthusiastically while she was climbing down from
the stage.
So, perhaps, that
is where the roots of my lack of self-confidence lie. I shouldn’t have
concentrated so much on my mother’s triumphs. I was not so beautiful and was
not a good runner, and I was too shy for stage. But I was definitely better at
maths or drawing, for example. As for our adult life we were both unsuccessful
from the common point of view: no career and no money. So why on earth do I
have an especially acute feeling of failure when I look at my life with my
mother’s eyes? Perhaps, it’s that inner aspiration to be approved by my mother
that I have never been able to get rid of entirely. I am afraid that that
little girl with a bow in a mop of blond hair, who used to listen to her
mother’s stories, trying to catch her every word, still exists somewhere inside
me, and she is still waiting for her mother’s words of praise and
encouragement.
To be continued…
(c) Anna Shevchenko
