My mother's stories (chapter eighteen)

My mother’s stories

chapter 18

Cibul'ka and two little pigs

     Not all of my mother’s stories had that dark tinge that her hatred and non-ability to forgive her mother gave to them. Actually, she could find some humour or attraction in almost every situation. I loved listening to her stories about domestic animals and picturesque nature of the place where she was born. After coming home from school I used to spend an hour or two telling my mother about lessons and complaining about my first teacher, who was malevolent and rude with her pupils. My mother interrupted me from time to time to make a remark or to tell a story from her own childhood, trying to show me that people had not changed much since then. And children had not changed much either. Despite their bad nourishment, shabby clothes and hard work from an early age, my mother and her friends were also eager to look for fun in their surroundings.

      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

1. Festive demonstrations
2. A merry-go-round

3. The settlement in the steppe

4. The settlement in the steppe (the ending)
5. Urban life and its advantages

6. Collectivization and electrification of all the country

7. Roaming through the village and a man with two horses

8. My mother's struggle for freedom

9. A boy from the orphanage across the road

10. Living at the edge of the city

11. My grandmother's imprisonment

12. My mother's departure from the village forever

13. My mother's triumphs and mishaps in Bashkiria

14. My mother's triumphs and mishaps in Bashkiria (the ending)

15. The last visit to the village

16. My mother's helping hand

17. The only man she ever loved

18. My father's only friend

19. My grandmother's visits