53 Years of Marriage (23 in Socialism and 30 in Capitalism)

Copyright © 2019 by Sevastita Lazarescu.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2019918281

ISBN:             Hardcover                 978-1-7960-0714-5

                       Softcover                   978-1-7960-0713-8

                       eBook                        978-1-7960-0712-1

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Rev. date: 12/11/2019

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1    Fifty-three years of marriage!

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 1

Fifty-three years of marriage!

How quickly all these years passed, and how overwhelming are the number of events which happened in our family life, when you think that we started from scratch three times: 1966 in Braila; 1986 in Bucharest, Romania; and 1989, when we immigrated to Perth, Western Australia.

The power of love, respect, perseverance, endurance and spirit of sacrifice helped us become stronger and stronger, in spite of all the obstacles that appeared in our way through the years.

I was born in 1946 in Brailita, a suburb on the outskirts of the city of Braila, which is situated on the bank of the Danube River. I was born to a working-class family, being the youngest of three children. My brother, Eugen, and my sister, Sofia, were nine and eight years senior to me.

It was not too many months after the Second World War ended, and people were struggling with all sorts of shortages—food, clothing, household goods, books for school, etc. Everything was obtained only with tickets, and you needed to queue endlessly, many times going home empty-handed.

The famine of 1946 sent people travelling hundreds of kilometres, towards the parts of the country where they could find some food for their families.

I remember that my mother was discussing this with my grandma, and they were saying that we were fortunate to have a cow, a real treasure in those hard years. It gave some milk to us, and we sold most of it for money.

My father was a truck driver, delivering all kinds of stuff in every corner of the country, working non-stop to provide for our family. The nature of his job kept my father mostly on the road, so my mother needed to take care of our household.

My christening was, for my brother and sister, a very big treat because they could fill their tummies. That’s what they told me later.

My brother and sister were helping my mother as much as they could. They went on foot to the market, taking the path next to the railway to shorten the distance, to buy the necessary grains to feed the cow and the two pigs (to have meat for Christmas and over the winter period), the two lambs (for Easter), the geese, the turkey (for New Year’s Eve), the chooks, and some guinea fowl.

My mother, my brother, and my sister were working very hard to cover all that was necessary to be done. They took into account the fact that you needed to queue for everything, so they were doing it in turn.

The first task in the morning was queueing for bread. Our neighbour, a sturdy widow with grown-up children, kept the order. She had a very long and thick stick she used to permit only two persons at a time. Unfortunately, more than once, someone would say ‘There is not enough bread’, and that would create havoc; the poor lady could not control the situation any more.

As it happened, a few times I was caught and crushed in the queue because I managed to go unobserved next to our neighbour. My mother admonished me, saying, ‘Dearest, you need to grow up a little bit more for this.’ To this, my answer was ‘But I like to help’. My grandma, who was looking after me, couldn’t run to stop me.

That happened with everything else you wanted to buy.

Like others, my mother was struggling, doing her best to have something to put on the table. I recollect that in the evening, at dinner, when the whole family was at home (except for my father, who was home twice, rarely three times a week from his travels) and my mother was giving us the plates with food, she would be the last to get hers. Ignoring the others, I would point to her plate and say, ‘Look how much you put for yourself and how little I have.’

That was funny for my siblings; my poor mom got the least all the time, and she had to add more food to my plate for me to be satisfied. ‘That’s how kids are’ was her comment, and she was never upset with me.

Despite all these hard times, my childhood was a happy one. I will never forget my mom singing to me when I woke up, massaging my back, exercising my hands and legs, telling me to stretch my muscles, and showing me how the cat did it and how thoroughly the cat cleaned her face, whiskers, and ears with her paw.

My mom would continue with the routine; she would wash my face and hands and brush my teeth. At the end, she would show me a nice small tapestry on the wall and say to me, ‘Sweetie, what you read there is Cleanliness is the mother of health, and remember, wash your hands before you eat.’

In the morning and in the evening, she would dance with me, and my siblings would circle around us to make me laugh.

To show us, the children, the difference between order and disorder, she would play with us with the pillows in their huge bed, and then we would help her arrange the doona (mattress filled with fluff and feathers from geese); the bed sheet and the valance; the beautiful satin cover (filled with wool); the big, heavy throw made of lace; and in the end, the numerous pillows (two very large ones for Mom and Dad, two smaller embroidered ones, and the decorative satin pillows in the shape of a basket on top, with tapestries and tassels).

Both my mom and my grandma taught me how to pray and ask God to give us flour and polenta, and I would say,

‘God, give us flour, flour,

polenta, polenta.’

And I would add what I liked most:

‘And more pies, more pies.’

They told me to thank God for the rain, which helps our crops grow in the fields, and to pray to God to keep my parents healthy because they worked very hard to provide us all with necessary things for our daily life. But most of all, I was told to pray to God to keep my father safe and bring him back home from his travels around the country.

More than once, I heard my mom and my grandma talk about how hard my father was working, skipping his meals and sleeping in the truck to not pay for accommodation. When I went outside to play with the children, I would tell them, ‘My poor father works harder than your fathers, and he doesn’t sleep with his head on his pillow as your fathers do. He is the best father in the world.’

My grandma would go with me to the backyard to show me our little farm. We had a backyard of about eight hundred square metres, divided by a fence. A small part had posts with stretched wire to dry the clothes and to air and keep in the sun the covers, the pillows, and all the clothes from the wardrobes when we would do general cleaning; the bigger part at the back had the barn for the cow, the pigpen, the henhouse, and the rest of the land, which was called by my parents ‘the paradise for our birds’ because it was covered by lush tall weeds, which grew very well on this soil. I will never forget how hilarious it was to watch our dog playing with the lambs and clinging to their tails, running through this thick carpet of weeds.

Next to the fence bordering the neighbouring house, like aligned soldiers, the wild horseradish plants were growing, and then came a big spot of red spinach and dandelion. The roots from the horseradish were shredded by my mom, who then added a bit of oil, vinegar, and a pinch of salt, to serve as accompaniment to the small goods prepared for Christmas. Freshly picked red spinach added to the borscht conferred to it not only a nice colour but a great taste as well. The fresh stems and leaves from dandelion, which were used as a salad, would reinvigorate the body after the wintertime.

In spring, many families would go to the outskirts of our suburb to pick up stinging nettle, plantage, dandelion, chamomile, and other plants known for their medicinal properties.

Afterwards, my mom would spread them on some paper to get them dried in the shadow, away from the sun, and then place the dried plants in separate paper bags and store them in a big cardboard box.

My father liked to surprise my mom by bringing from his trips the best of everything he could get.

The guinea fowl which I mentioned are connected to an unforgettable story. He bought them at a market somewhere because he learnt that they produce a lot of eggs. The lady who sold them told him the same thing.

As it happened, a lot of time passed, but there were no eggs. Now we didn’t know that these birds used to lay their eggs by hiding them in the most unexpected places.

One day, when I was playing with my ball in our backyard, the ball rolled under a big pile of logs. I was around eight years old at that time. When I tried to get it back, I couldn’t because the space was too narrow. I went to the kitchen, and I got a soup spoon with a long handle to be able to reach my ball. To my surprise, when I retrieved the spoon, I found in it two small eggs with lots of fine spots on them. I was so excited that I ran, shouting, ‘Mummy, mummy, I found the eggs from our guinea fowl!’ My mom got scared because she couldn’t understand what I was saying. Then she permitted me to get the eggs, and to our delight, we collected around fifty eggs. Their shells are very hard to break. With Easter approaching, my mom kept a few to use for the surprise of the year. Furthermore, we realised that indeed these birds produce a lot of eggs.

Not only was I encouraged to help, but I really liked to help my mom. She fed the cow and the pigs and permitted me to feed the birds. I liked to watch from a distance when she would milk the cow. Together with Ionel, my sister’s husband, we would take care of the eggs that were about to hatch and then place the fluffy chicks and goslings in furry hats prepared in advance by my mom to keep them warm. Afterwards, she would bring a small basin with water, where the little goslings would swim and dive after just a few hours out of the eggs. Jumping and clapping, I would be beside myself with joy. Both my mom and Ionel enjoyed themselves tremendously, watching my reaction.

When I was old enough to understand things around me, I noticed that compared with other households, our home emanated order, cosiness, and warmth, for which I couldn’t be more proud of my mom; she was one of the handiest persons I knew.

In the kitchen, everything was orderly, and on the wall, there were small tapestries that said ‘Bon appétit’ and ‘Bless this house’ and a very nice poster that said ‘Wash your hands’. The furniture in the dining room was of a light-brown colour, on which you could see dainty doilies made from a very fine lace, exquisitely embroidered linen, and some family photos.

In my parents’ bedroom, above their huge bed, there was a big photo of my mom and dad from their wedding. Underneath it was a tapestry with two birds kissing and on which was written ‘Never go to bed upset’.

The white snowlike embroidered bed linen and valence contrasted nicely with the dark-red satin cover, which had a big heart in the middle and four tulips in each corner. Such a cover, with the same design, I sewed myself under my mom’s supervision when I married, and I couldn’t believe that I did it so easily.

On top of the cover, as I mentioned before, there was the heavy throw made of thick white lace, the big and small pillows, and the satin ones with tassels, which were preferred by our cats, especially when they were trying to find a cushy place to sleep better.

Our small bedroom also had above the bed a tapestry of Mom and Dad kissing their two children, with the writing ‘Harmony brings you happiness’. The big number of pillows to sleep on and the decorative ones added more fun when we would fight with them in our parents’ bed.

My mom had an eye for aesthetics; everything was arranged to be pleasing to the eye.

The bed and embroidered table linen, the doilies, the tapestries, the covers, and the pillows were done by my mom, who in turn taught me these crafts and many others.

My father saw my mom sewing by hand a very beautiful dress, and he learnt from my grandma that she dreamt to have a Singer sewing machine. Despite all his efforts, he couldn’t find one to buy, so he got a Romanian-made one.

My mom couldn’t be happier. ‘Oh, how glad I am! You’ll see how many things I can do with this machine and how much money we’ll save. You are the best husband in the world!’ Well, I can say that both of them were unique.

My mom sewed dresses, suits, skirts, overcoats, pyjamas, nightgowns, and many other things. She was extremely creative, making new designs for clothing. She could alter things easily. Her skill with knitting was unparalleled; she could make cardigans, mufflers, gloves, socks, etc., as well as repair and redo them.

I was around five years old when my mom borrowed a weaving loom from someone, and she wove some carpets for us. ‘On this kind of loom,’ she explained to me, ‘I did my apprenticeship, helping in the beginning and then weaving Persian carpets and all sorts of other carpets myself.’

My mother was also an excellent cook. More than once, I heard our neighbours praising her. They would come to ask her how to prepare some things, and every time, she was happy to be of help.

I will never forget how she would prepare dough for bread in two big aluminium pots. I would be mesmerised when the rising dough would flow over the margins, and I would run and shout, ‘Mummy, Mummy, our dough is a magic one!’

A slice of bread was a real treat, and many times, I would give bread to some other kids. My mom was never upset about that. She knew how to prepare the best cozonac for Christmas and pasca for Easter, and when she could afford it, she made the best doughnuts.

Though there wasn’t much money or food, I remember the people who passed on the streets, selling their excellent products, whose taste can’t be equalled nowadays, and shouting to make everyone aware of their presence.

From Oltenia, there were men who carried on their shoulders a yoke, a flexible thick curved stick, on whose ends two large ceramic pots hung, filled with the most delicious yoghurt. They had a big spatula with which to serve you a yummy serving of yoghurt or more, depending on your budget. Whenever I heard the yoghurt man, I would run, calling, ‘Mummy, please bring my bowl to buy some yoghurt!’ That big spatula could get you a serving of around three hundred grams of yoghurt. Afterwards, my mom would quickly prepare a small polenta, and it would be good and refreshing, making me very happy.

There were people on whose yokes were hung big baskets filled with nicely arranged small pretzels with shiny crusts, just inviting you to eat them; big pretzels with sesame; brioches; and savoury or sweet small pies. The man who sold ice cream had wafer cones for every budget: 25c, 50c, or $1. And this is not to mention the carts with piles of fruits of the season.

Milk was brought to our door by the milk lady until 1968. She carried the milk in big jugs, from which she would pour into your pot.

From some old ladies, you could get sunflower and pumpkin seeds, which are good for your digestion. I liked their small and large wooden cups—50c and $1, respectively.

But one of the most sought-after produce was borscht, which was used in every household. Borscht is a type of Romanian soup, to which you add the actual borscht obtained from fermented bran. After you boil the bones, meat, and veggies, you add the borscht, which confers its unique sour taste to the soup.

In 2004, when my sister visited me, she told me with regret that the old woman who had been the last to sell borscht had passed away. Nowadays you can find borscht at the supermarkets, but that specific taste of homemade borscht is gone forever. Pity!

Next to the big factory one street further from ours, there was a big stadium, and every Sunday, there were soccer games, which were well attended.

The Russians, who occupied Romania until 1953, had in the evenings a show called chermeza, for which they installed a stage at the stadium for their performances of folk dances and singing.

The children from our street, being so close to the stadium, had a certain place where we could pass through the fence to go and watch the show.

I was always mesmerised by their exquisite costumes. The young men had large satin trousers, superb long satin shirts with large sleeves, and nice belts. The ladies had beautiful crowns with multicoloured flowers and many long ribbons, as well as splendid dresses and light boots. Under the lights, everything was like a symphony of colours. Their skill in dancing was unsurpassed. The show ended late, after eleven o’clock, but no mother could have her kid back home earlier to sleep.

On these occasions, you could find people who sold the best syrup, carried in a fascinating, shiny device, with lots of little bells to attract your attention. I recently saw this in an old movie, which awakened nostalgia for the old times.

I remember the simple treats in those times, when visiting a relative or an acquaintance: a teaspoon of dulceata (a very sweet jam) and a glass of water, some sorbet, or a cup of coffee if you could afford it. Most of these things which I’ve just described unfortunately belong to the past, and their unique, unparalleled taste I have not found anywhere else.

Going back, though I was a kid, I realised what a huge effort my Mom and Dad were making to keep hope and harmony in our family in those hard times.

As for my mom, I’ve never seen a person do so much in one day. She would wake very early in the morning to take care of our animals and birds and everything else in our household. In the afternoon, after lunch, she would take a break, trying to put me to sleep as well. Then, like now, I didn’t like taking a nap. I would wait for her to fall asleep, and then on my tiptoes, I would leave the bed. Being so tired, she never caught me doing that, or she just let me be.

I would play with the kids from our street, in the small park which was at the end of our street. As toys were a rarity, I would make with the girls small dolls from cloth remnants, which my mom gave me. A cotton ball was placed in a big enough square piece of cloth, and the corners were gathered to cover the cotton ball—that was the head. Around the ends of the corners was rolled a bigger piece of cloth, which was held together with some thread—that was the body. For hands, another rolled piece of cloth was fixed like a cross between the head and the body, and that completed the doll. We made as many dolls as we could from the pieces of cloth we had. For petticoats, we used bigger pieces of cloth. To weigh different things, we improvised scales using a piece of wood, which my brother gave me, placed on a stone to balance, and at each end of