Resting in a Russian village

This is the place I will write about the most.



An excerpt from a memoir in progress: 


On my summer trips to the village, I remember the flare of the sun coming through a flannel shirt I was covering my face with, in the backseat of grandpaws’ old yellow soviet car. The smell of tobacco and gasoline mixed with fresh country air and drying hay. In the rearview mirror, my grandpas’ wrinkled, scruffy face with a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth gave me the feeling of calmness. His bright blue eyes on the road, his roughed up hands on the stick shift. My grandma in the passenger seat, talking about who had apples trees, who had cows, planning for what to grow and what to livestock to keep. I counted the kilometer markings on the highway to see how much longer the drive would be. The were a few landmarks that gave me a pretty good idea where we were. Around the 64th kilometer on the Minsk Highway there was a tank memorial sculpture. It way a three quarter way point, and I knew we would arrive in twenty or so minutes. Once we saw the 92nd Kilometer marker, we could see our village and the field out back through the trees that lined the highway. I loved pulling into the driveway and smelling the fresh air after the hour trip from the city, I knew after a quick snack of salami and rye bread, I could take my bike out for a ride on the country road.