(Op-ed by Peter Children)
As a continuation of my recent article on “growing up” I would like to offer these observations. As a people our similarities are enormous; once you get past the skin we are all pretty much alike regardless of our place of birth or origins and heritage. But there are defining characteristic’s that somewhat divide us after birth that effects our journey through life more than you can imagine.
Sitting under one of the five grape arbors splashed by the sun on a warm summer day eating lunch with my grandfather, a lunch that consisted of fresh tomatoes picked moments before from the garden which was only ten feet away from where we sat, then drenched in olive oil and covered with feta cheese accompanied by homemade bread baked by my grandmother help set my palate for the rest of my days on earth.
And as we sat there I listened as he recalled his youth in his beloved village. He would tell me how sweet the fish tasted that came from the mountain steams and how cold the water was, he explained how to roast lambs and stuff peppers, and roast chickens. He taught me about life, his life and the hopes he had for mine…..
He died on March 25, 1955, and five years later I boarded a plane and flew to what was then Yugoslavia to seek out that mystical village he came from, to taste the fish and put my hand into the stream. When I arrived at customs in the airport in Belgrade, people ahead of me were opening their suitcases in front of custom agents to see if there was anything inside that could be illegal. When it became my turn I said to the agent in perfect Serbian, “should I open it or do you want to?” He paused, looked up from his clip board and said; “You go through, you’re home now.” He then marked my bag with an X signifying it had cleared.
As I went through the airport and got into my cousins car, a cousin I had met for the first time, I did feel like I was home. We spent a few days in Belgrade looking over this city of three million, and during a concert being held in a museum where a choir of school children were assembled to sing, I inquired from an official if I could shoot some film. “Do what you want,” he said, “You’re one of us.” Some weeks after I arrived I traveled to that mountain village I sought since childhood. I took a bus there and as I boarded my cousin told the driver to let me off at “The Rock of Yankovich.” That was our name and also the name of the village. It had been there for over 250 years. It is very high in the mountains, the bus actually drove through low hanging clouds as we ascended. Suddenly he stopped the bus and indicated to me that this was where I should exit. I looked from my seat and saw no road or path, but the driver said it was Ok and I should leave the bus.
I stepped out onto the gravel road and as the bus drove off I was looking for an opening to the top. I soon found it and started walking up, once there I was met my grandfather’s nefew Mitar, who was living in the family home. Mitar first said to me; “This house is more yours than mine,” to which I replied, “I didn’t come here for this house, I came to see where my grandfather’s life began. It was an emotional experience influenced by a man I loved very much. I tasted the fish and it was sweet and I put my hand into the mountain stream and the water was cold, and once more I knew he had not lied to me. As I walked the paths he once walked I wondered how this man got from this mountain top consisting of only thirteen houses, to Mason City, Iowa. He arrived here in 1910.
So the next time you meet someone outside of your normal routine, someone whose diet may differ or whose faith is not exactly the same as yours, their skin might be a different color, but you may have just found someone who could be your best friend.
Peter Children
|
