MY ODYSSEY AS A FIVE-YEAR-OLD: Part Two of a Series

 

A series of essays….

A LITTLE, RED-PLAID BOOK BAG VERY POPULAR IN THE 1950’S: 
MINE, I’M CERTAIN, HAD LITTLE BLACK BUCKLES!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

The deep imprint of one of the tiny, black buckles from my red-plaid school bag burned the left side of my face. Oh, not like from a real fire, but from the constant pressure of it on my cheek while being used as a pillow for the past twenty minutes or so. 

My story began when my older brother and I were awakened for school by our Mom two hours before. Ronnie and I shared bunk beds in the second bedroom of the little, white rental house on Milburn Boulevard in Mishawaka, Indiana. The thing is, both of us attended elementary school in South Bend, right about on the line between the two communities. it was the nearest Catholic school to our house. I was baptized at Saint Matthew’s and, as a family, we attended Mass there every Sunday morning.

Because Mom didn’t have her driver’s license and Dad was away on a business trip for the week, my brother and I would wake-up especially early to get ready for school and walk the forty-five minutes or more to Saint Matthew’s in time for the first bell. Ronnie, being three and a half years older than me, was my best friend, protector, and idol throughout our early years. Believe me, there was absolutely nothing he could do wrong. 

That particular morning was different. Mom’s morning calls from the tiny kitchen failed to rouse my brother as he remained curled and twisted in his sheets on the bottom bunk. Climbing slowly down the ladder and opening our bedroom door, I ran to tell Mom that Ronnie didn’t look well. Something was wrong.

Turning the burner off from under our boiling Quaker Oats, she gently sat down beside him on the bed and softly kissed his forehead. She was surprised by his fever; her lips tingled from the heat that radiated from his small body. Instantly I knew that we would not be walking to school together that morning. 

Placing the back of her hand on my forehead and finding it cool to the touch, she looked at me with sad eyes and proclaimed that I would be going anyway and pushed me into the bathroom in order to properly get ready. While brushing my teeth I could hear her in my dresser drawer and closet extracting clothes for the day, placing them in the bathroom for me to put on, and then dishing-up steaming oats into my bowl on the dining table. 

While I ate breakfast, alone, at our red and white, enamel table with shiny chrome legs, Mom was in the living room talking on the telephone. Sitting down at the table after her conversations, she explained what was going to happen that morning in order to get me to school on time since walking with Ronnie was not an option. I wasn’t afraid. After all, I was a five-year-old turning six in early November who had skipped kindergarten and was placed in the first grade after being tested for academic acceptability and social maturity. I was going to miss my protector that morning, that’s for sure. I sat still for now and listened to my Mom’s plan.

She told me she was speaking with a person from the City of South Bend’s public bus system. Together they coordinated the bus schedule to see if I could be picked-up in front of our house and if the route could get me to Saint Matthew’s in time for school. With a tweak or two between them, I was to be standing out front near the curb by 7:30 a.m. 

Her second call had been to my school and she spoke with Mother Superior to let her in on the plan and approximately when to expect me at school. 

Soon afterwards, she was placing me on the bus with the strap of my little plaid book bag crossed snugly over my chest and speaking with the bus driver about making certain that I got off at Saint Matthew’s Elementary on Miami Street in South Bend. With everything working like a fine-tuned instrument, tenderly she kissed my cheek and gave me a reassuring hug that indicated all would be just fine. Thanking the driver, she stepped-down from the bus as the doors gently closed between us and waved from the yard while standing near the old maple tree that graced our front lawn.

The bus driver smiled and told me to take a seat anywhere I’d like. A third of the way down the narrow aisle, I chose my seat and slid across the padded, khaki green vinyl and settled in for the ride. 

A SOUTH BEND CITY BUS CIRCA MID-1950’S

On our journey down Milburn Boulevard, crossing over S. Ironwood Drive which turned Milburn into E. Calvert Street, I felt each stop as the bus would pick-up more people going to work or shopping on a busy weekday morning. Most of them sat up front in order to get off at their stop as swiftly as possible. The landmarks Ronnie and I would point out along our walk to and from school flashed by me making me dizzy, tired, or both. 

Thirty-one city blocks later, I didn’t feel the bus turn right onto Miami Street and would have been, at that point, just four blocks away from my school. And, how could I? I was fast asleep and using my school bag as a pillow while the little, black buckle was making its imprint on my young life.

Something told me to wake-up and I did—rather quickly! I didn’t recognize one thing outside the murky window and bolted upright, much to the surprise of the poor bus driver, his balding head turning abruptly; salt and pepper mustache now facing me as he continued up Miami Street. The look on his face was one of shock and surprise as he slowly brought the huge bus to a complete stop along the curb. 

Walking back to my seat, he tried to console a frightened little girl who had tears streaming down her face. He was a kind man. He was sorry for upsetting me, but when he no longer saw my blond curls bouncing just above the chrome handle of the seat in front of me, his stop at Saint Matthew’s was lost to him as he continued his route up the busy street. 

Promising me a safe passage back down Miami, quite a few blocks from school by then, he resumed his position behind the big, round steering wheel, but with me close by his side. Mother Superior stood waiting as he came to a smooth stop in front of the church. Deviating from his assigned route, he delivered me to the welcoming arms of Sister Anne, quickly telling her what had happened with plenty of sincere apologies to go around. 

She thanked the bus driver and told us both that everything would be just fine and that it promised to be a beautiful day. Knowing that my Dad, freshly home from his trip that afternoon, would be picking me up after school, all seemed right with the world. 

This story is meant to be continued…

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

MIC CHECK: TESTING ONE, TWO, THREE

 

A series of essays….

BRENNA AND BREE BONDING BETWEEN BINGING (NETFLIX)

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

At least twenty episodes of The Gilmore Girls later (thank you Netflix and our weakness towards binge-watching!), countless trips to Portage Northern High School during a whacky exam schedule then immediately off to gymnastics practice only to pick her up several hours later before enjoying dinner together. Spicing it up even more with spontaneous laughter, perhaps a few too many trips to enjoy ice cream, and romps on the living room floor with our fur baby and you have the future of our nation contained within our fifteen-year-old granddaughter—all wrapped-up in a perfect bow with a side of braces…

Not once did we complain. Being around Brenna tends to make a routine day a red letter one with her youthful enthusiasm being as infectious as good humor and optimism can be; especially during these past couple of weeks. 

We have all been working on taking control back in the best way possible. But first, sacrifices had to be made as life’s routines were tumbled around like her tiny clothes (anywhere from size 0-4) in the dryer in order to cope with everything that, unfortunately, comes with the current tone of the world we live in. 

In practice there is little or no difference in meaning between contagious and infectious when applied to disease or its spread—you get to choose the phraseology. Our daughter called us right before the last week of the school year for our grandchildren (Brenna a freshman and Gavin rounding-off fifth grade) to inform us that Gavin just tested positive for COVID-19. He had recently been experiencing headaches and his current temperature was hovering a bit over 102 degrees. He was doing okay with it until he realized that the final week of his fifth grade career began the following day on Monday and being in school with his friends and enjoying closing activities was not going to happen.

Despite the fact that all four had been vaccinated, along with boosters for those eligible, the impact from this pandemic hit them fast and furious, with very little warning. One tested positive with symptoms while the remaining three tested negative. Initially, Brenna panicked just thinking about having to miss her scheduled exams if she were to test positive. Our daughter gave us a call and we all reacted post haste.

Brenna was packed and crashing in our spare bedroom not long afterwards. 

She made it through exam week with flying colors sans any symptoms whatsoever! So grateful for this. FaceTiming with her ‘gang’ at home helped to keep spirits up believing that her return was right around the corner. That was until our daughter began experiencing coughing and a runny nose. Was it simply allergies or a common cold? Most likely not. She tested positive on Sunday and gave us a call early that morning with the sad news. Our little houseguest would have to waylay her homecoming as her mom went into isolation while continuing to work from her home office.

I still cling to the premise that every single soul on this planet will, eventually, contract COVID-19. Having Doctor Anthony Fauci take his turn at the coronavirus karaoke mic, recently, proves my point. Dr. Fauci, the leader of the U.S. government’s COVID-19 pandemic response effort, experienced mild symptoms recently, tested positive, and has gone into isolation while continuing to work from home. There truly is no way of getting around this disease as long as one lives and breathes alongside their fellow humans. It is strictly a matter of time.

Well, today is D-day! Today our daughter and son-in-law take yet another coronavirus test. Today might just be the beginning of the end to all this madness and heartbreak for Ali and her family. I’m thinking negative results all the way. Fingers and toes crossed. Brenna deserves to be back into the fold and sleeping in her own bed. 

As much fun as it is having her around us and, simply, having a teenager injecting  youth and enthusiasm into our lives on a daily basis, Brenna needs home. Brenna needs to cuddle her dog, Oreo, and interact with her own immediate circle. This lends personal credence to the adage: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Through all of this, Dan and I remain symptom free, virus negative. Although we are setting-up appointments for our second booster shot, as soon as possible. 

I would have never believed that summer vacation would begin on such a deeply concerning note. Dan and I were very content to have been there for our children and little did we know how our decision to move back to Michigan would effect all of us. But, we always knew we would be happy to share our lives together, once again, and be there if and when they needed us to be. 

Here’s hoping for some good news today! 

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

AN OLDER BROTHER’S ODYSSEY

 

A series of essays….

SUMMER NIGHTS AND BONNIE DOON
ICE CREAM WENT SO WELL TOGETHER

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Mom didn’t drive and never had a license. Dad said he could never teach her and life was too short to even try. This coming from a man who traveled extensively for his job, often leaving his wife and young children for five days at a time. 

I was too young to question my father’s motives, but later learned that, in many cases, the mentality and social norm of the 1950’s was to keep a wife as dependent upon her male counterpart as much as possible. Our Mom often sacrificed her own needs in her quest to pacify everyone else in our small pack. And, even though we missed him, Dad worked hard to provide for us even if it meant being away much of the time.

Our own two feet, a bicycle (depending on the Indiana weather), and the local bus system became our good friends. Seriously, my older brother, Ronnie, and I did walk to school in South Bend, over a mile away, come rain, shine, snow, and freezing cold.

Mom decided to treat my brothers and me to a hamburger supper, replete with French fries, an abundance of individual ketchup and mustard packets (we were easily amused), and our personal choice of milkshake flavor. Bonnie Doon Drive-In sat about a mile from our front door and was settled and established in 1941 on one of Mishawaka’s main thoroughfares, Lincoln Way West. 

Dad, being on a business trip, afforded Mom no better option than to send my older brother on his shiny English Racer, up to Bonnie Doon to purchase our special meal. I recall her pulling out a small, leather wallet from her purse that was setting on a dining room chair and handing Ronnie several paper bills. He neatly folded the bills and carefully placed them in one of his front bluejean pockets. 

Slipping deftly onto the narrow saddle, pride resonating on his handsome face, our eleven-year-old hero was on a mission of importance; he was to bring, not only, sustenance to his family, but joy, as well via his responsibility of being the current ‘man of the household.’ 

Mom having a driver’s license would have been very useful right about then, but a cellphone would have been the icing on the cake, the cherry on top! Communication was a burgeoning  commodity back in the mid 1950’s when technology was slithering its way into the daily routine of the American lifestyle. By the time my brother returned home, quite a bit later and a little worse for wear, with a sad story to tell, our Mother took one look at his face and hugged his narrow frame for several minutes before releasing him, tears in her eyes. 

THE PROVERBIAL CHERRY ON TOP!

He saved the milkshakes. He rescued the fries and condiments. However, the hamburgers were not so lucky. His skinny bike tires lost their grip on the gravel along the side of the road and down he tumbled, supper and all. While reaching for the cardboard carton of shakes and the bag of fries in his front basket, the greasy burger bag exploded upon contact with the ground, ripping open and tossing meat patties, small chunks of onion, and lettuce and tomato all over the side of the street. He had made it almost half of the way home.

To this day, I envision my brother reconstructing the sandwiches as best he could while pulling cinders and grit from the glutinous mess and then flopping the top bun back in place. With tears in his eyes, instantly replacing the pride he felt only seconds before, and an explanation of it all being carefully formulated in his head, he rode his racer home feeling like a defeated warrior bringing a single rabbit back to feed his tribe after an 8-point buck had eluded him.

Well, our rabbit stew turned-out to be rather tasty! Who doesn’t love a thick milkshake accompanied by fries? Sitting around our red and white, chrome-legged dining table, talking and laughing together, was the cherry-on-the-top, after all. And we were still able to rip open those cute packets, squeeze their contents onto the paper plate, and dip our crispy fries into the sweet tasting   ketchup.

Life’s lessons touched all of us that day—so long ago. With a twist of fate, Ronnie learned that pride can be fleeting when humility knocks on your door. Mom realized that rewarding her son’s best efforts meant as much as if he had successfully accomplished the mission. Her love and understanding put things in their proper order. Respect for my older brother rose quite a few notches as I began to understand that life can get into the way of practical thinking more often then we thought. And, we all understood the importance of family just a little bit better as we sat around the table that evening, together.

This story is meant to be continued…

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

OUR MIGHTY SYCAMORE TREE

 

A series of essays….

OUR SYCAMORE TREE REMINDS ME OF THE PLANE TREES LINING
THE SMALLER ROADWAYS AND VILLAGES OF FRANCE;
TALL, STRAIGHT, AND MAJESTIC!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Yes. Life is all about, at least it should be, watching two squirrels scramble down various rutted tree trunks and chase one another across the backyard. Taking the few seconds of time out from a busy morning to take this all in seems to be the biggest challenge for most of us. 

Even at my age, my mind is filled with ‘to do’ lists, schedules, and Zoom meetings. Heck, by the time those furry-tailed tree rodents scratch their way down to terra firma and make a run for it, I’ve begun my morning schedule of daydreaming, imagining different scenarios, plotting, all while attempting to put these thoughts into coherent and interesting sentences. 

Now that many people are easing out of the pandemic that has taken over our lives for the last several years, tiny stirrings of what I presume to be normalcy erupt inside me. I am encouraged by this. But, even as we begin sticking our toes into the nearly forgotten waters, we are chilled to the bone given all of the uncertainty about life that has to be dealt with if we desire to, actually, take the final plunge.

Even though the room I write in can change on any given day (as we continue the work on improving our little cottage), I have felt comfortable within the scope of my working existence for over two years and have found solace in the act of creating my stories to share with others. I humbly thank you, my dear readers, for allowing me time to get my head together before continuing my journey along this inspired path.

Each morning becomes a new adventure; each adventure brings new promises, often based upon my life, growing-up, and existing in a world of my own particular circumstances. It’s rather cozy here in my own skin. This is where I feel safe every morning—no matter which room I happen to be in or what the news has to offer.

It’s fairly certain, especially at my age, that the dark hand of death would be gripping my wrist and pulling me into the reality of one of life’s greatest promises: all living things will, eventually, pass on and we should be grateful for the time we have on this earth. We must make the most of it and improve with age like a fine wine or a brilliant French cheese! Many of us concentrate our best efforts at productive thinking towards the end of our lives and, I don’t believe this is, necessarily, the wrong thing to do. 

Slipping into a comfy groove, routine, after years of further education, employment, having and raising children, having these children marry and begin families of their own—feels very satisfying to me. Grandchildren have always been my priority and one  reason for living in Michigan, today. Sadly, three grandchildren have become as illusive as a David Copperfield performance with our daughter preferring her parents to be magically transformed into a lengthy disappearance act. Life can be disappointing, irrational, and absolutely unpredictable no matter how hard one tries to do the right thing; work on making things right, once again. Sadly, this is another story for another time.

No one has a perfect life. There are too many things that impede it. As it’s been said before, life itself tends to get in the way of perfection. But, if we can concentrate on what feels good, what makes us happy, or what makes others happy, we might just have a chance to experience the closest we can come to perfection in this lifetime. This is why my writing, especially at this time in my life, has become exceedingly important to me. Putting into words my feelings and beliefs in story form gives me a reason to exist; a purpose for spending time interacting with others and visiting unknown places in order to find others who believe in these same things. 

My heart goes out to all of the families who have unconventionally lost someone they love so dearly! We can, almost, come to terms with the fact that decease takes lives away from us on a daily basis. Aging is a process by which our bodies begin to deteriorate and leave us at their mercy. However, to witness our youth being deprived of their future and the promising possibilities of hope, is beyond comprehension. 

Within the past few weeks, I have had several relatives pass on. Children of friends have succumbed to cancer. Innocent grandparents and even a father purchasing a birthday cake for his son have been lost due to gun violence. Students and their teachers have been taken from their families because someone brandished a weapon of mass destruction and shot twenty-one innocent souls in a Texas elementary school. While the families grieve for their loss, authorities who won’t accept responsibility run and hide; spoiled adults being enabled by their peers who hold offices of importance within the very same community. No backbone. No shame.

This past Sunday, a good friend in her eighty’s left an open wound in the hearts of those who love her and must exist without her. May you Rest In Peace, my friend. The world has lost a very talented and beautiful lady!

It is difficult for me to take any of this lightly. It would take an extremely heartless person to do so.

Sitting back in my chair, once again, two squirrels, one black, one gray, repeat, with Indianapolis 500 speeds, their race to the bottom of the sycamore tree that lives outside of the window and has its roots under the surface of the ravine that exists alongside our house. And yet, our mighty sycamore tree stands straight and tall as it towers above most of the trees along the block.

What a long journey for my acorn loving neighbors to make on this lovely spring morning. With the gusto of fresh eyes and a willing disposition, the scene before me hatches over and over again as if it were Groundhog Day. Gladly taking a few seconds out of my busy morning, I savor the opportunity to witness nature’s little scramble along with its plethora of earthly colors and delights. 

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved.                                                 

THERE IS A DAY AND TIME FOR EVERYTHING!

 

A series of essays….

BREE’S ELIZABETHAN COLLAR COULD MAKE 
A CUTE LAMPSHADE, RIGHT?

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

If having a soul means being able to feel love, loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.

~James Herriot

As I nuzzled into her soft, ruby-colored face offering gentle kisses and whispered reassurances, I could smell the scent of almost every female in the place gathered within Bree’s collective coat; at this moment, a small receptacle used to store kindness, concern, and masses amounts of love. Each person had hugged and cared about Bree all morning long. By the time we came to pick her up and bring her home, it seemed the entire clinic would be coming home with us in this very special way.

Is it possible to work in a veterinarian clinic and not feel affection for each pet that comes through the front door accompanied by the humans who love them? 

Following being gifted Bree on Christmas Eve morning, finding a veterinarian was the next logical step. With Covid-19 complications and, quite frankly, so many of us having a pet (even multiple pets), made it difficult to get Bree into a clinic. Actually, we had little time to prepare considering our three-month old bundle of Mini-Goldendoodle came as a complete surprise to us! Our family unit grew to three, literally, overnight.

By the time we were fortunate to find a veterinarian not far away who could see her and proceed with her vaccinations and boosters, we knew it was time to seriously consider having her spayed. Running a puppy farm was not in the cards for us, even though having more tiny Doodles to love would be very satisfying—it just wasn’t going to happen. So, by her first visit to the clinic in early March, we found ourselves setting-up the appointment to have Bree spayed. 

Originally, we were given an appointment in late April, but they called to ask if the eleventh of April would work for us. Sure, sure, why not? The sooner the better because all we wanted to do was get this over with and not drag it out any longer then it needed to be. No matter what, Bree would be blindsided; even though we would not be, my emotional status became more and more delicate with each passing day.  I was hampered with thoughts of Bree losing her gregarious and joyful personality, let alone the pain and recuperation time she was going to go through after surgery.

Dan and I have had two male puppies within the last thirty-some years. Loved both, dearly. Maybe because this puppy is female, I can better identify with her anatomy and create the possibility of different medical scenarios associated with being female. Besides, a parent (including parents of fur babies) will never feel comfortable when their children are in pain. Rather, they will choose to make them feel better, more safe and secure. Would she even love me after this was all said and, finally, done? 

Our family and friends reassured us that she would love us, always. With this in mind, we woke-up early this past Monday to be at the clinic by seven-thirty, just as the sun was rising and bathing Bree’s fur in its golden richness. Her swirling, red tones were enhanced and decorated as if bejeweled with precious stones as she pranced along the parking lot toward the clinic’s front door. Ah, such happiness and uncomplicated bliss. At this point, her confidence in us was totally unspoiled. 

The doctor called Dan’s cell phone around eleven thirty telling us Bree had done very well and that we could come pick her up at two-thirty. I remember thinking to myself that of course she did! She’s our Bree, after all.

The doctor’s call had gone to voicemail because we were inside a large retail store with poor cell signal and on a wild, slightly guilt ridden, shopping spree for new puppy toys, a soft and comfortable puppy bed, a blue feeding dish designed with a swirl pattern guaranteed to slow her eating frenzy habits, and, maybe, a few more items thrown in for good measure. Did you know you could purchase a small, very comfortable looking doggy bed made by Lazy-Boy for slightly over 125 dollars? I didn’t either. Sorry to say it’s not part of Bree’s furniture inventory. Even practicality can transcend the amount of guilt I was feeling about all of this. 

 

After consulting with Nicky, the technician who had assisted the doctor several hours earlier, Bree was brought out to us…looking as though all life and good cheer had been kicked several light years away, never to return. Her once sparkling, brown eyes, now glassy and blank, were swimming in a breathless sea of oblivion. She had yet to come down from the effects of the anesthesia and this once vivacious little peanut looked as though she’d lost the will to flourish.

BREE NEEDED A SOFT, QUIET SPOT TO REST

When Nicky handed me the soft, Elizabethan collar decorated with colorful caricatures of cute puppies and kittens, the first thing that popped into my head wasn’t that it looked kinder and more comfortable than the older version of hard, white plastic. No, all I could think to say was that it would make an adorable lampshade after Bree no longer needs it. Well, I’m all about repurposing and this (cone) was so cute!

After paying for her post surgery medication and snuggling her close to my chest I, once again, could sense the scent of sweet caring emanating from each young person who helped our Bree make it through this day. With smiles and good cheer they waved good-bye to their little patient and wished her well. The look of stoic resignation on Bree’s face said it all! She just wanted to go home, settle into a soft place, and sleep. 

That is how we celebrated our precious animal companion on National Pet Day, April 11, 2022. National Pet Day was founded in 2006 by animal welfare advocate, Colleen Paige, to celebrate the joy pets bring to our lives, as well as to create public awareness about the plight of many different kinds of animals awaiting a forever home in shelters and rescues all around the world.

I’m not sure that Bree would necessarily agree with us, but having her spayed was an important step to help stop the overpopulation of unwanted animals and that is a very good thing. Please help by having your pets spayed and neutered!

By the way—Bree is doing just fine. Wishing you a Happy Easter Sunday with Love and Kindness to all!

MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

  

“THE ONLY LESSON YOU CAN LEARN FROM HISTORY IS THAT IT REPEATS ITSELF”

 

A series of essays.....

HOLODOMOR: STALIN’S UKRAINIAN GENOCIDE, 1932-1933

.....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

"Those damn Bolsheviks!" is the quote from my Ukrainian Grandfather, Antone Moshak, that has lived deep inside my soul ever since I was a little girl. He was so adamant and repetitious that it became my grandfather's 'battle cry' and was guaranteed to set the stage for many evening conversations. He could be stubborn as a mule and, as I grew older, with several history lessons later, I began to understand why.

“The only lesson you can learn from history is that it repeats itself,” is a quote by the author of the book The Great Pearl of Wisdom, Bangambiki Habyarimana. This quote, in time, may serve to gauge and determine the future of our world as we know it. Will we continue to allow history to repeat itself as if on a looped playback continuously showing us pictures of inhumane atrocities such as the Irish Potato Famine in the nineteenth century, the Jewish Holocaust from the period of 1933 to 1945, and the recent starvation tactics of the Syrian civil war with all of the innocent victims and refugees it has created?

How does the world perceive Vladimir Putin and his current atrocities against the people of Ukraine? Is it strictly a land grab or will history proclaim his actions as the genocide of the Ukrainian people with the direct intention of totally destroying them, their history, their culture, their identity?

 

"Miscellaneous thoughts and insights on life come to me when I am alone gazing at the starry sky at night, walking by the sea, through the wood, watching people at a party, going to the market, by a chance encounter, or when my sleep fails me." An author of nineteen distinct works, Bangambiki Habyarimana is a community worker who assists young adults in the fight against HIV AIDS through education and counseling in Mozambique. He is a young man who is wise way beyond his years.

Reading Bangambiki's quote, I can recall the remote look in my grandfather's eyes. How much loss and sorrow can people take before breaking down completely? The war in Ukraine has served to reintroduce Holodomor and its relationship to what is taking place in this beautiful country currently.

If you've never heard of the term Holodomor before, you are not alone. It may even sound like a character straight out of a J. R. R. Tolkien novel. Sadly, it is not. Learning about Holodomor, pronounced 'huh-luh-duh-more,' I can identify with the distant look in grandpa's eyes that filled with unequivocal hatred with each cry of "Those damn Bolsheviks!"  

The literal Ukrainian definition of the word Holodomor is: "Death by forced starvation."

My recent inquisitiveness was sparked by a gentleman by the name of Bobby Leigh. I met Bobby online and his vibrant and colorful personality enriched my imagination right from the beginning! Bobby is a twelve-time, Award Winning Filmmaker and has over twenty-five years in the Music and Entertainment Business where he has produced and/or toured with such Rock-n-Roll legends as Aerosmith, Kiss, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Quiet Riot, to name a few. As an author, film director, producer, actor, and visionary, Bobby is a very busy person.

On November 17, 2015, Bobby shared a press release on his Facebook Page that immediately caught my attention:

"PRESS RELEASE: My Film "HOLODOMOR: Ukraine's Genocide" will be screening in SAN FRANCISCO this Weekend on Saturday 21 November 2015 at the Main San Francisco Public Library at 2:00-4:00 PM. Koret Auditorium, lower level. FREE. Please come and show support for our movie. Q & A following screening with writer/director/producer: Bobby Leigh & producer: Marta Tomkiw."

Logline: “The biggest lie, the best kept secret.”

Considering my family's roots and knowing that many of my relatives live in the Ukraine today and, God willing, are surviving Putin’s regime, I needed to view this film for myself back then. I was hoping it could shed even more light on the hatred my grandfather held in his heart for Russia. Short of flying out to California, I wrote to Bobby and asked where and when it might be showing near me or if I could purchase a copy of "Holodomor" for myself. Up to this point in my life, I had yet to see pictures, film or any footage of this horrific event that would help me understand this deep, dark, and sad history of the Ukrainian people.  Bobby's longline seemed to be holding true: “The biggest lie, the best kept secret.”

I presumed that his great passion for exposing this dark secret in history was connected with his own heritage and asked him if this were the case. In true Bobby fashion, he replied, "I'm not Ukrainian. I made this movie because, once I found out about this subject, I was pissed off that I was not taught this at University. I felt that this story needed to be told." He proceeded to send me a copy of his film for my perusal.

I must ask how many of you are familiar with this historical event yourselves? If you are, when and where were you exposed to it? Did you learn about it in any level of your formal education? Do you have family or friends who talked about it? Considering the Holodomor is a major blot on the history of the world, equal to the Holocaust, (which means "sacrifice by fire"), brought about by the Nazis who came to power in Germany in 1933, why isn't it as prominent within our fundamental education?

I know that Bobby must have asked himself this last question a million times.

If over six million Jews could be obliterated by a regime led by Hitler under the auspices of racial superiority, blind power, and pure hatred, then how could over 30,000 men, women, and children in Ukraine die each day in the height of this famine-genocide in 1933 and the world not be aware of it? 

To get the answer to this question, one must look briefly into the history of Russia. 

In 1917, the Bolsheviks, led by Vladimir Lenin, take power in Russia. The Soviet Union is formed in 1922 with Ukraine becoming one of the republics. Soon afterwards, Lenin dies and Joseph Stalin ascends to power and introduces a program of agricultural collectivization in 1928 that forces farmers to give up everything they own to factory-like collective farms......and then were told to work on these farms in order to exist with no compensation whatsoever. 

Proud and successful Ukrainian farmers, labeled Kurkuls, refuse to return to earlier serfdom and in 1929 Stalin introduces a policy of 'class warfare' in order to breakdown resistance. The following year, nearly a half a million people are dragged from their homes, packed into freight trains and shipped to remote areas such as Siberia where they are left to perish from starvation and inclement weather.

Between 1932 and 1933, the entire population of Ukrainian villages are wiped-out due to the blockades erected around them preventing the transport of food from the outside into them and  locking the hungry inside. Joseph Stalin of Russia is determined to 'teach a lesson through famine' and, ultimately, deals a crushing blow to the backbone of Ukraine, it's rural population.

By 1934, approximately ten million deaths, including three million children, and nearly twenty-five percent of the Ukrainian population, are attributed to starvation within the borders of Soviet Ukraine, not including deportation, executions, or natural deaths. Stalin denies forced famine in the Ukraine and continues to export millions of tons of grain to the outside world. 

Denial, denial, denial was generated on all sides of this horrific situation which included Western governments who adopted a passive attitude toward the famine, even though they had become aware of the suffering in Ukraine via confidential diplomatic channels. Franklin Roosevelt, newly elected in 1933, recognized Stalin's government and turned a 'blind eye' to the famine due to a lucrative trade agreement with the Soviet Union. Shame on all of us who see monetary gain and power as the holy grail rather than the bane of our existence. Definitely, another prime example of history repeating itself.

Early on, my grandparents lived through and recognized the inevitable results of the Bolshevik uprising. To pull-up stakes, forsake family ties, and emigrate to an unknown place, put them at risk every step of the way. Survival itself takes on its own risks and would it not be better to hope for a future and do something about it than to perish with no hope left at all? Literally, standing here today, I am most grateful to my proud and heroic grandparents for choosing to be safe and free, no matter what the cost.

It is because of good people like Bobby Leigh and others associated with Moksha Films who recognized injustice and chose  to expose it rather than keep it under wraps like a skeleton pushed into the depths of a dark closet filled with secrets and blatant denials. Bobby's documentary, "HOLODOMOR: Ukraine's Genocide," should be adapted to all languages, viewed, discussed, analyzed, and included in every school curriculum throughout the world until this tragic famine-genocide of the Ukrainian people is recognized and catalogued for what it was, an atrocity against millions of innocent people for political and personal gains. 

Thank you, Bobby Leigh.....!

On November 28, 2006, according to The Connecticut HolodomorCommittee, the Parliament of Ukraine passed a decree defining the Holodomor as a deliberate 'Act of Genocide.' Although the Russian government continues to call Ukraine's depiction of the famine a "one-sided falsification of history," it is now recognized as genocide by over two dozen nations. 

Many Ukrainians survived to give eyewitness accounts of this abomination. Bobby has featured several survivors and their brief testimonies in his documentary. Their personal recollections sent chills down my spine as I watched their tears flow freely when speaking about personal experiences during this execution by hunger.

The Spanish philosopher and poet, George Santayana, once said, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." Are we doomed to repeat the past by being so disingenuous as many of our politicians and leaders are today? My hope is that the solemn words of Bangambiki Habyarimana are incorrect when he says, "The only lesson you can learn from history is that it repeats itself." 

Only by understanding the genocide of the past can we hope to prevent others from occurring in our lifetime. Yet, armed with all of this information, we may already be too late as the unprovoked war rages in Ukraine claiming thousands of innocent civilian lives. We must aid the Ukrainian military in every way possible before statistics prove that all hope is fleeting. The world owes Volodymyr  Zelenskyy and the beautiful people of Ukraine the dignity of life they so deserve; along with the worldwide recognition of war crimes being committed by Russia every day.

Now that I understand my grandfather better, I realize that the stoic look emanating from his ancient eyes culminated from deep within him as he constantly remembered what was, and was saddened by never being able to know what could have been. 

Lovingly, I dedicate this essay to my Ukrainian Grandmother and Grandfather, Alexandria and Antone Moshak and to the fortitude displayed by the people of Ukraine. Glory to Ukraine!

You can visit Bobby online at: 

 www.facebook.com/BobbyLeighAuthor

www.HOLODOMORthemovie.com    

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