The Babushka
Modern Russian women wearing babushkas
God bless my mom!
Like most young mothers, she
tried her very best to take proper care of her children. She consistently
placed her kids and their concerns over hers one hundred percent of the time.
But if you add a compulsive tendency to over-provide her children with a battery
of child protection techniques, then minor issues could magnify, producing
unexpected results.
I was prone to childhood
earaches, but fully trusted Mom and her directives regarding how to avoid them or
cure them if need be. A graduate of the
familiar old school of thought, she had it embedded in her head that being
exposed to the cold and wind was the main reason a kid came down with this
affliction. So...
When I begged to go out and
play one time in the early spring, she wanted nothing more than to protect her
little Davey from the above-mentioned weather conditions.
An obedient son
I honestly don't remember how
long she searched the house for a hat or earmuffs that day, but I believed her when
she said she couldn't locate any. Reaching
into the top shelf of her closet, she grabbed a babushka and started to place
it over my head. She draped it around my ears, which were stuffed with cotton
balls (Mom's directives, again), and tied the colorful scarf under my neck. Then
she promptly sent me out to play. [Author’s
Note #1: If you’re asking yourself right
now, “What was she thinking?” – join the club!]
If you're not of Eastern
European or Western Russian descent, you may not know that a babushka is a head
scarf made of flimsy, silky, colorful material.
This scarf was not only worn exclusively by women, but usually women who
happened to be very old. At least this was my interpretation of a babushka at
age four. [Author’s Note #2: Such a woman
(donning a babushka) was affectionately known as a studda bubba in the Slovak
culture.]
A Studda Bubba in the eyes of a four-year-old
Still trusting Mom fully (though
not for long after that), I headed outside to enjoy the day.
An ominous turn of events
Imagine how hurt I was when my
only friend at the time, Michael Sermulis, began to laugh at me as soon as he
spotted me sporting that babushka. He continued to tease me unmercifully from
his yard. Now, keep in mind that I grew up in Western Pennsylvania’s coal
country – hills everywhere and very little flat land. Michael was a year older
than I, so not only did he stand a head taller than me, but he looked even
bigger in his yard because of the higher elevation from where he was positioned.
And even with my ears stuffed
with cotton, I had no trouble hearing what Mike was saying. His taunts included
sissy and girly insults and remarks about my babushka. I replied back with some
name-calling of my own. But, nothing I could muster seemed to have the same
effect on him as his studda bubba slurs had on me.
The stand-off continues
Our mutual verbal onslaught
continued but I was confident that he could do me no harm from his yard. After all, there was a fence separating us, so
I continued with my retorts, all the while refusing to remove the scarf. After
all, Mom told me to keep it on the whole time – and, by golly, I was going to
listen to Mom.
Even after Michael reached
down to select a medium-size rock and placed it in his throwing hand, I continued
to stand my ground. Acquiring some self
confidence, my voice grew progressively louder with each passing moment.
“There's no way he's going to
reach me with that rock,” I thought to myself. So, I froze there, proud as a
Ukrainian soldier, equipped with my gloves, thick jacket, galoshes,
cotton-stuffed ears and, of course, my invincible babushka.
I did not pick up a rock of my
own. Orders from Mom again – “Don't get your gloves dirty.” And so the standoff
continued (at least momentarily), like gunfighters in the Old West.
Thud
I never flinched as that
projectile hit its target dead on. Like a heat-seeking missile guided by
advanced radar, it found the center of my forehead. Still surprised that the
rock was thrown so far, I retreated slowly, like a beaten gladiator, to the
confines of my home where my mom greeted me.
I remember removing that
doggone scarf and pulling the cotton from my ears as Mom comforted me in my
defeat. She then kissed and hugged me as if she hadn't seen me in years and
placed an ice bag on the wound on my head.
Lasting impressions
Three impressions of that babushka
stick with me today. One, the jury is still out as to whether or not that
babushka can prevent earaches. Two, it offers little to no protection from
rocks. (The proof is evident with the still-present impression on my forehead.) And three, there's no better way for a young
boy to get beat up than by wearing a babushka when playing with other boys.
God bless my mom anyway!
