I’m picking up where I left off in the story behind the name, Birchtree Photography. Be sure to read parts one, two, three, and four if you missed them.
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The Dacha
Gradually the Moscow traffic gives way to wooded country roads. Long, gray concrete walls slip by my window as we pass Star City. Trees and fields jump past little villages and bus stops. Finally, we come across a break in the tree line and turn right onto a lumpy dirt road.
A muddy field intersected by towering power lines stretches away to the right. I peer at tin-sheeted shacks and muddy walls on the left. My babushka explains that the people who live there are squatters–they don’t own the land they live on, but they stay there year round anyway. At anytime the land owner could have them moved. There wouldn’t be much to take with them.
The tires crunch and grind the rocks, dipping in and out of potholes and puddles. We crest the hill and suddenly the dacha community and distant village sweeps out before us in the valley. A mangy black dog barks a welcome as we brake at the gate, and an old man with black teeth and matted hair lets us in. We keep to the left and follow the dirt road around the corner. And then we are there. First cottage on the right.
A faded green and yellow two-story cottage greets us as we pile out of the car. My sister and I begin to explore the grounds–overgrown and neglected–drab and soggy from the spring snow melt.
We’re delighted.
An old rusty wood stove and a gray rock become our new make-believe home, and we gather grasses and greens to make “soup.”
The walls inside the dacha are sticky from a cheap finish on the wood. I trace the life story of the once-living trees in the bare knots and grooves of the planks. The small kitchen boasts a sink with cold running water, a wooden table, and a gas burning camper’s stove. The downstairs contains two small bedrooms, one with an old but working refrigerator. The upstairs is our domain–one, big slanted-roof room dotted with old cots and a picnic table. It’s cold; there’s no heat.
The amenities are sparse–we wash our hands with rain water collected from big barrels in the back, scrubbing old lye soap over dirty fingernails. The bathroom is not far–just a short walk along the muddy path to the back of the garden. A cobwebbed drafty outhouse insures a quick visit every time.
In the spring 1994 we made our first visit to the dacha. There are many stories to tell here. This is just the prelude.
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It’s quite common for most city-dwelling Russians to own a dacha, though there is a lot of variation in quality and size. Traditionally, most women and children spend considerable amounts of time in the summer at the dacha, growing food that they later preserve for the winter. My family was able to “borrow” the dacha of our Russian babushka for several summers when we lived there, as she and her husband rarely used it. Consequently, my mom, sister, brother and I would spend most of our summers out there (with our Rottweiler, Texas, of course!).
This was taken in 1994. Don’t you love my red-riding hood?
That’s Velvet, the stray cat I befriended. She would show up for several summers.
This was taken in 1996. Notice the old stove on the right. I’m standing at the door of the cottage–and I think that’s a friend’s head on the far left. (yes, that’s our poor dog dressed up)
If you turned around from where the last photo was taken, you’d have this view (except not always the dog on the car!). This was taken in 1997.
A view of the dacha community from the field we passed. Notice the big power lines.
Taken with my point and shoot camera in 2005 when I went back for a study abroad. Entrance to the community.
The dacha–way, way overgrown in 2005.
A view from the opposite side of the community. The dirt road in the distance on the left (near the power lines), was the road we took to enter the dacha.
by mary
marfa - Awww, Texas was so cute. I’d forgotten how she always used to sit on the car when she knew we were about to leave – she didn’t want to get left behind! And remember how loud the buzzing from the power lines was? Didn’t Mom make those jackets? Remember when Mom made us eat all those sour berries we picked to make “soup”? Ah, so many memories!