Letters from Nikolaevsk

Annitta

12-13-98 PM -- The Goat

Hi everyone from the tiny snow buried Russian village:

Life here is so very unusual. I imagine it is pretty much the same way in towns as small as this one that are fairly isolated. Almost everyone here is related in some way and that is what makes for a very interesting community. We all know what family can be like when it wants to snoop. There are only a few of us who are not from here. Matushka P and her family are not from here. They had lived in Greece for some time before striking out in search of a hamlet. This past summer, Matushka P. decided to get a goat. Here is the most wonderful experience to have befallen. At least I thought it was funny enough to write a short something about- I don't know about the village.

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Matushka P. is the perfect Russian Orthodox poster wife for Mother Earth News. She has rabbits in pens, chickens clucking and scratching at the earth on the side of her house, two cats to keep the shrews down, makes homemade bread, wine, jams, jellies, and clothes. He husband is one of three priests. Their income is about sub-poverty level and with three children it's expensive to even buy milk. That was when the idea of owning a goat took form.

Matushka P. and the family had lived in Greece for several years and was familiar with goat milk, cheese and meat. Goats were also great lawn mowers and since they didn't own a mower, what better then a walking pantry and gardner. Matushka P. was determined to get one. With pride, Matushka P. brought home her goat.

With equal pride she paraded the well-behaved goat for her hubby. Father B. stood there in his long black priests robes, he had been heading to the Church to greet the visiting Bishop, when his wife waylaid him. Just the fact she had squeezed it in a car small enough to fit into a Barbie Doll play garage, impressed him.

Father B. understood his wife wanted his blessings for this creature that will keep them in dairy products. With more of a husbandly sigh than a priestly sigh, he set about to do the right thing. He petted the animal, ran his hands over it, hemmed and hawed and nodded his shawl and cap covered head, while his patient wife waited for his verdict. She was standing there daydreaming of summer days with the family sitting together making cheese and butter. Lazy days of warm sun and slow times, when she heard a distinctive "oh-oh" drop forth from her hubby's lips.

Coming out of her wonderful Charles Dickens daydream, she sees hubby at the nether end of the goat. Father B. straightens, and after taking a deep breathe, informs his wife that no milk will be forthcoming from this animal. His endearing wife had been sold a neutered Billy. Yep, the equipment most important in making more goats had been removed.

Now, Matushka P. is the kind of being who needs to see for herself. She wanted proof. She asked to be shown. She moved to the nether regions of the tame and placid goat and together they lifted its rear end off of the ground. They bent over and with their heads in a downward position, her hubby showed her. Matushka P. stretched a nervous hand into areas not really befitting the wife of a priest just at the moment the visiting Bishop, the head honcho of their particular Russian orthodox church and Father N. walked over.

This particular Bishop was imposing to say the least. Tall, ancient, splendid in long flowing robes and head covering with a magnificent beard that poured forth from a stern and wrinkled face and fell with graceful ripples past his waist. A force to be reckoned with.

Matushka P. later explained to me it was the type of absolute quiet she figures will take place seconds before Armageddon strikes. Time stood still and in this quiet second, with them holding the billy in such a way, staring at their guests, the Bishop bent down to get a better look at what in the heck was going on, when the goat grabbed a mouthful of beard. Armageddon had arrived.

Matushka P. isn't really sure what happened next. Her and hubby dropped the nether regions and once on solid ground, the billy found his footing and tugged. He was also chewing at the same time. Madness ensued. Billy tugged backwards, Bishop pulled opposite, Father N. tried to pry billy's mouth open, and everyone was screaming. She said she must have had a moment of insanity when she pulled out the plastic scissors she always carries in one of her apron pockets: clip - clip.

Matushka P misses her goat. She found a home for him but within a few months, the goat would once again return to haunt her. Her hubby, Father B. spent several weeks at Port Grahmn blessing the fishing boats and sleeping on the floor of the cannery. The community heard new words spoken in Russian by the Bishop. Some residents are still in shock.

The short bearded Bishop now requests that a certain priest's wife no longer be visible when he tours the village.

And Father N. is doing better. He had fainted when he pulled the Bishop's beard free from the goat and saw it was also unattached to the Bishop. It lay in his hand like a hairy salmon. He only had to have three stitches. The scar is hardly noticeable.

annitta
from downtown winter wonderland Nikolaevsk