One Friday, a few weeks ago, I woke up early and decided to make some coffee. On any other weekday morning, making coffee is the last thing I do before running out the door, which consists of me throwing a couple scoops of grounds into Mr. Coffee, dumping in some water, pushing the button, and dashing off to make my lunch. But this Friday, I didn't have to work. I didn't have anywhere to be. I looked at the counter and spotted my french press peeking out from behind the toaster. (A wedding gift that wasn't touched since I took it out of the box.) I thought, "Yes. Yes, today I will use you. Today I will sit patiently at the kitchen table and watch my coffee brew through your clear glass until I feel ready it's ready to be seeped...because I can." From then on, I've decided that Friday is #frenchpressfriday.
Right now, on this French press Friday, I'm sitting at our desk and through the blinds I look up and can see the Keewatin water tower. Sometimes, I am just baffled. How did I end up here? A year ago, starting my search for a job stateside, I NEVER thought that I would be teaching and even living in Keewatin. It's been such an interesting few months here. This small town, hidden in the north woods of the Iron Range, has a life of it's own. A culture all it's own. Life is definitely slower than what I was used to in Moscow. Oh Moscow. A few days ago, I was laying on the couch here in Keewatin and thought, "It's just...so quiet." I closed my eyes and could picture exactly the living room I spent four years of my life in. I could see the small window that was always open. I could hear the shuffling of feet and the familiar tapping of high heals on the sidewalk. I could hear the slow, rhythmic brushing of the pavement by someone paid little to remove leaves and cigarette butts. I could hear the constant sound of cars passing. And oh yes, I could hear the voices. Voices of people I never knew but always heard. Speaking, sometimes shouting, Russian as they passed by that window. The window of an apartment with a girl inside, listening and finally understanding what they were saying. I closed my eyes and I could see it perfectly. The strange frog statue that always sat on the mantel with 10 rubles under it. Never knew what it was, but never moved it. I could feel the leather on the couch. The leather that was supposed to be covered with an awful faux fur rug, which we would throw on when the landlady was on her way. I could see the place where I first kissed Eric on the cheek. And the stool next to the door where I cried and cried as Eric carefully pulled the boot off of my terribly twisted ankle the day after Christmas. I looked to the left in my memory and see the large marble window sill where Stephanie would sit and impart knowledge on so many Saturday mornings. Where she would sit and slam the small window shut if the freezing cold January air was just too much (for Sarah). :) I could see the tapestry hanging to the left, hiding the third bedroom behind it. I remember sitting in that bedroom on my first day in Moscow. I remember listening to strange voices outside my window, tears on my cheeks, thinking, "Oh Lord, what have I done? What am I doing here?" So I laid there, on the couch in Keewatin, thinking of every detail and every memory I could squeeze out. Happy and sad memories abruptly interrupted by rumbling and the sound of an explosion. My eyes flew open, my hands grabbing the couch out of reflex.
"What was that?" I thought.
Then I remembered..."Oh..."
Sigh.
"A mine blast."
Yes. A mine blast. Apparently a normalcy on the Iron Range. It happened not too long ago on the playground with my preschoolers. BOOM! Me, wide-eyed thinking we're being bombed when little three and four year olds raise their arms and yell, "A MINE BLAST!"
Oh, Keewatin, I have a lot to learn.
Maybe some day in the future, after we've moved on (because who knows where we'll end up, seriously), I will lay on my new couch (because hopefully we will afford a new couch), I will close my eyes, and picture perfectly the tiny apartment we started our marriage in. I will see the good days and bad days, hear the dryer thumping in the basement, and picture the water tower outside my window. I will see Eric dancing in the living room during the longest winter of our lives. Remember the sound of the coming train, and, yes, the weekly mind blast.
Right now, on this French press Friday, I'm sitting at our desk and through the blinds I look up and can see the Keewatin water tower. Sometimes, I am just baffled. How did I end up here? A year ago, starting my search for a job stateside, I NEVER thought that I would be teaching and even living in Keewatin. It's been such an interesting few months here. This small town, hidden in the north woods of the Iron Range, has a life of it's own. A culture all it's own. Life is definitely slower than what I was used to in Moscow. Oh Moscow. A few days ago, I was laying on the couch here in Keewatin and thought, "It's just...so quiet." I closed my eyes and could picture exactly the living room I spent four years of my life in. I could see the small window that was always open. I could hear the shuffling of feet and the familiar tapping of high heals on the sidewalk. I could hear the slow, rhythmic brushing of the pavement by someone paid little to remove leaves and cigarette butts. I could hear the constant sound of cars passing. And oh yes, I could hear the voices. Voices of people I never knew but always heard. Speaking, sometimes shouting, Russian as they passed by that window. The window of an apartment with a girl inside, listening and finally understanding what they were saying. I closed my eyes and I could see it perfectly. The strange frog statue that always sat on the mantel with 10 rubles under it. Never knew what it was, but never moved it. I could feel the leather on the couch. The leather that was supposed to be covered with an awful faux fur rug, which we would throw on when the landlady was on her way. I could see the place where I first kissed Eric on the cheek. And the stool next to the door where I cried and cried as Eric carefully pulled the boot off of my terribly twisted ankle the day after Christmas. I looked to the left in my memory and see the large marble window sill where Stephanie would sit and impart knowledge on so many Saturday mornings. Where she would sit and slam the small window shut if the freezing cold January air was just too much (for Sarah). :) I could see the tapestry hanging to the left, hiding the third bedroom behind it. I remember sitting in that bedroom on my first day in Moscow. I remember listening to strange voices outside my window, tears on my cheeks, thinking, "Oh Lord, what have I done? What am I doing here?" So I laid there, on the couch in Keewatin, thinking of every detail and every memory I could squeeze out. Happy and sad memories abruptly interrupted by rumbling and the sound of an explosion. My eyes flew open, my hands grabbing the couch out of reflex.
"What was that?" I thought.
Then I remembered..."Oh..."
Sigh.
"A mine blast."
Yes. A mine blast. Apparently a normalcy on the Iron Range. It happened not too long ago on the playground with my preschoolers. BOOM! Me, wide-eyed thinking we're being bombed when little three and four year olds raise their arms and yell, "A MINE BLAST!"
Oh, Keewatin, I have a lot to learn.
Maybe some day in the future, after we've moved on (because who knows where we'll end up, seriously), I will lay on my new couch (because hopefully we will afford a new couch), I will close my eyes, and picture perfectly the tiny apartment we started our marriage in. I will see the good days and bad days, hear the dryer thumping in the basement, and picture the water tower outside my window. I will see Eric dancing in the living room during the longest winter of our lives. Remember the sound of the coming train, and, yes, the weekly mind blast.
