These days, I’m feeling rather nostalgic. Dictionary.com defines nostalgia as “a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one’s life, to one’s home or homeland, or to one’s family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.”
Though I’m wistful, I’m not unhappy. But I do miss some things, and this past Sunday’s celebration of Ukrainian Easter—which follows the old Julian calendar—brought on my nostalgia full bore.
When I grew up in Winnipeg in a family
Ukrainian Easter service at St. Mary’s the Protectress, Winnipeg, Manitoba
of immigrants, we had boisterous Ukrainian Easter celebrations on my uncle and aunt’s farm and sometimes in our own home. Those were good times. There was a gang of us: my grandmother and her three sons and one daughter along with their spouses and children and a few more relatives and friends.
We’d gather at the farm after the lengthy mass at church, at which we’d bless our baskets filled with traditional foods. One year, the church even had their picnic on the farm. A wooden dance floor was built and laid down on the road leading to the chicken coop.
Blessing of the Baskets
The bountiful lunch (including Paska and other food from the blessed baskets) took place in my uncle and aunt’s living room. Tables were put end to end and loaded with enough food to feed three times as many. Yes, plenty to eat and plenty to drink.
Once the meal was done, we cracked dyed eggs to see who had the strongest one. That tradition was followed by the singing of old folk songs. My uncles had rich tenor voices, ones that should’ve been recorded. Too bad today’s easy technology was missing back then. Some of the songs were the kind you’d want to kick your heels or twirl around to, others were sad stories of their homeland. Later, my cousins and I would run outside to play on the long swing in the nearby forest or play baseball with the whole family on the uneven field, that served as a cow pasture.
Passions ran deep with this lot as they’d been through so much together immigrating to Canada from an occupied Ukraine in the 1920s (the subject of my next book, an excerpt of which has already been published in Escape, an anthology published by Peregrin).
Though too much rye whiskey at these celebrations often led to unguarded words and heated exchanges, their love for one another carried them through to yet another day and another family get-together.
I’ve tried to carry on my mother’s traditions
Our family’s attempts at making pysanky (Some tv series, movie, and Jackson Pollock imitations)
in a small way. Our wee family on Vancouver Island even attempted to add more pysanky to our growing collection. For dinner, we had some of the traditional foods: paska (Easter bread), ham, kielbassa, holupchis (cabbage rolls), varenykys (perogis) and various vegetables. I made a lemon meringue pie, one of my mother’s favorites. It was a good meal but didn’t come close to the bounty I remember.
But nice as it was to carry on the tradition, my mother is no longer here, nor my father, nor my baba. My uncles and aunts are also gone, as are a few of my cousins, one of whom lived on the farm. They may be gone, but I still see their faces and smiles.
My mother’s traditions have been
From Wikepedia: Pysanky from Volyn, Ukraine, where my mother was born.
watered down and they will no doubt disappear with the next generation, who will have their own ways of dealing with their past. Such is life and change.
We live in a rich land of many immigrants, many cultures, many traditions. For me, nostalgia, though wistful, is one way to celebrate those memories, even if they bring on the tears.
Are there things you do to celebrate the past? Are you at all nostalgic like me?
Diana, as a new friend of yours, this post was such a delight as it gave me insight into your rich heritage. Like you, my husband, Glen was born and brought up in Winnipeg. His first wife was Ukrainian and as such, I recognized many of the things you write about.
I understand your nostalgia and I commend you for trying in your way, to keep your culture alive:)
I wish I was as nostalgic about my childhood but sadly I’m not. Your memories are very precious.
~ Karen
Thanks, Karen. I wasn’t always as enthralled with my heritage, growing up in an Anglo-Saxon neighbourhood. Though I was born in Canada, I received my share of prejudicial remarks. Because my mother dressed me in a beautiful satin blouse, lovingly embroidered in a Ukrainian style, I was told to go back to where I belonged. I was also called a D.P., at the time a derogatory remark meaning displaced person. I was aware of how different my Slavic name (Klewchuk) sounded from all the Smiths, and Browns, and Wrights and Spencers. I was an A student, had skipped a grade, but when I moved to this waspish school, the teacher took an immediate dislike to me and started giving me Ds, and keeping me in at recess. Today, I am very proud of my heritage and the values my hard working parents gave me. The treatment I received at school heightened my sensitivity to those who are bullied because of their color of skin, their ethnic background, their religions, or their sexual orientation. So I didn’t lose, did I?
In my next life I will make Pysanky. It’s literally been my dream but I’ve never seen it done in real life and I’ve never found a class. I understand your wistfulness – I miss those big family gatherings as well. Especially with our Winnipeg family. Something about Canada – still big close-knit families, a passion for traditions.
Too bad you couldn’t have joined our family this past Sunday in making pysanky. I know what to do, but execute the design poorly. You need such a steady hand. The technique is not unlike batik dyeing. As for Canada, much as we have many cultures, there is support to embrace them and continue the traditions. Everyone is still first and foremost Canadian but then there are roots that I for one, don’t want to forget.